�Are you a detective, sir?�

William looked up at the young man who�d asked the question. �No, I�m the assistant manager of the Midland Bank in Shoreham, Kent.�

�In that case,� continued the young man, not looking convinced, �you�ll be able to tell me what the exchange rate was between the dollar and the pound when the currency market opened this morning.�

William tried to recall how much he�d received when he changed a hundred pounds into dollars just before he joined the ship the previous evening, but he hesitated for too long.

�One dollar and fifty-four cents to the pound,� said the young man, before he could reply. �So, forgive me for asking, sir, why aren�t you willing to admit you�re a detective?�

William put the book he was reading on the table in front of him and took a closer look at the earnest young American, who seemed desperate not to be thought of as a child, although he hadn�t started shaving. The word �preppy� immediately came to mind.

�Can you keep a secret?� he whispered.

�Yes, of course,� the young man said, sounding offended.

�Then have a seat,� said William, pointing to the comfortable chair opposite him. He waited for the young man to settle. �I�m on holiday and I promised my wife that for the next ten days, I wouldn�t tell anyone I was a detective, because it�s always followed by a stream of questions that turn it into a busman�s holiday.�

�But why choose a banker as your cover?� asked the young man. �Because I have a feeling you wouldn�t know the difference between a spreadsheet and a balance sheet.�

�My wife and I gave that question some considerable thought before we settled on a banker. I grew up in Shoreham, a small town in England, in the sixties, and the local bank manager was a friend of my father�s. So I thought I�d get away with it for a couple of weeks.�

�What else was on the shortlist?�

�Estate agent, car salesman and funeral director, all of which we were fairly confident wouldn�t be followed by never-ending questions.�

The young man laughed.

�Which job would you have chosen?� asked William, trying to regain the initiative.

�Hitman. That way no one would have bothered me with any follow-up questions.�

�I would have known that was a cover immediately,� said William with a dismissive wave of his hand, �because no hitman would have asked me if I was a detective. He would have already known. So, what do you really do when you�re not a hitman?�

�I�m in my final year at Choate, a prep school in Connecticut.�

�Do you know what you want to do when you leave school? That�s assuming you�re not still hoping to be a hitman.�

�I shall go to Harvard and study history, before going on to law school.�

�After which, no doubt, you�ll join a well-known legal practice, and in no time be made a junior partner.�

�No, sir, I want to be a lawman. After I�ve spent a year as editor of the Law Review, I shall join the FBI.�

�You seem to have your career well mapped out, for one so young.�

The young man frowned, clearly offended, so William quickly added, �I was just the same at your age. I knew I wanted to be a detective and end up at Scotland Yard when I was eight years old.�

�What took you so long?�

William smiled at the bright young man, who no doubt understood the meaning of the word precocious without realizing it might apply to him. But then William accepted that he�d undoubtedly suffered from the same problem when he was a schoolboy. He leant forward, thrust out his hand and said, �Detective Chief Inspector William Warwick.�

�James Buchanan,� replied the young man, shaking William�s outstretched hand firmly. �Dare I ask how you reached such a high rank, because if you were at school in the sixties you can�t be more than...�

�What makes you so sure they�ll offer you a place at Harvard?� asked William, trying to parry his thrust. �You can�t be more than...�

�Seventeen,� said James. �I�m top of my class with a grade point average of 4.8, and I�m confident I�ll do well in my SATs.� He paused before adding, �Should I presume you made it to Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector?�

�Yes,� William came back. He was used to being interrogated by leading counsel, not teenagers, although he was enjoying the encounter. �But if you�re that bright, why haven�t you considered becoming a lawyer, or going into politics?�

�There are far too many lawyers in America,� said James with a shrug of the shoulders, �and most of them end up chasing ambulances.�

�And politics?�

�I wouldn�t be any good at suffering fools gladly, and I don�t want to spend the rest of my life at the whim of the electorate or allowing focus groups to dictate my opinions.�

�Whereas, if you were to become the Director of the FBI...�

�I would be my own master, answering only to the President, and I wouldn�t always let him know what I was up to.�

William laughed at the young man, who clearly didn�t suffer from self-doubt.

�And you, sir,� said James, sounding more relaxed, �are you destined to become the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police?� William hesitated again. �Clearly, you think it�s a possibility,� James continued before he could reply. �May I ask you another question?�

�I can�t imagine what would stop you.�

�What do you consider are the most important qualities needed to be a first-class detective?�

William gave the question some thought before he responded. �A natural curiosity,� he eventually said. �So you immediately spot something that doesn�t feel quite right.�

James took a pen from an inside pocket and began writing William�s words down on the back of the Alden Daily News.

�You must also be able to ask the relevant questions of suspects, witnesses and colleagues. Avoid making assumptions. And above all, you have to be patient. Which is why women often make better police officers than men. Finally, you must be able to use all your senses � sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste.�

�I�m not sure I fully understand,� said James.

�That must be a first,� William replied, immediately regretting his words, although the young man laughed for the first time. �Close your eyes,� said William. He waited for a moment before saying, �Describe me.�

The young man took his time before replying. �You�re thirty, thirty-five at most, a shade over six foot, fair hair, blue eyes, around a hundred and seventy pounds, fit, but not as fit as you used to be, and you�ve suffered a serious shoulder injury at some time in the past.�

�What makes you think I�m not as fit as I used to be?� said William defensively.

�You�re about six or seven pounds overweight, and, as this is the first day of the voyage, you can�t blame the never-ending meals they serve on board ships.�

William frowned. �And the injury?�

�The top two buttons of your shirt are undone, and when you leant forward to shake hands, I noticed a faded scar just below your left shoulder.�

William thought as he so often did, about his mentor, Constable Fred Yates, who had saved his life only to sacrifice his own. Police work wasn�t always as romantic as some authors would have you believe. He moved quickly on. �What book am I reading?�

�Watership Down by Richard Adams. And before you ask, you�re on page hundred and forty-three.�

�And my clothes, what do they tell you?�

�I admit,� said James, �I found that a bit of a mystery. It would take me several subtle questions before I came up with an answer, and then only if you told the truth.�

�Let�s assume I�m a criminal who won�t answer your questions until I�ve phoned my legal representative.�

James hesitated for a moment before he said, �That in itself would be a clue.�

�Why?�

�It would suggest you�ve been in trouble with the law before, and if you know the telephone number of your lawyer, you certainly have.�

�OK. Let�s assume I don�t have a lawyer, but I�ve watched enough TV programmes to know I needn�t answer any of your questions. What have you been able to work out without asking me any questions?�

�Your clothes aren�t expensive, probably bought off the rack, yet you�re travelling first class.�

�What do you deduce from that?�

�You�re wearing a wedding ring, so you could have a rich wife. Or perhaps you�re on a special assignment.�

�Neither,� said William. �That�s where observation ends, and detection begins. But not bad.�

The young man opened his eyes and smiled. �My turn, I think, sir. Please close your eyes.�

William looked surprised, but continued with the game.

�Describe me.�

�Bright, self-assured, but insecure.�

�Insecure?�

�You may be top of the class, but you�re still desperate to impress.�

�What am I wearing?� asked James.

�A white button-down cotton shirt, possibly Brooks Brothers. Dark blue shorts, white cotton socks and Puma trainers, though you rarely, if ever, visit a gym.�

�How can you be sure of that?�

�I noticed when you walked towards me that your feet were splayed. If you were an athlete, they�d be in a straight line. If you doubt me, check the footprints of an Olympic runner on a cinder track.�

�Any distinguishing marks?�

�You have a tiny birthmark just below your left ear that you�ve tried to hide by growing your hair, although that will have to be cut short when you join the FBI.�

�Describe the picture behind me.�

�A black and white photo of this ship, the Alden, sailing out of New York harbour on May twenty-third, 1977. It�s being accompanied by a flotilla, which suggests it was on its maiden voyage.�

�Why�s it named the Alden?�

�That isn�t a test of observation,� said William, �but of knowledge. If I needed to know the answer to that question, I could always find out later. First impressions are often misleading, so assume nothing. But if I had to guess, and you shouldn�t as a detective, as this ship is part of the Pilgrim Line, I�d say that Alden was the name of one of the original pilgrims who set sail from Plymouth to America on the Mayflower in 1620.�

�How tall am I?�

�You�re an inch shorter than me, but you�ll end up an inch taller. You weigh around a hundred and forty pounds, and you�ve only just started to shave.�

�How many people have passed us while your eyes have been closed?�

�A mother with two children, one a little boy called Bobby, both American, and a moment later one of the ship�s officers.�

�How do you know he was an officer?�

�A deckhand passing the other way called him sir. There was also an elderly gentleman.�

�How could you tell he was old?�

�He was using a walking stick, and it was some time before the sound of tapping faded.�

�I�m half blind,� said James, as William opened his eyes.

�Far from it,� said William. �Now it�s my turn to ask the suspect some questions.� James sat bolt upright, a look of concentration on his face. �A good detective should always rely on facts and never take anything for granted, so first I have to find out if Fraser Buchanan, the chairman of the Pilgrim Line, is your grandfather?�

�Yes, he is. And my father, Angus, is deputy chairman.�

�Fraser, Angus and James. Rather suggests a Scottish heritage.� James nodded.

�No doubt they both assume that in the fullness of time you�ll become chairman.�

�I�ve already made it clear that�s not going to happen,� said James without hesitation.

�From everything I�ve read or heard about your grandfather, he�s used to getting his own way.�

�True,� James replied. �But sometimes he forgets we come from the same stock,� he added with a smirk.

�I had the same problem with my father,� admitted William. �He�s a criminal barrister, a QC, and he always assumed I�d follow him in chambers and later join him at the bar, despite my telling him from an early age that I wanted to lock up criminals, not be paid extortionate fees to keep them out of jail.�

�George Bernard Shaw was right,� declared James. �We are separated by a common language. For you, the bar means courts and lawyers. For an American it means high stools and drinks.�

�A sharp criminal will always try to change the subject,� said William. �But a thorough detective won�t allow himself to lose the thread. You didn�t answer my question about your grandfather�s feelings about you not wanting to be chairman of the company.�

�My grandfather, I suspect, is worse than your father,� said James. �He�s already threatening to cut me out of his will if I don�t join the company after leaving Harvard. But he�ll never be allowed to do that as long as my grandmother�s alive.�

William chuckled.

�Would it be too much of an imposition, sir, to ask if I might be allowed to spend an hour or so a day with you during the voyage?� James asked, without displaying his previous confidence.

�I�d enjoy that. Around this time of the morning would suit me, because that�s when my wife will be at her yoga class. But there�s one proviso: should you ever meet her, you won�t tell her what we�ve been talking about.�

�And what have you been talking about?� asked Beth, as she appeared by their side.

James leapt up. �The price of gold, Mrs Warwick,� he said, looking earnest.

�Then you will have quickly discovered it�s a subject about which my husband knows very little,� said Beth, giving the young man a warm smile.

�I was about to tell you, James,� said William, �that my wife is far brighter than I am, which is why she�s the keeper of pictures at the Fitzmolean Museum and I�m a mere Detective Chief Inspector.�

�The youngest in the Met�s history,� said Beth.

�Although should you ever mention the Met to my wife, she�ll assume you�re talking about one of the finest museums on earth, rather than London�s police force.�

�I was so glad you managed to get the Vermeer back,� said James, turning to Mrs Warwick.

It was Beth�s turn to look surprised. �Yes,� she eventually managed, �and fortunately it can�t be stolen again because the thief is dead.�

�Miles Faulkner,� said James, �who died in Switzerland, after suffering a heart attack.�

William and Beth looked at each other but said nothing.

�You even attended the funeral, Chief Inspector, presumably to convince yourself he was dead.�

�How can you possibly know that?� said William, once again on the back foot.

�I read The Spectator and the New Statesman every week, which keeps me up to date on what�s happening in Britain, and then try to form my own opinion.�

�Of course you do,� said William.

�I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, sir,� said James, �when I�ll be interested to find out if you think it�s possible Miles Faulkner is still alive.�

Miles Faulkner strolled across the dining room of the Savoy just after eight o�clock the following morning, to see his lawyer already seated at his usual place. No one gave him a second look as he weaved in and out of the tables.

�Good morning,� Booth Watson said, looking up at his only client, a man he neither liked nor trusted. However, Faulkner was the one person who made it possible for him to enjoy a lifestyle few of his colleagues at the bar could hope to emulate.

�Good morning, BW,� Miles replied, as he sat down in the seat opposite him.

A waiter quickly appeared, notebook open, pen poised. �What will you have this morning, gentlemen?� he asked.

�The full English,� said Miles, without looking at the menu.

�And will you be having your usual, sir?�

�Yes,� confirmed Booth Watson, as he peered more closely at his client. He had to admit the Swiss plastic surgeon had done a first-class job. No one would have recognized him as the man who had escaped from prison, attended his own funeral, and recently risen from the dead. The man seated opposite him bore no resemblance to the successful entrepreneur who had once owned one of the great art collections in private hands, but now looked every bit the retired naval captain and veteran of the Falklands campaign, who answered to the name of Captain Ralph Neville. But if William Warwick were to discover that his old nemesis was still alive, he wouldn�t rest until he was back behind bars. For Warwick it would be personal, the man who escaped from his clutches, the man who made fools of the Metropolitan Police, the man who�d�

�Why did you need to see me so urgently?� Miles asked once the waiter had left.

�A journalist from The Sunday Times insight team called yesterday and asked me if I knew anything about a Raphael that had recently been sold by Christie�s and turned out to be a fake.�

�What did you tell him?� asked Miles, nervously.

�I assured her that the original was part of the late Miles Faulkner�s private collection, and is still hanging in his widow�s villa in Monte Carlo.�

�Not for much longer,� confided Miles. �Once Christina found out she wasn�t a widow after all, I had no choice but to move the entire collection to a safer location before she could get her hands on it.�

�And where might that be?� asked Booth Watson, wondering if he would get an honest reply.

�I�ve found somewhere that doesn�t have any locals to spy on me, and only the passing seagulls can shit on me,� was all Miles offered.

�I�m glad to hear that, because I think it might be wise to leave England for a few weeks before you once again reappear as Captain Neville, and no better time than while Chief Inspector Warwick and his wife are enjoying a holiday in New York.�

�A holiday that was arranged for them by Christina to make sure they�re both well out of harm�s way when my wife and I get married for the second time.�

�But I thought Beth Warwick was going to be Christina�s maid of honour?�

�She was, but that was before Christina discovered why I couldn�t afford to be seen on board the SS Alden.�

�You have to admit your ex has her uses,� said Booth Watson, �and one of them is to take advantage of the close relationship she�s formed with Mrs Warwick.�

�Frankly, BW, I would have been better off if Christina had never discovered I was still alive. So please explain to me why I have to marry the damn woman a second time?�

�Because, in the end, it solves all your problems,� said Booth Watson. �Don�t forget she�s the one person who can keep an eye on Detective Inspector Warwick without him ever becoming suspicious.�

�But if she were to switch sides?� said Faulkner.

�That�s unlikely while you still hold the purse strings.�

Faulkner didn�t look convinced. �That wouldn�t be the case if they discovered who Captain Ralph Neville was, and I ended up back in prison.�

�She�d still have to get past me, when Christina would quickly discover which side I�m on.�

�But you also don�t have a choice,� said Miles, �because you�d have to explain to the Bar Council why you�ve been representing an escaped criminal for the past couple of years, when you were well aware he was your former client.�

�All the more reason,� suggested Booth Watson, �to make sure Christina signs a binding agreement that if she were to break she�d have just as much to lose as either of us.�

�And be sure she signs it before she marries Captain Neville, and certainly before the Warwicks return to Blighty.�

�Blighty?� said BW.

�That�s Captain Neville-speak, old chap,� said Miles, sounding rather pleased with himself. �So when are you seeing Christina?�

�I have a meeting with her in chambers tomorrow morning, when I intend to take her through the agreement clause by clause, stressing the consequences of her failing to sign it.�

�Good, because if she ever thought she could get her hands on my art collection simply by telling her friend Beth that Miles Faulkner is still alive and kicking...�

�You�d end up having breakfast in Pentonville and not the Savoy.�

�If that were to happen,� said Miles, �I wouldn�t hesitate to kill her.�

�I�ve already made that painfully clear,� said Booth Watson as the waiter returned with their breakfast. �Though I confess, I haven�t spelt it out quite that explicitly in the final agreement.�

Booth Watson rose from behind his desk when his reluctant client entered the room. Mrs Christina Faulkner sat down opposite him, without bothering to shake hands with her husband�s lawyer.

Booth Watson looked across at the elegantly dressed lady who had been married to his client for eleven years, before they both decided to go their separate ways.

Both of them had had countless affairs, long before she�d issued divorce proceedings. However, after Miles was convicted of the theft of a Caravaggio and sent to jail, Christina felt on stronger ground until he died, when she assumed she had lost everything. That was before she turned up at the funeral to discover that her late husband was very much alive, and would have to cut a deal with her if he was going to be allowed to stay that way. Christina didn�t need to be told it was a game changer.

But the merry widow had also worked out that Miles Faulkner � or Captain Ralph Neville as he was now � was better alive than dead, because that way she could lay her hands on at least half of Miles�s fabled art collection, which she had signed away in their original divorce settlement.

Booth Watson was well aware of the shifting sands he was tiptoeing over, but still had one ace up his sleeve. Christina�s love of money.

�I thought we ought to have a word about what will happen after the wedding has taken place, Mrs Faulkner,� said Booth Watson.

�Am I allowed to ask what you and Miles have decided on my behalf?� asked Christina.

�There shouldn�t be a great deal of difference from the present situation,� parried Booth Watson, ignoring the jibe. �You will retain your home in the country, along with the Belgravia apartment. However, in future Monte Carlo will be out of bounds.�

�Found someone else, has he?�

Somewhere else, Booth Watson could have told her, but that was not part of his brief. �You will continue to receive two thousand pounds a week for expenses, while retaining your housekeeper, maid and chauffeur.�

�And have you two decided where you�ll be spending my honeymoon?� asked Christina, making no attempt to hide any sarcasm.

�Miles will not be spending a great deal of time in England during the next few months, so it will in effect be a marriage of convenience. To that end I have drawn up a binding agreement, which is ready for you to sign. Just remember, you get far more than you could have hoped for in return for your silence. You needn�t bother to read it as there won�t be any amendments.�

�So we won�t be living together?� said Christina, pretending to sound shocked.

�That was never the plan, as you well know. Miles has no objection to you continuing your present lifestyle, but he would ask you to be a little more discreet in future, and to be available to accompany him as Mrs Ralph Neville on what we might describe as formal occasions.�

�And if I�m not willing to sign?� said Christina, sitting back, despite the fact that Booth Watson had already taken the top off his pen, turned to the last page and planted a forefinger on the dotted line.

�You will be destitute, and end up living in sheltered accommodation.�

�While Miles will be back in jail for a very long time, unless...�

�Unless?� repeated Booth Watson.

�Unless he gives me the additional million I was promised in the original divorce settlement. I don�t have to remind you, Mr Booth Watson, that Miles is dead. Like you, I attended his funeral in Geneva, where I was touched by your moving address. If the police were to discover those were not his ashes I was presented with by the compliant priest, it might be a lot more than a million he ends up having to sacrifice. However, if Miles feels unable to keep his word, you can send back the wedding cake and cancel the caterers.�

A long silence followed, during which both sides waited for the other to blink.

�And do remind him I�ve still got his ashes, which is no more than my insurance policy should he fail to deliver.�

�Life insurance policies usually only pay out when you die.�

�I left the urn to Detective Inspector William Warwick in my will, which I think might help him to make up his mind.�

�She demanded what?� said Miles, as the waiter poured them both a steaming black coffee.

�The million she was promised in the original divorce settlement,� said Booth Watson.

�But unfortunately I died before the decree nisi was signed.�

�And she�s got your ashes to prove it.�

�So what?�

�You clearly haven�t heard of Crick and Watson,� said Booth Watson, �because they�ve made it possible for her to prove you�re very much alive.�

�Not if she�s dead she can�t,� said Faulkner.

�If Christina were to suffer an untimely death,� said Booth Watson, choosing his words carefully, �the first person they�d question would be her new husband, Captain Ralph Neville RN. It wouldn�t take them too long to work out his true identity. So I�m recommending you hand over the million if you want to remain a free man.�

�Over my dead body,� said Miles emphatically.

�Which is precisely what I expect Christina has in mind, if she were to tell her friend Beth Warwick who she�s actually about to marry.�

�If she did, she�d be penniless overnight.�

�I�m not sure that�s a gamble you can take. Heaven knows what she�d get up to while you were back in prison and safely out of harm�s way. I�m bound to ask, is a single painting worth a life sentence?�

Miles didn�t respond while the waiter served them both and only said �possibly not� after he�d left.

�All the more reason for you to be out of the country for the next few weeks while I make sure Christina keeps to her side of the bargain, and that Captain Ralph Neville can safely return to these shores whenever it suits him.�

�I�d always planned to move into my new home immediately after the wedding,� said Miles. �Somewhere, I can assure you, BW, where neither Warwick nor Christina will ever find me or my paintings.�

�I�m glad to hear it. But in my opinion we need to keep Christina on our side while she�s still able to supply inside information on the Warwicks. Don�t forget how close she is to Beth Warwick, who innocently passes on information about what her husband is up to.�

�Or not so innocently,� suggested Miles.

�With that in mind, I�m planning to put Superintendent Lamont back on the payroll to keep an eye on her.�

�Ex-Superintendent,� Miles reminded him. �Don�t forget he�s no longer on the inside and, more important, that man will do anything for money while he has a �trophy wife� who keeps his bank balance in the red, not to mention his genius for backing horses that can�t find their way to the winner�s enclosure.�

�That might well be the case. But don�t forget that the ex-Superintendent was once Commander Hawksby�s second-in-command.�

�Until he had to resign.�

�But he still knows a lot of people on the inside, and one in particular.�

�Do I know him?�

�Her. She�s part of William Warwick�s inner team, and, more important, she isn�t averse to receiving the occasional brown envelope.�

�Then keep supplying them. That way we can stay ahead of both Christina and the Warwicks.�

�So you�re willing to cough up the million she�s demanding?�

Miles smiled as he picked up his knife and fork. �On one condition,� he said. �Make it clear that if Christina ever breaks the agreement, I�ll dock her monthly allowance until the million is paid back.�

Ex-Superintendent Lamont was at home reading the Racing Post when Mr Booth Watson QC�s clerk called to inform him that the head of chambers required his presence at ten o�clock the following morning. It was the first time Booth Watson had been in touch since the police corruption trial at the Old Bailey when Jerry Summers, a Detective Sergeant who�d taken one risk too many, had ended up going down for ten years because Lamont had failed to remove a vital piece of evidence that would have got Summers off. Lamont had rather assumed after that particular balls-up, Booth Watson wouldn�t be requiring his services again. Although he intensely disliked the oleaginous QC, the expression �Beggars can�t be choosers� ensured that he would be on time for the appointment.

During the past few weeks, he�d also done a couple of jobs for Mrs Christina Faulkner, and wondered if Booth Watson might consider that a conflict of interest. After he�d checked his bank balance, he decided not to mention his double-dating to either party. Lamont made sure he was sitting in the waiting room of No. 1 Fetter Court at ten to ten the following morning. He was kept waiting.

When the Head of Chambers eventually called for him, he didn�t mention Summers or the key piece of evidence Lamont should have switched, but got straight to the point.

�I need to know what your old friend Warwick is up to at the moment.�

�Warwick�s no friend of mine,� said Lamont, almost spitting out the words.

�I�m glad to hear that,� said Booth Watson. �In which case it should make your task even more enjoyable. I can tell you that the Inspector and his wife are currently sailing first class to New York aboard the Alden.�

�A holiday that must have been paid for by his father, because he certainly couldn�t afford to travel first class on a Chief Inspector�s salary.�

Booth Watson knew exactly who had paid for the trip, but satisfied himself with repeating the words, �Chief Inspector?�

�Warwick was promoted following the success of the Summers trial,� said Lamont, who immediately regretted the word �success�, as it produced a scowl on his paymaster�s lips.

�Can you tell me anything about this new squad he�s heading up?�

�Unit,� said Lamont.

The scowl returned; Booth Watson didn�t like to be corrected, even by a judge.

Lamont ploughed on. �Warwick has four officers under his command. DS Paul Adaja, who isn�t one of us, DS Jackie Roycroft, she�s already on my payroll, and DC Rebecca Pankhurst, who�s still wet behind the ears. They�ll be joined by DI Ross Hogan, but not before Warwick returns from his holiday.�

�I don�t know Hogan,� said Booth Watson. �What can you tell me about him?�

�Tough, resilient, but a bit of a maverick, who�s not averse to taking the occasional risk. He�s been working undercover for the past three years, but Hawksby must have decided to bring him in from the cold.�

�Why?� demanded Booth Watson.

�Needed to bolster the team with a little sharp-end experience would be my bet. So we�ll need to keep an eye on him because maverick he may be, but his loyalty to Hawksby is not in question.�

Booth Watson took his time before asking his next question. �Do you think Hogan could be tempted into an indiscretion?�

�Never. If that man found a wallet on the London Underground stuffed with fifty-pound notes, he�d hand it in to the nearest police station and not expect a reward.�

�Money may well be the root of all evil, Superintendent, but it�s not the only sin Moses found etched on the tablet he brought down from Mount Sinai.�

Lamont thought for some time before he responded. �Hogan�s had on-off relationships with several female officers in the past, and even with a suspect on one occasion, for which he was temporarily suspended. His latest conquest is DS Roycroft, but I�m pretty sure that�s coming to an end.�

�So, if we could find the right Eve,� said Booth Watson, �he might be tempted to bite the apple.�

�I�m not a pimp,� said Lamont acidly.

�Of course you�re not, Superintendent. But fortunately, I have a client who swims in those particular waters, so you can leave Hogan to me, while you concentrate on DS Roycroft.�

�Is there anything in particular you want me to find out, when I next see her?�

�The names of everyone under investigation by Warwick�s new unit.�

�That shouldn�t prove difficult, but it won�t come cheap.�

Booth Watson opened his desk drawer, withdrew a thick brown envelope and pushed it across the table, confident in the knowledge that if the ex-Superintendent found a wallet stuffed with fifty-pound notes, he wouldn�t hand it in to the nearest police station.

�I think I�ve solved the fingerprint problem,� said James, as he sat down for breakfast the following morning.

�How,� asked William, �when we don�t have a forensic lab at our disposal?�

�Don�t need one when there�s a shop selling toys on deck four,� he announced, looking rather pleased with himself.

�Stop showing off,� said William, grinning.

�It didn�t take much research to discover that one of the most popular items in the shop is a Sherlock Holmes kit for aspiring detectives. I bought the last three sets,� said James, producing one of them from below the table with a flourish. �They contain a fingerprint pad, special paper, dusting powder, a tiny brush and a magnifying glass. What more could you want?�

�Well done, Detective Constable Buchanan. Thinking outside the box.�

�Inside the box, actually,� said James, removing the lid to reveal several small compartments.

�Pathetic,� said William, �but bravo.�

�Whose fingerprints do you want to check, Chief Inspector?� he asked as he took a sip of orange juice.

�You can begin with your uncle Hamish,� said William, checking James�s table plan. �Start with his silver hip flask, and then his coffee cup, so you have matching prints. Then move on to your great-aunt Flora, who was sitting on his left, next Dr Lockhart, followed by your mother, and finally your grandfather.�

�What about those who were sitting on the other side of the table?�

�We don�t need theirs.�

�Why not?�

�Think about it, detective, and let me know when the penny drops.�

�Do you know where that expression originates?�

�Yes, I do,� said William.

�So, where should I start looking for prints?�

�The water tumblers, the wine glasses and then the coffee cups, remembering the waiters wear gloves, so that eliminates them.�

�And after I�ve done that?�

�I�ll double-check the prints you find on Hamish�s hip flask. Once I�ve identified all of them, we�ll know if your theory stands up.�

�And if it doesn�t?�

�Then your grandfather died of a heart attack, and I shall inform the commodore that I have no reason to suspect foul play.�

�And what if Grandfather�s prints aren�t on Hamish�s flask?�

�Then I�ll need you and Franco to carry out a surveillance exercise for me.�

�What do you have in mind, sir?� asked Franco, as he poured William a second cup of coffee.

�When Dr Lockhart comes down for breakfast this morning, I�ll go straight to deck seven. If he looks as if he might be returning to his cabin, James, you come up as quickly as possible and warn me. Meanwhile, Franco, you try to delay him even if it�s only for a few moments.�

�I�ll tell him about my dodgy knee that�s been playing up again.�

�How do I get my hands on a pass key for the cabins on deck seven?� asked William.

�No problem, sir.� Franco took a large bunch of keys from an inside pocket, removed one with the number �7� stamped on it, and handed it to William, who said, �I hope this won�t get you into any trouble.�

�Not a chance,� said Franco. �I had clear instructions from the commodore to give you every possible assistance, so I�m doing no more than obeying orders.�

A few moments later the first guests entered the dining room for breakfast. They stared at the chairman�s table, now roped off, while Franco led them to their usual places.

�Got it,� said James. �I�ve just worked out why you don�t need the fingerprints of anyone who was sitting on the other side of the table.�

Franco looked suitably puzzled.

�Time for me to get moving,� said William, as Hamish Buchanan and Dr Lockhart strolled into the dining room. William was not surprised to see them together. �Start work on their fingerprints immediately,� he whispered. �Although time isn�t exactly on our side, don�t hurry and make sure you�re thorough,� he added, before slipping out of the dining room.

James waited until his uncle and Dr Lockhart had sat down for breakfast before he took a seat on the other side of the table and turned his back on them. He picked up the silver hip flask and sprinkled a light layer of dusting powder over its surface.

�Captain Neville, what a pleasant surprise to see you in Paris,� declared an elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman who Miles had known for many years; she�d even sent flowers to his funeral. �Unfortunately, none of my ladies will be available until around nine o�clock this evening.�

�I came early,� said Miles, �because I need to have a private word before your first client arrives.�

�Then let�s go to my office where we won�t be disturbed.�

Miles entered a Victorian boudoir he�d known long before his physical appearance had been altered beyond recognition. But he sometimes wondered if Blanche had her suspicions about the captain who didn�t quibble over the price, although she�d never seen the one part of his anatomy that hadn�t changed.

�I need something a little out of the ordinary,� he said, as he sat down on the sofa next to the madam. It was a request Blanche was familiar with, but when he told her exactly what he had in mind, even she was taken by surprise.

He took out several large photographs from his briefcase that had been supplied by Lamont and handed them to Blanche, who studied them carefully. �The police uniform is very convincing,� she said. �If this girl�s ever in Paris, I can find work for her.�

�She was the mark�s present girlfriend,� said Miles, without elaboration. �I�m hoping you can provide her replacement.�

�Let me see what I can come up with, captain.� Blanche rose from the sofa and walked across to a large filing cabinet. She pulled open the second drawer, which was labelled �Blondes, European, fluent English�, and extracted two files.

Blanche sat down at her desk and turned the pages slowly, occasionally glancing at the image Captain Neville had supplied. After some consideration she chose three candidates whose photographs she placed on the desk in front of him.

Miles studied the three young women Blanche had selected.

�What else will she be expected to do,� she asked, �besides seduce him?�

�The mark has the energy of ten men, but it�s not his sexual prowess I�m interested in.�

�Any one of them should be able to handle that. After all, they�re professionals. But what other skills are required?�

�She needs to be bright as well as irresistible. A combination of Mata Hari and Becky Sharp. It�s the pillow talk that�s going to matter.�

�Then I�d go with Josephine rather than Avril or Michelle,� she said, pointing to one of the photographs. �Why don�t you come back around midnight, captain, then you can judge for yourself which one of them fits the bill?�

�Quite a large bill, I suspect,� said Miles, �as I may be needing her services for some time.�

�What do you think?� asked Beth.

�Quite magnificent. It would look even better if it were hanging around your neck,� said William, as he admired the exquisite necklace displayed in the window of the ship�s jewellery shop. �Dare I ask how much?�

�Way out of your price range, caveman. I should have married a banker.�

William took a second look at the necklace and felt guilty. This was meant to be a break from work, but he�d hardly seen Beth from the moment they�d stepped on board. Yoga, followed by the morning lecture, and a film in the afternoon with her new best friend, Catherine Whittaker, had almost got him off the hook, but not entirely.

Beth straightened his bow tie. �You need to look your best tonight,� she said, brushing a hair from the shoulder of his dinner jacket. �Catherine is such fun, and I can�t wait to meet her husband.�

�The last time I saw Mr Justice Whittaker,� mused William, �I was in the witness box when he told me he wasn�t interested in my opinions, and to stick to the evidence.�

Beth laughed as he took her hand and they made their way to the dining room on the deck below. William smiled to himself when they passed a window full of toys and spotted an empty shelf.

They entered the dining room, where Franco was on hand to escort them to their table. The chairman�s table was no longer roped off, but it remained unoccupied. The Buchanan family were now sitting at separate tables on the other side of the room, the two brothers conspicuously seated apart from each other. Franco accompanied William and Beth to the Whittakers� table, where the judge rose to greet them.

�William, it�s good of you to join us after what must have been a gruelling couple of days. I don�t imagine you�ve had much sleep.�

�Not a lot, sir,� said William, as they shook hands.

�George, please. I don�t think you�ve met my wife, Catherine.�

�Beth�s already told me about your fascinating talk on Puccini.�

�And I can�t wait to visit the Fitzmolean again,� said Catherine, �now that I have my own personal guide.�

�That�s how we met,� said William, as Franco appeared and handed them each a menu.

�Tonight�s special is the rump steak,� he declared, �while there�s the finest smoked salmon for the more abstemious.�

William ordered the steak, confident that Beth wouldn�t overrule him, although she did frown. Once they had all placed their orders, Beth told them about the morning lecture she and Catherine had attended, entitled, �The Big Apple: why not take a bite!� given by Professor Samuels of Columbia University.

�The professor has made me think again about how we should spend our time in New York,� Beth commented. �I now want to drive across the Brooklyn Bridge, walk around Central Park and��

�Not at night,� said William.

��and visit the Bronx zoo,� continued Beth.

�Not to mention catching a Broadway show,� said Catherine. �He told us we should get tickets for La Cage aux Folles, if we possibly can,� she added, as Franco reappeared with their first course.

Beth and Catherine continued to chat enthusiastically about the lecture, while the judge ate his asparagus, commenting only on how delicate the hollandaise sauce was. It wasn�t until their plates had been cleared away, to be replaced with the second course, that he turned to William and said, �May I ask how your investigation is proceeding?�

�It�s complicated. However, I can tell you I�ve handed in my report to the commodore,� said William, as he cut into his steak and watched the blood run. He looked up to see that all three of them had put down their knives and forks and were staring at him in anticipation.

�Did the chairman die of a heart attack?� asked the judge, cutting to the quick.

�He may well have done,� said William. �But I�m more interested in what caused that heart attack.�

Once again, all three of them waited impatiently while William placed a little mustard on the side of his plate.

�Are you going to tell us the answer,� Beth finally demanded, �or do we have to wait until our food�s gone cold?�

William put down his knife, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, �I�m able to tell you how the murder was committed, as long as you don�t breathe a word to anyone.�

�And that includes you, my dear,� said George, smiling at his wife.

William waited until Franco had refilled their wine glasses before producing James�s seating plan and placing it in the centre of the table.

He allowed them a few moments to study it, before he continued. �First, note that Hamish Buchanan is seated on the left-hand side of the table, between his mother and Flora Buchanan on his left.�

�Who�s she?� asked Catherine.

�Fraser Buchanan�s sister. The formidable grande dame of the company, who the rest of the family are in awe of.�

�And next to her?� enquired the judge, peering down at the plan.

�Dr Lockhart, whose sole purpose in life was to keep the chairman alive. But not on this occasion.�

This revelation silenced the three of them for a moment, giving William the chance to enjoy a forkful of steak.

�And on his left?� asked Beth.

�Alice Buchanan, James�s mother and the wife of Angus Buchanan� � he moved his finger across to the other side of the table � �who recently replaced his brother Hamish as deputy chairman of the company.�

�I have a feeling that side of the table isn�t going to be important,� said the judge.

�A shrewd observation,� said William, �but you�ll still have to concentrate if you�re to work out what Hamish Buchanan was up to. Everyone saw him take a drink from his hip flask during dinner, which caused his father to pointedly ask what he was drinking, as he suspected it was whisky or brandy, despite Hamish having just assured him he was on the wagon.�

No one interrupted as William put down his knife and fork.

�Hamish claimed the flask only contained a mild sedative that had been given to him by Dr Lockhart to help him sleep. But the chairman demanded it was passed to him so he could check for himself. Their first mistake.� William paused to allow Franco to refill their wine glasses.

�Where was I?� he said once Franco had put the wine back in the ice bucket.

�Hamish was passing his hip flask to his father, who was seated at the top of the table,� Beth reminded him.

�Ah yes,� said William. �So, Hamish handed the flask to Great-Aunt Flora, who passed it on to the doctor, who in turn gave it to Alice, who finally handed it to the chairman.� He took a sip of wine while they continued to study the table plan. �The chairman swallowed a long draught from the flask,� he continued, �and although he found it tasted unpleasant, it clearly wasn�t alcohol, and therefore he assumed it must be the medicine Dr Lockhart had prescribed. He then passed the hip flask back to his son at the other end of the table.�

�Down which side of the table?� asked the judge.

�That�s the point,� said William. �The same side.�

�As I thought,� said the judge. �But I�m still only half-way there.�

�When the flask was returned to Hamish, he made a great show of taking another swig from it. His second mistake.�

�I�m lost,� said Beth.

�Patience,� said William. �Concentrate on the seating plan and all will be revealed. James Buchanan, my recently promoted Detective Sergeant, spent this morning identifying all the fingerprints he could find on the tumblers, wine glasses and coffee cups of everyone who had sat on the left-hand side of the table, while I carried out the same exercise with Hamish�s hip flask.�

�You�re still a yard ahead of me,� said Catherine. �If Hamish�s flask was passed to his father at the top of the table, everyone�s fingerprints on that side of the table had to be on it.�

�But they weren�t,� suggested the judge, �because someone had switched the flask for a similar one before it reached the chairman at the top of the table, and that person will be the only one whose fingerprints were on both flasks.�

�Not a bad summing up, m�Lud,� said William with a grin. �So in order to decide who is the guilty party, the jury must first consider the evidence. Flora took Hamish�s flask and passed it on to the doctor like a baton in a relay race, and when the chairman sent it back down the table, the same exercise was carried out in reverse. Simple and well planned, except the accomplices made two mistakes. First�� William stopped mid-sentence as Franco reappeared to clear their plates.

�Would you like to see the dessert menu?� he asked.

�No, thank you,� said Catherine, not even looking up.

�A digestif, perhaps?� ventured Franco.

�No, thank you,� repeated the judge a little more firmly, his eyes still fixed on the place settings on James�s drawing. Franco left, having served no purpose.

William waited to see if anyone had worked out what those mistakes were.

�Whose fingerprints did you find on Hamish�s hip flask?� asked the judge. �And, more important, whose fingerprints were missing? Because that will tell us who switched the flasks.�

William acknowledged the judge with a slight bow, as if they were in court. �The only fingerprints I could identify on Hamish�s flask were Flora�s, who was seated next to him, the not so good doctor Lockhart, and of course Hamish�s.�

�Got it,� said Beth.

�Then you�ll be able to explain what they were up to,� said William.

�It had to be Dr Lockhart who carried out the switch both times,� said Beth. �Otherwise, the chairman�s fingerprints would also have been on Hamish�s flask when it was passed back to him.�

�As well as those of James�s mother, who was sitting between the doctor and the chairman, and passed the flask to him.�

�Have you found the second flask?� asked the judge. �The one Fraser Buchanan must have drunk from?�

�Yes,� said William. �I first saw the other flask in Dr Lockhart�s bag when I questioned him last night, and then again this morning when I searched his cabin while he was at breakfast. But the only fingerprints I found on that particular flask were his.�

�He�d had more than enough time to wipe it clean,� said the judge, �leaving just his fingerprints for you to find. But what about the contents?�

�The ship�s doctor confirmed it was nothing more than a mild sedative, just as Hamish had claimed,� replied William.

�They saw you coming,� said the judge, �and have made it almost impossible for you to prove that Hamish Buchanan and Dr Lockhart were working together as a team.�

�That would have been the case, if it hadn�t been for the resourceful and observant James Buchanan, who some of them still think of as a child, rather than a young man who plans to become the Director of the FBI, not chairman of the Pilgrim Line.�

�And what did he observe?� asked Catherine.

�Before I answer that, you need to take another look at the seating plan that night. You�ll see that young James was placed opposite his uncle Hamish, from where he had a perfect view of everything that was going on, including when Hamish drank from his hip flask. But it was only later that �the penny dropped�, to quote him, when he realized his uncle wasn�t drinking from the same hip flask as his grandfather.�

�What made him think that?� asked Beth.

�Hamish had placed his flask on the table during dinner for everyone to see,� said William. �A foolish mistake, because James noticed the initials �HB� engraved on one side, whereas the one the chairman drank from had no such engraving, as I was able to confirm when later I found it in the doctor�s cabin.�

�Bright young man,� said the judge. �However, it still may not be enough to convict them.� He stopped and pondered for a moment. �If I was representing Hamish Buchanan, I would suggest to the jury that they could not rely simply on missing fingerprints, and the uncorroborated testimony of a minor, to send two men down for a life sentence.�

�I agree,� said William. �But don�t forget we still have the body of the late Fraser Buchanan. I�ve already called ahead to the NYPD to let them know I have reason to suspect a murder has been committed, and they�ve agreed to meet me on the quayside when we dock tomorrow morning. I�m confident an autopsy will show the chairman was poisoned, and end up convicting both of them.�

�Bravo,� said the judge. �You are indeed the son of Sir Julian Warwick.�

�Not to mention the formidable Lady Warwick,� suggested Beth.

�They would have got away with it if I hadn�t had young James Buchanan to assist me,� admitted William, as Franco served them coffee and poured the judge his usual brandy, before handing William a sealed envelope.

�A signed confession?� suggested Catherine, as William tore open the envelope.

�I don�t think so,� he said, after extracting a voucher for one thousand pounds. He read out the accompanying letter.

�It was my holiday that was spoilt, not yours,� said Beth. �In fact, I�ve never seen you happier,� she added, as she grabbed the voucher and dropped it into her bag.

�I wonder what time the jewellery shop opens in the morning?� said Catherine innocently.

The loud banging on the door persisted. At first William wondered if it was just part of his dream, but he woke to find it hadn�t stopped. Someone was disturbing the first decent night�s sleep he�d had in days.

He reluctantly got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and opened the door to find James standing in the corridor.

�Come quickly,� he said, �you�re the only person who can stop it.�

�Stop what?� asked William, but James was already on the move. He closed the cabin door quietly, but heard Beth groan as she turned over. Still half asleep, he followed James along the corridor and down a flight of steps to deck one, where he held open the door and waited for his mentor.

William walked out onto the lower deck, where he found the commodore in full dress uniform solemnly addressing a small gathering.

�Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep...�

William was horrified to see the Buchanan family, heads bowed, surrounding a coffin that rested on a small raised platform.

�...in the certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ...�

�Can�t you do something?� whispered James hopelessly.

�Nothing,� William replied, shaking his head, all too aware that the commodore�s authority prevailed over everyone on board his ship.

�...at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up their dead...�

William remained on the edge of the gathering, a spectator of the game being played out in front of him.

�...and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed and made like unto his glorious body...�

He took a closer look at the burial party to see Mrs Buchanan was weeping quietly, while her son Angus tried to comfort her. Flora Buchanan stood a pace back, calm and dignified, the mantle of power now resting on her shoulders. Hamish Buchanan, tight-lipped, stood next to Dr Lockhart, whose expression gave nothing away.

�...according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.�

The commodore closed his prayer book, stood rigidly to attention and saluted. Two young officers stepped forward and raised one end of the platform on which the coffin was resting. The funeral party watched as it slid slowly down its determined path into the sea, before sinking to a salty grave below the waves.

Chief Inspector William Warwick might have been able to convince a coroner to exhume a body that had been buried a few feet below the earth in a graveyard, but not one that rested on the bottom of the ocean. The Buchanan family had buried not only their dead, but the one piece of evidence that would have condemned his murderers.

A minute�s silence followed, after which the commodore saluted once again before issuing a command. Moments later, the propellers began to slowly rotate, allowing the ship to continue on its journey to New York.

William stood aside as the family departed: Mrs Buchanan on Angus�s arm, silent and resolute; Hamish and the doctor a pace behind, chatting, making a mockery of mourning. They were followed by the rest of the family, with Flora Buchanan and the commodore bringing up the rear. When the new chairman saw William, she broke away and approached him.

�I feel I owe you an explanation,� she said calmly. William couldn�t think of an appropriate response and he felt slightly embarrassed by the fact that he was wearing a dressing gown and slippers while the others were all dressed somewhat formally. �At our board meeting yesterday,� she continued, �the directors made the decision to carry out Fraser�s last request � as specified in his will � to be buried at sea.�

�Even though you must have suspected it was one of those directors who was responsible for his untimely death,� said William pointedly.

�We considered that possibility,� said Flora. �But as Fraser�s personal physician had already signed the death certificate confirming he had died of a heart attack, the family, and Mrs Buchanan in particular, decided we should carry out his final wishes rather than face a long investigation by the police. One that would have given the press enough ammunition to cause irreparable damage to the company�s reputation � the last thing Fraser would have wanted.�

�I would suggest the last thing he would have wanted was to see his son punished for the crime he had committed.�

�I can understand how you must feel, Chief Inspector,� said Flora. �So you may be interested to know that among the other decisions the board took was to sack Hamish as a director and cut him adrift.�

�To somehow survive on a vast inheritance,� said William bitterly.

�Unfortunately not,� said the chairman. �The only thing his father left him, as he will discover when the will is read later today, is a compass, a metaphor I�m sure you will appreciate.�

�And the good doctor?�

�Resigned before he could be sacked. I will also personally make sure he won�t be employed by anyone who asks us for a reference.�

As Flora turned to leave, William asked quietly, �When did you discover the truth?�

�Young James is a great admirer of yours, Chief Inspector, as I�m sure you�re aware. However, after a little coaxing he couldn�t resist letting me know how you were able to prove that my brother didn�t die of a heart attack.�

William should have realized that, in the end, blood is always thicker than water. In this case, sea water.

�Don�t blame the boy,� said Flora. �We�ve all learnt a great deal about ourselves on this journey.�

�What did you learn?�

�That given time, James will make an outstanding chairman of the Pilgrim Line. Which is exactly what his grandfather, may he rest in peace, would have wanted.�

Sixteen officers, under the command of DI Hogan, surrounded the Norman parish church of Limpton-in-the-Marsh that Saturday morning. None of them were in uniform. Several of the CROP officers were armed.

The banns had been announced in the parish magazine and proclaimed from the pulpit for the past three Sundays by the local vicar. He declared that the service would take place at two o�clock on Saturday August fifteenth. Several uninvited guests turned up for the betrothal unannounced between seven and eight that morning, but none of them entered the church.

The first official guest to make an appearance was Mr Booth Watson QC, a friend of the groom � in fact the only friend of the groom. He entered the west door of the church just after one, but then he charged by the hour.

Christina was the next to arrive, just before two. Unusual for the bride to turn up before the groom, but then this was an unusual wedding. She was dressed in a smart turquoise suit, silk scarf and matching long coat, more of a �going-away� outfit than a bridal dress. Not that she was planning to go anywhere with her husband.

Miles was running a few minutes late, despite his chauffeur keeping the needle nearer eighty than seventy mph while they were on the motorway. He took exit 13 and headed for Limpton.

�Don�t look back, boss, but I think we�re being followed.�

�What makes you say that, Eddie?�

�A taxi I spotted on the motorway came off at the same exit as us, and I don�t think he�s one of your guests.�

�Is there another route you can take to the church?�

�Yes, but it will take far longer, especially if we get held up at the railway crossing.�

�Take it. That way we�ll find out if he�s following us.�

At the next crossroads, Eddie turned right, and a few moments later the taxi once again appeared in his rear-view mirror.

�He�s still with us. What do you want me to do?�

�Keep going for a while, I think,� said Miles. The lorry in front of them slowed down as the barriers were lowered at the railway crossing.

�We got our timing wrong, boss,� said Eddie.

�I think we may have got our timing just right. What I want you to do...�

�You did what?� said the commander.

�I lost him, sir.�

�Then you�d better find him, or I might have to lose you.�

William was about to ask The Hawk what he had in mind, when it became a rhetorical question.

�Remind me, Chief Inspector Warwick� � not a good sign; �William� would have suggested he was in with a chance � �do you still have another week�s leave?�

�Yes, I do, sir.�

�Then you�ve got seven days to find Faulkner. Should you fail to do so, Chief Inspector, that will give me more than enough time to appoint a replacement as the team�s new SIO, and to decide what your next job will be, and the appropriate rank to go with it.�

The phone went dead.

�That didn�t sound too friendly,� said Danny.

�It could have been worse,� William responded. �He might have addressed me as Constable Warwick.�

�Then I wouldn�t have to call you �sir�,� quipped Danny.

�But until then,� said William, �you can take me home.�

�Yes, sir.�

The local bus trundled slowly over the hill and juddered to a halt at the stop. A solitary passenger climbed aboard and took a seat near the front.

�Where to?� asked the ticket collector.

�Sevenoaks,� said William.

�Sixty pence.�

William took out his warrant card and asked, �Were you working this run yesterday afternoon, around twelve, one o�clock?�

�No, sir, that�s Rose�s shift. She�s off today, doesn�t work Sundays.�

�Rose?�

�Rose Prescott. Been on this run for years,� he said with a chuckle.

�Thank you,� said William, then sat back and looked out of the window at the passing countryside, wondering if it was possible that Faulkner was still in England. His thoughts were interrupted by a siren, as a police car shot past them on the other side of the road. He made a mental note to call Inspector Thomas and thank him.

Although the bus made several stops on its slow interrupted journey to Sevenoaks, William saw nothing to make him think Faulkner would have got off before the final stop.

He checked his watch as a police pickup truck lumbered by. He wasn�t confident there would be any of Faulkner�s dabs on the Mercedes, but the chauffeur�s hat? Ross was waiting for him when the bus reached its final stop, and he clearly hadn�t wasted his time.

�The first thing Faulkner would have seen when he got off the bus,� Ross said, �was the railway station and the cab rank directly opposite, on the other side of the road. Danny�s already checking the station. So far I haven�t had any luck with the cabbies. None of them recognized the photograph of Ralph Neville, but they told me quite a few of the regulars prefer working afternoons.�

�Then you�ll have to keep on asking, while I pay a visit to Mrs Rose Prescott.�

�Who�s she?�

�To be revealed later,� said William, as he left Ross to return to the taxi rank, while he walked across to the terminus.

�Rose,� said the supervisor, once he�d checked the Chief Inspector�s warrant card. �She hasn�t done anything wrong, I hope.�

�No, nothing. I�m just hoping she�ll remember a passenger who was on her bus yesterday afternoon.�

�On that route they�re almost all regulars who she�d know personally.� He began to turn the pages of a large folder. �She lives at number twenty-three Castle Drive.� Checking his watch, he added, �She should be back from church by now.�

When William emerged from the terminus, he spotted Ross showing another taxi driver the blown-up photo of Neville, but the cabbie was shaking his head as William joined them.

�It�s an outside chance,� admitted William, �but don�t let the odds put you off.�

Ross mumbled something unintelligible, as William climbed into the back of the cab and gave the driver an address in Castle Drive. As the taxi moved off, he asked, �You didn�t recognize the man in the photograph my colleague showed you?�

�No, guv. Yesterday afternoon I was watching Arsenal being stitched up by Chelsea.�

Now there�s a surprise, William wanted to say, but decided not to reveal his true colours in case the cabbie decided not to speak to him again. He sat back and began to think about the questions he needed to ask Mrs Prescott, who he felt he already knew.

When the taxi drew up outside No. 23, William said, �Can you hang about? I shouldn�t be too long.�

�The meter will still be running,� said the cabbie with a grin.

William opened the little wicket gate, walked down a short path and knocked on the front door. Moments later, a young woman answered it.

�Is Mrs Prescott at home?� he asked, after he had shown her his warrant card.

�She�s just got back from church. I�ll go and fetch her.�

An older woman appeared a few moments later, dressed in her Sunday best. �Do come in, Chief Inspector,� she said. �I was just about to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?�

�Thank you,� said William, who closed the front door, and followed her through to the kitchen. Once she�d put the kettle on, she said, �Please, sit down, young man, and tell me how I can help you.�

William took out the photograph of Ralph Neville and placed it on the kitchen table. �When you were on the Sevenoaks run yesterday afternoon, did you see this man?�

�I most certainly did,� said Rose, as she poured William a cup of tea. �Sugar?�

�No, thank you. What makes you so sure you recognize him?�

�Shouldn�t think a gentleman like that travels by bus too often, at least not dressed as if he was going to a wedding.� William didn�t interrupt. �What I remember most was, when I gave him his ticket he didn�t have any loose change on him, just a five-pound note. And what�s more, Mrs Haskins, one of my regulars, told me later that he must have run out of petrol, because he�d left his flashy car by the side of the road.� She paused, took a sip of tea and said, �Does he want his money back?�

�His money?� repeated William.

�The change from the five-pound note, although he did say I could keep it. Anyway, he�s got a snowball�s chance in hell of getting it back,� chuckled Rose, �because I put it on the collection plate this morning, and I can�t see the vicar giving it back.�

William laughed. �I don�t suppose you saw where he went after he got off the bus?�

�He walked across the road to the taxi rank.�

�Are you sure?�

�Oh yes. I thought he might be going to get some change, and would be coming back for his fiver, but he just got in the back of a taxi and off he went.�

�I don�t suppose you�d recognize the taxi driver?� said William hopefully.

�No, sorry love,� said Rose, as the young woman reappeared.

�Any hope of you carting Mum off to jail, Chief Inspector?�

�Not quite yet, but if she tries to make a dash for it, I�ve got the handcuffs ready,� said William, as he finished his tea.

�Pity,� said her daughter. �My boyfriend was hoping to spend the night.�

�You can forget it,� said Rose firmly. �That�s not going to happen until I see an engagement ring on your finger, and maybe not even then.�

�Thank you, Rose,� said William, as he stood up. �I ought to get going.�

�Of course.�

William paused as she opened the front door for him. �You�ve made my day,� he said.

�Mine too,� said Rose, �because I wouldn�t have wanted to tell the vicar he was going to have to give that fiver back. Mind you, I have a feeling the man in the photograph won�t miss it.�

William bent and kissed the shrewd woman on both cheeks, which was rewarded with a warm smile. He walked down the path, climbed into the back of the waiting cab, and noticed the meter was still ticking.

�Back to the station, please.�

�She didn�t look like a master criminal to me,� said the cabbie.

�You�re right. But her late husband was a Gunners� fan.�

�Is that a crime?�

�It is if you support Chelsea,� said William, which created the silence he needed while he thought about what his next move should be.

Ross and Danny were waiting for him at the taxi rank, one smiling, one frowning. He took the frown first.

�Not a dickybird,� said Danny. �The ticket collector let me know, ever so politely, that over a thousand passengers commute into London every weekday, and that on a Saturday, if the footy�s on, it�s even more. As far as he was concerned, the bloke in the picture looked like any other city gent, so how could he possibly be expected to remember him?�

�And you, Ross?�

�I also drew a blank, except that one driver had a strange experience you might want to hear about. He�s just taking a customer to a local hotel, but should be back in a few minutes.�

�Time for a coffee break,� said Danny, hopefully.

William nodded in the direction of the station�s caf�. Once they�d found a table, he said, �I�ll sum up where I think we are, and you can tell me if I�ve missed anything.

�We�ve found the car we believe Faulkner was driving, which is now on its way to the local pound. We�ll probably have to wait a couple of days to see if they come up with any dabs. Somehow, I doubt it, but I haven�t given up on the chauffeur�s cap, which I�ll drop into forensics as soon as we get back to the Yard.�

�Did Rose come up with anything worthwhile?� asked Ross.

�An eighteen-carat gem. Not only did she recognize Faulkner from the photograph, but saw him get into a taxi. Now we just need to find out which one.�

�That�s him,� said Ross, looking out of the window. �He�s just pulled up outside the station.�

�I�ll go and have a word with him while you finish your coffees,� said William. He drained his second cup of tea that morning, and crossed the road to join the last cab on the rank.

�Sorry guv,� said the cabbie. �You have to take the one at the front.�

�I�m not looking for a cab, but one of yesterday�s passengers. My colleague tells me you didn�t recognize this man,� said William, showing him the photograph of Neville, �but you had a fare who acted strangely?�

�An odd one that,� said the cabbie, �but I never saw his face, so I can�t be sure that�s him.�

�What was odd about him?�

�He gets into the back before I have a chance to look at him. Nothing unusual about that, but then he tucks himself in the left-hand corner of the seat so I can�t see him in my rear-view mirror. That sometimes means they�re planning to do a runner without paying. But when I asked him where he wanted to go, he had such a toffee-nosed accent I relaxed.�

�Where did he want to go?�

�Luton airport, but he didn�t say another word on the entire journey. When we got there, he pushed some cash through the hatch and was gone before I could give him his change.�

�What�s unusual about that? He might just have been in a hurry.�

�Most of my customers who take a taxi to an airport want a receipt, so they can claim it on expenses. But not this one.�

�So you never got a look at him?�

�No, but he was smartly dressed and carrying a leather briefcase, which I thought was unusual for a Saturday afternoon. I wouldn�t have thought anything of it if I hadn�t seen him getting off the bus.�

William offered up a small prayer. �What time was that?�

�Just after three.�

�Are you sure of the time?�

�I was listening to Match of the Day, wasn�t I? Spurs versus Everton, and the Toffees scored in the first minute. The bastards.�

�Thank you,� said William, placing the photograph back in his pocket. �That was very helpful.� He got back to the caf� just in time to pay the bill.

�Right, Danny, get your skates on, we�re off to Luton airport.�

As they drove out of Sevenoaks and headed for the motorway, William briefed Ross about his conversation with the cabbie.

�A bit of a long shot,� said Ross, �but enough coincidences not to be a coincidence.�

�We�ll need to time how long it takes to get to the airport,� said William. �Then we should be able to work out which flight he�s most likely to have caught.�

�Why would he have chosen Luton, when Gatwick, Heathrow and Stansted are so much closer?� said Danny.

�He would have assumed we had them well covered.�

William and Ross had gone over various possible scenarios several times before Danny drew up outside the airport.

�One hour and twenty-five minutes, guv,� he announced.

�Wait here,� said William. �We�ll probably be going straight back to London, but who knows?�

He and Ross strode into the terminal and headed for the information desk.

�How can I help you, gentlemen?� asked the woman standing behind the counter.

�I�d like to know which flights took off after five o�clock yesterday afternoon?�

She began tapping away on her computer.

�The 5.05 to Dublin. Took off on time.�

�He wouldn�t have made it,� said Ross.

�The 5.40 for Newcastle departed twenty minutes late.�

�That would have meant he was stuck in England overnight.�

�Moscow at 5.50,� said the woman, still staring at her console.

�I don�t think so,� said William.

�The 6.10 to Brussels.�

�A possibility.�

�There was the 6.20 to Edinburgh.�

�No,� said William.

�Or the 7.10 to Copenhagen.�

�He wouldn�t have wanted to hang about that long,� said William. �It has to be Brussels.�

�I doubt if that was his final destination,� said Ross. �Just the first plane that would get him out of the country.�

�Agreed,� said William, and thanked the woman before he and Ross made their way across to the Sabena booking desk. This time, William produced his warrant card before he asked his first question.

�I�d like to see your passenger list for yesterday afternoon�s 6.10 flight for Brussels.�

�Are you looking for a particular name, sir?� asked the woman, as she tapped away, before checking the screen in front of her.

�Captain Ralph Neville.�

She double-checked the passenger list before saying, �No one registered under that name is showing up on my screen for the flight.�

�Miles Faulkner?� suggested Ross, not looking at all confident.

�No,� she replied, her eyes still fixed on the monitor. Ross produced a photograph. She took a careful look and then shook her head. �Can�t say I remember him.�

William tried a long shot. �Did anyone book in at the last minute and pay for his ticket with cash?�

�There was one gentleman who was quite late booking, and he wasn�t pleased when we couldn�t find him a seat in first class.�

�Do you recall his name?�

�I�m afraid not.�

�Are we going to risk it?� asked Ross.

�Is there a flight to Brussels this evening?� asked William, answering the question.

�The 6.10. Same time every day. I have two first-class tickets available.�

�I don�t think so,� said William, giving her a warm smile. �Two economy will be just fine,� he added, passing over his credit card.

�One-way or return?�

�One-way. We can�t be sure where we�ll be going next.�

This was one customer she wasn�t going to forget easily.

�Hang about for the tickets, Ross, while I explain to Danny why we won�t be going back to the Yard.�

Danny was pleased to hear he could return to London and take the rest of the day off. The Chief Inspector�s idea of a joke.

�But not before you�ve handed in the chauffeur�s hat to forensics. I�ve already told them to let me know if they find any dabs on it that match up with Miles Faulkner�s.�

Danny touched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand and asked, �Will you be needing me tomorrow, guv?�

�If I do, it will be to drop me off at the jobcentre,� said William, �but I�ll let you know.�

He strolled back into the airport to see Ross deep in conversation with another man, who was frowning.

�We�ve got a problem,� said Ross, as William joined them. �Passports, or lack of them. This is Thomas King, head of security. He�s happy to arrange a temporary travel visa, but he needs the authority of a commander or above before he can authorize it. I�m certainly not going to call The Hawk at home on a Sunday evening.�

William picked up the phone on the counter and dialled a number even Ross didn�t know.

The Hawk listened with interest to how Chief Inspector Warwick and DI Hogan had spent their Sunday. �Put him on,� was all he said.

William handed the phone to the security officer, who said, �Yes, sir� several times, before passing the phone back to William.

�If you come back without Faulkner, don�t bother to put in a claim for your expenses,� were The Hawk�s parting words.

�Thank you, sir,� said William, before he put the phone down.

�Are we still going to Brussels?� asked Ross.

�Yes,� said William, �but only one of us may be coming back.�

Not long after William had fastened his seatbelt and the Boeing 727 had taken off, he fell asleep for the first time since he�d arrived back from New York.

Ross spent his time writing an update while considering the alternatives, which he accepted only threw up yet more questions for William to consider when he woke. That didn�t happen until the wheels touched down on the runway at Brussels National Airport forty minutes later.

�You should have stayed in New York with me,� said Beth as they strolled into the bedroom. �Ella was fantastic, and we went back to the Met three times...�

�Although it was only a week, the children missed you terribly, and kept asking where you were,� said William, as he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. �And it didn�t help that I was roaming around the countryside looking for Christina�s car.�

�While you somehow managed to lose her husband once again.�

�But I did find him again,� protested William.

�Well, let�s be accurate. You found out which continent he was on, but you can�t even be sure if he�s still there,� said Beth as she unbuttoned her blouse.

�I know his name,� said William as he took off his tie.

�Ricardo Rossi flew in to Brussels but he may not be the same person who turned up in Barcelona.�

�Whose side are you on?� asked William.

�Yours, caveman,� said Beth as she slipped off her blouse. �But only because I�ll need your help if I�m going to get away with murdering Christina.�

�That�s the last thing I want you to do. She�s still my best chance of tracking down her late husband.�

�What can I do to help?� said Beth eagerly, as William threw his shirt onto a chair.

�Next time you see her, play innocent. I need you to find out whose side she�s on,� said William, as Beth slowly unzipped her skirt. �You may be surprised.�

�But she�ll have worked out by now that you know Ralph and Miles are one and the same.�

�I agree, but is she the jilted bride,� asked William as he kicked off his shoes, �or his partner in crime?�

�Why should I fall in with your plans, when all I want to do is strangle the damn woman?� Beth asked, as she undid his belt.

�Because if I put Faulkner back behind bars, half of his art collection will still be legally hers, so another masterpiece might well find its way onto the walls of the Fitzmolean,� he said as he fiddled with the clasp of her bra. �There�d still be more than enough left over to keep her swimming in champagne for the rest of her life.�

�Along with endless toy boys to uncork the bottles,� said Beth, as she ripped off his trousers. �While I was away, caveman,� she asked, as he bent down to kiss her, �what did you miss most, my shepherd�s pie or sex?�

�I�ll need a little time to think about that,� he said as their lips parted. Beth fell back onto the bed as the door opened and a voice said, �Daddy, you promised to read to us when you got home.�

Beth burst out laughing as Artemisia climbed up onto the bed and handed William her book. William quickly slipped on his dressing gown, as Beth jumped off the bed, pulled up her knickers and hurriedly put her blouse back on.

�Just one chapter,� said William, as Peter crept in through the open door and joined his sister on the bed. The twins snuggled up close to their father, who opened the book and began to read.

�PC Plod was a good and kind policeman. He liked to help grandmas and grandpas when they crossed the road, and if he caught a little boy riding a bicycle who wasn�t wearing a helmet, he would tick them off, but not tell their parents, which made him very popular.�

Peter began to clap.

�But sadly, no one back at headquarters,� continued William, �gave much thought to promoting PC Plod and making him a sergeant.�

�Why not?� demanded Artemisia.

�I expect we�re about to find out,� said William as he turned the page, although his mind was elsewhere.

�Plod was, as he�d told his wife Beryl often enough, happy to be one of life�s foot soldiers. Beryl didn�t agree with him. �You�re just as clever as Inspector Watchit, who always takes the credit for your ideas and then gets promoted,� she said. �That�s my job,� explained Plod. �It�s my responsibility to assist the public at all times while passing on any useful information to my superiors. In fact, Beryl, only today...� he said, just as the phone began to ring. Beryl picked it up and listened for a few moments before she said, �But it�s Fred�s day off.�

��Not any longer it isn�t,� said Inspector Watchit. �Tell Plod to get himself over to the manor house, sharpish. There�s been a burglary and a valuable pearl necklace has gone missing. Lady Doubtful wants the grounds searched while I question the staff.��

William glanced up from the book to see that Peter had fallen asleep, but Artemisia was still hanging on his every word.

�Time for bed, you two,� said Beth.

�No, no, no!� said Artemisia.

�Yes, yes, yes,� said William, before picking them up, one under each arm, and carrying them out of the room. When he reached the doorway he turned and smiled at Beth.

�I can�t wait for PC Plod to return,� said Beth, as she once again slipped off her blouse.

Booth Watson quickly cleared customs. He was carrying only a briefcase, as he planned on returning to London on the evening flight. Outside the airport he joined the short queue for a taxi and, when he reached the front, handed the driver an address.

As they approached the motorway, the driver turned left instead of joining the stream of heavy traffic flowing into Barcelona. Twenty minutes later, he drove onto a single-lane road which became a pot-holed path after a few miles.

Booth Watson glanced over his shoulder to check they weren�t being followed, as the instructions he�d received couldn�t have been clearer: �If you think someone might be following you, turn around, go back to the airport and take the next plane to Heathrow.�

He had assumed that after his client had disappeared a second time, the Met might well have a detail tailing him, but had quickly concluded even their budget wouldn�t stretch to that. Nevertheless, as Booth Watson was a man who left nothing to chance, he made an official complaint to the Home Office falsely claiming he had reason to believe his phone was being tapped, and that he was being followed. He had received a polite reply assuring him that neither was true, although he suspected it had been written only after Commander Hawksby had confirmed that �the dogs had been called off�.

The car continued down a narrowing path before coming to a halt at the edge of a dense forest. Booth Watson got out and, as instructed, waited for the bemused driver to turn around and head back to the airport. Once the car was out of sight, an electric golf buggy appeared from out of the trees and drew up by his side.

A silent man drove the gentleman from London along an unmarked track through the forest before crossing a narrow bridge that spanned a fast-flowing river. It wasn�t until they reached the other side that Booth Watson saw the house � although mansion, even chateau, would have been a more accurate description. It made Limpton Hall look like a suburban semi-detached.

Collins was standing by an open door waiting to welcome him. Oh good and faithful servant, he thought, as the butler gave a slight bow, saying, �Good morning, sir,� as if he were a regular visitor, although this would be the first time he had seen Miles for several weeks.

�Mr Faulkner awaits you in the drawing room, sir.�

�No, he doesn�t,� said Miles, as he came striding across the hall towards his guest. He thrust out his hand and said, �Welcome to my country cottage.�

�More like a palace,� said Booth Watson.

Miles led the way down a long corridor, passing several familiar paintings Booth Watson had admired over the years. Finally, they entered a drawing room whose large bay windows overlooked a hundred acres of forested countryside on one side, and the calm blue of the Mediterranean on the other. �Heaven on earth,� he said.

Miles sank into a comfortable armchair as a maid appeared carrying a large tray of coffee and biscuits. It was as if they were still in England and nothing had changed.

Miles waited for her to leave, before he said, �Let�s get down to business before I give you a tour of the house. What�s Christina been up to?�

�She�s still playing her part, but has absolutely no idea where you are at the moment, although she never stops asking.�

�And what do you tell her?�

�I let slip that you were last seen in Buenos Aires and had no plans to return to England in the near future.�

�Do you think she fell for it?�

�I can�t be certain, but Lamont assures me that�s what she tells anyone who enquires. And no doubt will continue to do so if she doesn�t want her monthly allowance to dry up.�

�But surely Warwick and Hawksby must have worked out by now that I wasn�t burnt at the stake in Geneva.�

�Indeed they have,� said Booth Watson. �But Lamont informs me that you�ve fallen off their radar.�

�How can you be sure of that, when he�s no longer on their mailing list?�

�Don�t forget he still has someone who is, and she keeps the ex-Superintendent well-informed of everything Warwick is up to. It doesn�t come cheap, but at least it guarantees you a no claims bonus on your life policy. Lamont tells me your file, MF/CR/76748/88, is gathering dust in the Met�s general registry office at Hayes in Middlesex, where dead cases go to be buried, and are rarely exhumed.�

�That�s good to hear,� said Miles, �because I don�t intend to spend the rest of my life locked up here, although I won�t come out of hiding until you give me the all-clear.�

�Lamont�s most useful function is to keep confirming that you�re past history. However, it might be wise to lie low for a little longer.�

�But not for too much longer,� said Miles. �Even heaven on earth becomes a prison after a while. And what�s the point of a private jet, a yacht, a Swiss bank account and a pile of cash stashed in a vault in Mayfair if I�m trapped here?�

�Don�t forget that Mayfair takes care of Christina, Lamont and his associate, as well as any other incidental expenses.�

�Including you.�

Booth Watson shrugged his shoulders.

�Perhaps the time has come to cut down on those expenses by removing Christina from the payroll,� suggested Miles.

�I wouldn�t recommend that,� said Booth Watson firmly. �She�d go straight to her friend Mrs Warwick and tell her you�re very much alive, which would give her husband the chance to blow the dust off your file.�

�And we wouldn�t want that,� said Miles. �Not that they�d ever find me, even if they did discover I�d flown to Barcelona that night.�

�It may be the case that you�re isolated and well-hidden,� said Booth Watson, leaning forward, finally unable to resist a chocolate biscuit. �But if they were to find out that Ricardo Rossi isn�t a dress designer, but a criminal on the run, this palace would become a bunker, surrounded by an army, making it impossible for you to escape.�

�They still wouldn�t catch up with me,� boasted Miles. �Let me show you why.� He stood up and marched out of the drawing room, assuming that Booth Watson would be a pace behind. When he reached the end of the corridor, he unlocked a door and entered what was clearly his study. He sat down at a large partners desk while Booth Watson stared up at a life-size portrait hanging on the wall behind him.

�General Franco,� said Miles. �He built this hideaway in 1937, at the height of the civil war. Even his closest confidants didn�t know it existed. I�ve had to make some modifications,� he added. �Which will prove my point. When you were picked up by the golf buggy, how long did it take you to reach the house?�

Booth Watson thought for a moment, before saying, �Six or seven minutes. But a police motorbike would be a lot quicker.�

�Agreed. And how long did it take us to walk from the drawing room to this study?�

�A minute, a minute and a half at most.�

�I can assure you, BW, that anyone who sets foot on my land uninvited � and don�t forget that this house is surrounded by a thick forest � would immediately set off an alarm. Even if they turned up in the middle of the night and I was fast asleep in my bedroom on the first floor, it would still take me less than three minutes to disappear into thin air.�

�Even if you had your helicopter waiting for you on the roof, I don�t think they�d hesitate to shoot it down.�

�I wouldn�t be heading for the roof,� said Miles. �The helicopter is there simply to distract them.�

Twelve o�clock struck and a shrill alarm drowned out their conversation.

�Rehearsal time!� shouted Miles, as he got up from behind his desk and walked over to a vast iron door embedded in the wall. It had no handle, no lock and, as far as Booth Watson could see, no way of opening it. Miles tapped the face of his watch and waited for it to light up before entering an eight-digit code. Booth Watson watched, mesmerized, as the door swung open to reveal a large, empty space.

Miles stepped inside and beckoned Booth Watson to follow, while the deafening sound of the alarm continued. Booth Watson reluctantly obeyed, and Miles pulled the door shut, leaving them in complete darkness. He tapped his watch again and entered another eight-digit code. A moment later a second door on the far side of the safe swung open to reveal a well-lit staircase.

Miles stood aside to allow Booth Watson to step out. Miles then joined him at the top of the staircase and slammed the heavy metal door behind them.

�As you can see, BW,� he said, �even if Chief Inspector Warwick and his plodders made it as far as my study, it would take them at least seven minutes, and they would still need my watch and the eight-digit code before they could open even the first door, let alone the second.�

Miles led his guest down the stairs into the basement.

When they reached the study, Booth Watson couldn�t miss that the room was identical to the one on the ground floor above it, except that Franco had been replaced by a full-length portrait of Miles. The other half of Miles�s art collection was also displayed on the walls � Christina�s half.

�I have enough provisions down here to last me a month,� said Miles. �I even have my own swimming pool.�

A green light began to flash on his desk, even before Booth Watson could reply. �Daily rehearsal over. We can now return to civilization and have some lunch.�

�But your staff...� began Booth Watson.

�Only Collins is ever allowed to enter my study,� said Miles, as they walked back up the stairs, �and even he doesn�t know the security code.� He entered the safe�s code which opened the first of the two heavy iron doors. When it swung open, he stepped back inside and waited for Booth Watson to join him, before he pulled the door shut. Once again they were plunged into darkness. Miles tapped his watch, entered eight new numbers, and the door that led back into his study swung open. Miles smiled when he saw the butler waiting for them, with two glasses of champagne on a silver tray.

�Luncheon is served, sir.�

Beth picked up the phone on her desk.

�There�s a Mrs Christina Faulkner in reception. She wonders if you could possibly see her.�

She was well prepared for this moment, though William had warned her it would come when she least expected it.

She took a deep breath. �Send her up,� she said. While Beth waited, she repeated William�s mantra whenever he was dealing with a suspect: Listen, listen, listen, in the hope they�ll say something they later regret.

There was a gentle tap on the door. Usually, Christina came charging into the office unannounced, assuming Beth would drop everything for her. But not today.

�Come in,� said Beth, while remaining seated behind her desk.

The door opened slowly. The woman who entered her office was not the Christina she knew of old: self-assured, confident, in control. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, waiting for Beth to make the first move.

Beth didn�t suggest she sit in the comfortable chair by the fire that Christina usually commandeered, but gestured to the seat on the other side of her desk, as if she were a junior member of staff. Christina meekly obeyed, and slumped down on the wooden chair, but didn�t speak.

Listen, listen, listen.

�I don�t know where to start,� she said in a faltering voice.

�By telling the truth for a change?� suggested Beth.

A long silence followed before it all came pouring out. �I apologize for having behaved so badly, and would quite understand if you felt you could never forgive me.�

Listen, listen, listen.

�I�m not like you, straightforward, uncomplicated and scrupulously honest. It�s one of the many reasons I admire you so much, and was proud to think I was your friend.�

Don�t fall for the flattery, William had warned. Listen, listen, listen.

�I became used to a way of life that didn�t always make that possible, but my farce of a marriage has finally made me come to my senses, whatever the consequences.�

Try to remember that she doesn�t even know when she�s lying, William had told her. Next, she�ll try to appeal to your better nature.

�However, during the past few weeks, I�ve come to realize just how much I value your friendship, and hope it might still be possible for you to forgive me, although there�s no reason you should.�

Listen, listen, listen.

�If I could tell you where Miles was, I would, but he�s made no attempt to contact me since the day of the wedding, other than through his mouthpiece, the loathsome Booth Watson, who simply tells me to keep my mouth shut if I want to continue receiving my monthly payment. He ordered me to come and see you today and try to find out if William knows where Miles is.� Christina looked up at Beth for the first time.

Listen, listen, listen.

�For the first time in my life, I�ve decided to do what William would call the decent thing.�

If she bursts into tears, William had added, don�t fall for it.

She burst into tears.

Beth thawed. �The gallery will never forget the invaluable role you played in securing the Rembrandt, a Rubens and a Vermeer, for which we will be forever in your debt.�

�You will never be in my debt,� said Christina. �But I must warn you that if Miles is ever arrested and sent back to jail, Booth Watson has been instructed to claim the Vermeer back, and there�d be nothing I could do about it.�

For the first time Beth thought Christina might be telling the truth, but she continued to listen, listen, listen.

�Believe me, I�m determined to prove to you and William whose side I�m on. If there�s anything I can do to prove...�

The moment she pretends to be on your side and asks what she can do to prove it, is when you strike. Start with something small, William had suggested, and if she grants your request, you can then tempt her with something she won�t be able to resist. Just before she leaves, ask her one final question that will reveal if she�s telling you the truth, or is nothing more than a messenger carrying out her paymaster�s orders.

�What a kind offer,� said Beth. �The museum is hoping to mount a Frans Hals exhibition next autumn. I know you have The Flute Player in your collection, and we�d love to borrow it for six weeks.�

If she turns down your request, William had said, she�s admitting that Miles still has control of the entire collection, and that�s not something she�ll want you to know, as it leaves her with no bargaining position.

Christina hesitated. �I�m sure that will be fine.�

�Thank you,� said Beth, before casting a far bigger fly on the water. �That will compensate for the gallery not being able to afford Caravaggio�s Fishers of Men, which we were recently offered, but couldn�t meet the asking price.� Word-perfect.

�Is that public knowledge?� asked Christina, rising to the bait.

�No, it isn�t,� said Beth. �Lord McLaren approached us privately. It seems that following his father�s untimely death, he�s experiencing an inheritance problem and the tax man expects him to come up with twenty million by the end of the year. I had to tell him that sum was out of our league.� She paused for a moment, enjoying herself. �That�s confidential, of course.�

�Of course,� said Christina. �But at least I can help you with the Frans Hals. That should prove which side I�m on,� she added, as she rose from her seat.

�You have nothing to prove,� said Beth, giving her a warm smile. �But may I ask you one more thing before you leave?�

�Anything,� said Christina.

�Where is Miles at the moment?�

Christina didn�t reply immediately, but eventually murmured, �Buenos Aires,� as if reluctantly revealing a well-kept secret.

�Thank you,� said Beth, not sure if Christina was lying, or genuinely didn�t know where he was. William would have to make that decision.

Christina turned to leave the room, looking a little more confident than when she�d entered it.

Once she�d closed the door behind her, Beth picked up the phone on her desk, but hesitated for a moment before doing something she knew William normally wouldn�t approve of. She dialled his private number at the Yard.

�Right, who�s going to kick off?� asked the commander. A hand shot up, and The Hawk nodded.

�I had another meeting with Lamont on Friday evening,� said Jackie.

�Where?� asked William.

�A little pub behind King�s Cross station that neither the police nor any self-respecting criminal would consider frequenting.�

�Do you think he suspects which side you�re on?�

�I don�t think so. I ended up getting pissed and he had to drive me home.�

The rest of the team laughed.

�Mind you,� she continued, �I�d discreetly emptied most of my double gins into a flowerpot behind me. I�m only surprised the poor plant survived the evening.�

�By which time,� said William, �I assume you�d casually let slip what we�ve been up to.�

�No more than you wanted him to know. I told him about the five cold cases we�re working on, but left enough spaces for him to fill in before he made his next report to Booth Watson.�

�Who will in turn pass the information on to his esteemed former clients, which will give them something to think about while they also hand over hefty fees for his services,� said William.

�Don�t underestimate Lamont,� The Hawk chipped in. �If he thought for one moment that you�re setting him up, he�d not only report back to Booth Watson but turn it to his advantage. Who�s next?�

�I�ve begun in-depth investigations into both the Roach and Abbott families,� said Ross, �and what a right bunch of villains they turn out to be. Every family member has a specific role within the organization. Terry Roach and Ron Abbott are responsible for eliminating anyone who gets in their way. If Abbott was ever found guilty of murder, he could ask the judge to take at least five other cases into consideration. He�s quite simply a professional hitman, and because his family is so feared in the East End, no witnesses are ever willing to come forward while they think they could be next in line.�

�That bad?� said William.

�Roach is even worse,� continued Ross. �Abbott kills his victims with a single shot from a long-range rifle. But Roach�s weapon of choice is a serrated kitchen knife. He�s known as �the butcher�, and considers death by a thousand cuts would be letting his victim off lightly. It�s his calling card just in case anyone else should consider crossing the Roach family. He�s been in and out of jail several times, but, thanks to Booth Watson, the longest sentence he�s ever served is two years for GBH. So, while we don�t have a budget stretched to a dozen highly trained officers watching him around the clock, he�ll continue to get away with it. I have one or two ideas I�m working on, but it�s too early to share them with you.�

�Understood,� said William. �But if you could nail even one of them, Ross, it would be a feather in your cap.�

�Do you know where that saying originates?� interrupted Paul.

�Yes, I do,� said William. �But this isn�t the time to be discussing an ancient English custom that when a warrior had slain a foe in battle, he was allowed to wear a feather in his cap, which was later superseded by the award of medals. There are no awards for sprained ankles, DS Adaja, so may I suggest you get on with your report?�

�My loan shark, Max Sleeman,� said a chastened Paul, �is still lending large sums of money to desperate people and resorting to violent measures if they fall behind with their payments. As you know, three of his customers have disappeared off the face of the earth after failing to cover their debts, which he later claimed from their estates. Another painful reminder to any other customers of what would happen to them should they fail to honour their unwritten contracts. But I think I may have come up with a way of not only sending Sleeman down, but bankrupting him at the same time. It�s known as the Capone solution.�

�Tax avoidance?� said William.

�I think I can prove he�s been avoiding paying any tax for years. A recent case in the high court resulted in a six-year sentence, but even more important, under the Tax Avoidance Act of 1986, the judge can award a fine of up to five times the amount the Revenue should have received. So not only would Sleeman end up in jail, but he�d be penniless, because the court could strip him of all his assets. A punishment to fit the crime, don�t you think?� said Paul, looking rather pleased with himself.

�Possibly,� said the commander, �but I�d still rather he ended up with a life sentence for the three murders he was responsible for. If that proves unrealistic, we may have to consider the tax route. But let me warn you Paul, that has its own problems. Tax trials can last for months, and juries never fully understand the details, while a half-decent lawyer can run rings around even an expert witness. So be warned, you�ll have your work cut out, not least because it will be you who�s standing in the witness box giving evidence for days on end.�

Paul no longer looked quite so pleased with himself.

�Jackie, what have you been up to when you�re not getting pissed with our ex-Superintendent?�

�I�ve been continuing to investigate Clive Pugh, the insurance scam man who murdered his wife. I suspect he�s now planning to become a widower for a second time.�

�But surely no insurance company would go anywhere near him,� said Paul, �after he fleeced one of them for a quarter of a million.�

�He won�t be bothering with insurance companies this time,� said Jackie. �His sights are on a far larger prize than a quarter of a million.�

�So what�s his new scam?� asked William.

�He�s been escorting an older woman, whose main attraction seems to be that she�s inherited a fortune from her late father.�

�But surely she must have worked out he�s just another gold digger?� said William.

�Pugh�s far too clever for that,� said Jackie. �He�s been putting his ill-gotten gains to good use. They eat at the finest restaurants, and when they go on holidays together they stay at five-star hotels and he always picks up the bill. I wouldn�t be surprised if he proposes to her soon, as it can�t be much longer before his cash runs out.�

�What makes you think he�ll murder her?� asked The Hawk. �Why wouldn�t he be satisfied just to live off her for the rest of his life?�

�She may be ten years older than him, sir, but her father lived to a hundred and one. And, perhaps more important, Pugh�s mistress, who I�m convinced was his accomplice for the first murder, is still hanging around. So don�t be surprised if you open your morning paper one day to see �Wealthy heiress meets tragic death�.�

�Surely he can�t hope to get away with it a second time,� said Ross.

�He�s far too bright not to have thought of a way around that.� Once again, Jackie had their attention. �I�ve discovered he�s already booked their next holiday, to South Africa.�

�Where only one murder in ten ends in a conviction,� said William.

�But we can always apply for an extradition order under section nine of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861,� said Paul, which silenced them all except The Hawk.

�Not an Act the South Africans are all that familiar with,� he said. �Especially when even the judges can be bought.�

�Maybe he�ll think again, once Booth Watson tells him we�ve reopened the file on his wife�s murder,� suggested Paul.

�I doubt it,� said The Hawk. �Pugh�s a gambler. He�ll weigh up the amount of money he stands to gain against his chances of being caught, and back himself against the South African police.�

�It�s too bad we can�t afford to send you to the Cape for Christmas, Jackie,� said William, �so you could brief us on what he�s up to at our next meeting.�

�Where�s DC Pankhurst?� asked the commander, pushing Jackie�s file to one side. �I was looking forward to finding out how she�s been getting on with her nightclub bouncer.�

�She�s on leave, sir,� said William.

�With the bouncer?� asked the commander.

�No, sir. A certain Captain Archibald Harcourt-Byrne.�

�Who�s he?�

�He�s an officer in the Grenadier Guards,� chipped in Jackie. �She doesn�t talk about him much, so I suspect it�s quite serious.�

�I hope we�re not going to lose her,� said The Hawk, his tone changing. �She�s a damn fine officer, with a promising career ahead of her.�

�I agree,� said William, �but DC Pankhurst is every bit as independent as her suffragette ancestor, and I�m sure she�s well capable of handling a Guards Officer while she continues to lock up miscreants on the side. So let�s allow her to enjoy a well-earned holiday while we all get back to work.�

�Were you followed?�

�No,� said Booth Watson. �After we turned off the motorway I didn�t see another car.�

�The day you do, I�ll have to be on the move again.�

�Where to this time?�

�I already have somewhere lined up that I could move into tomorrow. But General Franco was here for twenty-seven years without anyone finding out about this place. By that time the commander will be dead, and DCI Warwick will have retired.�

�Amen to that,� said Booth Watson, as he opened his briefcase and took out several files. �Where shall I start?�

�By proving Lamont is worth his exorbitant consultancy fee.�

�As long as he has someone on the inside, he�s worth keeping on the payroll,� said Booth Watson, �provided we remember that he�d plant drugs on his grandmother if he thought there was something in it for him.�

�Are he and Roycroft an item?�

�I�m fairly sure their relationship is based on nothing more than a mutual interest in money.�

�So they�re not sleeping together?�

�Sleeping partners, yes, but sleeping together, no. The last time they met, Roycroft left the pub drunk, and Lamont dropped her off at her place before going home.�

�Did she have anything worthwhile to pass on?�

�She brought him up to date on the cold cases Warwick�s team are working on.�

�Am I one of them?� demanded Miles.

�No. You seem to have been forgotten. Your name didn�t even come up.�

�Long may that be so,� said Miles. �Is Lamont also keeping an eye on Josephine Colbert?�

�Yes,� he said after extracting another file from his bag. �It would appear that she and DI Hogan are an item. They�re seeing each other three, sometimes four, times a week. It�s begun to produce results. Or, more importantly, no results.�

�What do you mean?�

�She confirmed that Hogan is working on two of the five cold cases, Abbott and Roach. She�s been told to report any other names he mentions and, so far, you�re in the clear.�

�Has she asked Hogan if he�s ever heard of Captain Ralph Neville?�

�Certainly not,� said Booth Watson. �That would blow her cover straight away, as well as yours. As long as Hogan doesn�t mention your name, or Captain Neville�s, we can be confident your file�s still gathering dust in Hayes, where it belongs.�

�I can assure you Hogan�s wasting his time if he�s trying to finger Terry Roach,� said Miles. �No one in the East End would ever consider giving evidence against that man.�

�You�ve come across Roach?� asked Booth Watson, sounding surprised.

�I was in prison with him. Not a man to cross, as two or three of my fellow inmates found out when they took a shower and discovered that blood is thicker than water.�

Booth Watson gave an involuntary shudder.

�So, you think Miss Colbert is worth a thousand pounds a week?� said Miles as he lit a cigar.

�Think of her as an insurance policy, even though the premium doesn�t come cheap.�

�Women never do,� said Miles. �Speaking of insurance policies, what�s Christina been up to lately?�

�She�s been keeping her side of the bargain,� said Booth Watson. �After her meeting with Beth Warwick, she came back with two fascinating pieces of information.�

Miles looked interested.

�The Fitzmolean has recently been offered Caravaggio�s Fishers of Men by a Lord McLaren, but they couldn�t meet his asking price.�

�Which was?�

�Twenty million pounds.�

�Why�s he putting one of Caravaggio�s most famous works on the market when it�s been in his family for generations?�

�Having to put, is the answer to that question. It seems that the seventh Lord McLaren has been saddled with extortionate death duties.�

�How extortionate?�

�Twenty-two million, seven hundred thousand pounds.�

�So now we know what he�ll be prepared to sell the painting for,� said Miles.

�You�re interested in buying it?�

�Of course I am, but I�ll need someone to represent me because, unlike Christ, I can�t rise from the dead.�

Booth Watson smiled, �I�d be delighted to act on your behalf.�

�I�m sure you would, BW,� said Miles. �You said Christina had come up with two pieces of information.�

�The Fitzmolean is mounting a Frans Hals exhibition next autumn, and Mrs Warwick has asked Christina to loan the museum The Flute Player for six weeks.�

�It�s not hers to loan,� said Miles defiantly.

�Which is why I would counsel you to do so.�

�Your reason?�

�Mrs Warwick would then be convinced the collection is in Christina�s hands and, more importantly, so would her husband.�

�Where are the twins?� asked Sir Julian, before Beth and William had even hung up their coats.

�They�re spending the day with my parents,� said Beth, as they walked through to the drawing room.

�Lucky Arthur and Joanna,� said Marjorie.

�Strictly entre nous,� said Sir Julian, �but when Artemisia last visited us she told me in confidence that I was her favourite grandfather.�

Beth smiled. �The little minx repeated those exact words to my father when I dropped them off in Ewell this morning.�

�I shall have to rewrite my will in favour of Peter,� said Sir Julian, with an exaggerated sigh.

�Then my father will rewrite his in favour of Artemisia,� said Beth.

�As William never talks about his work,� said Marjorie, handing Beth a cup of coffee, �and Julian talks of little else, I want to hear what your latest project is.�

�The museum�s preparing a Frans Hals exhibition for next autumn.�

�I�ve often wondered what goes on behind the scenes before a gallery can open a major exhibition like that.�

�It�s a long and tortuous process,� said Beth, �that involves patience, resolve, bribery and corruption.�

Sir Julian suddenly looked interested.

�How many pictures will be on display?�

�If I�m lucky, sixty or seventy, including, we hope, The Laughing Cavalier.�

�Where�s that at the moment?� asked Sir Julian.

�It�s part of the Wallace Collection,� said William, �so at least he wouldn�t have far to travel.�

�One sometimes forgets,� said Sir Julian, �that my son read Art History at an up-and-coming university and, had he not joined the police force, he might well have ended up as one of Beth�s assistants by now.�

�That successful?� mocked William.

�Ignore the children, Beth,� said Marjorie. �You were telling us about the preparations for an important exhibition.�

�Bribery and corruption,� Sir Julian reminded her.

�Most of Hals� works are in public galleries around the world. The best examples are to be found at the Rijks in Amsterdam, although the Met and the Hermitage have magnificent self-portraits, and there�s another fine example, The Merry Lute Player, at the Mansion House in the City of London. But if you want to borrow a major work from another gallery, they�ll expect a quid pro quo at some time in the future.�

�For example?� said Sir Julian, as he sipped his coffee,

�The Phillips Collection in Washington DC is planning to mount a Rubens exhibition in two years� time, and they�ve already asked us if we�d loan them Descent from the Cross for three months. They have three Hals, and I�m after two of them.�

�Two Hals for a Rubens seems a fair exchange,� said Sir Julian.

�How many of Hals� pictures are in private hands?� asked Marjorie.

�Only eleven that we�ve been able to trace. When an important work by a major artist like Hals comes up for sale, quite often it�s purchased by a national gallery, which guarantees it will never come on the market again.�

�Which only puts up the value of those works still held in private hands,� threw in William. �Even more so if they�re loaned out for a major exhibition.�

�I�ve approached all eleven private owners,� continued Beth, �and asked if they�d be willing to support the exhibition. Three have agreed, but under the most stringent conditions, four have turned me down, and the other four didn�t even bother to reply.�

�Why wouldn�t they be willing to loan their pictures?� asked Marjorie, �when, as William says, it would only add value to the works.�

�The Mellons and Rothschilds of this world are well aware of that and are always supportive of major exhibitions. The rejections often come from owners who are concerned their artworks might be damaged in transit. That�s why I�m having so much trouble convincing Mr Morita to part with his magnificent Hals self-portrait that hangs in the Sony collection in Tokyo.�

�And those who haven�t bothered to reply?� asked Marjorie.

�Often criminals who don�t want to draw the taxman�s attention to the fact that they own valuable works of art,� said William. �The late Miles Faulkner is a typical example.�

�Or not so late,� said Sir Julian.

�Why do you say that?� asked William cautiously.

�Booth Watson doesn�t appear in court as often as he used to, but as he still dines at the Savoy every day. He�s either taken early retirement, which seems unlikely, or he�s on a large enough retainer from a private client to be sure he doesn�t have to seek regular work like the rest of us. You have to remember that few people employ a lawyer unless they have to.�

�Especially lawyers who continually interrupt their wives when they still have several more questions to ask about Frans Hals,� said Marjorie.

�Forgive me,� said Sir Julian. �I�m becoming a legal bore.�

No one attempted to disagree with him.

�You mentioned that works sometimes have to be transported from one side of the world to the other,� said Marjorie. �That must be very expensive.�

�Sometimes prohibitive,� said Beth. �There are very few companies in Britain who are considered reliable enough to handle works of such importance. I know of one curator who insists that the painting is never let out of his sight, so, like him, it has to fly first class and not be put in the hold. That doesn�t come cheap � and that�s before you start worrying about the insurance premiums. The reason you can never borrow a Leonardo or a Michelangelo from the Vatican is because Lloyd�s of London are unwilling to insure them, and the Pope has decreed no exceptions.�

�Can�t the government help in those circumstances?� asked Marjorie.

�Sometimes they can be more of a hindrance,� said Beth. �If the Foreign Office has reservations about the country you want to loan a picture to, they can refuse to grant you an export licence.�

�Understandably,� said Sir Julian. �I can just imagine the outcry if the National Archaeological Museum in Athens asked to borrow the Elgin Marbles � just for six weeks.�

�And then there�s the Jewish problem,� said William.

This silenced even Sir Julian.

�There are several major works hanging in public galleries that were stolen from their Jewish owners by the Germans during the Second World War. Some of them were later �liberated� by the Russians, and can now be seen in the Hermitage in St Petersburg, as well as several other well-known museums tucked safely behind the Iron Curtain.�

�Is there nothing the rightful owners can do about that?� asked Marjorie.

�Not a lot,� said Beth, �while the authorities in those countries refuse even to acknowledge their claims. And they certainly wouldn�t loan a looted work to an exhibition in a country where a civil action could be brought against them.�

�The Russians can�t be the only culprits,� said Sir Julian. �Hermann G�ring assembled one of the finest private collections of old masters on earth, and I can�t believe they�ve all been returned to their rightful owners.�

�Some of them have, but not too many. Most travelled east, not west, after the war. Don�t forget the Red Army made it to Berlin before the Allies. So if you want to see those pictures they picked up on the way, you�ll need a visa.�

�What about England?� asked Marjorie. �Are there any paintings of dubious heritage hanging in our leading galleries?�

�Oh yes,� said William. �Three of the Fitzmolean�s finest works were donated by a well-known criminal.�

�On permanent loan by his generous widow,� insisted Beth.

�Who�s almost as bad as her late husband,� said William, �and if he is still alive, you can be sure Booth Watson will find a way of turning permanent into temporary.�

�Evidence?� demanded Sir Julian, tugging the lapels of his jacket.

�Christina Faulkner is represented by none other than Mr Booth Watson QC.�

�Not exactly proof, but...�

�Children, children,� said Marjorie. �Desist.�

�Then there�s my biggest problem,� continued Beth, �which may prove insurmountable.�

�The bottom line, no doubt,� said Sir Julian.

�Exactly. You need to have at least sixty or seventy major works on display to be reasonably confident of good reviews from the critics who in turn will entice the public to visit in sufficient numbers, which in our case is a footfall of around ten thousand a week. Otherwise the gallery could actually end up out of pocket, as my boss continually reminds me.�

�Speaking of Tim Knox,� said Sir Julian. �There�s a rumour doing the rounds that he�s going to be offered the post as Surveyor of the Queen�s Pictures.�

�Let�s hope it�s only a rumour,� said Beth, �because he�d be difficult to replace.�

�Does the Royal Collection have any Hals?� asked Marjorie, remaining on track.

�Three,� said Beth. �And HM is always very generous when it comes to requests from public galleries.�

�I can�t wait to see the exhibition,� said Marjorie.

�You�ll both be invited to the opening night,� promised Beth. �And now, despite Marjorie�s misgivings, I�d like to hear about Julian�s latest case.�

�Do you have an hour to spare?� said Sir Julian.

�Get on with it,� said his wife.

Sir Julian sat back, and paused for a moment before delivering the single word, �Fraud.� He waited for as long as he felt he could get away with before adding, �I shall be appearing on behalf of the Crown to prosecute a particularly devious and cunning individual who�s been fronting a charity that rescues donkeys which have been ill-treated by their owners.�

�There are people who fall for that scam?� asked Beth.

�In their hundreds, it would seem. He only had to take out a quarter-page advertisement in the Daily Telegraph with a photo of a starving donkey, and the donations came flooding in. We are a nation of knaves and animal lovers, it would seem.�

�But if he saved the donkeys?� said Beth.

�There were no donkeys,� said Sir Julian, �just hapless romantics only too willing to part with their money, which ended up in his back pocket. That�s the reason he�s able to afford the services of Mr Booth Watson, who will be making one of his rare appearances at the Old Bailey. Don�t be surprised if several donkeys, of the two-legged variety, appear in the witness box to give evidence.�

It was some time before the laughter died down.

�When does the trial begin?� asked William.

�It should have been tomorrow at ten o�clock in the forenoon,� said Sir Julian, �had Booth Watson not requested a postponement, which I reluctantly agreed to. It seems my unworthy opponent has a pressing engagement in Scotland, though he wouldn�t say with whom.�

�He didn�t say where, by any chance?� asked William.

�No, as always BW gave as little away as possible.�

Beth and William looked at each other, but didn�t speak.

�Dad, could I make a phone call?�

�Yes, of course, my boy. Use the phone in my study.�

�Thank you,� said William, who stood up and quickly left the room.

�Was it something I said?� asked Sir Julian.

�No. Something Booth Watson didn�t say,� said Beth.

�How intriguing.�

�I can even tell you who he�s on the phone to.�

�The commander, no doubt,� said Sir Julian. �And I can guess what he�ll say when he returns.�

��Sorry Mother, but we have to leave immediately,�� suggested Beth. ��Something unexpected has come up.��

The door opened and William came charging back into the room.

�I�m so sorry, Mother, but we have to go...�

�Something�s come up that you have to deal with immediately?� suggested Sir Julian.

�How did you know that?� asked William.

�I didn�t. But I could hardly help noticing that no sooner had I uttered the words Booth Watson and Scotland, than you suddenly needed to make an urgent phone call.�

William didn�t rise to the bait. He kissed his mother on both cheeks and said, �I�m only sorry that we can�t stay for lunch.�

�Booth Watson isn�t a man one should keep waiting,� said Sir Julian. �When it�s in his client�s interests, he can move very quickly.�

�I look forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks,� said William, ignoring his father�s remonstration.

�Only if you bring the twins with you next time,� said Marjorie.

�You can leave Artemisia at home,� said Sir Julian ruefully. �She clearly has designs on another man.�

�I suspect she has designs on both of you,� said Beth, as Marjorie and Sir Julian accompanied them to the front door.

Once they�d said their farewells, William didn�t speak again until they�d reached the road back to London. �Do you think Faulkner will risk going to see the Caravaggio?� he asked.

�Collectors are passionate people,� said Beth. �They don�t usually allow representatives to make decisions on their behalf, especially when it�s likely to cost them twenty million pounds.�

�Then let�s hope Booth Watson will be accompanied by a dress designer by the name of Ricardo Rossi.�

�But if Booth Watson�s doing no more than representing a client, and Faulkner doesn�t make an appearance,� said Beth, �it will be another wasted journey.�

�Not necessarily,� responded William, �because when Booth Watson delivers the painting, he might just lead us straight to the front door of an obsessed collector who�s standing on his front step waiting to welcome Christ with open arms and ends up with me.�

�That brings us to the end of the tour,� said the guide. �I hope you enjoyed it.� A warm round of applause followed. �If you would like some mementoes of your visit, the shop on the ground floor is open, as is the caf�, should you require any refreshments. Do feel free to roam around the grounds, but please remember the gates will close at one p.m. today. Thank you.�

William and Ross followed the crowd out of the room, ignoring the shop and the caf� as they headed for the front door.

�Keep moving,� said William, as they strolled across a broad stretch of unmowed lawn towards a large clump of trees that overlooked the castle. �Observations?� he asked, once they were safely out of earshot of any other visitors.

�The Caravaggio�s still hanging above the fireplace in the dining room for all to see.�

�What else did you notice about that room?�

�A table had been laid for four. So they are clearly expecting Booth Watson for lunch,� suggested Ross. �With or without his client.�

�Security?� said William, moving on.

�Virtually non-existent. The smaller paintings are all screwed to the wall, and there�s only a rope barrier to prevent anyone getting too close to the pictures.�

�Alarm system?�

�Penfold, but years out of date.�

�And what didn�t you see?�

�Any security guards, which you�d find in every room if it were a public gallery and not a private house.�

�Conclusion?�

�His Lordship can only afford to employ the bare minimum of staff, which you can be sure Faulkner will clock,� said Ross. �That�s assuming he turns up.�

�That�s assuming he hasn�t already,� said William. �Don�t forget the local police could only spare one constable to keep a lookout, 24/7.�

Ross didn�t comment.

�However,� continued William, �back to the dining room. What else did you notice?�

�A minstrels� gallery runs right around the upper level of the room.�

�Access?�

�A narrow spiral staircase leads up to it. The only security is a rope and a �No Entry� sign on the bottom step.�

�Any other observations?�

�There�s a large window directly opposite the Caravaggio that looks out onto the courtyard. You can probably see the front gate from up there.�

�What else?�

Ross thought for a moment, but didn�t respond.

�There�s a small Hamburg organ on the left-hand side of the minstrels� gallery,� said William. �Anyone hiding in the gallery wouldn�t be spotted from the dining room below.�

�Is there room for both of us?�

�No. Only a choirboy,� said William, grinning. �In any case, if both of us went missing, it�s possible the guide would notice and come looking for us.�

�He didn�t count us before he began the tour.�

�Well spotted,� said William, touching his forehead in mock salute. �Nevertheless, when the tour ends, I want you to come back here and brief our boys, who will be waiting in squad cars ready to move at a moment�s notice should Faulkner appear. Anything else the guide said that was particularly revealing?�

�The gates of the grounds will be closed at one o�clock.�

�Which suggests there�ll only be one more tour today. So let�s get moving, because we can�t afford to miss it.�

They walked swiftly back down the slope towards the castle. Once they were inside, William purchased two more tickets from an elderly lady seated at the reception desk. They then joined a dozen or so people who were assembled in the hall waiting for the tour to begin.

Without a word, Ross made his way to the front of the group, while William remained near the back. Once the guide had given his introductory remarks, the tour began. William couldn�t resist stopping to admire several of the collection�s gems as they moved from room to room. He looked forward to telling Beth about a Farquharson, a Raeburn and a Peploe when he returned home that evening. He didn�t revert to being a detective until they were back in the dining room.

Ross remained at the front of the group while the guide told them how the first Lord McLaren had acquired Fishers of Men over two hundred years ago.

William pretended to be looking at a portrait by one of Caravaggio�s less familiar contemporaries as he drifted casually towards the spiral staircase that led up to the minstrels� gallery. The guide concluded his remarks on the centrepiece of the collection, and began to walk towards the next room. A few worshippers couldn�t resist one last look at the masterpiece before they rejoined the rest of the group.

Once William was certain he was alone, he stepped nimbly over the rope and made his way up the spiral staircase to the gallery. One or two creaks caused him to look back and make sure no one had spotted him. On reaching the gallery, he moved swiftly around the dogleg, then tucked himself up against the far side of the organ.

Although he had a clear view out of the large bay window, he couldn�t see the dining room table below, or the Caravaggio. He settled back to do what he�d done so many times in the past: sit, wait, be patient and whatever you do, don�t lose your concentration.

When the guide came to the end of the tour, Ross was among the first to break away from the group and quickly leave the castle. He noted that, although the guide mentioned the shop and the caf�, this time he didn�t suggest that they should feel free to roam around the grounds. However, he did remind them that the gates would be closing at one o�clock.

Ross made his way back to the copse, from which he had a clear view of both the castle�s front door and the gates that led out onto the road. He pulled his radio out of an inside pocket and pressed the green button.

�DCI Warwick is still in the house. I�m outside stationed in the grounds about seventy yards from the front door. If Faulkner appears, I�ll let you know immediately.�

�Understood,� said a voice that came crackling down the line. �If we see a car approaching the castle, you�ll be the first to hear.�

�All received,� said Ross, and placed the radio back in his pocket.

�Isn�t she gorgeous?� said Beth, when the bride and groom entered the room and she saw Josephine for the first time.

�And Ross is clearly besotted with her,� said William.

�Wouldn�t you be?�

�I resigned myself to the fact some time ago that I�m stuck with you. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir...�

�But mine own,� said Beth, �All�s Well.�

�No, As You Like It.�

�Your problem, is that you�re semi-educated.�

�And your problem��

�Shh,� said Beth as Ross and Jo took their places in front of the registrar.

�Welcome to Marylebone Old Town Hall,� said the registrar, addressing the assembled gathering.

�I don�t think I�ll ever get used to a woman performing the marriage service,� whispered Beth.

�You�re so wonderfully old-fashioned,� said William, taking her hand.

�Which is how I ended up with you, caveman.�

�I have the pleasure of conducting this marriage service between Ross and Jo,� continued the registrar. �I should begin by pointing out that the commitment they will make to each other today is for the rest of their lives, and just as morally and legally binding as any pledge taken in a church. So, let us begin the service.�

William had never seen Ross looking so relaxed and happy. The fashionable new suit, white shirt and even the cufflinks, complemented by a red carnation in his buttonhole, would have come as a surprise to the denizens of the underworld among whom he had mingled for so many years. None of whom had been invited to the wedding.

When the registrar solemnly asked, �If any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, he or she should declare it now,� Beth gripped William�s hand. He knew she was remembering how Miles Faulkner had crudely attempted to ruin their wedding day, and how Christina had come to their rescue.

No one raised a voice on this occasion.

William couldn�t resist a smile as they took their vows. He still hadn�t got used to one of the toughest men he�d ever come across being so hopelessly in love.

A warm round of applause broke out when the registrar announced, �It gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married. You may kiss the bride.�

Mr and Mrs Hogan kissed each other for the first time.

�I�m hungry,� whispered William.

�Patience. We�ve been invited to lunch at the Marylebone Hotel after the service.�

�I can�t wait. I haven�t had a good meal for weeks.�

Beth kicked him sharply on the ankle and he let out an exaggerated yelp.

The wedding party followed the bride and groom out of the room, down the Old Town Hall steps and onto the pavement. William held Beth�s hand as they crossed Marylebone Road and headed for the hotel.

A man seated at the bus stop on the opposite side of the road was writing down the names of everyone he recognized. Only three of the guests were unknown to him. He took a closer look at the bride and groom, and wondered if Hogan realized he�d married a call girl. In any case, he�d be informing his employer immediately that the overpaid tart could no longer be relied on. Then he spotted DS Roycroft. Was she also no longer to be trusted? Had the information she�d been passing on to him already been vetted by Warwick? He�d have to assume the worst, while trying to turn it to his advantage. He would place the blame for any false information on the whore, and then take credit for exposing her. That would guarantee he didn�t lose his only source of income.

Lamont didn�t move as the wedding party drifted in the direction of a nearby hotel. Once they were all out of sight, he stepped inside the nearest phone box, dialled a number and waited.

�Fetter Lane chambers,� said a voice on the other end of the line. �How may I help you?�

�I need to speak to Mr Booth Watson � urgently.�

It had never crossed William�s mind how long it would take to pack a valuable work of art, and how many people were involved, even though Beth had tried to warn him.

The key person among the group was Ian Posgate, a senior broker from Lloyd�s of London, who had insured the Caravaggio should it be damaged in transit, and for the full amount of �21 million if it failed to reach its destination. Posgate was delighted the police would be accompanying them on the trip in the guise of his assistants.

William and Ross stood to one side and watched the professionals go about their work. Mr Benmore, the senior fine art handler, could boast a Goya, a Rembrandt and a Vel�zquez in his catalogue raisonn�. However, he�d recently left it to one of his assistants to pack a Warhol for the Tate. Mr Benmore didn�t do modern.

The long process began with four technicians, two of them half-way up ladders, while the other pair had their feet firmly on the ground. Between them, they walked the masterpiece off the wall in a slow, controlled descent, a few links of its chains at a time. William noticed that Lord McLaren appeared to age visibly as he stared up at the dark rectangular space that marked where the pride of his family�s collection had hung for the past two hundred years.

When the bottom of the frame was at waist-height, the four techs lifted it off its chains and lowered it gently onto a set of foam bricks, then rested for a few moments before placing it into a specially prepared travel frame. This unique piece of craftsmanship had been constructed by a carpenter who�d never seen the canvas, but had been supplied with the exact measurements of its ornate gilt frame.

Once the painting had been fitted securely in place, a protective layer of polythene was stretched taut across the surface before the team of technicians, supervised by Mr Benmore, manoeuvred the travel frame into a fortified external crate, constructed by the same carpenter; a delicate undertaking that required skill and strength in equal measure. Mr Benmore�s final responsibility, after checking there could be no internal movement during its long journey to Barcelona, was to securely fasten the crate�s wooden lid with an electric screwdriver. Ross counted all twenty-four screws.

After a thorough inspection, Mr Benmore declared himself satisfied, and allowed his team a tea break.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in action. Two of them lifted the crate a foot off the ground, while the other two positioned a wide skateboard underneath. After the crate had been gently lowered onto the skateboard, it was wheeled slowly out of the dining room and along the corridor towards the front door. Correx sheeting had been laid out along the route to protect the marble floor.

When they reached the entrance hall, William glanced across at the laird, his arm around an elderly woman who he recognized. She was holding back tears for the dear departed.

He noticed that the painting remained upright from the moment it was packed into the crate, until it was strapped into place in a climate-controlled, air-ride suspended truck, to ensure that the Fishers of Men couldn�t fall out of their boat.

They never exceeded thirty miles an hour on the twelve-mile journey to Aberdeen airport.

William and Ross followed behind in an unmarked police car. A private jet awaited them at an airport where private jets are more common than commercial aircraft.

Mr Benmore was the first out of the truck, and once again he supervised the technicians as they painstakingly transferred the painting into the plane�s hold, where it was strapped in � still upright. He and the insurance broker never took their eyes off the wooden crate until the door of the hold was heaved into place. Four passengers climbed aboard a jet bound for Barcelona.

When the plane landed on Spanish soil a couple of hours later, they found Lieutenant Sanchez waiting to greet them on the tarmac.

He was equally well prepared. Under the anxious direction of Mr Benmore, four policemen in overalls unloaded the crate from the hold and strapped it upright into a padded, temperature-controlled van.

Ross sat next to Sanchez in the front, while Mr Benmore, Mr Posgate and William climbed into the back. William tapped the divide, and Sanchez set off at a funereal pace for the final part of the journey.

The butler didn�t hesitate to hand over the keys to a furious Ross. After all, by now the boss would have had more than enough time to escape.

Ross ran back down the corridor to find Sanchez, William and a couple of his officers trying unsuccessfully to break down the door. All they had to show for their trouble were bruised shoulders.

He quickly unlocked the door, but it came as no surprise to any of them that Faulkner was nowhere to be seen.

�Take a closer look at this metal door,� said William. �Tell me what you see, or more important what you don�t see.�

�No handle and no lock,� said Ross immediately.

�And no dial,� added Sanchez. �So how do you open it?�

�I suspect there�s only one person who knows that,� said William, as the butler reappeared carrying a large tray of drinks, which only made Ross want to hit him even harder.

�How do we open that door?� demanded William.

�I have no idea, sir,� said the butler, placing the tray on the table. The blank look on his face suggested to William that he might even be telling the truth.

William was about to ask a follow-up question when the phone on the desk began to ring. He indicated to the butler that he should answer it.

The butler picked up the receiver.

�Good afternoon, this is the Sartona residence. How may I help you?�

William took a notebook and a Biro out of his pocket, wrote down the name Sartona and underlined it, as he listened to the one-sided conversation.

�Are they still there?�

�Yes, sir. I�m afraid Mr Sartona is abroad at the moment. Can I take a message?�

�Is Booth Watson still with you?�

�Yes, sir. He�s looking forward to seeing you when you return.�

�Call me the moment you�re certain that every one of those flatfoots has left and are on their way back to Barcelona.�

�Of course, sir. I�ll let him know you called.� The butler replaced the receiver, turned to William and said, �Can I be of any further assistance, gentlemen?�

Ross clenched a fist and took a step forward.

�No, thank you,� said William, quickly coming between them. �In fact, I think it might be wise for you to leave.�

�As you wish,� said the butler, who gave a slight bow and left without another word.

William waited for the door to close before he said, �If we�re going to have any chance of finding out what�s behind that,� he said, pointing at the impenetrable iron door, �we�re going to need some pretty heavy equipment.�

�Easier said than done,� said Sanchez. �This place used to be Franco�s secret hideaway. It�s what you call in your country a listed property, so we can�t touch anything without the authority of a court.�

�Then we�ll have to get on with it without consulting the authorities, won�t we?� said Ross.

�I don�t think so,� said William, shaking his head. �Try to remember, Ross, we�re not in the back streets of Battersea. We don�t have any authority here.�

�Who cares, choirboy?� said Ross, unable to hide his frustration.

�I do,� said Sanchez. �Because we�re not even in the back streets of Barcelona.�

�And in any case,� said William, �you can be sure that by now Faulkner will be on the phone to his Spanish lawyer, who�ll slap a restraint order on us before you can say acetylene torch.�

�We could always wait. After all, he has to come out eventually,� suggested Ross.

�I�ll bet there�s another world on the other side of that door,� said William. �Heaven knows how long we�d have to twiddle our thumbs before he reappears.�

�And Faulkner�s lawyer would have seen us off long before then,� added Sanchez.

William nodded, but Ross still didn�t look convinced.

�And I�m pretty sure I even know the lawyer he�ll be speaking to,� continued Sanchez. �So there�s nothing we can do until we get a court order overruling any objection.�

�How long will that take?� asked Ross.

�Days, weeks, could be months,� said Sanchez, as the phone on the desk began to ring again. After two rings it ceased, and William assumed it had been answered on another extension somewhere in the building.

Sanchez grabbed the receiver, to hear a conversation taking place between the butler and a woman with whom he�d crossed swords many times in the past.

�Who�s the officer in charge?� said a no-nonsense voice.

�Lieutenant Sanchez,� said the detective, interrupting them.

�Good afternoon, lieutenant,� she said, as if addressing a junior colleague.

�Good afternoon, se�ora.�

�Let me make it clear from the outset, lieutenant,� she said, trying to sound reasonable, �if I find that anything in my client�s home has been tampered with, I will not hesitate to sue the police and hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?�

�Yes, se�ora.�

�So there can be no misunderstanding at a later date, Lieutenant Sanchez, I�ll ask you once again. Is that understood?�

�Absolutamente, se�ora,� said Sanchez, and slammed down the phone.

�So, Faulkner�s eluded us again,� said Ross.

�Not necessarily,� said Sanchez. �I�ll put a couple of patrol cars on the road between here and the motorway, so if he tries to escape we�ll be waiting for him.�

�What about the other side of the house?� asked William.

�He�d be faced with a sheer cliff. Franco chose this location so he could never be taken by surprise. It doesn�t help that Faulkner will know only too well I don�t have the resources to mount a twenty-four/seven operation for too long. Everything is budgets nowadays,� he added with a sigh.

�Then we�ll have to return when he least expects us,� said William.

�When you do, please keep me in the loop,� said Sanchez. �Because Faulkner is someone I�d like to meet.�

Ross smiled, but didn�t comment. The Spanish equivalent of turning a blind eye.

�But until then,� said Sanchez, �there�s not much more we can do today, so I may as well drive you back to the airport?�

William turned to see that Ross had dropped to his knees, and was carefully examining the bottom left-hand corner of the iron door. �Anything of interest?� he asked.

�Nothing, sir,� replied Ross, getting slowly to his feet.

The �sir� told William that Ross had spotted something he didn�t want to share with Sanchez.

Ross and William followed the lieutenant out of the room. Half-way down along the corridor, William paused to take a closer look at The Flute Player hanging on the wall and frowned.

�Something special about that one, chief?� asked Ross.

�I�m afraid so. My wife�s not going to be pleased when I tell her she can cross it off her list.�

�So which European city have you been to this time, caveman?� asked Beth, as she poured William a second cup of black coffee.

�What makes you think I even left London?�

�I needed to borrow a couple of pounds yesterday, only to find your wallet was stuffed with pesetas.�

�Define the meaning of the word �borrow�.�

�The full amount will be paid back at some time in the future.�

�How long in the future?� asked William, as he spread some marmalade on his toast.

�During my lifetime,� she said, giving him a kiss on the forehead. �Stop changing the subject and tell me where you went after you�d visited Scotland.�

�What makes you think I was in Scotland?�

�Along with a thousand-peseta note, I also found a one-way ticket to Aberdeen, and I don�t think the peseta is the Scottish national currency yet.�

�You should have got a bit more than a couple of pounds for a thousand pesetas.�

�Stop changing the subject,� repeated Beth. �I�ve already worked out you must have gone to Scotland to see Lord McLaren, or to be more accurate his Caravaggio. The only reason you�d have done that was in the hope Miles Faulkner would be there, and I suspect all you got for your trouble was his representative on earth.�

William buttered another piece of toast.

�It doesn�t matter if you don�t want to tell me,� said Beth, �because I�m having lunch with Christina, and I�m sure she�ll reveal all.�

William felt guilty at the thought that Beth was about to find out that the Frans Hals Christina had promised to loan to the Fitzmolean would not be hanging in their autumn exhibition, and he was to blame. �Have to get moving,� he said, after downing his coffee, �or I�ll be late for the commander�s meeting.�

�Do you have any pesetas left over?� asked Beth, following another kiss.

�My father warned me about women like you,� he said, as he handed her a five-pound note.

�I adore your father,� said Beth.

William had always wanted to take Beth to Paris for a long weekend. They�d talked so often of visiting the Louvre, the Mus�e d�Orsay, and of course the Mus�e Rodin. They would window-shop on the Rue de Rivoli, perhaps buy an oil from a pavement artist in Montmartre, recalling the story of the American woman who bought a painting from Picasso for a few francs because she liked it.

They would take a boat down the Seine, drink a little too much wine, and enjoy a coq au vin while sampling a cheese board they would never experience anywhere else in the world, before finally returning to their little pension on the Left Bank. They would resist climbing the Eiffel Tower, but in the end join dozens of other tourists in a crowded lift to witness the spectacular panoramic views of the most romantic city on earth. But not this weekend.

After stepping off the train at the Gare du Nord, William went in search of a taxi. He handed the driver an address in the outskirts of Paris, and twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up outside the church of St Mary the Virgin. After paying the driver fifty francs, William joined a trickle of mourners as they made their way up a path to the open door at the east end of the church.

The front three rows were occupied by a dozen or more of the most elegantly dressed women William had ever seen. He walked slowly down the aisle and took a seat in the pew behind his friend, whose head was bent in prayer.

When the hour struck on the clock tower above them, the priest made his entrance, coming to a halt on the steps in front of the altar. He conducted the funeral service with an air of quiet dignity, and although William could not understand every word, his schoolboy French allowed him to follow the proceedings, even the moving tribute given by an older gentleman, who William assumed must be a relation or long-standing family friend.

After the service was over, they all gathered in the churchyard. As the coffin was being lowered into the ground, William was glad that none of those standing around the graveside had seen her lying on the pavement moments after she had died, and would remember her only as a beautiful woman. The one saving grace was that her prematurely delivered daughter had somehow survived. She wouldn�t have, if Roach had known that Ross Hogan�s wife was pregnant.

The priest made the sign of the cross and blessed the mourners, after which the girls lined up and kissed Ross gently on both cheeks, leaving him in no doubt about the affection they shared with him for the only woman he�d ever loved.

William was among the last to pay his respects and found it difficult to express his true feelings. The hardened, cynical policeman broke down when William put his arms around him and simply said, �I�m so sorry.�

�You won�t be seeing me for a few days,� said Ross. �I have some scores to settle. I�ll be back once I�ve dealt with them.�

William thought about those words in the taxi back to the station, on the train to the airport and during the flight to Heathrow. He feared that Ross would be going back undercover and wouldn�t be sharing the details with him, or the commander.

The tramp walked slowly down the road pushing an ancient pram, a cigarette butt drooping from the corner of his mouth. He wore an old army greatcoat that almost touched the ground, along with four combat medals � the only parts of his disguise that were genuine � suggesting he was a veteran of some long-forgotten war. His dark hair was matted and stuck out from under a woollen hat that looked as if it had been a tea cosy in an earlier life. His face was unshaven and you could smell him from several feet away. He clocked the varying reactions he received from those who passed him in the street: sympathy, usually women; disgust, tattooed youths; and some even handed him a pound coin to relieve their guilt.

He approached a pub out of which was blasting �I Can�t Get No Satisfaction�. Don�t worry, he promised those inside, it will only be a matter of time.

As he passed the pub, he kept an eye on the two bouncers who�d been posted on the door to make sure no uninvited guests intruded on the birthday boy�s celebration. He�d arrested one of them several years ago, but the man didn�t give the old git a second look as he shuffled past. If he�d glanced into the pram, all he would have seen was a torn packet of cornflakes, a dented tin box that had once contained �Edinburgh�s finest shortbread biscuits�, an empty Kleenex box and a Marlboro packet with one cigarette butt sticking out. A couple of threadbare blankets that Oxfam would have rejected were stuffed into one corner.

When he reached a set of traffic lights, he pressed the button and waited for the little green man to appear before crossing the road. He kept up his slow pace until he came to a crossroads: the demarcation line that unofficially marked the boundary dividing the two empires controlled by the Roaches and the Abbotts. Two aggressive-looking youths were patrolling the pavement on the far side, their sole purpose to ensure a Roach didn�t stray onto the Abbotts� territory. The tramp stopped and asked one of them for a light.

�Bugger off, you stupid old fart,� was the immediate response. So he did. He kept on walking until he reached an unlit alley that even the most passionate young lovers would have avoided, and the police didn�t venture down on their own after dark.

He pushed his pram half-way down the alley, then, checking that no one was taking any interest in him, he removed his tea-cosy hat and put it in the pocket of his greatcoat, which he folded and placed under the blankets in the pram. The hair was still matted, the face still unshaven, the smell still nauseating, but the man dressed in a black tracksuit and black trainers now drew himself up to his full height and took one more look up and down the alley. Not even a stray cat to observe him.

He reached into the cornflakes box and pulled out the stock of a rifle. Next, he flicked the lid off the �Edinburgh�s finest� and extracted a small night-vision telescope. Finally he unscrewed the handle of the pram, tapped it gently on the top, and a slim, perfectly weighted barrel slid out. It took him only moments to piece together a Remington M40 sniper rifle. It wouldn�t have been his first choice, but it was the model Ron Abbott favoured. He finally grabbed the Marlboro packet and slipped it into a tracksuit pocket. Moving swiftly towards the building at the end of the alley, he began to climb the drainpipe on its rear wall with the ease of a cat burglar, bringing back memories of the Iranian Embassy siege when he�d been a young lance corporal serving with the SAS, later mentioned in dispatches.

When he reached the top floor, he looked down once again to check if anyone had spotted him. No one had. He�d chosen his vantage point carefully: he was overlooked only by an old warehouse that closed its doors at six o�clock every evening.

He clambered up onto the roof, then crawled slowly across until he reached the other side, where he studied the gap between the two buildings. Ten feet and nine inches divided him from his chosen vantage point. That wouldn�t be a problem. He�d practised the jump several times with the rifle slung over one shoulder, and his average had been just over fourteen feet.

He retraced his steps, then crouched down for a moment before bursting out of the blocks and sprinting towards the edge of the building, reaching top speed on the last stride. With inches to spare, he leapt into the air like an Olympic long-jumper who knew exactly where the take-off board would be, and landed on the roof of the next building with several feet to spare. He knelt down on one knee and caught his breath, not moving again until his heartbeat had returned to a steady fifty-four.

He then crawled across to the edge of the building, but didn�t look down. He�d never told Colonel Parker, his old commanding officer, that he had a fear of heights. After a few more minutes he stood to take in everything around him, and was well satisfied. But then he�d chosen the spot carefully. He was directly above Ron Abbott�s flat, and Abbott, he�d quickly discovered, was a creature of habit. Something that was considered a deadly sin by the SAS, as it made you an easy target for the enemy. Abbott spent every Thursday evening with members of his family at the dogs in Romford, where they were regularly separated from some of their ill-gotten gains. That was invariably followed by dinner at a local nightclub, not known for its cuisine. He usually arrived back at his flat around one o�clock in the morning with a girl on one arm, sometimes on both.

The other reason Ross had selected that particular spot was because it gave him a clear view of the pub where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. Two hundred and forty yards � well within the range of the high-powered precision rifle � as the crow flies.

He eased the butt of the rifle gently into his shoulder, and lined up the crosshairs on the telescopic sight on the forehead of one of the bouncers. He held the rifle in that position for two minutes before he lowered his arm and rested.

Ross suspected it would be a long wait before the real target appeared. After all, it was his thirty-fourth birthday. He took the Marlboro packet out of his pocket, extracted six highly polished bullets and stood them up in a straight line like soldiers on parade. Then he settled down to wait, but didn�t for a moment lose his concentration.

The first reveller emerged from the pub just after midnight. Not someone he recognized. The second, who spilled out onto the pavement a few minutes later, was Terry Roach�s uncle Stan, who had been in and out of jail for the past twenty years, and was now rumoured to have been pensioned off by the family.

Ross raised the rifle once again and centred the crosshairs on Uncle Stan�s lined forehead. He pulled the trigger. A small click followed, allowing Stan to go on his way, blissfully unaware he�d been target practice.

Although he didn�t expect the real target to appear for at least another hour, he loaded six bullets into the magazine. Just in case.

Over the next hour a stream of inebriated guests made their way out of the pub and started walking unsteadily in the direction of their homes. Taxi drivers avoided that street, even in the middle of the day.

Then, without warning, the birthday boy appeared. He staggered out of the pub, accompanied by two of his mates who were in no state to assist him.

Ross calmly took out his phone and dialled 999. When an operator asked, �Police, fire or ambulance service?� he said firmly, �Police,� as Terry Roach lurched forward and grabbed at a window ledge to steady himself.

�Police. How may I assist you?�

�There�s a gun battle going on in Plumber�s Road, Whitechapel,� he said, trying to sound breathless.

�Can I take your�� But he�d already switched off the phone. He would dispose of it later.

He nestled the butt of the rifle back into his shoulder, and steadied the barrel with his left hand. He centred the crosshairs of the telescope on the enemy�s forehead, just as he had done in Oman, and now in Whitechapel. He lowered his sights to the birthday boy�s right kneecap, his old sergeant major�s words ringing in his ears: Concentrate, breathe normally and squeeze the trigger smoothly in one movement, don�t snatch. He carried out the order and the bullet whistled through the air towards its target. Seconds later Roach sank to the ground in agony, clasping his right leg.

As Ross had anticipated, the stricken man�s two mates tried to drag him back into the pub. He lowered the crosshairs an inch and steadied himself before pulling the trigger a second time. This time, the bullet headed for Roach�s groin, and the sudden agonized movement of Roach�s hands from his knee to his balls rather suggested Ross had hit the bullseye. One of his mates continued to drag Roach back towards the pub, screaming for help at the top of his voice, while the other ran off in the opposite direction.

The pub door suddenly swung open and a crowd of Roach family and other gang members came rushing out. A finger pointed up in his direction, and every available body began charging across the road towards him. Ross lined up the rifle for the last time, not aiming at Roach�s forehead to end his agony, but a few inches lower. The third bullet struck him just above his Adam�s apple, passed right through his neck and ended up embedded in the pub�s wall.

Ross looked over the side of the building to see lights appearing in the windows of the flats below. He was interested only in one particular flat and moments later he was rewarded.

He placed the rifle next to the three spent cartridges, turned, and took a deep breath before running flat out across the roof and once again launching himself into the air. This time he flew even higher than before, but then he was no longer carrying a rifle. He landed safely, rolled over and was quickly back on his feet. As he made his way to the far corner of the building, he could hear a siren in the distance. He began the long climb down, always slower and more challenging than climbing up, as any mountaineer will tell you.

When his feet touched the ground, he jogged back towards the alley where he retrieved his hat and greatcoat from the pram and pulled on his tea-cosy hat. He�d just reached the end of the alley when he heard voices close by. He continued heading towards the battlefield, a risk, but he couldn�t afford the owners of the voices, whichever side they were on, to think he was running away from the scene. One of them slowed down as they passed him, hurled the pram onto its side and took a cursory look at its contents before he ran on. But then, he no longer had anything to hide.

After he�d thrown everything back into the pram, Ross continued walking towards the pub. There was no longer a demarcation zone. It was all-out war.

The first squad car screeched to a halt outside the Plumber�s Arms, and within moments the street was swarming with armed police in protective gear and carrying riot shields. They began rounding up members of both gangs before hurling them into the nearest Black Maria.

He couldn�t resist a smile when he saw the choirboy standing outside the pub, directing operations. He walked straight past him, and wouldn�t have looked back had he not heard the thud of a body landing in the middle of the road behind him. His only mistake.

Although he hadn�t gone to bed until after two that morning, Ross was up again by five, as he had an appointment with Jimmy the dip. Not that the dip was aware that a police inspector from Scotland Yard would be joining him for breakfast.

Ross took a long, cold shower, washed his hair and, with the help of a razor, removed four days of non-designer stubble. He checked his watch, confident he could be at the Putney Bridge Caf� long before Jimmy turned up. Once he�d completed his business with the old lag, he would make his way back across the bridge to keep an even more important appointment in Chelsea.

The one thing Ross knew about the dip, other than that he was unrivalled in his profession, was that he didn�t like to go to work on an empty stomach. Jimmy had served a couple of terms in the nick, but had managed to charm more than one jury into believing he was a victim of a deprived upbringing who, if given a chance, would mend his ways and lead a new life. He would have spent far longer in prison had those same juries been made aware of his past criminal record, but the British have always believed in fair play, and giving a chap the benefit of the doubt.

Ross turned up at the caf� just before seven, ordered a black coffee and sat on a stool at the far end of the counter. The dip arrived just after seven thirty, took his usual place by the window and began to read the Sun.

Ross didn�t make his presence known until the waitress appeared carrying Jimmy�s daily plate of two fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes and hash browns. It was clear that Jimmy would have agreed with Somerset Maugham�s observation that �To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day.� Not that Jimmy had ever heard of Somerset Maugham.

�To what do I owe this honour, Inspector?� asked Jimmy nervously, when Ross sat down opposite him. �You�re not going to find anything incriminating on me at this time in the morning.�

�I need your help, Jimmy.�

�I�m not an informer. Never have been, never will be. Not my style.�

�I�m no longer in the force,� said Ross. �I�ve quit.�

Jimmy still looked doubtful, until Ross took a roll of banknotes out of his pocket and placed them in the middle of the table.

�What would I have to do to earn that much dosh?� said the dip, looking at the notes longingly.

�I need you to put something back for a change,� said Ross, before explaining exactly what he had in mind.

By the time Jimmy had finished his breakfast, the two hundred pounds had also disappeared.

�You�ll get another two hundred, but not before you�ve completed the job.�

�Then all I need to know is when and where.�

�I�ll be in touch,� said Ross, �now I know where to find you.� He got up, and was about to check the time to make sure he wouldn�t be late for his next appointment, only to find he no longer had a watch. He stretched out his hand and waited.

Jimmy the dip shrugged, handed him back his Rolex and said, �I wouldn�t want you to think I�d lost my touch, Inspector.�

�I may have had a breakthrough in the Sleeman case,� said DS Adaja, as he sat down in the chair by William�s desk.

�Walk me through it,� said William, putting down his Biro and leaning back.

Paul handed him a see-through evidence bag that contained a single fifty-pound note. �An anonymous person left this for me at the front desk.�

�Presumably you had it checked for fingerprints � did they find any?�

�Mine,� admitted Paul.

�Idiot. Anyone else�s?�

�Max Sleeman�s.�

�Better. And, from the smug look on your face, they must have come up with someone else even more surprising.�

�Leonid Verenich.�

�The psychopath who was thrown out of the Russian mafia because he was too violent?�

�The same.�

�I thought he was serving a life sentence in Dresden prison.�

�He was until he met a certain Colonel Putin, and became more useful on the outside,� said Paul. �What I can�t work out is how he got past immigration control.�

�That wouldn�t have proved difficult for someone with the connections Sleeman has, in both underworlds,� said William. �So now all you have to do is find him.�

�That won�t be easy. In Moscow he was known as �whispering death�.�

�Whoever left that note at the front desk must know how to find him.�

�But I have no idea who that was.�

�I do,� said William.

�Would you be kind enough to sign the visitors� book, sir?� said the receptionist, swivelling round a large, leatherbound volume just as the phone on the desk began to ring. She picked it up and announced, �Good morning, the Mount Nelson Hotel. How may I assist you?�

Ross began to flick back through the pages of the visitors� book in search of Mr and Mrs Clive Pugh, who he knew had planned to check in earlier that week.

�Can I help you?� asked the receptionist as she put the phone down and caught him looking closely at a particular page of the log.

�Yes,� said Ross, not missing a beat. �I was just checking to see if a friend of mine, Larry T. Holbrooke the Third, had booked in.�

�We have no one under that name staying with us,� said the receptionist. Ross looked suitably disappointed, as she handed him a large metal key. �You�re in room thirty-three on the third floor. A porter will take your bag up. I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.�

Pleasant wasn�t what Ross had in mind. �Thank you,� he said, before following the porter across the hall to the lift. On the way they passed a photograph of Winston Churchill sitting on the veranda of the hotel smoking a cigar and clasping a large brandy.

When the lift reached the third floor, Ross followed the porter down a wide, thickly carpeted corridor, the walls cluttered with sepia photographs of the Queen Mother, Jan Smuts and Cecil Rhodes, reminding the hotel�s guests of a bygone era it seemed reluctant to let go. The porter unlocked the door to room 33 and placed Ross�s suitcase on a stand at the end of the bed. Ross thanked him and handed him a tip.

Ross walked across to the bay window and was stunned by the breathtaking panoramic view of Table Mountain, with the clouds resting above it like a fluffy eiderdown. He turned back to see the king-sized double bed and once again thought about Jo, before slipping off his jacket and lying down just to find out how comfortable it was. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Ross woke at five the next morning on London time to find it was already seven o�clock in Cape Town. Not long before he would have to make a decision.

He was among the first to come down for breakfast, but he chose to sit on the other side of the dining room to reduce the chances of Mr and Mrs Pugh remembering him.

Like Jimmy the dip, Ross began the day with a hearty breakfast, starting with a bowl of porridge, followed by a pair of lightly grilled kippers that would have passed muster in a Highlands hostelry.

While he waited for the Pughs to appear, he read the previous day�s London Times.

He took his time reading a long article on page three below a photograph of the choirboy. �The officer who brought the two most feared gangs in the East End of London, the Abbotts and the Roaches, to their knees,� the crime correspondent informed his readers. Ross was relieved to find no mention in the article of a mysterious tramp who�d been seen pushing a pram through the middle of the battlefield, and the crime correspondent concluded that �this was an internal feud between the two rival East End gangs and no one else was involved�. Ross doubted that William had come to the same conclusion when delivering his report to The Hawk.

He was beginning to wonder if the honeymoon couple were having breakfast in their room, when Clive Pugh strolled in and went straight to their usual table. He also ordered kippers before turning his attention to the Financial Times, but there was still no sign of his wife by the time he�d reached the latest stock market prices. If she didn�t make an appearance, the choice of which one of them Ross should pursue would be academic.

Pugh eventually rose from his place, left the dining room and, after a short chat to the receptionist on the front desk, walked out of the hotel. Ross was not far behind. He was never happier than when working undercover, and keeping an eye on this particular target was not difficult. Pugh was wearing a dark blue blazer, open-neck cream shirt and neatly pressed grey flannels, but it was the white panama hat that made him hard to miss. Jo had once told him you could tell the quality of a panama hat by how small the weave was, and that way she�d know if the client could afford her. I don�t have a hat, he had told her. Now, dressed in a non-branded grey T-shirt, jeans and a pair of trainers, Ross melted into the crowd on the busy streets of the bustling city centre.

He took care not to get too close to Pugh. He might have been shadowing an amateur, but he couldn�t risk being spotted, especially as he was still planning to sit behind him at dinner again that night.

The first stop Pugh made was at a chemist�s, but he came back out moments later. He covered another block before making his second stop, at an upmarket department store. Ross followed him inside, and hovered in the background pretending to be interested in a silk scarf while Pugh was shown a box of Montecristo cigars by an assistant at the tobacconist�s counter.

�I�ll take a couple of boxes,� said Pugh, passing over his credit card. After a few minutes, the embarrassed assistant handed him back his card and whispered a few words Ross couldn�t hear.

�There must be some mistake,� said Pugh angrily. �Why don�t you ring the bank.�

The assistant obliged, but when he put the phone down he looked even more embarrassed, and placed the cigars back on the shelf.

Pugh, red in the face, turned and strode towards the nearest exit. Ross followed.

�Excuse me, sir,� said a young woman chasing after him, �will you be purchasing that scarf?�

An equally embarrassed Ross handed back the scarf. Fortunately, Pugh had already left the store.

Out on the pavement, Ross quickly spotted the white panama bobbing up and down on the far side of the road. He�d nearly caught up with Pugh by the time he entered the Cape Bank, where Pugh headed straight for the nearest teller.

�I want to speak to the manager,� he demanded in a loud voice. �Immediately.�

Ross hovered behind a desk on the far side of the banking hall, picked up a Biro and began filling in a form to open a savings account while they both waited for the manager to arrive.

A tall, smartly dressed man appeared a few moments later. It wasn�t difficult for him to work out which was the irate customer who had demanded to see him.

�How can I help you, sir?� he asked politely.

�Are you the manager?� said Pugh, unable to hide his surprise.

�I am, sir. Mr Joubert,� he said, offering his hand. Pugh ignored it.

�My name is Clive Pugh and your bank has just caused me some considerable embarrassment.�

�I�m sorry to hear that, sir,� said the manager. �Perhaps you would like to discuss this matter in the privacy of my office?�

�I don�t need to be patronized by you, Joubert. All I want to know is why my credit card was rejected.�

�Are you sure you wouldn�t prefer to come to my office and talk about the problem?�

�There isn�t a problem,� said Pugh, almost shouting. �An explanation and an apology is the least I expect if you want to keep your job.�

Ross noticed that he was no longer the only person in the banking hall who was taking an interest in the encounter between the two men.

�I�m afraid,� said the manager, almost whispering, although everyone could hear his words, �your account is well over its limit, so I was left with no choice.�

�Then I am also left with no choice,� said Pugh, �other than to transfer my account to another bank. I expect you to have all the necessary paperwork ready when I return tomorrow.�

�As you wish, sir. May I ask when that might be convenient?�

�It will be convenient when it suits me,� said Pugh. �It�s clear to me that you boys aren�t yet ready to do a man�s job.�

Ross was about to break another golden rule and knock out the person he was meant to be shadowing, and might have done so if Pugh hadn�t turned on his heel and marched out of the bank.

Ross followed him onto the street, but lost him when it became clear he was returning to the hotel. He couldn�t wait to hear his version of events over dinner that evening.

�Are you PC Plod?� asked Peter, when Juan came down for breakfast the following morning.

�No,� said Juan, taking a seat opposite the twins. �My youngest daughter tells me I�m not as clever as PC Plod, because I don�t solve every one of my cases immediately. She thinks I�m more like Inspector Watchit.�

Artemisia giggled, as Beth placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of their guest.

�My father will be jealous when I tell him what I had for breakfast this morning,� said Juan, picking up his knife and fork.

�Doesn�t your daddy have breakfast?� asked Artemisia.

�Don�t talk with your mouth full,� said William.

�Who stole the pearl necklace?� asked Peter.

�I don�t know,� admitted Juan.

�We�ll find out when Daddy gets back tonight and reads us the last chapter,� said Artemisia.

�If Daddy gets back tonight,� said William as the phone in the hall began to ring.

�Who can that possibly be at this time in the morning?� said Beth.

�Probably The Hawk,� said William as he got up and headed for the door.

�It�s PC Plod,� whispered Juan.

�I hope so,� said Artemisia, �then he can help you solve��

William closed the door behind him and picked up the phone on the hall table. �William Warwick.�

�Good morning. Geoff Duffield from Heathrow security. DI Hogan flew in from Cape Town first thing this morning, and has just passed through passport control.�

�Thank you, Geoff. At least that�s one of my problems dealt with. Thank you,� he repeated before hanging up the phone and returning to the kitchen.

�Have you met PC Plod?� Peter was asking Juan.

�No, but I�d like to, because your father and I could do with his help at the moment.�

�That was him on the phone,� said William, joining in the game. �He�s on his way to the Yard, so we�d better get going.�

�Naughty Daddy. Grandpops says you must always finish your breakfast before going to work.�

�I agree with your grandpops,� said Juan, who continued to enjoy his eggs and bacon, as William gave in and sat back down.

�I apologize,� said Beth. �Artemisia tends to repeat the last thing she�s heard.�

�No need to apologize,� said Juan. �Don�t forget I have three daughters.�

�And another on the way, William tells me.�

�What can I possibly have done to deserve that?� said Juan.

Six pips were followed by the news headlines, but neither of them was listening.

�I don�t enjoy spying on a colleague,� said Jackie. �Especially one I like and admire.�

�Couldn�t agree more,� said William. �But when you�re your own worst enemy, you need friends.�

�You�re still convinced he was involved in the Roach and Abbott killings?�

�You have to admit,� said William, �that his wife�s death gave him a pretty strong motive. Let�s just be thankful the Abbott/Roach file has been closed. But the Sleeman case hasn�t, so it�s important we try to stay one step ahead of Ross. And of Verenich too, for that matter.�

�My latest intel on Clive Pugh might also interest you,� said Jackie, as the two of them continued to stare out of the car window at a red door at the far end of the mews.

�Enlighten me,� said William, sounding like the commander.

�I had a call from my new buddy in the Cape Town police department yesterday. He told me I�d got it completely wrong, and I needn�t worry about Mrs Pugh any longer.�

�How come?�

�Because her husband keeled over during dinner a couple of nights ago and died before the ambulance reached their hotel. At least we know Ross can�t have been involved in that one.�

�So Pugh didn�t get his hands on her money after all.�

�Now there�s the irony,� said Jackie. �It seems that Mrs Pugh failed to mention to her latest husband that she�d been married twice before, and between them they�d bled her dry. She assumed that, as Pugh always paid the bills, he had to be a rich man. She was devastated to discover that he was also penniless. It turns out she can�t even afford to pay her hotel bill.�

�The Mount Nelson doesn�t come cheap,� said William.

�How did you know where they were staying?�

�Do the local police think Mrs Pugh might have been involved in her husband�s death?� asked William, avoiding the question.

�No, sir,� said Jackie. �In fact, they�ve issued a statement confirming there were no suspicious circumstances, and allowed the bereaved widow to accompany the body back to England. Tourist class. So you�ll have to find me another impossible case to solve.�

�Concentrate on this one,� said William, as a light went on in Jo�s house, and others continued to go on and off during the next hour, but then William had learnt over the years that surveillance was a cat and mouse game and patience was the cheese in the trap.

They both listened to the seven o�clock news on the radio, and nothing had changed by the time the eight o�clock news followed an hour later. During that time the milk, the papers and the post were delivered, but the front door remained closed.

William was beginning to think that �the first day of the month� might not have been as important a clue as one of Paul�s informants had suggested, until a black Toyota pulled up outside the house and parked on a double yellow line.

When the passenger door opened, neither of them needed an identikit picture to know who it was heading for the front door.

�Christ, he�s built like a tank,� said Jackie.

�Six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds, and he practically lives in the gym,� said William, as the giant knocked on the door.

Verenich waited for a short time, casting an occasional glance up and down the mews, before knocking again. This time a little more firmly. A few moments later Ross appeared, dressed in a tracksuit.

�Doesn�t look as if he�s planning to come in to work today,� said Jackie, as Ross handed a thick wad of notes to Verenich, who took his time counting them.

�I still intend to put a stop to whatever he does have planned,� said William, as Verenich gave Ross what passed for a smile, pocketed the money and returned to the car.

William switched on a radio that connected him to the rest of the team.

�Verenich�s car is heading towards the traffic lights at the junction with Merton Street. I�ll let you know which way he turns. Remember to keep your distance.�

�Understood,� said three alert voices, who had also been waiting impatiently to go to work since six o�clock that morning. William was about to follow the Toyota when Ross came running out of the house, jumped into his car and immediately drove off.

�The mark is turning left,� said William, �so he�s yours, Danny, and DI Hogan isn�t far behind. Keep me briefed, but ditch Verenich when he reaches his next customer. Paul will take over.�

�Understood,� said two voices, as the Toyota drove past a taxi that never picked up a paying passenger.

William smiled when he saw Ross turn left at the lights and continue to follow Verenich. �Constable Markham.�

�Sir.�

�He�s driving a dark blue Volkswagen...�

�Clocked him, sir.�

William boarded the crowded plane to find Ross already seated by the window. He sat down next to him, but to a casual observer it would not have been obvious they were colleagues. They didn�t once discuss Caravaggio on their flight to Barcelona, nor Beth, Jo, the twins, or Jo Junior � as Ross called his daughter � nor the upcoming Frans Hals exhibition at the Fitzmolean, nor even the frailty of West Ham�s defence or the brilliance of Chelsea�s attack, depending on their point of view.

They fell into a companionable silence. William would have liked to ask Ross how he had managed to creep into that grave unnoticed, but suspected that no answer would have been forthcoming.

However, he did notice that Ross was no longer wearing the Rolex Jo had given him as a wedding present. The anonymous, black-faced watch that had taken its place wasn�t, in William�s opinion, a worthy replacement, but with Ross there was always a reason.

As the plane touched down on Spanish soil and taxied towards its stand, William looked out of the window to see Lieutenant Sanchez standing next to an unmarked black car by the side of the runway, its back door already open.

The two detectives were the first passengers off the plane, each carrying only an overnight bag, although they had no intention of staying overnight.

Juan greeted them, and their car had driven through the security exit and was on the motorway before most of the other passengers had reached the airport terminal.

William wasted no time in taking Juan through the latest refinements to the plan and answering all the lieutenant�s questions, with Ross making the occasional observation.

The safe house turned out to be an inconspicuous two-up two-down in a quiet back street on the west side of the city. Juan led William and Ross through to the operations centre, a large room with a circular table surrounded by half a dozen chairs, along with the inevitable corkboard covered in maps, diagrams and photographs taking up almost a complete wall.

Juan began the final briefing by drawing their attention to several aerial photographs of Faulkner�s estate. Ross took the opportunity to refamiliarize himself with the unmarked tortuous route through the forest and across the bridge to the front door of the house that the golf buggy had taken when they�d delivered the Fishers of Men on their first visit.

Having satisfied himself that he knew every inch of the route, Ross walked across to join William and Juan, who were studying a large cardboard model of the house that had been placed in the centre of the table. Juan pointed to the kitchen steps on the west side of the house, and then the fire escape that led up to the fourth floor, where the three bedrooms whose windows had previously been left open were marked with large red crosses.

�We only need one of them to be open tonight to make it from here to here,� said Juan, his finger moving along a corridor and down a wide staircase to the landing outside the master bedroom.

�Let�s hope the bedroom door�s locked,� said William, �because then we�ll know he�s inside.�

�Even if he�s somehow made it downstairs to his study,� said Ross, his finger taking a path down the staircase and along the corridor on the ground floor, �I should be able to reach his study before he has time to open the metal door.�

�Whether he�s in bed or not,� said Juan, �my back-up squad will already have surrounded the house by then.�

�We also have to consider the possibility that he�ll already be in his study,� said William, �and that by the time Ross arrives he�ll have opened the metal door and disappeared into thin air once again.�

Ross said nothing. If Faulkner escaped while his colleagues were still on the first floor, he intended to open the metal door and join him on the other side, before they could catch up with him. A detail he�d neglected to mention to William.

�What if he isn�t in the bedroom or his study,� said Juan, �but has already left the house?�

�That�s unlikely,� said Ross. �Booth Watson is flying in to Barcelona tomorrow morning, and the latest sighting of Faulkner�s yacht was about three hundred miles away, giving him an ETA of around seven o�clock tomorrow evening, which is when I expect he plans to sail off into the sunset.�

�We need to have Faulkner safely locked up long before Booth Watson arrives,� said William, �because that man will find a dozen ways of setting him free.�

�Let�s go over the timing once again,� said Juan. �We�ll leave here at midnight, so by the time we reach the house Faulkner and most of his staff should be sound asleep.�

�But not the guards,� William reminded them.

�There are six of them in all,� said Juan. �They work around the clock in eight-hour shifts. One pair will be on patrol from ten o�clock tonight until six tomorrow morning. We know that it takes them fourteen minutes to carry out a complete circuit of the house, and they take a fifteen-minute break around two in the morning.�

�How did you get hold of such valuable intel?� asked Ross.

�One of my men still can�t make up his mind if he wants to be a gardener or a policeman, so for the past three weeks he�s been both.�

A rare look of respect crossed Ross�s face.

�Right,� said William, �let�s go over the plan one last time. Juan, don�t hesitate to query even the slightest detail you�re unsure about, because, one thing�s for certain, we won�t be given a third chance.� He felt this must be what it was like to be a mountaineer attempting to conquer Everest. He had planned the expedition and would lead them to base camp, at which point Ross, as climbing leader, would take over, with the task of getting them to the summit, in this case an open window on the fourth floor of the house. Once they were inside the building, William would resume command.

After everyone had been briefed yet again on their individual responsibilities, they took a break for a meal they barely touched, as heightened anticipation, accompanied by a rush of adrenaline, took over.

Finally, they changed into outfits more suited to criminals than upholders of the law. Sleeveless black T-shirts, black tracksuits, black socks, black trainers, even black laces.

�Not on my watch,� said Juan, as Ross took off his jacket to reveal a gun in its holster. �My boss has made it clear there will be no firearms on this operation.�

�I hope your boss has mentioned that to Faulkner�s guards,� said Ross.

�They won�t be any trouble when they realize we�re police officers,� said Juan.

�Right,� said Ross. �So once you�ve pointed that out, they�re just going to stick their hands in the air and say, �Fair cop, guv.��

�DI Hogan,� said William sharply, �don�t forget we�re guests in this country, and the success of this operation is entirely dependent on the local police�s cooperation.�

�Yes, sir,� said Ross, as he reluctantly handed his gun to Sanchez. But it was all he could do to prevent himself from adding, Then I�ll have to strangle him, won�t I?

They spent the next half hour pacing around the room like caged animals desperate to be released, especially Ross, who when the curtain rose had no intention of keeping to the script.

�Let�s move,� said Juan, when the first of several church clocks began to strike twelve times, reminding William they were in a Catholic country.

The same unmarked black car was waiting for them in the street outside. They sat in anticipatory silence as they headed towards the target, no longer needing to discuss the plan.

The driver turned off the motorway at exit 9, and after a few miles he pulled over to the side of the road. The three black-clad men climbed out of the car and watched silently as the driver turned around and left them.

William had calculated that, on foot and in the dark, it would take around forty minutes to cover the five kilometres before they reached the edge of the forest. He took the lead, while Ross brought up the rear. None of them spoke as they progressed slowly down the narrow road, alert to the slightest danger. Only a startled hare paused to take a closer look at the passing strangers, while an owl didn�t stop offering his opinion.

When the dense barrier of the forest loomed up in front of them, William raised a hand, the sign for Ross to take over. He moved quickly to the front, taking NP�s modified video camera from his backpack. He switched it on and stepped cautiously into the thick undergrowth. The three of them advanced one step at a time, like soldiers on a slow march, aware that a single foot fault could trigger an alarm, light up the grounds and give Faulkner more than enough time to escape.

The long circuitous route demanded by the video camera took them nearly an hour to complete. When they reached the river, they crossed the bridge cautiously, and not long afterwards the forbidding grey stone building came into view, sharply silhouetted in the moonlight.

As they were about to emerge from the forest, Ross gestured firmly to his cohorts with a wave of the hand to get back down. Two guards were patrolling the north side of the building, the wide beams of their torches making sweeping circles that illuminated the deserted grounds.

Ross watched every step the guards took before they turned left at the west end of the house and continued on their way. Thanks to Juan�s research, he knew how long it would be before the guards returned. He pointed silently to a small clump of bushes fifty yards from the house that had been highlighted on the map supplied by the zealous gardener. They set off again, this time crawling through the undergrowth, reaching the copse only moments before the guards reappeared. They passed by them so closely that even in the dark Ross could see they were armed. One had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Colonel Parker would have put him on report and confined him to barracks.

Ross watched carefully as the guards kept to a designated path so as not to set off an alarm that would wake their paymaster. He knew roughly how much time they had to make it to the kitchen where they could hide beneath a steep flight of stone steps, allowing the guards to pass a second time before they attempted to enter the house. They began to weave their way across the lawn towards a well-trodden path, aware they�d left themselves only seconds before the guards would reappear. They wouldn�t have needed a torch to spot the uninvited trio frozen like rabbits in their headlights.

Once the guards were safely out of sight, Ross, closely followed by William and Juan, sprinted towards the building. They knew exactly where their next stop would be, as the kitchen staircase was imprinted on their minds from the model back at the safe house. But this was anything but a safe house. Once they reached the staircase, Ross descended the steps, closely followed by William and Juan, before crouching down opposite an entrance marked �Entrada de servicio�.

William held his breath, hearing only the sound of his heartbeat which wasn�t seventy-two to the minute, as the guards passed by a few feet above them, before once again disappearing around the far corner of the building.

The next step was the fire escape. Ross glanced up at the fourth floor and was relieved to see one of the three windows that had been marked with red crosses was open. As he approached the fire escape, he no longer needed to look back and check his two bloodhounds were still in pursuit.

He gripped the two sides of the iron ladder and began his ascent with the skill of an experienced cat burglar. William and Juan, not quite so practised, followed several rungs behind.

When he reached the fourth floor, Ross stepped nimbly across to the nearest windowsill, and in a single movement swung himself through the open window and landed noiselessly on the wooden floor. His eyes quickly focused on a bed on the far side of the room, in which a young woman was sleeping contentedly. She was about to have a bad dream, thought Ross, as he advanced cautiously towards her.

William clambered through the open window just as Ross placed a hand over the young woman�s mouth. Even in the faint moonlight, he couldn�t miss the look of horror in her eyes as she began to shake uncontrollably.

Juan, who had landed in the room with a thud, ran quickly across to the bed and spoke to the young woman in her own tongue, which appeared to calm her, as she stopped shaking. She nodded when Ross indicated he was going to remove his hand, again helped by Juan who assured her she wouldn�t come to any harm if she remained silent. But Ross wasn�t taking any chances. He bound her wrists and legs while William firmly gagged her with one of her own stockings.

Juan returned to the window and peered down from behind the curtain as the two guards sauntered by once again, their torchlights flashing in every direction except the house. When he could no longer see them, he joined William and Ross at the door. William cautiously opened the door a few inches and waited for a moment before poking his head out into the unlit corridor. No one in sight. Closing the door silently behind them, the three of them turned right and headed for the top of the stairs.

William led them slowly down the thickly carpeted stairs, though each of them knew the layout of the house as if it were his own home. They came to a halt when they reached the landing that led to the master bedroom. William and Juan stayed put while Ross continued on down the sweeping marble steps to the ground floor.

As he and Juan tiptoed along the corridor, William didn�t even glance at the magnificent paintings that adorned the walls. He paused only for a moment before placing a hand on the doorknob. He turned it slowly, noiselessly, to find it was unlocked. He pushed the door open, but the moment he stepped inside the room a deafening alarm screamed out, and vast arc lights immediately illuminated the grounds outside, flooding the house with light. William switched on the bedroom light and stared at a large, empty bed that hadn�t been slept in. Faulkner had clearly anticipated Plan A. Juan was quickly on the radio to his waiting team.

Downstairs in his study, Faulkner leapt out of his makeshift bed the moment the alarm sounded. It didn�t worry him when he heard loud footsteps echoing along the marble corridor that led to his study. He had more than enough time. He walked across to the metal door and tapped the face of a watch that never left his wrist. When the dial lit up he entered 03 43, the first four numbers of the timecode. He had just tapped in 09 88, the month and the year, when he heard a key turning in the door behind him. But how could that be possible? He quickly stepped into the safe just as Ross burst into his study and came charging towards him.

He was only a stride away when Faulkner slammed the massive door shut, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard the heavy steel bolts slide into place.

Ross was about to tap his own watch and enter the code that would open the safe door when he heard footsteps running along the corridor. He decided to wait for the choirboy and the lieutenant to appear before he performed the opening ceremony.

My thanks for their invaluable advice and research to:

Simon Bainbridge, Michael Benmore, Jonathan Caplan QC,

Kate Elton, Alison Prince and Johnny Van Haeften.