Talbot looked up and peered at William through his National Health spectacles.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked. William produced his warrant card, and Talbot gripped the edge of the long wooden desk in front of him. ‘But I thought I’d paid that parking fine.’
‘I’m sure you did, sir. But I still need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course,’ said Talbot, fidgeting with his gown.
‘Can I begin by asking how you came into possession of a phial of moon dust?’
‘Is that what this is all about?’ said Talbot in disbelief.
‘It is, sir.’
‘It was a gift from the late Professor Denning, who left it to me in his will. The Americans presented it to him after he’d published his findings on the structure of the moon’s surface.’
‘And why would he leave such an important historic artefact to you?’
‘I was his research assistant at the time he wrote his dissertation, and after he retired, I took his place as head of department.’
‘Well I’m sorry to have to inform you, Dr Talbot, that the Americans want their moon dust back.’
‘What makes them think it’s theirs? They don’t own the moon.’
‘True, but they did bring the dust back on Apollo 11, and Professor Denning must have forgotten that he’d signed a binding agreement not to sell it or pass it on to a third party.’
‘And if I refuse to give it back?’ said Talbot, sounding a little more confident.
‘The Americans will instigate legal proceedings, and I have a feeling their pockets might be deeper than yours.’
‘Why don’t they just buy the damn phial when it comes up for auction at Sotheby’s?’
‘I admit that would be the easy solution,’ said William. ‘But they’re in no doubt that the moon dust now belongs to them, and Sotheby’s have already withdrawn the lot from their catalogue. And, can you believe it, the phial is now locked in a high-security vault?’
Talbot burst out laughing, pointed a crooked forefinger at William, and in a feeble attempt to imitate Clint Eastwood, said, ‘Go ahead, make my day!’
‘If you would be willing to sign a release form, sir, I could pick up the phial from Sotheby’s and return it to the American embassy, which would solve both our problems.’
‘You know, Mr Warwick, if I were a millionaire I’d take on the Yanks, even though the moon dust will probably only fetch a couple of thousand pounds.’
‘And I’d be on your side, but I suspect we’d still lose.’
‘You’re probably right. So, where do I sign?’
William opened his briefcase, extracted three identical forms and placed them on the desk.
‘Here, here and here.’
Talbot read the document carefully before adding his signature on three dotted lines.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, placing two of the forms back in his briefcase and handing the third to Talbot.
‘Do you have time to join me for lunch?’ asked Talbot, taking off his gown, accompanied by a cloud of chalk.
‘Only if you know a pub with a two pound eighty upper limit.’
‘I think we can do better than that.’
On the journey back to Euston, William checked Dr Talbot’s signatures. He’d enjoyed an excellent lunch in the faculty dining room with the professor, who turned out to be a fellow art junkie and a keen follower of a local artist who he’d met as an undergraduate. Dr Talbot had purchased a drawing by L. S. Lowry of a back street in Salford for fifty pounds, which he couldn’t afford at the time, and certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to buy now, although he admitted to William that he’d never sell it.