‘No, sir.’
‘Then you will return to your unit and not discuss this conversation with anyone, even your colleagues. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Back at his desk, William looked at the pile of pending cases in front of him, but couldn’t get the commander’s words out of his mind. This morning he had been dreading coming into the office. This evening he was dreading going home.
When Beth heard the front door open she immediately ran out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
‘So how did your meeting with Mrs Faulkner go?’ she asked, before William had a chance to take his jacket off.
‘I didn’t get past the front gates.’
‘You’re a dear sweet man,’ she said, draping her arms around his neck, ‘but such an unconvincing liar.’
‘No, it’s the truth,’ protested William.
She stood back and looked at him more closely. ‘What have they told you about me?’ she asked, her tone suddenly changing.
‘Nothing, I swear. Nothing.’ And then he recalled Hawksby’s words: You will not, under any circumstances . . . tell Miss Rainsford anything further concerning our investigation, and I mean anything. What circumstances? thought William. And then he remembered Jackie’s words when he’d bought Beth some flowers before going to Barnstaple: Rainsford? Why does that name ring a bell?
The first thing William did when he arrived at work the following morning was to write up a detailed report of his visit to Limpton Hall. Once he’d handed it in to Lamont, he called Mrs Faulkner on her private line.
‘I think I may have found the right person to help you, Mrs Faulkner. When would you like to meet him?’
‘I’m driving up to London next Monday. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I can’t risk you coming down here again.’
‘Why not?’ asked William, sounding disappointed.
‘Makins would be on the phone to my husband before you reached the front gate. In fact, Miles called me last night to ask why I’d even let you into the house.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That when you returned the picture, you let slip that the Rembrandt investigation had been dropped and relegated to the unsolved cases file.’
‘Do you think he believed you?’
‘You can never tell with Miles. I don’t think even he knows when he’s telling the truth. Shall we say the Ritz, one o’clock? My treat.’
Well, it certainly wasn’t going to be Mrs Walters’ treat, thought William as he put down the phone.
Later that morning he joined Lamont for a different type of lunch. A pork pie, a packet of crisps and a pint of bitter in the Sherlock Holmes pub, and a chance to meet Mike Harrison. A
policeman’s policeman, was how Lamont had described him, and William could immediately see why. He was uncomplicated, forthright, and treated William as an equal from the moment they met. More importantly, he was just as keen to unearth the missing Rembrandt as the rest of the team. He’d been a member of the unit when it had been stolen seven years ago, so he considered it unfinished business.
On his way home that night, William picked up a bunch of flowers as a peace offering for Beth. But the moment he turned the key in the lock, he knew she wasn’t there. And then he remembered – Tuesday was Friends’ Night at the Fitzmolean. Smoked salmon sandwiches, bowls of nuts, and sparkling wine to loosen the wallets of the museum’s loyal supporters. She wouldn’t be back much before eleven. He returned to Trenchard House for the second night in a row, called her at 10.30, and again at eleven, but she didn’t answer the phone, so he went to bed.
20
05.43 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
WILLIAM WAS WOKEN by the phone ringing. He grabbed it, wondering who could possibly be calling him at that hour of the morning. He hoped it was Beth.
‘Carter’s on the move,’ said a voice he recognized immediately. ‘Meet me at Heathrow, terminal two. There’s a car on its way. Should be with you in a few minutes. Bring an overnight bag, and don’t forget your passport this time.’
William put the phone down and headed straight for the bathroom. He took a quick shower, followed by an even quicker shave, with two nicks to prove it, then returned to the bedroom to pack an overnight bag. A couple of shirts, plus pants, socks and a toothbrush, before finally picking up his passport from a desk drawer. The car was waiting outside, its engine running. He immediately recognized the driver who’d whisked him to Chelsea.
‘Good morning, Danny,’ he said.