‘Thank you, lieutenant.’
‘Actually, sir, when I next call, I may well be a captain.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Hawksby. ‘You’ve certainly earned it.’
William returned to his office and stared at the pile of case files on his desk that never seemed to diminish. A tough week ahead, but at least a quiet weekend to look forward to. Just a doctor’s appointment for his annual check-up on Saturday, and lunch with his parents on Sunday. Beth had promised to be back from visiting her sick friend in time for them to go to the cinema that evening, but he was disappointed that she still hadn’t met his family, because he felt he couldn’t propose to her before she did. ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ he could hear his father saying.
23
WILLIAM ARRIVED A few minutes early for his appointment at 31A Wimpole Street, and pressed the bell marked Dr Ashton. He felt confident he would tick every box. After all, he ran two or three times a week, played squash regularly, and his new mantra of walking five miles a day had usually been achieved by the time he’d walked back to Fulham in the evening.
‘All you’ll have to do, laddie,’ Lamont had told him, ‘is touch your toes, do twenty press-ups and cough when he grabs your balls, and you’ll be clear for another year.’
A buzzer sounded. William pushed the door open, walked up to the second floor and gave the receptionist his name.
‘The doctor is with another patient at the moment, Mr Warwick, but he’ll see you shortly. Please take a seat.’
William sat down in an ancient leather chair and examined the limited choice of reading material neatly laid out on the coffee table. Out-of-date copies of Punch and Country Life seemed to be obligatory in every doctor’s waiting room. The only other periodical on offer was a large selection of the Metropolitan Police’s fortnightly newspaper, The Job.
After he’d exhausted the wit and wisdom of Mr Punch and admired the photos of several country houses he would never be able to afford, William gave in and turned to copies of the Met’s frayed newspapers. He flicked through several editions, only stopping when he came across a photograph of Fred Yates on an old cover. Turning to the editorial, the heroism of the mentor constable who’d saved his life stretched to four pages; William offered up another silent prayer in Fred’s memory. H
e was just about to put the copy back on the table when the front page headline from an earlier issue caused him to catch his breath: ‘RAINSFORD SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDERING BUSINESS PARTNER. Two Met officers praised for their handling of the case.’
‘The doctor will see you now, Detective Constable Warwick,’ said the receptionist, before he’d had a chance to finish the article.
As predicted by Lamont, the examination was fairly cursory, although Dr Ashton did check William’s resting heart rate a second time, as he thought it was quite high for a man of his age.
After a page of little boxes had been filled in with ticks, William was given a clean bill of health. ‘See you next year,’ said Ashton.
‘Thank you,’ said William as he zipped up his trousers.
Back in the waiting room, he picked up the Met newspaper and continued to read the article. If the murderer had been named Smith or Brown, he wouldn’t have given the coincidence a second thought, but Rainsford was not a common name. He dropped the newspaper back on the table and tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. But he couldn’t.
‘You’re an idiot,’ he said. The receptionist looked offended. ‘Sorry,’ said William. ‘Me, not you.’ But as he made his way towards the tube station, he couldn’t remove the possibility from his mind, and he knew the one person who could dismiss his fears.
William got off the tube at St James’s Park and crossed the road as if it was a normal work day. He went straight to his desk and looked up the number. He was well aware that he shouldn’t be making a personal call from the office, but he had no choice.
‘SO Rose,’ said a voice.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said William. ‘It’s DC Warwick calling from Scotland Yard. You might not remember me. I—’
‘How could I forget you, constable. The sad man who supports Fulham. What can I do for you this time?’
‘I’m enquiring about one of your inmates, Arthur Rainsford, who’s in for murder.’
‘If Rainsford’s a murderer,’ said Rose, ‘I’m Jack the Ripper. Do you want to see him?’
‘No, sir. But I did wonder if Rainsford is expecting a visitor today.’
‘Hold on a jiff, and I’ll check.’ William could feel his heart pounding, and was only glad Dr Ashton wasn’t checking his resting pulse at that moment. ‘Yes, Rainsford does have a visitor this afternoon. His daughter. She’s a regular. Adores her father, and of course she’s absolutely convinced of his innocence. But then they always are.’
‘And her name?’ asked William, his voice faltering.
Another pause. ‘Elizabeth Rainsford.’
‘Do you by any chance know where she works?’
‘Everyone who visits an A-cat has to register where they work.’ After another pause Rose added, ‘She works at the Fitzmolean Museum. And before you ask, I’d bet my pension she had nothing to do with stealing that Rembrandt.’