‘The first half of the show ran for just over an hour, and the curtain came down on the second half around ten twenty. After taking his bow, Kingston would return to his dressing room, remove his makeup, shower, and change before being driven back home to Notting Hill, where he was dropped off around eleven thirty. So, from the moment he left the house, to the moment he got back home was over six hours. More than enough time.’
‘More than enough time for what?’ asked William.
‘One Thursday evening, just after six,’ continued Christina, ‘three removal vans turned up outside Mr. Kingston’s home and left five hours later, by which time every stick of furniture and, more importantly, his celebrated art collection, had been removed. So when Mr. Kingston arrived home at eleven thirty, he found the cupboard was literally bare.’
‘Would you care for another drink, sir?’ asked the wine waiter.
‘No, thank you,’ said William, not wanting her to stop.
‘I’m grateful to Mr. Kingston,’ continued Christina, ‘because I intend to create even more devastation for Miles, and, more importantly, I’ll have seven days, not seven hours, in which to carry out my little subterfuge.’
‘Why do you need seven days?’ asked William.
‘Because like Mrs. Kingston, I know exactly what he has planned for the next month. On December twenty-third, he intends to dump the tart and give her a one-way ticket back to Stansted, before he flies on to Melbourne to spend Christmas with some of his more dubious friends. On December twenty-sixth, he’ll be sitting in a box watching the opening day of the second Test match, so the earliest he could possibly return to Monte Carlo or England is December thirty-first. While he’s engrossed in a cricket match on the other side of the world, I’ll be packing up all of his most valuable paintings in Monte Carlo and shipping them to Southampton. I’ll then return to England and carry out the same exercise at Limpton Hall. By the time he gets home, his treasured art collection will consist of just one picture: the copy of the Rembrandt.’
The head waiter whisked away their plates while the wine waiter poured Mrs. Faulkner another glass of champagne.
‘But what about Makins? He won’t just sit back and watch while you pack up all your husband’s paintings.’
‘Makins is spending Christmas with his daughter and son-in-law in the Lake District, and won’t be returning until January second, by which time I’ll be in New York, removing the paintings from our apartment on Fifth Avenue. A couple of Rothkos, a Warhol, and a magnificent Rauschenberg among them.’
‘But he’ll come after you.’
‘I don’t think so, because my final destination will be a country where he is persona non grata, and would be arrested even before he reached passport control. I must admit, I had several to choose from.’
‘You do realize that everything you’ve just told me will be repeated word for word to Commander Hawksby?’
‘I was rather hoping you’d say that.’ She touched William’s hand gently, before adding, ‘I don’t know about you, darling, but I’m ready to look at the dessert menu.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance that she might be on the level?’ asked Lamont after William had delivered a blow-by-blow account of his lunch with Mrs. Faulkner.
‘Possibly,’ said Hawksby, ‘although I wouldn’t bet on it. But as long as Mike Harrison’s down under keeping an eye on Faulkner, there’s not a lot we can do about it until she invites William to join her in Monte Carlo.’
‘What makes you think she’ll do that?’ asked William.
‘Because the Rembrandt’s too hot for her to handle, and she also realizes it’s her one chance of keeping us on side. My bet is she won’t be in touch with you again for at least a couple of weeks, by which time Carter should have been arrested and the memory of that disastrous night in Surrey might just have faded a little.’
The phone on the commander’s desk rang. ‘Commander Hawksby.’
‘Good afternoon, sir. It’s Lieutenant Monti. I thought I’d give you a call and bring you up to date on what’s been happening at our end.’
‘I appreciate that, lieutenant,’ said Hawksby, switching on the intercom so William could hear the conversation.
‘As you know, Carter has submitted a claim to the Italian Naval Office for fifty percent of the value of the cob coins, which he’s telling the press are worth around seven hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Which would be a fair price if they had originated from Madrid around 1649, rather than Barnstaple in 1985.’
‘A specimen coin has been sent to the Museum of Ancient Artifacts in Florence to be examined by their professor of numismatics. I expect to have his report on my desk in a few days’ time.’
‘He’s certain to dismiss the coin as bogus,’ said Hawksby.
‘Bogus?’
‘Not the real thing.’
‘I agree, sir,’ said Monti. ‘And the moment he does, all I will need is an extradition order so you can arrest Carter and Grant when they set foot back in England.’
‘What are those two up to at the moment?’
‘They’re staying at the Albergo Del Senato hotel, waiting to hear the expert’s opinion.’
‘That’ll cost them an arm and a leg,’ said Hawksby.
‘How appropriate,’ added William.
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Monti.
‘In the sixteenth century, Italian portrait painters would paint your head and shoulders for an agreed sum, but if you wanted a full-length portrait, it would cost you an arm and a leg.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Monti.
Hawksby didn’t look fascinated. ‘Call me the moment the professor’s report lands on your desk.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘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 checkup 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.