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. He 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 toward 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 workday. 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 inquiring 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.’
‘It’s not the Rembrandt I’m worried about.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Thank you for your help, sir,’ said William, before putting down the phone.
He must have sat there for over an hour, trying to make some sense of it. He now understood why there were no photographs of Beth’s father in the flat. And when she had told him that she’d called her parents in Hong Kong just after he’d arrived back from Rome, she’d obviously forgotten that it would have been the middle of the night in the Far East. He now wished he’d looked at the back of those postcards. His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Hawksby looked in.
‘I saw a light under the door,’ he said, ‘and thought I’d just check.’
William looked up at his boss, tears streaming down his face.
‘What’s wrong, William?’ asked Hawksby, sitting down next to him.
‘How long have you known?’
Hawksby didn’t reply immediately. ‘Since the theft of the Rembrandt, we’ve done regular background checks on everyone who works at the Fitzmolean, and her father’s name popped up. I discussed the problem with Bruce after you started seeing her, and we both assumed she must have told you about her father.’
‘I’ve only just found out.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Hawksby, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘We all know how you feel about her, and Jackie warned us that it could be serious.’
‘I’ve just discovered how serious,’ said William. ‘Now I don’t know what to do.’
‘If I were advising you, I’d suggest you tell your father everything. He’s a shrewd and thoughtful man, and one thing’s for sure, he won’t just give you the answer you want to hear.’
‘Do you remember the case, sir?’
‘Not well, but I do recall the two officers involved, Stern and Clarkson. DI Stern retired soon after the trial ended, and frankly it wasn’t a day too soon. But now you know, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Go home and wait for Beth to get back from Pentonville.’
‘Why not go straight to the prison? Be there when she comes out, so you can take her home.’
William didn’t answer, just sat staring into the distance as if he hadn’t heard him.
‘And if you’re going to make it in time,’ added Hawksby, looking at his watch, ‘you’d better get a move on.’
‘Of course you’re right, sir,’ said William. He jumped up, grabbed his coat, and dashed toward the door, only turning back to say, ‘Thank you.’
Once he was out on the street, William hailed the first taxi he spotted.
‘Where to, guv?’
‘Pentonville prison.’
‘That’s all I need,’ mumbled the cabbie as William climbed in the back.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘There couldn’t be a worse journey for a cab driver.’
‘How come?’
‘If you take someone to Pentonville, you never get a return fare, because most of them are in for life!’ William laughed, which he wouldn’t have thought possible only a few minutes ago. ‘Are you checkin’ in or just visitin’?’
‘Picking up my girlfriend.’
‘I didn’t know there were women prisoners at Pentonville.’
‘There aren’t. She’s visiting her father.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Murder.’
The long silence that followed allowed William to compose his thoughts, and plan what he would say when Beth saw him standing outside the prison. She would be shocked at first, possibly unable to believe he wanted to share her problems, and not walk away.
The cab swung off the main road and headed down a side street toward a high brick wall that almost blocked out the sun. They came to a halt at a barrier, when the driver said, ‘This is as far as I’m allowed to go.’
William stared up at a vast wooden gate. A sign outside read HMP PENTONVILLE.
‘Will you be going in, guv?’
‘No, I’ll wait outside.’
‘Do you want me to drive you both back into town?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ said William after he’d checked the meter and handed over his last couple of pounds. ‘I’ve barely got enough to cover the bus ride back.’
‘Have this one on me, guv. I’ve got to go back in any case.’