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‘No, I don’t think so. After Melbourne Miles plans to fly to Sydney so he’ll be among the first to see in the New Year, by which time all his paintings will be hanging in their new home – my new home.’

  William didn’t waste his time asking her where that might be.

  Grace and her father spent the evening holed up in his study.

  ‘The next thing Professor Abrahams needs to do,’ said Grace, ‘is study Arthur’s original two-page statement that was presented in court. He did warn me that it could also prove that Arthur has been lying and the jury got it right.’

  ‘If that turns out to be the case,’ said Sir Julian, ‘we’ll say nothing to Joanna or Beth other than that we’ve been unable to come up with any fresh evidence that would make it possible for us to apply for a retrial.’

  ‘And if Arthur has been telling the truth?’

  ‘My next call will be to the DPP’s office to request a retrial.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me, Father, why the DPP would give priority to this case?’

  ‘Desmond Pannel and I were at Oxford together. I was his campaign manager when he stood for president of the University Law Society, and you’d never believe who his main rival was. The president’s job was a thankless task, but then Desmond is a man who has always enjoyed taking on thankless tasks, which is why he’s ended up as DPP. And now, after thirty years, I intend to call in my marker.’

  It wasn’t long after he’d climbed into bed that William heard the door open. Suddenly he was wide awake. A sylph-like figure silhouetted in the moonlight glided across the room, slid under the blanket and began kissing him on the back of his neck.

  He didn’t have long to consider what he should do next. Turn on the light and politely ask her to leave, was his first thought, or just get on with it but don’t tell Beth, was his second. And then he wondered what Beth would say if he told her he’d rejected Christina’s advances and sacrificed the Rembrandt. A one-night stand in exchange for a masterpiece. He wasn’t in any doubt which she would expect him to do.

  Professor Abrahams made a second stopover in London on his way back to New York, and once again he was met at the arrivals gate by Grace. This time he was clinging on to what he described as his box of tricks.

  The following morning Sir Julian and Grace accompanied him to a room in the basement of Scotland Yard where, in the presence of an independent witness, he spent the next few hours closely examining the two-page statement that had been submitted at Arthur’s trial.

  Sir Julian and Grace returned to chambers, where they anxiously awaited the outcome of the professor’s findings. It was Grace who spotted him sauntering across Lincoln’s Inn carrying his box of tricks in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She leapt in the air and cheered.

  After listening in silence to the professor’s pronouncements, they both bombarded him with questions to which he always had an answer. Finally Sir Julian picked up the phone and dialled a private number. When the Director of Public Prosecutions came on the line, all he said was, ‘Desmond, I need a favour.’

  A large removal van arrived outside the Villa Rosa at nine the following morning, and it took the heavy brigade nearly two hours to load all sixty-nine crates on board. They were then driven slowly, very slowly, down to the port, where it took another three hours to transfer them into the Christina’s hold. After he’d seen the door of the hold locked and bolted, William went ashore and called Commander Hawksby to let him know he’d be on the next flight home.

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Hawksby firmly. ‘Get back on that boat and don’t let the Rembrandt out of your sight until you dock at Southampton.’

  ‘But shouldn’t I be keeping an eye on Mrs Faulkner?’

  ‘No. You should be keeping an eye on six Syndics from Amsterdam, who mustn’t be allowed to wander off again.’

  William didn’t argue.

  ‘When you dock tomorrow evening, I’ll be on the quayside,’ said Hawksby, ‘along with a small army to make sure the painting is returned safely to the Fitzmolean.’

  Christina was disappointed that the commander had insisted William remain on board, as she was rather hoping he would be keeping an eye on her. William leant over the railing and waved to her as the yacht left the harbour. As soon as it was out of sight Christina told her driver to take her to the airport, so she could carry out the second part of her plan.

  27

  IF IT WAS all in the timing, as Christina Faulkner suggested to William, then she made one fatal error. She instructed her solicitor to issue a writ for divorce on 22 December. The petition landed on Booth Watson’s desk on the 24th.

  Booth Watson wasn’t surprised by the timing, as he assumed Mrs Faulkner had chosen the date in a clumsy attempt to spoil his client’s Christmas. He decided not to contact Miles until he returned to his chambers on 28 December. After all, what difference would a few days make? He locked the petition in his safe and went home.

  Mike Harrison called Mrs Faulkner from Melbourne on 27 December, to report that her husband had spent the day in a hospitality box at the MCG, watching the second day of the Test match. After stumps, he’d gone to dinner with friends and picked up his room key from reception just after midnight.

  ‘Was he alone?’ asked Christina.

  ‘No, he was with a young lady who works as a cocktail waitress in the hospitality suite. I have a photograph and a name.’

  ‘Thank you, Mike.’

  Harrison then called DCI Lamont at the Yard and repeated the same message before going to bed.

  Booth Watson returned to his chambers just after ten o’clock on the morning of the 28th, pleased that Christmas was over and he could get back to work. He read the divorce petition a second time, aware that the grounds were a real concern. Faulkner’s wife had clearly been preparing the petition for some time, as several women were named. He decided to call his client and let him know the news of his impending divorce, although he suspected it would not come as much of a surprise.

  He first phoned Limpton Hall, but there was no reply, so he assumed Makins must still be on holiday. If he’d made the call an hour later, Mrs Faulkner would have answered. He next called the Faulkners’ home in Monte Carlo, and a maid picked up the phone. Clearly English wasn’t her first language.

  ‘May I speak to Monsieur Faulkner?’ he asked.

  ‘No here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Booth Watson, enunciating each word slowly.

  ‘No. Young man say Australia.’

  Booth Watson wrote on his pad: Australia/young man.

  ‘And is Mrs Faulkner there?’ he asked just as slowly.

  ‘No, Madame fly home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Angleterre.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Most helpful.’

  He wondered what Miles could possibly be doing in Australia, and in which city he might be. Reg Bates, the chambers’ head clerk, came to his rescue.

  ‘Has to be Melbourne, sir. He’ll be watching the second Test.’

  Booth Watson had no interest in cricket, and simply instructed the head clerk to find his client.

  Bates spent the rest of the morning calling all the leading hotels in Melbourne, and by the time Booth Watson had returned from lunch he found a yellow Post-it on his desk with the details. He immediately called the Sofitel and asked to be put through to Miles Faulkner’s suite.

  ‘Before I do, sir,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘are you aware it’s 1.30 in the morning?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted Booth Watson. ‘I’ll call back later.’

  After he’d hung up, he did some calculations, and decided he would try again when he got home that evening.

  Miles Faulkner was shaving when the phone rang in his suite, but he abandoned his razor when he heard Booth Watson’s resonant tones. Whenever BW called it was rarely good news. Faulkner sat on the end of the bed and listened to what his lawyer had to say.

  ‘Is there an