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  The contender took a deep breath before glancing at the honours board, to be reminded that Fred’s name was printed in gold for 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981 and 1982. But not 1983, thought William, as he chalked his cue. He felt like Steve Davis moments before he became world champion.

  He was about to sink the final black when he spotted Fred standing on the other side of the table, looking resigned and dejected.

  William leant over the table, lined up the two balls and hit the cue ball perfectly. He watched as the black touched the rim of the pocket, wobbled precariously over the hole, but remained tantalizingly balanced on the lip, and failed to drop. The stunned crowd gasped in disbelief. The lad had buckled under pressure.

  Fred didn’t squander a second chance, and the room erupted when he sank the final ball to win the frame, and the championship, 73–72.

  The two men shook hands while several officers surrounded them, patting both men on the back, with ‘Well done’, ‘Couldn’t have been closer’, and ‘Bad luck, William’. William stood to one side when the super presented Fred with the cup, which the champion raised high in the air to even louder cheers.

  An older man, dressed in a smart double-breasted suit, whom neither of the gladiators had noticed, slipped quietly out of the room, left the station and instructed his driver to take him home.

  Everything he’d been told about the lad had turned out to be true, and he couldn’t wait for Constable Warwick to join his team at Scotland Yard.

  4

  WHEN CONSTABLE WARWICK emerged from St James’s Park tube station, the first thing he saw on the far side of the road was the iconic revolving triangular sign announcing New Scotland Yard. He gazed across with awe and apprehension, as an aspiring actor might approaching the National Theatre, or an artist entering the courtyard of the Royal Academy for the first time. He pulled up his collar to protect himself from the biting wind, and joined the stampede of early morning lemmings on their way to work.

  William crossed Broadway and continued walking towards the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force, a nineteen-storey building covered in years of grime and crime. He presented his warrant card to the policeman on the door, and headed for the reception desk. A young woman smiled up at him.

  ‘My name is Constable Warwick. I have an appointment with Commander Hawksby.’

  She ran a finger down the morning schedule.

  ‘Ah, yes. You’ll find the commander’s office on the fifth floor, at the far end of the corridor.’

  William thanked her and headed towards a bank of lifts, but when he saw how many people were waiting, he decided to take the stairs. When he reached the first floor, DRUGS, he continued climbing. He passed FRAUD on the second floor, and MURDER on the third, before finally reaching the fifth floor, where he was greeted by MONEY LAUNDERING, ART AND ANTIQUES.

  He pushed open a door that led into a long, brightly lit corridor. He walked slowly, aware that he still had a little time to spare. Better to be a few minutes early than a minute late, according to the gospel of St Julian. Lights were blazing in every room he passed. The fight against crime knew no hours. One door was ajar, and William caught his breath when he spotted a painting that was propped up against the far wall.

  Two men and a young woman were examining the picture carefully.

  ‘Well done, Jackie,’ said the older man, in a distinct Scottish accent. ‘A personal triumph.’

  ‘Thank you, guv,’ she replied.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said the younger man, pointing at the picture, ‘this will put Faulkner behind bars for at least six years. God knows we’ve waited long enough to nail the bastard.’

  ‘Agreed, DC Hogan,’ said the older man, who turned and spotted William standing in the doorway. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  While you’re still a constable, Fred had warned him, call anything that moves ‘sir’. That way you can’t go far wrong. ‘I was just admiring the painting.’ The older man was about to close the door when William added, ‘I’ve seen the original.’

  The three officers turned to take a closer look at the intruder.

  ‘This is the original,’ said the young woman, sounding irritated.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said William.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ demanded her colleague.

  ‘The original used to hang in the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington until it was stolen some years ago. A crime that still hasn’t been solved.’

  ‘We’ve just solved it,’ said the woman with conviction.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ responded William. ‘The original was signed by Rembrandt in the bottom right-hand corner with his initials, RvR.’

  The three officers peered at the right-hand corner of the canvas, but there was no sign of any initials.

  ‘Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, will be joining us in a few minutes’ time, laddie,’ said the older man. ‘I think I’ll rely on his judgement rather than yours.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said William.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much this painting is worth?’ asked the young woman.

  William stepped into the room and took a closer look. He thought it best not to remind her of Oscar Wilde’s comment on the difference between value and price.

  ‘I’m not an expert,’ he said, ‘but I would think somewhere between two and three hundred pounds.’

  ‘And the original?’ asked the young woman, no longer sounding quite as confident.

  ‘No idea, but every major gallery on earth would want to add such a masterpiece to its collection, not to mention several leading collectors, for whom money wouldn’t be an object.’

  ‘So you haven’t got a clue what it’s worth?’ said the younger officer.

  ‘No, sir. A Rembrandt of this quality is rarely seen on the open market. The last one to come under the hammer was at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York.’

  ‘We know where Sotheby Parke Bernet is,’ said the older man, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  ‘Then you’ll know it went for twenty-three million dollars,’ said William, immediately regretting his words.

  ‘We are all grateful for your opinion, laddie, but don’t let us hold you up any longer, as I am sure you have more important things to do,’ he said, nodding towards the door.

  William tried to retreat gracefully as he stepped back into the corridor only to hear the door close firmly behind him. He checked his watch: 7.57. He hurried on towards the far end of the corridor, not wanting to be late for his appointment.

  He knocked on a door that announced in gold lettering, ‘Commander Jack Hawksby OBE’, and walked in to find a secretary seated behind a desk. She stopped typing, looked up and said, ‘PC Warwick?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William nervously.

  ‘The commander is expecting you. Please go straight through,’ she said, pointing to another door.

  William knocked a second time, and waited until he heard the word, ‘Come’.

  A smartly dressed, middle-aged man with penetrating blue eyes and a lined forehead, making him look older than his years, rose from behind his desk. Hawksby shook William’s outstretched hand and pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk. He opened a file and studied it for a few moments before he spoke. ‘Let me begin by asking you if you are by any chance related to Sir Julian Warwick QC?’

  William’s heart sank. ‘He’s my father,’ he said, presuming that the interview was about to come to a premature end.

  ‘A man I greatly admire,’ said Hawksby. ‘Never breaks the rules, never bends the law, but still defends even the most dubious charlatans as if they were saints, and I don’t suppose he’s come across many of those in his professional capacity.’ William laughed nervously.

  ‘I wanted to see you personally,’ continued Hawksby, clearly not a man who wasted time on small talk, ‘as you passed out top in your detective’s exam, and by a considerable margin.’

  W