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  William could see that Jackie was struggling to control her emotions.

  ‘There’s no one else to blame,’ she repeated, looking directly at Hawksby.

  The commander closed his file, and William assumed he would move on, but then he said, ‘Why didn’t you follow the basic rule every copper learns on their first day on the beat? Accept nothing, believe no one and challenge everything.’ William would always remember the person who’d first told him that. ‘Perhaps your recent promotion was a step too far, DS Roycroft,’ Hawksby continued. ‘A few weeks on traffic duty might not do you any harm.’ At least she’d got that right.

  A long silence followed, which was finally broken when Lamont said, ‘I understand your fishing trip to Italy couldn’t have gone better, sir.’

  ‘Except as the commissioner pointed out that when Carter is eventually arrested, it will be the Italian police, and not the Met, who end up getting the credit for an operation we masterminded.’

  ‘But if we were to find the missing Rembrandt, and return it to the Fitzmolean—’ said William, trying to rescue his colleagues.

  ‘Let’s hope that’s not another false alarm,’ said Hawksby. ‘Are you still having lunch with Mrs Faulkner today?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll report back to DCI Lamont as soon as I return this afternoon.’

  ‘Is Mike Harrison going with you?’ asked the commander, sounding a little calmer.

  ‘No, sir. She has an appointment with him in his office at four o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘That woman’s up to something,’ said Lamont. ‘We should assume she’s every bit as devious as her husband, and quite capable of dangling the bait of a Rembrandt in front of us, especially if she knows William’s girlfriend works at the Fitzmolean.’

  ‘How could she possibly know that?’ said William.

  ‘Try to think like a criminal, for a change,’ barked Lamont.

  ‘I agree,’ said Hawksby. ‘And if it turns out that she’s taking you for a ride too, it won’t only be DS Roycroft who’s on traffic duty. Now, let’s all get back to work, and I don’t want to see any of you unless you’ve got something positive to report.’

  Back in the office the atmosphere felt like a prison cell, while the condemned woman waited for the priest to come and read her the Last Rites.

  William was relieved to escape just after 12.30 for his lunch with Mrs Faulkner.

  He walked briskly across the park and into St James’s, arriving well in time for his lunch date. As he entered the Ritz, a liveried doorman saluted as if he were a regular. William had to stop at the reception desk and ask where the dining room was.

  ‘Far end of the corridor, sir. You can’t miss it.’

  He strolled down the thick carpeted corridor, past little alcoves filled with people chattering away while ordering exotic cocktails. He had to agree with F. Scott Fitzgerald, the rich are different.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the maître d’ when he reached the entrance to the restaurant. ‘Do you have a reservation?’

  ‘I’m a guest of Mrs Faulkner.’

  The maître d’ checked his list. ‘Madam hasn’t arrived yet, but allow me to take you to her table.’

  William followed him across the large, ornately decorated dining room to a window table overlooking Green Park. While he waited, he took a discreet look at the other diners. The first thing that struck him was that it could have been a gathering of the United Nations.

  He rose the moment he saw Mrs Faulkner enter the room. She was wearing an elegant green dress that fell just below the knee with a matching scarf and carrying a tan leather handbag Beth would have coveted. She sailed across the room, leaving William in no doubt that, unlike his, this wasn’t her first visit to the Ritz. Despite the Hawk’s warning, even he couldn’t have denied her style and class.

  While one waiter held back her chair, another one approached.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’

  ‘Just a glass of champagne, while I decide what I’m going to eat.’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ he said before melting away.

  ‘I’m so glad you were able to join me for lunch, William,’ she said as the waiter reappeared and poured her a glass of champagne. ‘I was afraid you might cancel at the last minute.’

  ‘Why would I do that, Mrs Faulkner?’

  ‘Christina, please. Because Commander Hawksby might have felt it was inappropriate, considering how much is at stake.’

  ‘You know the commander?’ asked a surprised William.

  ‘I only know my husband’s opinion of him, which is why I want him in my corner,’ she said as the head waiter handed them both a menu.

  ‘I’ll just have the smoked salmon, Charles,’ she said, not even bothering to open the menu. ‘And perhaps another glass of champagne.’

  ‘Yes, of course, madam.’

  William studied the rows of dishes that gave no hint of their price.

  ‘And for you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll just have fish and chips, Charles.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘And a half pint of bitter.’

  Christina stifled a laugh.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t Mike Harrison you should be having this lunch with?’ asked William once the waiter had left them.

  ‘Quite sure. If anything were to go wrong, I need to know the cavalry are on my side, not just a former foot soldier.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should have asked Commander Hawksby to lunch.’

  ‘If I had,’ said Christina, ‘Miles would have known about it before they’d served coffee, and then I would have had no chance of pulling off my little coup.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘If Miles is told I was seen having lunch with a good-looking young man, he’ll assume we’re having an affair, because that’s how his mind works. And as long as you can convince your boss I’m not Mata Hari, there’s a good chance the Fitzmolean will get their Rembrandt back, and I don’t mean a copy.’

  William wanted to believe her, but Lamont’s words, that woman’s up to something, lingered in his mind. ‘And what would you expect in return?’ he asked.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, my husband flew off to Monte Carlo last week with his latest tart, and I’ll be instructing Mr Harrison to gather enough evidence to initiate divorce proceedings.’

  So Jackie saw that coming, thought William.

  ‘I also need to know where he is night and day during the next month.’

  ‘Why is that so important?’ asked William, as a plate of wafer-thin smoked salmon was placed in front of her, while he was served with cod and chips, not in a newspaper.

  ‘I’ll come to that in a moment,’ said Christina, as another waiter refilled her glass with champagne, and poured half a pint of bitter into a crystal tumbler for her guest.

  ‘But first I have to let you know what I have in mind for Miles, whom I assume you despise as much as I do.’

  William tried to concentrate, knowing that the commander would expect a verbatim account of what Mrs Faulkner had said from the moment she’d arrived to the moment she left.

  ‘Do you know the great Shakespearean actor Dominic Kingston?’

  ‘I saw his Lear at the National last year,’ said William. ‘Quite magnificent.’

  ‘Not as magnificent as his wife’s recent performance.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was an actress.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ said Christina, ‘but she does give the occasional performance that brings the house down.’ William stopped eating. ‘It turns out that Mrs Kingston knew her husband’s theatrical routine whenever he was performing, down to the last minute, and took advantage of it. I intend to do the same. When Kingston was playing Lear at the National, he followed a routine that never varied. He would leave his home in Notting Hill around five in the afternoon, and be in his dressing room at the theatre by six, giving him more than enough time to transform himself into the ageing king before the curtain rose at 7.3