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  ‘And why would he leave such an important historic artefact to you?’

  ‘I was his research assistant at the time he wrote his dissertation, and after he retired, I took his place as head of department.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry to have to inform you, Dr Talbot, that the Americans want their moon dust back.’

  ‘What makes them think it’s theirs? They don’t own the moon.’

  ‘True, but they did bring the dust back on Apollo 11, and Professor Denning must have forgotten that he’d signed a binding agreement not to sell it or pass it on to a third party.’

  ‘And if I refuse to give it back?’ said Talbot, sounding a little more confident.

  ‘The Americans will instigate legal proceedings, and I have a feeling their pockets might be deeper than yours.’

  ‘Why don’t they just buy the damn phial when it comes up for auction at Sotheby’s?’

  ‘I admit that would be the easy solution,’ said William. ‘But they’re in no doubt that the moon dust now belongs to them, and Sotheby’s have already withdrawn the lot from their catalogue. And, can you believe it, the phial is now locked in a high-security vault?’

  Talbot burst out laughing, pointed a crooked forefinger at William, and in a feeble attempt to imitate Clint Eastwood, said, ‘Go ahead, make my day!’

  ‘If you would be willing to sign a release form, sir, I could pick up the phial from Sotheby’s and return it to the American embassy, which would solve both our problems.’

  ‘You know, Mr Warwick, if I were a millionaire I’d take on the Yanks, even though the moon dust will probably only fetch a couple of thousand pounds.’

  ‘And I’d be on your side, but I suspect we’d still lose.’

  ‘You’re probably right. So, where do I sign?’

  William opened his briefcase, extracted three identical forms and placed them on the desk.

  ‘Here, here and here.’

  Talbot read the document carefully before adding his signature on three dotted lines.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, placing two of the forms back in his briefcase and handing the third to Talbot.

  ‘Do you have time to join me for lunch?’ asked Talbot, taking off his gown, accompanied by a cloud of chalk.

  ‘Only if you know a pub with a two pound eighty upper limit.’

  ‘I think we can do better than that.’

  On the journey back to Euston, William checked Dr Talbot’s signatures. He’d enjoyed an excellent lunch in the faculty dining room with the professor, who turned out to be a fellow art junkie and a keen follower of a local artist who he’d met as an undergraduate. Dr Talbot had purchased a drawing by L. S. Lowry of a back street in Salford for fifty pounds, which he couldn’t afford at the time, and certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to buy now, although he admitted to William that he’d never sell it.

  ‘So which artists should I be looking out for now, remembering my salary?’ William asked.

  ‘Diana Armfield, Craigie Aitchison, and Sydney Harpley. You’ll find them all in the RA’s Summer Exhibition.’

  William made a note of the names.

  Over lunch William had jokingly suggested that they substitute a few grains of sand from Blackpool beach for the moon dust, as he was confident that the American under-secretary wouldn’t know the difference. Talbot had laughed, but pointed out that his opposite number at the Smithsonian certainly would, even though he’d probably never been to Blackpool.

  William finally opened his RA magazine to check which exhibitions were coming up that he couldn’t afford to miss. He selected three, circled them and put the dates in his diary: Picasso, the early years; Hockney’s California or bust; and the annual Summer Exhibition at the RA, where he would check out the three artists Dr Talbot had recommended. But they were all quickly forgotten when he turned the page to find that Dr Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, would be giving a lecture on the history of the museum, followed by a guided tour, in a couple of weeks’ time. Tickets were five pounds, and only fifty people would be admitted. He wondered if Mrs Walters would consider that a legitimate expense. Either way, he wasn’t going to miss it.

  William didn’t sleep that night, although his only companion was a locked briefcase. He would have liked to tear up both copies of the release form, but he accepted that the Americans would get their way in the end.

  William didn’t go straight to Scotland Yard the following morning, but took the tube to Green Park, before walking across to New Bond Street. He was standing outside the auction house long before a porter opened the doors at nine o’clock.

  Melanie Clore studied Dr Talbot’s signature carefully, and compared it to the one on the sale document, before she was willing to part with lot nineteen. She then disappeared to collect the phial from its safe, returning a few minutes later.

  William couldn’t believe it when he saw the phial for the first time. It was smaller than his little finger. He wrapped it in a tissue before putting it back in the box. More forms to sign before he could leave and make his way to Grosvenor Square. He climbed the steps of the American embassy fifteen minutes later and reported to a marine sergeant on the front desk. He asked to see Mr Underwood.

  ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No,’ he said, producing his warrant card.

  The marine pressed three buttons on his phone, and when a voice came on the line he repeated William’s request.

  ‘I’m afraid the under-secretary is in a meeting at the moment, but he could fit Mr Warwick in at four this afternoon.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve got his moon dust,’ said William.

  He could hear a voice saying, ‘Send him up.’

  William took the lift to the fourth floor, to find the under-secretary standing in the corridor waiting for him. They shook hands before Underwood said, ‘Good morning, detective,’ but didn’t speak again until he’d closed the door of his office. ‘You move quite quickly for an Englishman.’

  William didn’t respond, but opened his briefcase and took out the little box. He opened it, unwrapped the tissue slowly, and like a conjurer, revealed the phial of moon dust.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Underwood in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said William as he handed over the cause of so much trouble.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Underwood, placing the box on his desk. ‘I’ll be sure to get in touch with you again should any other problems arise.’

  ‘Not unless someone’s stolen one of your nuclear warheads,’ said William.

  8

  ‘CAN I CLAIM five pounds on expenses to attend an art lecture at the Fitzmolean?’

  ‘Is it directly connected to a crime you’re investigating?’ asked Mrs Walters.

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Make up your mind.’

  ‘Yes, it is connected to a crime I’m investigating, but I must admit I would have gone anyway.’

  ‘Then the answer is no. Anything else?’

  ‘Can you get me a ticket for the opening night of the new James Bond film?’ William waited for the explosion.

  ‘Is it directly connected to a crime you are working on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which row would you like to sit in?’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I don’t joke, detective constable. Which row?’

  ‘In the row behind Miles Faulkner. He’s—’

  ‘We all know who Mr Faulkner is. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘But how—’

  ‘Don’t ask. And if you don’t have any more requests, move on.’

  William arrived at the Fitzmolean a few minutes early. He paused on the pavement of Prince Albert Crescent to admire the Palladian mansion that nestled behind Imperial College. He was well aware that, for security reasons, since the theft of the Rembrandt only fifty people could now visit the gallery at any one time. He had managed to get ticket number forty-seven for the evening lecture. Half an hour later and they would have b