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  ‘I agree,’ said Giddy, clearly not amused. ‘But if one of our customers were to find out that we’d sold them a forgery, and the press got hold of it, we could lose our Royal Warrant.’

  William nodded. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘Not a chance. He won’t risk trying to pull off the scam a second time in the same bookshop. And frankly, there are enough of us out there to keep him going for years.’

  ‘So where do you think I should begin?’

  ‘I can give you a list of bookshops that specialize in signed first editions,’ said Giddy, opening a drawer in his desk and handing over a slim pamphlet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said William, flicking through the pages.

  ‘Don’t worry, there are at least a dozen within a mile of here,’ said the manager, as he accompanied William to the lift.

  Detective Constable Warwick spent the rest of the day tramping from bookshop to bookshop, and soon discovered that the Churchill forger was an industrious individual. When he wasn’t buying, he was selling. The kind of cottage industry the government was so keen to encourage.

  Every one of the managers promised to let him know if a man fitting that description offered them a signed set of Churchill’s The Second World War, but they all agreed with Giddy that it was unlikely he would appear in the same shop a second time.

  ‘If he does show up, please call me at Scotland Yard, 230 1212. I’m on extension 2150,’ said William, before moving on to the next shop.

  William didn’t stop his inquiries until the last door closed behind him at six o’clock. He took the tube to Victoria, then jogged all the way back to Trenchard House. He had a quick shower and changed his clothes, taking an unusually long time to decide what to wear. He eventually settled on a blue blazer, an open-neck white shirt, and a pair of grey trousers, but decided against wearing his old school tie.

  As he closed the front door behind him, he realized he would have to take a taxi if he wasn’t going to be late; an expense Mrs Walters wouldn’t have approved of. The cab dropped him off outside Elena 1 in the Fulham Road, with seven minutes to spare.

  ‘This is a very special date for me, Gino,’ said William after the head waiter had introduced himself. ‘A first in fact. So I may need your help.’

  ‘Leave it all to me, Mr Warwick. I’ll put you in a quiet alcove.’

  ‘Oh help, there she is,’ whispered William.

  ‘Ah, signorina,’ said Gino, bowing slightly before taking her hand. ‘Mr Warwick has arrived and is sitting at his usual table.’

  William leapt up, trying not to stare. She was wearing a simple off-the-shoulder yellow dress that fell just below the knee, with a pale green silk scarf, and a jade necklace to complement the outfit.

  Gino pulled back the chair for her, while William waited for Beth to be seated.

  ‘This must be one of your usual haunts,’ said Beth as she settled in her chair.

  ‘No, first time. It was recommended by a friend.’

  ‘But the waiter said—’

  ‘I met him five minutes ago,’ admitted William as Gino reappeared, and handed them both a menu. Beth laughed.

  ‘Now, Mr Warwick, will you have your usual drink?’

  ‘And what is my usual drink?’ asked William. Gino looked puzzled until William added, ‘Beth knows I’ve never been here before. What do you recommend?’

  ‘For the beautiful signorina . . .’

  ‘Gino, don’t overdo it.’

  ‘You do not think she is beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want her to run away before we’ve had the first course.’

  Beth looked up from her menu. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away. Well, not until after the second course.’

  ‘And what can I get you to drink, signorina?’

  ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

  ‘We’ll have a bottle of Frascati,’ said William, recalling a wine his father often ordered, though he had no idea how much it would cost.

  Once Gino had taken their orders, Beth asked, ‘Is it William or Bill?’

  ‘William.’

  ‘Do you work in the art world or are you a gallery groupie?’

  ‘Both. I became a gallery groupie at an early age, but now I work with the Art and Antiques unit at Scotland Yard.’

  Beth seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she said, ‘So your visit to the Fitzmolean was just part of your job.’

  ‘It was until I saw you.’

  ‘You’re worse than Gino.’

  ‘And you?’ asked William.

  ‘No, I’m not worse than Gino.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean . . .’ began William, painfully aware how long it had been since his last date.

  ‘I know what you meant,’ teased Beth. ‘I read art history at Durham.’

  ‘I knew I’d gone to the wrong university.’

  ‘So where did you go?’ she asked as Gino reappeared with two piping hot bowls of stracciatella.

  ‘King’s. Also history of art. And after Durham?’

  ‘I went up to Cambridge and did a DPhil on Rubens the diplomat.’

  ‘I nearly did a PhD on Caravaggio the criminal.’

  ‘Which would explain why you ended up joining the police force.’

  ‘And did you go straight to the Fitzmolean after that?’

  ‘Yes, it was my first job after Cambridge. And it must have been painfully obvious that last night was my first attempt at giving a discourse.’

  ‘You were brilliant.’

  ‘I just about got by, which will become only too obvious if you attend Tim Knox’s lecture next week.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to stand in for your boss at the last moment.’

  ‘It was terrifying. So, dare I ask if you’re any nearer to finding my missing Rembrandt?’

  ‘Your Rembrandt?’

  ‘Yes. But then everyone who works at the Fitzmolean is possessive about The Syndics.’

  ‘I can understand why. But after seven years, I’m afraid the trail has gone cold.’

  ‘But you can’t have been working on the case for the past seven years?’

  ‘Less than seven weeks,’ admitted William. ‘But I’m confident the Rembrandt will be back in its place by the end of next month.’

  Beth didn’t laugh. ‘I still want to believe it’s out there somewhere and will eventually be returned to the gallery.’

  ‘I’d like to agree with you,’ said William, as Gino whisked away their empty bowls. ‘But no one else in the department agrees with me.’

  ‘Do they think it’s been destroyed?’ asked Beth. ‘I just can’t believe anyone could be that much of a philistine.’

  ‘Not even if it meant they avoided ending up in jail for several years?’

  ‘Does that mean you know who stole it?’

  William didn’t reply, and was relieved when Gino reappeared with their main courses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Beth. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. But if there’s ever anything I can do to help, please let me know.’

  ‘There is something you might be able to advise me on. We’ve recently come across an outstanding copy of The Syndics, and I wondered if you knew anyone who specializes in that kind of work?’

  ‘Not my field,’ admitted Beth. ‘I deal with dead artists, and then only if they’re Dutch or Flemish. But I assume you’ve already visited the Fake Gallery in Notting Hill?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said William, as he touched his jacket pocket, searching for a notebook, quite forgetting that he wasn’t on duty.

  ‘They have a number of artists working for them who can knock up a fake of any master you require, living or dead.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s your department,’ Beth said with a grin. ‘But if you’re not spending every waking hour trying to find my Rembrandt, you must be attempting to solve some even bigger crimes.’

  ‘The theft of a small phial of moon