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1
April 14, 1986
The four of them sat around the table staring at the hamper.
“Who’s it addressed to?” asked the commander.
William read the handwritten label. “‘Happy Birthday, Commander Hawksby.’”
“You’d better open it, DC Warwick,” said the Hawk, leaning back in his chair.
William stood up, unfastened the two leather straps, and lifted the lid of the huge wicker basket that was packed with what his father would have called “goodies.”
“Clearly someone appreciates us,” said DCI Lamont, removing a bottle of Scotch from the top of the basket, delighted to find it was Black Label.
“And also knows our weaknesses,” said the commander, as he took out a box of Montecristo cigars and placed them on the table in front of him. “Your turn, DC Roycroft,” he added, as he rolled one of the Cuban cigars between his fingers.
Jackie took her time removing some of the packing straw before she discovered a jar of foie gras, a luxury way beyond her pay grade.
“And finally, DC Warwick,” said the commander.
William rummaged around in the hamper until he came across a bottle of olive oil from Umbria that he knew Beth would appreciate. He was about to sit back down when he spotted a small envelope. It was addressed to Commander Hawksby QPM, and marked Personal. He handed it to the boss.
Hawksby ripped the envelope open and extracted a handwritten card. His expression revealed nothing, although the unsigned note could not have been clearer. Better luck next time.
When the card was passed around the table the smiles turned to frowns, and the recently acquired gifts were quickly returned to the hamper.
“Do you know what makes it worse?” said the commander. “It is my birthday.”
“And that’s not all,” said William, who then told the team about his conversation with Miles Faulkner at the Fitzmolean soon after the unveiling of the Rubens painting, Christ’s Descent from the Cross.
“But if the Rubens is a fake,” said Lamont, “why don’t we arrest Faulkner, send him back to the Old Bailey, and Mr. Justice Nourse will remove the word ‘suspended’ from his sentence, and lock him up for the next four years.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Hawksby. “But if the painting turns out to be the original, Faulkner will have made a fool of us a second time, and in the most public of arenas.”
William was taken by surprise by the commander’s next question.
“Have you warned your fiancée that the Rubens might be a fake?”
“No, sir. I thought I’d say nothing to Beth until you’d decided what course of action we should take.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. It will give us all a little more time to consider what our next move should be, because we have to start thinking like Faulkner if we’re ever going to bring the damn man down. Now get that thing out of my sight,” he demanded, pointing at the hamper. “And make sure it’s entered into the gratuities register. But not before it’s been checked for fingerprints—not that I expect the dabs expert to find any prints other than ours, and possibly those of an innocent sales assistant from Harrods.”
William picked up the wicker basket and took it into the next room, where he asked Angela, the commander’s secretary, if she would send it down to D705 for fingerprinting. He couldn’t help noticing that she looked a little disappointed. “I was hoping to get the cranberry sauce,” she admitted. When he returned to the boss’s office a few moments later, he was puzzled to find the rest of the team banging the palms of their hands on the table.
“Have a seat, Detective Sergeant Warwick,” said the commander.
“Choirboy is speechless, for a change,” said Lamont.
“That won’t last long,” promised Jackie, and they all burst out laughing.
“Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news?” asked the commander once they’d all settled back down.
“The good news,” said DCI Lamont, “because you’re not going to enjoy my latest report on the diamond smugglers.”
“Let me guess,” said Hawksby. “They saw you coming and have all escaped.”
“Worse than that, I’m afraid. They didn’t even turn up, and neither did the shipment of diamonds. I spent an evening with twenty of my men armed to the teeth, staring out to sea. So do tell me the good news, sir.”
“As you all know, DC Warwick has passed his sergeant’s exam, despite kicking one of the anti-nuclear protesters in the—”
“I did nothing of the sort,” protested William. “I simply asked him politely to calm down.”
“Which the examiner accepted without question; such is your choirboy’s reputation.”
“So what’s the bad news?” asked William.
“In your new role as a detective sergeant, you’re being transferred to the drugs squad.”
“Rather you than me,” said Lamont with a sigh.
