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Back in his office, Tim Knox began to go through the morning’s post. Too many bills and not enough donations. A museum director’s perennial problem, he thought, as the phone on his desk began to ring.
“There’s a Mr. Davage waiting for you in reception.”
“What? I thought he was meant to be in New York,” said Tim. He immediately called Beth and asked her to join him, and this time they both ran down the stairs.
“Good morning,” said Davage after they’d caught their breath. “Though not a particularly good one for you, I fear, which is why I decided to come over and collect the painting myself.”
“But one of your colleagues has already picked it up,” said Tim, pointing to an empty space on the wall.
“One of my colleagues? What are you talking about?”
“Alex Drummond,” said Tim nervously. “He said you were in New York.”
“I was, but I caught the red-eye, and came straight to the gallery from the airport. And I can assure you, there’s no one at Christie’s called Alex Drummond.”
An embarrassed silence followed before Beth said calmly, “Faulkner’s done it again. And this time he didn’t even have to put in a bid for the painting.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “I should have asked him how he knew…”
“Knew what?” demanded the director.
“That I was Mrs. Warwick, when you introduced me as Beth.”
“And that box he had with him,” said Knox, thumping his leg in anger. “The painting fitted in so neatly.”
“Far too neatly,” said Beth. “But then it was supplied by the previous owner.”
“But Faulkner’s in jail,” said Davage.
“That wouldn’t stop him issuing orders to his flunkies on the outside,” said Beth. “Like the so-called Alex Drummond.”
“This isn’t the time to stand around chatting about what fools we’ve made of ourselves,” said Tim. “Beth, you’d better call your husband immediately, and tell him what’s happened.”
Beth walked slowly back to her office, clinging onto the banister. She feared the lady in The White Lace Collar would already be in the arms of another.
28
THROW AWAY THE KEY, screamed the Sun’s banner headline.
The team sat around the table in the commander’s office, perusing the morning papers. William had chosen the Sun because Beth wouldn’t allow him to have it in the house. Half a million pounds in cash, thirty arrests, and five kilos of cocaine discovered in a Brixton drugs den. Beth would have pointed out that Brixton was about the only word in the article that was accurate.
Jackie was reading the Daily Mail. MET ARREST LEADING DRUG BARON IN MIDNIGHT RAID. A flattering photo of the commander adorned the front page. Profile, page sixteen.
Lamont had settled for the Express. A VIPER TRAPPED IN HIS NEST! ran the headline, above a photo of Rashidi being dragged out of the building by two armed police officers.
The Hawk was reading The Guardian’s leader, WAR ON DRUGS, while Paul was the only one who didn’t appear to be enjoying the morning’s press coverage.
“That’s enough self-indulgence for one day,” said the Hawk finally. “Time to move on.”
“Great coverage, though,” said Lamont, tossing the Express back on the pile in the center of the tab
le. “Even if, search as I did, I couldn’t find a single mention of DC Adaja and the pivotal role he played in the whole operation.”
“It’s bound to be in the small print somewhere,” said the commander masking a smile, “if one had the time to look for it.”
Paul bowed his head and made no attempt to respond.
“Did you witness the sad event, DS Warwick?”
