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William avoided the group of people waiting for a lift, aware that hospital elevators were built to move slowly. Instead he took the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was out of breath. A nurse was waiting for him in the corridor, clipboard in hand.
“I can only hope it was something important that kept you, Mr. Warwick,” she said. “Because your wife has just given birth to twins.”
William began jumping up and down. “Boys? Girls? One of each?” he asked once he’d landed back on earth.
“A little girl, six pounds three ounces—she was first out—and a boy, six pounds one ounce, followed, as I expect he’ll do for the rest of his life,” said the nurse with a grin.
“And Beth, how’s she doing?”
“Follow me and you can see for yourself. But you’re not to stay for too long, Mr. Warwick. Your wife is exhausted, and needs to rest.”
She led William into a ward where Beth was sitting up in bed, a baby cradled in each arm.
“You’re late,” she said.
“And you’re early,” said William.
“Sorry about that. But in the end they were in rather a hurry to get out. They must take after you. This is Daddy,” she said, looking adoringly at the twins, “who’s already missed the main event. He believes he was put on earth to save the world, a modern superman, which is the reason he also missed the second major decision in your lives.”
“And what was that, superwoman?” asked William, wrapping his arms around all three of them.
“We’ve already had a serious discussion about names,” said Beth, handing one of the babies to William.
“And what names did the three of you decide in my absence?”
“For your son, we settled on Peter Paul.”
“Rubens,” said William. “I approve. But will he be an artist or a diplomat?”
“As long as he’s not a policeman, I don’t care.”
“And his sister?”
“Artemisia.”
“Gentileschi? A genius, way ahead of her time.”
“And more important, she had a father who acknowledged her talents, and encouraged her to use them. So beware.”
“Hello, Artemisia,” William whispered, stroking her nose.
“Good try, but that’s Peter Paul, who’s keen to know if you’ve given any more thought to applying for the job at the Fitzmolean? Applications close at the end of the week, the director reminded me.”
“You can tell Tim I’ve been giving the idea some serious thought recently,” said William quietly.
A puzzled look appeared on Beth’s face. “Why recently?”
“We’ve got a bent copper on our team, and one of us will have to go.”
“But why should it be you? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Because I’m not willing to turn a blind eye, and that’s what I’d have to do if I decided to remain on the force.”
“How sad,” said Beth, almost to herself.
“I thought you’d be delighted to learn that I’m thinking about packing it in.”
“I am. But I wouldn’t want to wake up every morning with a disgruntled caveman beside me, especially now the press are saying you’re in line to become the youngest detective inspector in the Met’s history!”
