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“Have you ever considered becoming a gamekeeper, rather than a poacher?”
“Why would I want to be a grass? People are killed for less.”
“Because together, we might do something worthwhile.”
“You must be joking, Choirboy.”
“I couldn’t be more serious. You could help me put the real criminals behind bars. The ones who supply drugs to children in school playgrounds, and ruin young lives. That might convince your girlfriend you’ve turned over a new leaf.”
Another long silence followed. William was beginning to fear his appeal had fallen on deaf ears when Adrian suddenly opened up.
“What would I have to do?”
“I need to find out the name of the man who controls all the drug operations south of the river, and where his main factory is.”
“And I’d like a million pounds in cash and two one-way tickets to Brazil,” said Adrian.
“Two one-way tickets to Brazil might be possible,” said William. “Now all we need to discuss is the price.”
“I’ll let you know just how much I expect, Choirboy, but not before the magistrate lets me off with a warning.”
4
“Rocket,” said a young man who was addressing a small group of schoolchildren gathered around the ancient steam engine, “was built in the 1820s by the renowned locomotive engineer Robert Stephenson.”
“Robert Louis Stevenson?” inquired a piping voice from the front row.
“No,” said the guide. “Robert Louis Stevenson was the distinguished children’s author, who wrote Treasure Island and hailed from Edinburgh, not Northumbria.”
William smiled as he stood at the back of the group listening to a lecture he’d first heard twenty years before, when his mother had taken him to the museum.
“Mr. Stephenson won first prize at the locomotive trials held at Rainhill in Lancashire in 1829, when—”
William’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt a gloved hand touch his shoulder. He didn’t look around.
“Good of you to see me, Rocket Man,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “All things considered.”
“My boss is still determined to put your husband behind bars,” replied William, not wasting any time on small talk.
“Amen to that,” said Christina. “But there’s not a lot I can do while we’re still in the middle of a rather acrimonious divorce, just in case you hadn’t noticed, Detective Constable Warwick.”
William didn’t correct her.
“Five locomotives competed for the five-hundred-pound prize,” continued the museum guide. “Cycloped, Novelty, Perseverance, Sans Pareil, and, of course, Stephenson’s Rocket. Mr. Stephenson’s 0-2-2 engine won by a country mile.”
William turned around to look at Christina. She was dressed in a low-cut cotton dress that stopped well above the knees and left little to the imagination. She was clearly on the lookout for her second husband.
“Can you think of any other crimes, however minor, that he might have committed during the past five years?” he asked.
“Too many to mention, but you can be sure he will have covered his tracks more thoroughly than a Highland poacher. Though what I can tell you,” she went on, “is that following the recent Rembrandt trial, Miles is no longer bothering to rob art galleries, or the homes of wealthy art collectors, as there isn’t an insurance company left that will do business with him.”
“He’s not the sort of man to stand in line waiting for the next bus, so do you have any idea what his latest scam is?”
“I only wish I did. Though I have a feeling Mr. Booth Watson QC remains the common thread with the criminal fraternity. That man’s quite happy to represent any crook who can afford his fees. In fact, I suspect he does most of his networking during prison visits.”
“Following Rocket’s successful trial, it became the accepted prototype for all steam engines, and remains, to this day, the most significant breakthrough in the history of locomotion.”
William tried a long shot. “Has your husband ever taken drugs?”
