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“Christina?” said William, trying not to sound surprised.
“Miles will be hosting a dinner party for nine close friends at Limpton Hall on May the seventeenth. Eight o’clock.”
“Do you know the names of any of these close friends?” asked William, as he opened his pocket book.
Another line went dead.
“You hang about for ages waiting for a bus to appear,” said William, “and then two turn up at the same time.”
“I’m all ears,” said Lamont.
“My contact claims he knows the name of the Viper, and where he goes at five o’clock every Friday afternoon, but he expects a couple of hundred for the information.”
“Worth every penny,” said Lamont to William’s surprise, before adding, “if, one, he’s telling the truth, and two, his information turns out to be kosher.”
“Do you want to risk it, guv’nor?”
“It’s your call, DS Warwick. But if you decide to go ahead, I’ll have to get clearance from the commander before I can release that kind of money. And he’ll want to be sure you don’t hand over a penny before your snout’s given you the information. Never forget, your old school chum isn’t your friend, and he never will be. But that do
esn’t mean you don’t stick to your side of the bargain. You’ll have to, if you’re going to secure his trust. And the other call?”
“Christina Faulkner. She says her husband’s planning a dinner party for nine guests at Limpton Hall on May the seventeenth.”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that little soirée,” said Lamont. “But even you won’t be able to pull that off.”
“No, but we could be somewhere nearby to check out the guest list.”
* * *
“What are you up to today, dare I ask?” said Beth as William climbed out of bed.
“I’m visiting the Tower of London.”
“Are you expecting someone to steal the Crown Jewels?”
“No, but I am hoping to come away with a couple of gems,” he replied, before disappearing into the bathroom. He turned on the hot water as he prepared to shave. He planned to be at the Tower by ten thirty, so he would be waiting for his old school chum long before he appeared. But first he would have to call in at the Yard and collect the two hundred pounds Hawksby had reluctantly authorized.
“If you fail to come back here with a name and address, or it turns out to be a false lead, I’ll deduct every last penny from your pay packet.”
As a detective sergeant’s salary was less than three hundred pounds a week, the thought wasn’t exactly appealing. He would like to have said, “You must be joking,” but he knew the Hawk didn’t joke about money.
After breakfast, he and Beth caught a bus to Kensington before going their separate ways: Beth on foot to the Fitzmolean, while William took the tube to St. James’s Park. He glanced at the Daily Mail front-page photograph of Princess Diana with her two young sons before disappearing down the steps into the underground. As he sat on the train he thought about Beth, and couldn’t wait for her to be pregnant. But at the moment, she considered the Fitzmolean her first priority.
The super was sitting at his desk when William walked into the office. Two neat piles of ten-pound notes were stacked in front of him. William was surprised by how slim the two cellophane packets were. He sat down opposite Lamont, who slowly counted out the notes, “… eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” then placed them back in their packs, opened a drawer in his desk, and extracted the inevitable form, which he handed to William.
William read the carefully worded document twice, before returning to a paragraph that was highlighted in bold capitals: ANY CHARGE OF MISUSE OF FUNDS COULD RESULT IN A PRISON SENTENCE OF UP TO TEN YEARS. He signed the release form, and DC Adaja added his signature as a witness. Lamont retained a carbon copy for his records before handing over the cash.
William tucked the money into an inside pocket of his jacket and left without another word. Once he was on the move, he found himself regularly touching the pocket to be sure the money was still there.
During the underground journey to Tower Hill, he sat at the far end of the carriage and reread the official guide to the Tower of London, glancing up each time another passenger came anywhere near him. Jackie had warned him that only the most seasoned pickpockets worked the London underground.
After twenty minutes he emerged into bright sunlight. William stood on the pavement for a moment to admire the ancient fortress, perched incongruously on a grassy mound surrounded by modern glass buildings that he doubted Sir Christopher Wren would have approved of. Sir Thomas More, Guy Fawkes, and Anne Boleyn had spent the last nights of their lives in the Tower’s cells before being executed. If he returned to the Yard with nothing to show for his two hundred pounds, he might have to join them. He was only relieved he could no longer be drawn and quartered.
William walked the short distance to the Tower’s walls, where he joined a queue of eager tourists waiting at the East Gate entrance. When he reached the front, he handed over fifty pence in exchange for a ticket. The small group of visitors joined their guide, a Yeoman Warder, dressed in his traditional navy and red tunic and wearing the distinctive Beefeater’s hat. He shepherded his flock out onto the battlements while giving a running commentary. He informed them that work on the Tower had been started in 1078 by William the Conqueror, to keep his Norman invaders safely out of reach of the vengeful locals. A squawking raven landed nearby to remind them that as long as there were ravens resident at the Tower, England would be safe from invading infidels. As they approached the Jewel House, the guide declared, as if reading their thoughts, “Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for, a chance to see the twenty-three thousand five hundred seventy-eight precious gems of incalculable value which make up the Crown Jewels.”
“Who owns them?” someone asked.
“Her Majesty the Queen,” came back the immediate reply.
