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“Today’s the day,” said Beth.
“You’re going to give birth today?” said William, sounding excited.
“No, Caveman. It’s the day we have to give the Vermeer back to Christina.”
“I’m so sorry,” said William, as he wrapped his arms around her. “No wonder you had such a restless night.”
“However much Christina says she needs the money, I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to parting with one of the gallery’s finest works.”
“Is she picking it up herself?”
“No. Christie’s are sending a representative around to collect the picture this morning, as she’s putting it up for sale. Tim will be responsible for handing it over, but I intend to be there as it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see the lady.”
William couldn’t think of any words to comfort her, so he just continued to hold her in his arms.
* * *
It wasn’t until the last painting had been stored safely in the hold that the captain gave the order to cast off.
He set out on the voyage to England at least a couple of times a year, always docking in Christchurch, but not tonight. The Christina slipped out of the bay that morning in broad daylight without attracting any unwanted attention. But then several far grander yachts were making their way into the harbor to watch the Monte Carlo Grand Prix the following week, so why would anyone give them a second look?
The captain had locked the villa and handed over the keys to the estate agent, along with clear instructions as to which Swiss bank the funds should be deposited in once the sale had been completed.
All the valuables, including the fabled art collection, were already on board, and when they eventually came under the hammer the boss would have more than enough money to begin a new life in any country he chose, while the police would be convinced he was dead and buried.
The Christina would only drop anchor once, to pick up a passenger who would instruct the captain where his next port of call should be.
The voyage across the Bay of Biscay was calmer than usual. As he sailed into the English Channel a ball of fiery red disappeared in the west, and by the time it reappeared in the east, his boss would have escaped, or be back in jail.
* * *
William had described the problem as urgent after they’d left Nettleford on Sunday afternoon.
His father had suggested they meet in his chambers at eight o’clock the following morning, as he would be appearing in front of Mr. Justice Baverstock at ten.
William arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields long before the appointed hour. He walked slowly across to the Victorian building that could have passed for a fashionable private residence—and probably was a hundred years ago—on the far side of the square.
As he entered Essex Court Chambers he stopped to study the long list of names printed neatly in black on the white brick wall. SIR JULIAN WARWICK QC headed the list. His gaze continued on down, only stopping when he reached the name MS. GRACE WARWICK. How long before QC would be added to her name, he wondered. His father would be so proud, though he’d never admit it. He spent a moment thinking about where his name might have appeared if he’d taken his father’s advice and joined him as a pupil in chambers, and not signed up to be a constable in the Met.
William climbed the well-worn stone steps to the first floor and knocked on a door that he’d first stood outside as a child. He was no less apprehensive now about how his father would react when he told him his news.
“Come,” said the voice of a man who didn’t waste words.
William entered a room that hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember. The picture of his mother as a beautiful young woman stood on the corner of his father’s desk. Prints of Sherborne, Brasenose, and Lincoln’s Inn hung on the walls, alongside a photograph of Sir Julian dining with the Queen Mother at High Table, when he’d been treasurer of Lincoln’s Inn. There was even a photograph of William running the one hundred meters at White City when he was an undergraduate. He’d never told his father he’d come last in that race.
Julian stood up and shook hands with his son as if he were a client, while Grace gave her brother a huge hug.
“You clearly require the advice of two of the leading advocates in the land, my boy, so be warned, the clock is already ticking and, on your salary, I suspect we can spare you about ten minutes.”
“I’ve got all morning,” said Grace, giving her brother a reassuring smile.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” said William. “I have to be back at the Yard by nine for the Trojan Horse debriefing. But I wanted you both to know, before I tell the commander, that I’m going to resign.”
Julian didn’t look surprised and simply said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I thought you’d be delighted,” said William. “After all, you never wanted me to join the police force in the first place.”
“True, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.”
