“Mr. and Mrs. Warwick?”
William wondered how long it would take him to get used to that. He blinked and looked up, to see a stewardess he recognized from the plane.
“Yes?”
“Would you and your wife be kind enough to follow me?”
“What’s happening?” asked a sleepy voice, as William gently woke Beth. “I’d just fallen asleep.”
“I have no idea, but I imagine that if we follow this lady from the airline, all will be revealed.”
Beth stood up, stretched her arms and yawned like an animal emerging from hibernation before reluctantly accompanying her husband.
“Maybe she’s taking us to the first-class lounge,” whispered William.
“A better class of sofa not to sleep on.”
“Plus free food and drink.”
“Wrong again, oh great detective,” said Beth, as they walked straight past the first-class lounge and out of the terminal.
A driver opened the back door of a waiting courtesy car displaying the airline’s livery.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said William, as they climbed into the back.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” asked Beth.
“Not Rome, that’s for sure,” said William, as the car moved off.
“Nor London,” said Beth, as the driver ignored the signs for the motorway and turned left down a country lane.
They drove for a couple more miles, before the car slowed and passed through a set of wrought-iron gates onto an even smaller road that had been carved through a dense forest. They must have traveled for about another mile before a beautifully proportioned Georgian mansion of honey-colored stone clad in ivy loomed up in front of them. When they came to a halt outside the entrance, a young man dressed in a smart green uniform rushed forward and opened the back door of the car.
“Welcome to the Lakeside Arms Hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Warwick,” he said, as they stepped out onto the gravel drive. “Would you be kind enough to follow me?”
The vast oak door opened while they were still several paces away, and a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dark jacket, striped trousers and a silver-gray tie awaited them. He looked as if he’d just come from their wedding.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Warwick,” he said. “My name is Bryan Morris, and I am the manager of the hotel.”
Without another word he led them up a wide, thickly carpeted staircase to the first floor before stopping outside a set of double doors with the words NELL GWYNNE SUITE painted in gold leaf on a panel. He took out his passkey, opened the door, and led them into a suite of spacious rooms that was bigger than their flat in Fulham.
“This is the bridal suite, which overlooks the lake,” the manager said, as he walked across to a large bay window. “I do hope the peacocks won’t disturb you.” He paused for a moment by a dining table that was laid for two, and straightened a napkin before leading them through to the master bedroom, which boasted a vast bed that could have comfortably slept four without any of them meeting. He still hadn’t finished his guided tour; the next room he took them into was a bathroom that boasted a Jacuzzi as well as a walk-in shower that could have accommodated a football team.
Speechless, they followed him back into the bedroom to find that their suitcases had mysteriously appeared, and their nightwear had been unpacked and laid out on the bed. A bottle of champagne was standing in an ice bucket. The manager uncorked it, poured two glasses and handed them to his guests.
“Please pick up the phone and order dinner whenever it suits you,” he said. “You’ll find the menus on the dining table.”
“Can I stay here for the rest of my life?” asked Beth.
“Not if you’re still hoping to fly to Rome in the morning, madam,” said the manager. He bowed, retreated, and closed the double doors quietly behind him.
“Am I dreaming?” said Beth, as she raised her glass. “Because I can’t believe the airline does this for every customer who’s held up overnight.”
“Don’t let’s ask too many questions, or we may find ourselves back in the airport lounge,” William said, as he looked at the double bed and began to unbutton Beth’s jacket.
“Caveman,” she said.
“Some cave,” he replied.
* * *
“She wants what?” said Faulkner.
“Limpton Hall, with all the fixtures and fittings. That includes the seventy-three oil paintings, although she says you can keep the statue of yourself.”
“Anything else, dare I ask?”
“Twenty thousand a year to pay for her staff,” said Booth Watson, “as well as a final settlement of one million pounds.”
“I presume that’s it?”
“Not quite. She keeps all her personal belongings. Jewelry, clothes, etc., plus the Mercedes and Eddie, your chauffeur, who’ll remain on your payroll.”
“Tell her to get lost.”
“I already have, if not in precisely those words.”
“Don’t forget she slept with Warwick in Monte Carlo, and they’re still lovers.”
“I don’t think so, Miles. As you found out first-hand when you turned up at a wedding I advised you not to attend.”
“You wrote my script, in case you’ve forgotten,” Faulkner reminded him.
“Reluctantly,” said Booth Watson.
“But I wasn’t to know Christina would be there.”
“Because unlike you, she’d received an invitation, which would rather suggest they’re not lovers.”
“In any case, it’s still her word against mine.”
“If a jury had to choose between a tearful, wronged wife and a man serving a suspended sentence for fraud, which side do you imagine they’d come down on?”
“It wouldn’t matter, because as you’ve so often told me, a jury can’t be informed about any previous convictions I’ve received.”
“A ridiculous rule, but one that I admit works in your favor. Unless of course any of them have read a national newspaper during the past year.”
“You think it might end up in court?”
“Bound to, if you’re not willing to settle.”
“I’m not going to let go of any of my pictures without putting up a fight,” said Faulkner. “It’s taken me a lifetime to build the collection.”
“If you want to hold on to them, Miles, she’s going to expect something in return. And unfortunately the collection’s worth more than all three houses, the yacht, and the plane put together, none of which she has shown any interest in.”
“Delay the settlement for as long as you can, BW. I might just have another card up my sleeve.”
* * *
Breakfast was served in their suite at ten o’clock the following morning, with copies of the The Times and Telegraph on a side table.
“Their first mistake,” said Beth with a grin. “But I don’t suppose they have many guests who take The Guardian.”
“Or the Sun for that matter,” said William, as he began to tuck into a full English breakfast, while Beth sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice and read about Prince Andrew’s engagement to Sarah Ferguson.
At 10:20 there was a gentle tap on the door and, like the fairy godmother, Mr. Harrison reappeared.
“I hope you both enjoyed a good night’s sleep,” he ventured.
“Couldn’t have been better,” said William, after he’d drained his coffee.
Not much chance of that when you’re married to a caveman, Beth wanted to tell him, but kept her thoughts to herself.
“I only ask because you didn’t order dinner last night.”
“We were both full of crisps and peanuts,” Beth blurted out.
“Unfortunately you missed the early morning plane for Rome. However, we managed to book you onto the twelve thirty-five flight, and the airline has upgraded you to business class. A limousine will be waiting outside to take you back to the airport.”
“Of course it will,” said Beth.
“I beg you
r pardon, madam?”
“My wife simply meant that this has been a truly unforgettable experience, and you couldn’t have done more to make our stay memorable.”
“How kind of you to say so, sir. I’ll leave you now and send a porter to pick up your bags in a few minutes’ time,” said Mr. Harrison, who once again bowed before leaving the room.
“Detective Sergeant Warwick,” said Beth, taking her husband in her arms, “you’re going to have to get promoted fairly regularly.”
“Why?” asked William innocently.
“Because I could get used to this.” William was about to protest when she added, “But for now, I’ll settle for spending our wedding anniversary in this room once a year for the rest of our lives.”
* * *
“They’ve just left, sir,” said the manager, looking out of the window in his office as the limousine disappeared down the drive. “I think you’ll find we carried out your instructions to the letter.”
“You did indeed, Mr. Harrison. My daughter phoned a few minutes ago to tell me that they’d been grounded because of an engine problem, but the airline went out of its way to make up for it.”
“That’s most gratifying to hear, sir. Where shall I send the bill?”
“To my office in Marylebone. Mark it personal, for the attention of Arthur Rainsford.”
* * *
Detective Superintendent Lamont picked up the phone on his desk to be greeted by a public-school accent that grated on his Scottish ear.
“Reporting in, sir.”
“Are you enjoying being in charge, DC Adaja, even if it’s only while DS Warwick is away on his honeymoon?”
“Every minute. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of delaying his return, sir, as I was rather hoping to solve the case before he gets back?”
“No chance,” said Lamont. “Not least because Warwick’s just called from Rome and all he wanted to know was if we’d found out where Rashidi lives.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Any developments on that front?” asked Lamont, ignoring the comment.
“You were right about having all three airport terminals covered, sir. Rashidi was dropped off at terminal three this time, but ended up back at terminal one.”
“And where did he go from there?”
“A dark blue BMW picked him up and drove him to Little Charlbury, a village in Oxfordshire.”
“Have you located his house, just in case DS Warwick phones back?”
Paul laughed. “It’s not so much a house, sir, more like a castle. It even has its own moat and drawbridge. The grounds must be over a thousand acres, and the nearest neighbor is at least a mile away.”
“Then you’d better be wary of briefing the local police about what we’re up to. With that much money washing around, he might have one or two of them on his payroll, or at least wary of annoying him.”
“There’s just a village bobby, and the only thing that’s older than him is his bicycle.”
“Security?”
“State of the art, plus some personal touches. The entire estate is surrounded by a ten-foot wall topped with electrified barbed wire.”
“Criminals always take more stringent precautions when it comes to their own safety and possessions than honest people,” said the Hawk, coming on the line for the first time. “Do you think it’s possible his drugs factory could be situated somewhere in the grounds?”
“It seems unlikely, sir,” said Paul, “not least because it would make a lousy distribution center. Everyone in the village would see the gear coming in and going out. But I’ll stay put for now and see if I can pick up anything on the local grapevine.”
“Good,” said Lamont. “Meanwhile, I’ll arrange to fly over the property in the Met’s helicopter tomorrow morning. Though from what you say, I don’t expect to find anything incriminating. I suspect the place is all part of his public front, as the chairman of a successful tea company.”
“And the taxi that took him to the airport—where did it end up?” asked the Hawk.
“Back at the driver’s home in Chiswick,” said Jackie. “He turns out to be a licensed black cab driver. But on Friday afternoons he only has one customer, who he picks up in the City at four twenty p.m. and drops off in The Boltons around five. He then drives him on to Heathrow a couple of hours later, dropping him at a different terminal each week. I’ve already fitted a tracking device to his taxi so we don’t always have to cover every terminal.”
“I’ve only just authorized that,” said the Hawk, “so did you attach the device before or after you had my permission?”
“It may have been a few hours before,” admitted Jackie.
“Don’t make that kind of mistake again, DC Roycroft. It’s the sort of thing that could trip us up in court and scupper the whole operation. In future, play it by the book, or you might find yourself back on the beat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jackie. After she’d put the phone down she added, “But the criminals are working from a different book, in case you haven’t noticed … sir.”
* * *
“I wonder if they’ve discovered where the factory is?” said William to a large marble lady.
“I’m sure they’ll somehow manage to survive without you for a couple of weeks, detective sergeant,” said Beth, as she checked her guidebook.
“So what have you got planned for this afternoon?” asked William, feeling a little guilty.
“A visit to the Borghese, where you’ll have a chance to see three of the finest Berninis, an unforgettable Raphael, and—”
“Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love.”
“Painted in which year?”
“1514.”
“I sometimes forget that you read Art History at King’s, between running around a cinders track all day and reading Agatha Christie at night.”
“Simenon, actually. In French. So when do we get to see Da Vinci and Michelangelo?”
“Patience, Caveman. We still have another week to view the works of arguably the two greatest artists who’ve ever lived.”
“I’m more of a Caravaggio man, myself.”
“Then you probably already know that there are eleven of his works in galleries or churches right here in Rome. But tell me, DS Warwick, if you had been given the opportunity to arrest Caravaggio and have him hanged for murder in 1606, following a barroom brawl, what decision would you have made?”
“Hanged the damned man,” said William. “Unlike that greedy hypocrite Pope Paul the Fifth.”
“I’m glad you weren’t pope at the time,” said Beth, “otherwise we wouldn’t be able to see nine of those eleven masterpieces.”
* * *
“Do you think the Hawk knows we’re having an affair?” said Jackie.
“Of course he does,” said Ross. “That’s why he chose you as my liaison officer.”
“But most people think you’ve left the force.”
“Including my mother. But that was all part of Hawksby’s plan. So many young officers resign in the first couple of years, they’re quickly forgotten.”
“But it’s still a hell of a decision to become a long-term UCO, considering all the risks that involves.”
“I’ve always been a loner,” said Ross. “The Hawk spotted that early on in my career, and took advantage of it.”
“So are you getting anywhere, or just claiming lots of overtime?”
“That’s for others to decide. But I’ve already established that Tulip is a regular at the Three Feathers, as are several other dealers whose names I’ll be able to add to fairly soon. But it’s not something I can afford to hurry. For a UCO patience isn’t a virtue, it’s a necessity. That is if you hope to survive. If just one of those bastards suspected for a moment that I was a member of the drugs squad, the next time you saw me I’d be floating up the river on the early morning tide.” He placed a hand on the inside of Jackie’s thigh.
“Not yet,” she said, removing his hand.
&nbs
p; “But I haven’t had sex for weeks.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? The Hawk got your latest report, and even asked me to congratulate you. But now he wants you to find out where Rashidi’s slaughter is.”
“That could take a little longer, because the Viper doesn’t invite you into his nest until you’ve proved yourself, and I’m still only a runner, the lowest form of life. So I doubt that’s going to happen overnight.” He took Jackie in his arms and began to kiss her gently on her breasts.
For a moment she forgot what the other question was that the Hawk wanted answered, as her lover’s tongue moved hungrily down her body. She lay back and didn’t think of England. Soon after they’d made love, Ross slipped out of bed and began to get dressed.
“Aren’t you going to take a shower?” she asked.
“Doesn’t go with the territory,” said Ross unashamedly.
And then she remembered. “The boss wants you to keep an eye out for a dealer called Adrian Heath. He was on your last list. Try and find out what he’s up to and keep us informed.”
“Did he give you any clues why the guy’s so important?”
“The Hawk doesn’t give clues, just commands.”
“Silly question,” admitted Ross, as he pushed open the window.
“And next time you turn up without warning, make sure you knock.”
“Why?” said Ross, as he climbed out onto the fire escape.
“You might find I’m in bed with someone else.”
11
Sir Julian looked up from the other side of his desk and smiled at his client.
“Your husband is offering you Limpton Hall—but not the paintings—the Eaton Square flat, which has only nine months left on the lease, ten thousand pounds a year to cover your staff expenses, and a settlement of half a million pounds.”
“So how should I respond?” asked Christina.
“Accept Limpton Hall and the flat in Eaton Square, but ask for sixteen thousand a year, and nothing less than eight hundred thousand pounds as a settlement. After all, it’s your husband’s moral and legal responsibility to ensure that you continue to live in the style you’ve grown accustomed to after so many years as his dutiful wife.”
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