‘My offer will remain on the table for one week. In the second week it will fall to twenty-one million, and twenty in the third.’
William realized that Faulkner knew the exact figure Lord McLaren needed to clear his death duties, and presumably also the date on which the full amount was due, after which he’d have to start paying interest to Her Majesty’s collector of taxes.
‘I’ll need to think about it,’ said McLaren, trying to sound relaxed and still in control.
‘The clock is ticking,’ said the same voice. The words of Faulkner, but delivered by his messenger.
‘Let’s adjourn to the drawing room for coffee,’ said McLaren, ignoring the veiled threat. William heard chairs being pushed back from the table, and the lunch party making their way out of the room.
He now knew that the laboured, heavy steps belonged to Miles Faulkner’s representative on earth.
William didn’t move until the table had been cleared, the waitresses had departed and the door closed. Once there were no longer any voices to be heard, he crawled across to the window and gave a thumbs-down sign, just as the door opened again. He fell flat on his stomach and didn’t move.
? ? ?
Ross cursed several times before he radioed the squad cars and delivered the simple message, ‘Stand down. Mission aborted.’
‘Sorry about that, laddie,’ said a voice, before the radio went silent.
It must have been another hour before William and Ross both saw the gates open once again and the BMW disappear out of sight.
? ? ?
William didn’t move until he was certain there wasn’t anyone in the room below. He peeped over the gallery railing – no one to be seen – then tiptoed down the spiral staircase and headed across the dining room, unable to resist taking one last look at the Caravaggio. He opened the door just enough to peek through the crack, before stepping out into the deserted corridor, ready to slip into the café or gift shop should anyone appear. He walked cautiously towards the front door, growing more confident with each step he took. He was just about to turn the handle when a voice behind him said, ‘Can I help you, young man?’
William swung nervously around to see the old lady behind the reception desk checking the morning’s takings.
‘Hello. Yes, I’d like a ticket for the afternoon tour,’ he said, not missing a beat, while taking out his wallet and extracting a pound note.
‘I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.’
‘Oh, that’s disappointing. I was looking forward to seeing the Caravaggio.’
‘Didn’t I see you earlier this morning?’ she said, taking a closer look at him.
‘Yes. I’m going back to London tomorrow, and I was hoping to see the picture one more time.’
‘You’ll have to come back first thing in the morning, young man, because that may well be your last chance to see it.’
William risked, ‘I don’t understand. The guide told us it had been in the family for over two hundred years and was the pride of Lord McLaren’s collection.’
‘Indeed it was, but I’m afraid my son has no choice but to sell it,’ said the Dowager Countess, as she came out from behind the counter, walked across the hall and opened the front door. ‘Death duties, you know,’ she added with a sigh, before closing the door behind him.
William now knew who the fourth person at lunch had been.
? ? ?
‘Was Christina also at the lunch?’ asked Beth, as William climbed into bed later that night.
‘Yes, and she was posing as the interested buyer for the painting,’ said William, ‘although Booth Watson did most of the talking.’
‘So, once again I’ve fallen for her lies. I promise you, I won’t let her get away with it ever again.’
‘Then you’ll have to kill her, and just hope I’m the investigating officer in charge of the case.’
‘I won’t need you,’ said Beth, ‘because I know how to kill both of them without a drop of blood being spilled.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked William.
‘If Tim Knox were to advise HMG to refuse Lord McLaren’s request for an export licence on the grounds that Fishers of Men is a painting of national importance, it could be years before Faulkner would get his hands on it. And he’d have only one person to blame. Christina.’
‘That’s the last thing I want,’ said William firmly. ‘The commander has just sanctioned Operation Masterpiece, so I’ll need you to find out who’s been given the job of transporting the painting to its new owner.’