‘I know that you’re the youngest DCI in the Met’s history, and in Ross’s opinion you’re the finest officer he’s ever served under. Frankly, I’d made the decision even before I met you.’
‘Better not tell the commander,’ said Beth.
‘Better not tell me what?’ demanded The Hawk, as he walked across to join them.
‘Major Kinsella has just offered William a job,’ Beth answered with relish.
‘Over my dead body,’ said Hawksby.
‘Whatever it takes,’ said Kinsella, grinning.
‘And I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you,’ said The Hawk. ‘I have higher things planned for DCI Warwick, and they don’t include running a holiday camp. What’s more, I’ll happily murder anyone who gets in my way.’
‘Don’t the Gospels tell us that the thought of murder is every bit as bad as the deed,’ said Beth, trying to lighten the mood.
‘If that’s the case,’ said the commander, ‘I’ll have to ask our Lord to take about fifty other cases into consideration. And, frankly, you’re not even top of my current list,’ he said, glowering at the major.
William smiled, but then he knew exactly who was top of the commander’s current list.
‘And in any case,’ continued The Hawk, ‘I will also be retiring in the not-too-distant future, and someone’s going to have to take my place.’
This silenced even Beth, while William was distracted by a voice whispering in his ear, ‘Can I have a word with you before we leave for the airport?’
‘Of course,’ said William, leaving the commander to continue jousting with Major Kinsella.
‘Will I be back in time for the big one?’ asked Ross, once he was confident no one could overhear them.
‘I’ve delayed everything by a week to make sure you are. I don’t want to start this particular operation without you.’
‘How did the specialised movers feel about the Yard joining them for the trip?’
‘Not overjoyed, but they kept their counsel after The Hawk reminded them that most of their contracts have to be sanctioned by the government. They were still a bit bolshie for a few days, until the Home Secretary called their chairman. Not a long conversation, I’m told.’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Ross.
‘Don’t let Jo hear you saying that,’ said William, ‘because I know she has other plans for you during the next ten days. So be sure to relax and enjoy your honeymoon. I’m going to need you at your sharpest when you return if we’re going to pull off the biggest operation I’ve ever been involved in.’
‘Bigger than Trojan Horse?’ said Ross.
‘That was the commander’s operation. Masterpiece is mine.’
? ? ?
Ross spent the next week roaming around the Loire valley, sipping the finest wines, while not being allowed to empty his glass, then devouring several courses of nouvelle cuisine before going to bed feeling hungry. He spent the last three days of the honeymoon enjoying the sights of Paris, unaware that it wouldn’t be long before he returned. He still managed a five-mile run every morning before joining Jo for a breakfast of croissant and coffee. Breakfast, he reflected, was clearly a meal the French hadn’t come to terms with. In his absence, DCI Warwick and the commander spent the time fine-tuning every last detail of an operation that would require split-second timing.
By the time a suntanned Ross returned to work the following Monday morning, everything was in place, awaiting only the commissioner’s imprimatur.
‘If we pull this one off,’ said Ross, after he and William had gone over the plan one last time, ‘I’ll leave the force a happy man. And not just because you won’t be my boss any longer,’ he added, laughing.
‘If we fail,’ said William, not laughing, ‘I’ll also be leaving the force, but I’ll still be your boss.’
CHAPTER 19
IT HAD NEVER CROSSED WILLIAM’S mind how long it would take to pack a valuable work of art, and how many people were involved, even though Beth had tried to warn him.
The key person among the group was Ian Posgate, a senior broker from Lloyd’s of London, who had insured the Caravaggio should it be damaged in transit, and for the full amount of ￡21 million if it failed to reach its destination. Posgate was delighted the police would be accompanying them on the trip in the guise of his assistants.
William and Ross stood to one side and watched the professionals go about their work. Mr Benmore, the senior fine art handler, could boast a Goya, a Rembrandt and a Velázquez in his catalogue raisonné. However, he’d recently left it to one of his assistants to pack a Warhol for the Tate. Mr Benmore didn’t do modern.