Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(49)

‘It’s Superintendent Milner on the line, sir. Says he needs to speak to you urgently.’

‘Tell him his pants are on fire,’ said the Hawk, before putting down the phone. He looked round at William. ‘I think he may have noticed his expense book is missing.’





CHAPTER 19





‘IT’S MY GREAT PLEASURE,’ ANNOUNCED the new director of the Fitzmolean, ‘to welcome you all to this remarkable collection of Frans Hals’ work. I would now like to invite Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, to open the exhibition.’

The Princess stepped up to the microphone. The applause continued as she glanced down at the opening paragraph of her speech.

‘Can I begin by saying how delighted I was to be invited to open this much-anticipated exhibition, which has already received glowing reviews. The Times’s critic reminded us this morning that great art transcends all prejudice and social barriers. When we look at a painting, we are unaware of the artist’s colour, religious beliefs or political views. Until I read that review, I hadn’t realized that Frans Hals is considered by many art historians to be in the same league as Rembrandt and Vermeer, or that although he was never short of commissions during his long life, he died almost penniless. Perhaps because he had eleven children.’ The Princess waited for the laughter to die down before she continued.

‘However, he left a legacy we can all admire and that will surely last for many generations to come. A Dutch master of the Golden Age would surely have been delighted that this museum has honoured his memory with such a comprehensive display of his work, which is thanks to Beth Warwick, the curator of this exhibition. Her energy, endeavour and scholarship are clear for all to see.’

A warm round of applause followed, and Beth bowed her head.

DI Ross Hogan would have liked to join in the applause, but not while he was on duty. His eyes swept the room as HRH continued her speech. He noticed his boss, Commander Hawksby, standing at the back of the assembled guests, observing proceedings; even at a gathering like this, he was clearly unable to stop being a policeman.

A few paces in front of the Hawk stood DCI Warwick. Next to him was his father, Sir Julian Warwick QC, whom Ross had previously seen only at a distance when appearing in the witness box at the Old Bailey. Ross assumed the woman on his left must be William’s mother.

His eyes moved on to William’s sister Grace, and her partner Clare. The formidable couple were holding hands, unafraid of making a public statement about their feelings for each other. Ross couldn’t help wondering what Sir Julian thought about that. To their right were Beth Warwick’s proud parents, Mr and Mrs Rainsford, to whom he would be eternally grateful for the way they had also welcomed Jojo into the family as their second granddaughter.

Ross suppressed a smile when he caught the eye of Victoria Campbell, who was standing to one side, carrying out her anonymous role as a lady-in-waiting. He had to admit that he still fancied her, but he didn’t need anyone to remind him: in your dreams.

At the very front of the gathering stood Christina Faulkner, who was holding hands with the young man Ross had last seen at Tramp. He had assumed Sebastian had been a one-night stand, but clearly he was not. His attention was then drawn to another man he hadn’t expected to see at the opening. He didn’t appear to be listening to the speech, his eyes remaining fixed on one particular painting.

With Miles Faulkner’s trial now only a few weeks away, it puzzled Ross why no one had yet questioned him about the painting Booth Watson was staring at, and how it had ended up being part of the exhibition. Even more surprising, Faulkner’s lawyer hadn’t made an official complaint about his client being forcibly removed from his home in Spain and dragged back to England to face a second trial.

Equally puzzling was Faulkner’s decision to plead guilty in exchange for two years being knocked off his sentence. It didn’t make any sense. Faulkner had the reputation of being a sharp deal-maker, and that certainly wasn’t a good deal. There had to be something neither he nor William was aware of. Ross wondered if he’d ever find out. He glanced back at Booth Watson, whom he assumed must know the answer to all of those questions.

The Princess turned to her final card.

‘I have no doubt that, like us, the public will derive great enjoyment from this remarkable exhibition,’ she said. ‘And I’m delighted to declare it open.’

Another round of applause followed. The Princess left the stage, accompanied by the museum’s director, and headed straight for the keeper of pictures to congratulate her. Artemisia, her little coronet wedged firmly in place, somehow managed to squeeze in between them.

When Diana and the new director moved on to chat with some of the other guests, Beth had to hold firmly on to Artemisia’s hand to stop her becoming a supernumerary lady-in-waiting. The commander chose that moment to come out of the shadows and have a quiet word with William.

‘Look over there,’ he whispered.

‘I’ve already seen him,’ said William.

‘Why’s he so interested in that particular painting?’

‘Caravaggio’s Christ Descending from the Cross,’ said William not turning his head, ‘was loaned permanently to the gallery by Miles Faulkner, in exchange for a suspended sentence following his first trial.’

‘I’m bound to say Booth Watson doesn’t appear to have a permanent look on his face, more temporary,’ mused the Hawk.