Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(67)

‘But isn’t that standard procedure if a PO thinks his principal might be in any kind of danger?’

‘Yes, but they left Denis Thatcher stranded on the pavement.’

Rebecca burst out laughing.

‘I apologized to him, and he told me not to worry, as it wasn’t the first time it had happened, and he suspected it wouldn’t be the last. Damn,’ said Paul as another wicket fell. ‘It’s not looking too good for us now. The Super’s the next man in, and as he was a sprinter in his youth he’ll probably run out Ross, who’s our only hope. Close your eyes and pray.’

‘Like you did when you were at the crease?’

Paul slumped back down in his deckchair, and looked to his left to see Christina smiling at him.

? ? ?

‘You can forget about Paul,’ said Beth, following Christina’s gaze. ‘He’s strictly off-limits.’

‘Why? He looks rather dishy.’

‘He may well be, but while you’re likely to be a star witness at your ex-husband’s trial, he won’t risk being seen with you unless another officer is present.’

‘Do I get to choose the other officer?’ said Christina as Ross raised his bat high in the air to acknowledge the crowd’s applause for his half century.

‘I thought you already had a boyfriend.’

‘My latest is fast approaching his sell by date.’ Christina sighed. ‘So you’ll have to find someone else to distract me until the trial is over.’

‘How do you fancy Hans Holbein?’

‘Can’t say I’ve come across him.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, as he’s been dead for over four hundred years. In any case, he’s out of your league, otherwise I might have introduced you to him earlier.’

‘Am I missing something?’

‘Not unless you’ve got twelve million to spare, because I’ve recently been offered a Holbein portrait of Henry VIII. To be more accurate, the Fitzmolean was offered it, but as the envelope was marked private and confidential, my old secretary sent the letter on to me.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ said Christina, putting down her champagne.

‘The letter was from a Mr Rosen, a Dutch gentleman who lives in Amsterdam. The irony is that the person he should have approached is Miles, who I know doesn’t have a Holbein in his collection, but does have twelve million pounds.’

‘Have you come across this Mr Rosen before?’

‘No, but what makes the painting unusual is that there’s a handwritten letter from Holbein himself attached to the back of the oak panel it was painted on. It’s addressed to a Dr Rosen, who was apparently his doctor at the time of his death. So I think we can assume that the seller has inherited the painting and is having to part with it.’

‘Having to?’

‘Death, divorce or debt. One of that unholy trinity is usually the reason a painting of such importance comes on the market.’

‘And is twelve million a fair price?’ Christina asked casually.

‘It could fetch as much as fifteen on the open market. But Mr Rosen may not want the world to know he’s having to part with a family heirloom, so he won’t be offering it to Christie’s or Sotheby’s. Not that it matters, because I’ve already sent his letter back to the Fitzmolean. The acquisitions committee will spend hours discussing how they can possibly raise the money to acquire the picture, before coming to the conclusion that they can’t. They may even get in touch with you to see if you’ll donate.’

‘Not a hope after the way they treated you,’ said Christina as she turned and once again looked in Paul’s direction, but her mind was preoccupied with something she enjoyed even more than sex: money.

? ? ?

‘William’s done well to hold up his end,’ said Sir Julian, ‘while leaving Ross to keep the scoreboard ticking over.’

‘It’s still going to be a close-run thing,’ said Arthur as he checked the scoreboard. ‘We need another thirty-three runs with only five overs left.’

‘Then these two need to still be around at the close of play if we’re to have any chance of winning,’ said Sir Julian, just as William hit the ball high into the air. Everyone in the ground followed its trajectory as a fielder sprinted in from the boundary, dived full-length and caught the ball in one hand, before tumbling to the ground.

‘The commentator’s curse,’ said Arthur ruefully as William raised his bat in acknowledgement of the fine catch before leaving the pitch. One part of the script he couldn’t have planned any better. He returned to the pavilion to generous applause, took off his pads and rejoined the commander.

‘It might have been better if you’d stayed out there for a couple more overs,’ said the Hawk. ‘You’ve left your lot still needing another thirteen runs to score with only a couple of overs left.’

‘You wanted a word with me, sir,’ said William.

‘I did. Miles Faulkner has been in touch.’

William quickly switched back into his other world. ‘By that, I presume you mean Booth Watson.’

‘No, that’s the strange thing,’ said the Hawk. ‘When Faulkner was returning to his cell following a visitor’s meeting this afternoon, he looked up at the gallery and gave a clear message to one of our lip-readers.’