Nothing Ventured(55)
“I’m driving up to London next Monday. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I can’t risk you coming down here again.”
“Why not?” William asked, sounding disappointed.
“Makins would be on the phone to my husband before you reached the front gate. In fact, Miles called me last night to ask why I’d even let you into the house.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That when you returned the picture, you let slip that the Rembrandt investigation had been dropped and relegated to the unsolved cases file.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“You can never tell with Miles. I don’t think even he knows when he’s telling the truth. Shall we say the Ritz, one o’clock? My treat.”
Well, it certainly wasn’t going to be Mrs. Walters’s treat, thought William as he put down the phone.
Later that morning he joined Lamont for a different type of lunch. A pork pie, a packet of crisps, and a pint of bitter in the Sherlock Holmes pub, and a chance to meet Mike Harrison. A policeman’s policeman, was how Lamont had described him, and William could immediately see why. He was uncomplicated, forthright, and treated William as an equal from the moment they met. More importantly, he was just as keen to unearth the missing Rembrandt as the rest of the team. He’d been a member of the unit when it had been stolen seven years ago, so he considered it unfinished business.
On his way home that night, William picked up a bunch of flowers as a peace offering for Beth. But the moment he turned the key in the lock, he knew she wasn’t there. And then he remembered—Tuesday was Friends’ Night at the Fitzmolean. Smoked salmon sandwiches, bowls of nuts, and sparkling wine to loosen the wallets of the museum’s loyal supporters. She wouldn’t be back much before eleven. He returned to Trenchard House for the second night in a row, called her at 10:30, and again at eleven, but she didn’t answer the phone, so he went to bed.
20
05:43 Greenwich Mean Time
William was woken by the phone ringing. He grabbed it, wondering who could possibly be calling him at that hour of the morning. He hoped it was Beth.
“Carter’s on the move,” said a voice he recognized immediately. “Meet me at Heathrow, terminal two. There’s a car on its way. Should be with you in a few minutes. Bring an overnight bag, and don’t forget your passport this time.”
William put the phone down and headed straight for the bathroom. He took a quick shower, followed by an even quicker shave, with two nicks to prove it, then returned to the bedroom to pack an overnight bag. A couple of shirts, plus pants, socks, and a toothbrush, before finally picking up his passport from a desk drawer. The car was waiting outside, its engine running. He immediately recognized the driver who’d whisked him to Chelsea.
“Good morning, Danny,” he said.
06:37 GMT
Jackie didn’t need a wake-up call that morning. She was already on her way to Waterloo station by the time William was speeding down the M4.
Lamont was waiting for her on platform 11, and they boarded the 7:29 to Guildford, second class. On arrival they were met by Superintendent Wall, the only man from the Surrey Constabulary who’d been fully briefed on what they had planned for the rest of the day.
“You don’t have a driver?” said Lamont, as Wall climbed behind the wheel and switched on the ignition.
“Cutbacks,” he growled.
07:14 GMT
William spotted him the moment he entered the terminal. A dark blue double-breasted blazer, white shirt, and striped tie. The commander probably slept in double-breasted pajamas.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, William. Carter’s booked on BA flight 003 to Rome, departing in an hour and a half, and we’re on an Alitalia plane which takes off in forty minutes. Lieutenant Monti will meet us at the airport before driving to Civitavecchia. We’ll hang about here for a few more minutes to make sure Carter checks in. If he suspects someone might be following him, he could abort his whole trip, in which case we’ll be heading back to Scotland Yard, not Rome.” The commander was still speaking when he grabbed William by the arm and nodded in the direction of the BA desks. Carter was striding toward the checkin counter, accompanied by a man William didn’t recognize, who was carrying a bulky holdall and pushing a trolley with two small suitcases.
“I have a feeling I know what’s in that holdall,” said Hawksby. “But there’s not a lot we can do about it.”
“We could have them searched by security before he boards the plane.”
“That’s the last thing we want.”
“Why?”
“For two reasons,” said Hawksby as Carter was issued with his boarding pass. “First, we’d need to have reasonable suspicion that he’d committed a crime before we could consider checking his luggage, and secondly, if we didn’t find anything suspicious, we would have warned them off and blown our cover.”
“Do you recognize the other man?” asked William as they headed towards passport control.
“Damien Grant, GBH, former weightlifter, and more recently club bouncer. He’s only there to make sure that holdall reaches its destination.”
“Last call for Alitalia, flight number…”
10:07 GMT