‘I’m Roman Catholic.’
‘Not any longer, you aren’t. You’re the Church of England’s latest convert. That is, if you want to control the drugs scene in this place. The Sunday morning service is the only time we’re all gathered together in one place, when the business for the following week is sorted out during the sermon.’
‘How does the chaplain feel about that?’
‘He fills in another Home Office form reporting how well his services are attended.’
‘Speaking of the Home Office, what’s the latest on your appeal?’
‘Couldn’t be much worse. They’re now accusing me of burning down my own home, but not before I’d removed my art collection.’
‘What motive could you possibly have for doing that?’ asked Rashidi, as another officer poured him a cup of coffee.
‘Revenge. I did it to make my ex-wife penniless.’
‘And did you succeed?’
‘Not yet, but I’m still working on it. In fact, I’ve arranged a little surprise for her this morning.’
‘So what are your chances of getting off the latest charges?’
‘Not good. My lawyer tells me they’ve got enough evidence to bury me, and it doesn’t help that the detective in charge of the case, a certain DS Warwick, is a friend of my wife’s.’
‘Detective Sergeant William Warwick?’ spluttered Rashidi, spilling his coffee.
‘The same.’
‘He was the officer who arrested me. But I’m not expecting him to give evidence at my trial.’
Faulkner smiled. ‘That’s a funeral I would like to attend. By the way, if you need a lawyer, I can recommend one,’ he said, as another warder appeared by his side.
‘Your carriage awaits, Mr Faulkner.’
‘No doubt accompanied by three police cars, six outriders and an armed escort.’
‘Not to mention a helicopter,’ said the warder.
Rashidi laughed. ‘Only you and the Royal Family get that sort of treatment. I’m going to have to come up with a funeral they’ll let me go to.’
‘The Home Office regulations only allow you to attend the funerals of your parents or children, not even other close relatives.’
‘Then I won’t be going to any funerals,’ said Rashidi, ‘because they certainly aren’t going to allow me to attend Detective Sergeant Warwick’s.’
‘What’s the problem, grumpy?’ asked William.
‘Today’s the day,’ said Beth.
‘You’re going to give birth today?’ said William, sounding excited.
‘No, caveman. It’s the day we have to give the Vermeer back to Christina.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said William, as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘No wonder you had such a restless night.’
‘However much Christina says she needs the money, I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to parting with one of the gallery’s finest works.’
‘Is she picking it up herself?’
‘No. Christie’s are sending a representative round to collect the picture this morning, as she’s putting it up for sale. Tim will be responsible for handing it over, but I intend to be there as it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see the lady.’
William couldn’t think of any words to comfort her, so he just continued to hold her in his arms.
Sir Julian had suggested they meet in his chambers at eight o’clock the following morning, as he would be appearing in front of Mr Justice Baverstock at ten.
William arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields long before the appointed hour. He walked slowly across to the Victorian building that could have passed for a fashionable private residence – and probably was a hundred years ago – on the far side of the square.
As he entered Essex Court Chambers he stopped to study the long list of names printed neatly in black on the white brick wall. Sir Julian Warwick QC headed the list. His gaze continued on down, only stopping when he reached the name Ms Grace Warwick. How long before QC would be added to her name, he wondered. His father would be so proud, though he’d never admit it. He spent a moment thinking about where his name might have appeared if he’d taken his father’s advice and joined him as a pupil in chambers, and not signed up to be a constable in the Met.
William climbed the well-worn stone steps to the first floor and knocked on a door that he’d first stood outside as a child. He was no less apprehensive now about how his father would react when he told him his news.
‘Come,’ said the voice of a man who didn’t waste words.
William entered a room that hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember. The picture of his mother as a beautiful young woman stood on the corner of his father’s desk. Prints of Sherborne, Brasenose and Lincoln’s Inn hung on the walls, alongside a photograph of Sir Julian dining with the Queen Mother at High Table, when he’d been treasurer of Lincoln’s Inn. There was even a photograph of William in the blocks for the one hundred metres at White City when he was an undergraduate. He’d never told his father he’d come last in that race.
Julian stood up and shook hands with his son as if he were a client, while Grace gave her brother a huge hug.
‘You clearly require the advice of two of the leading advocates in the land, my boy, so be warned, the clock is already ticking and, on your salary, I suspect we can spare you about ten minutes.’
‘I’ve got all morning,’ said Grace, giving her brother a reassuring smile.
‘Unfortunately, I haven’t,’ said William. ‘I have to be back at the Yard by nine for the Trojan Horse debriefing. But I wanted you both to know, before I tell the commander, that I’m going to resign.’
Julian didn’t look surprised and simply said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I thought you’d be delighted,’ said William. ‘After all, you never wanted me to join the police force in the first place.’
‘True, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.’
‘Not least your triumph as a leading member of the Trojan Horse team,’ suggested Grace. ‘And there are rumours you’re about to become the youngest inspector in
