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BILLY ROSE EARLY THAT MORNING– early by his standards, but then he had a busy day ahead of him. He needed to study the form before he set off for Pontefract.

Once he was dressed, he went downstairs, picked theYorkshire Postoff the mat and strolled into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and made himself a cup of tea before he turned to the sports pages. An hour later, he’d selected three dead certs to make up for last week’s surprising losses: Lucky Jim in the six o’clock, 4–1; Dog’s Dinner in the seven fifteen, 10–1; and Artic Circle in the seven forty-five, 3–1.

He decided to place fifty pounds on each race and another fifty on an accumulator. If all three won, he would make a killing. Just one win and he’d break even. He checked his watch: not yet time to go to the pub for lunch, so he turned the paper over to see if there was anything going on in the world he ought to know about. When he saw the headline, he broke out into a cold sweat.

MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR AUCTION STOPPED BY DISCOVERY OF MISSINGJEFFERSON LETTER

He read the article first quickly, and then very slowly, aware he would have to make a decision. Did he keep his mouth shut and hope Mr Faulkner wouldn’t find out he had been responsible for losing him at least thirty-five million? Or should he let him know he’d written the letter, not Jefferson? If he went down that route, he’d be back in the Scrubs by nightfall.

Billy began walking around the kitchen and changed his mind several times during the next hour, but after considering the odds one more time, he selected the favourite for the Jefferson letter stakes, rather than the police horse ridden by Ross Hogan.

After all, one per cent of thirty-five million would keep him in clover for the rest of his life, even if he did have to spend a few more years in prison before he could hope to enjoy a happy retirement.

He knew he’d seen the name of the hotel buried somewhere in the story, so he began to read the article for a third time, only stopping when he reached the words,he is currently staying at the Park Plaza. With the help of directory enquiries, he eventually found the number and asked the international operator to put him through.

‘Park Plaza Hotel, how may I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Booth Watson,’ said Mumford, still trembling.

‘You do realize it’s four o’clock in the morning in New York,’ the receptionist said.

Billy hadn’t realized but decided it couldn’t wait. ‘I do, but it’s an emergency.’

‘And who shall I say is calling, sir?’

‘Billy Mumford.’

Billy could hear the phone ringing in the background, but it was some time before a voice eventually came back on the line. It wasn’t Mr Booth Watson, but the receptionist.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Booth Watson is not available.’

‘Did you tell him it was an emergency?’ asked Billy.

‘Yes, I did, sir.’

‘Will you please try again?’ said Billy.

‘Mr Booth Watson made it clear,’ said the receptionist, ‘if you were to call again, I was not under any circumstances to put you through.’

The line went dead.

‘Well, he can’t say I didn’t try,’ said Billy, who ignored the headline on the front page and returned to the sports pages so he could concentrate on what really mattered.

He put fifty pounds on State Secret to win the last race of the day. It came second.

•••

Miles read the article in theNew York Timesa second time, studying every word of Jefferson’s letter, and one in particular that Rosenberg clearly ignored, before he yelled out loud, ‘Gotcha!’ One thing was certain: he needed to tell Booth Watson immediately. He checked the clock on his bedside table – five to seven, and wondered if Booth Watson was awake. Not that he gave a damn. He jumped out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and ran out into the corridor.

He banged on his door, waking Booth Watson for a second time that morning. Booth Watson wasn’t in any doubt who he would find standing outside in the corridor. He climbedout of bed, and was putting on a dressing gown when the banging began again, if anything even louder.

He walked slowly across the room, removed the chain from its hook, and had only just opened the door when Miles came barging in, a copy of theNew York Timesunder his arm, and announced, ‘They made one big mistake.’

Booth Watson closed the door, took a seat in a comfortable chair and waited to hear what was the one big mistake, while Miles began to march around the room.

‘Let’s begin,’ said Miles, ‘with the simple fact that we know Jefferson’s so-called letter is a forgery.’

‘But we can’t tell anyone why we know,’ Booth Watson reminded his client.