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‘I’m only surprised you need to ask that question,’ remonstrated Rosenberg, as if addressing an idle student who hadn’t been paying attention. ‘Especially as you say you’ve read my book several times.’

Miles couldn’t remember being admonished in that way since leaving school, but he didn’t reply in kind, as he still had several questions he needed answering.

‘And what else is remarkable about that letter?’ asked the professor, still not convinced his guest had even read his book.

Faulkner got as near to feeling embarrassed as he was capable of.

‘You will, of course, remember,’ said the professor, ‘that it’s the only occasion, to my knowledge, when Jefferson misspelt Franklin’s name, with a “y” and not an “i”– a mistake, as far as I’m aware, he never made again. But then, as you will find if you turn the page, and read on, Franklin, curmudgeonly old character that he was, severely reprimanded his friend for making the mistake.’

Miles felt equally chastised but was determined to plough on. ‘Dare I ask, sir, if the Fair Copy were to be unearthed, how much do you think it would fetch on the open market?’

The scowl returned to the professor’s lips, while the lines on his forehead became even more pronounced. ‘I fear, MrFaulkner, I’m not best qualified to answer that particular question as I’m a historian, not an economist. However, I think one can safely say it’s quite simply priceless. Not least because if it were to come on the market, the government would, in my opinion, be left with no choice but to outbid any rivals for what is, quite literally, a unique piece of American history.’

Miles tried to hide his excitement before saying, ‘One final question, sir, before I leave, as I have already taken up too much of your time.’

He looked across to see that the old man had dozed off and was quietly snoring. Miles got up from his chair, crept out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

The old man opened his eyes and waited until he heard the front door close before he began to stroke the cat.

‘You know, Martha,’ he said, ‘I don’t trust that man.’

The cat arched its back.

•••

Miles climbed into the back of the car, well satisfied with his meeting. After all, Rosenberg had made it clear that he would recognize the Fair Copy when he saw it, and his seal of approval would be more than enough to convince any sceptics, which could only add millions to its value.

Miles would have happily paid Rosenberg a hundred thousand dollars to authenticate the document, but as the professor pointed out, he was a historian not an economist, so a copy of Winston Churchill’s memoirs had proved to be more than enough.

CHAPTER 19

SURVEILLANCE WORK IS AMONG THEmost demanding – while at the same time the most boring – any police officer has to carry out. The problem is quite simple. You have to be alert for several hours on end and then ready to move at a moment’s notice, and should you take a couple of minutes off to make a phone call, grab a bite, take a pee, you can be sure that will be the moment the predator strikes. You will then spend the rest of your life remembering, and being remembered for, what happened when you blinked.

Ross had often thought that protecting the President of the United States must be among the most exciting and demanding jobs on earth. A lifetime of specialized training and dedication in preparation for something that might never happen. The detail on duty in Dallas on the morning John Kennedy was assassinated had the rest of their lives to consider if they’d done everything possible to prevent his death. One of the officers on duty that day committed suicide, two resigned, and three had taken early retirement.

After a month of no income flowing in and bills mounting up, Avril left her mother’s house in Putney, found a small flat in Pimlico and went back to work. Ross begged her not to take the risk, but she didn’t listen.

He and his small surveillance team, led by Paul and Rebecca, assisted by a group of young detectives, remained vigilant and thorough. They didn’t have to be reminded that a young woman’s life was at stake.

The daily routine began at midday, when Avril woke, having returned home around three, sometimes four in the morning. Normal people’s lunch was her breakfast, but not before enjoying a long warm bubble bath to wash away the night before. This was followed by a twenty-minute jog, with a police officer not far behind, another twenty minutes on the weights and a final twenty under the tanning machine, so that she never looked pale.

During the afternoon, Avril went shopping at her local Waitrose and Boots, and if she needed a new outfit, she took a trip to Carnaby Street or the King’s Road. Price didn’t seem to matter, but then she had chosen a profession that only dealt in cash payments, so she never received any brown envelopes from the taxman and never had to claim unemployment benefits.

The day job – night job – began around six, when she would prepare for the evening shift. A warm shower, not a bath. Make-up and dressing would take at least an hour, if she hoped to lure a rich client.

At eight o’clock a taxi would pick her up from her flat and take her to the Down and Out Club in Soho where she had her own table. Avril sipped only orange juice while she waited for an insect to land in her web. Some left after a few minutes, after they’d discovered she wasn’t in their price range, whileothers lasted the course and went home with empty wallets, as cheques and credit cards were not acceptable to either side.

Ross always covered the night shift, when he knew Avril would be at her most vulnerable and any predator might strike.

Having been warned of the possible danger, Avril was every bit as alert as Ross and his team, and if she was in any doubt about a punter, he was dismissed out of hand, however much he offered her.

Ross had begged her to go into hiding while Faulkner was away, even offered her a safe house, but she was adamant.

‘If he’s that good, he’ll find me,’ said Avril, ‘and if you’re that good, it won’t matter. In any case, a girl’s got to earn a living, and don’t forget, like footballers and ballet dancers, we have our sell-by date.’

The customers who approached her ranged from young men, who were often shy and nervous, to rowdy drunks who wanted ten minutes in the backyard and were summarily dismissed, to middle-aged businessmen who were usually well-dressed, polite, and looking for what Avril described as a ‘girlfriend experience’. They were her favourite customers, because they never caused any trouble and often became regulars. In fact, to Ross’s surprise, problems were rare – the occasional drunk who became aggressive, an angry punter who found he couldn’t afford her, and the vain men who assumed they wouldn’t have to pay – but they were few and far between, and one look at Ross and they were off.

Nine days after Faulkner had boarded a plane for Newark, New Jersey, the Hawk warned Ross that he couldn’t justify the expense for much longer. Then it happened.