Page 15 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

‘W HAT A PLEASANT SURPRISE, ’ said Beth, as William strolled into the kitchen. ‘To what do we owe this honour, Commander, dare I ask?’

‘To a very brief gap in my schedule,’ said William, as he took a seat opposite the twins. ‘Robert not with you?’ he asked Artemisia.

‘Visiting the constituency,’ she replied, ‘so I thought I’d keep mum company.’

‘Strange really,’ said Beth, turning from the oven, ‘that you technically live here and Artemisia doesn’t, and yet I see a lot more of my daughter nowadays than my husband.’

William couldn’t come up with a suitable reply.

‘How long do we have you for?’ asked Beth.

‘Not long,’ admitted William. ‘The dress rehearsal for the opening ceremony won’t begin until midnight, but I’ll be expected back long before the curtain rises.’

‘Why midnight?’ asked Peter, as his mother placed a chicken salad on the centre of the table, hoping there was enough spare to also feed the unexpected visitor.

‘It’s our best hope of keeping the big surprise under wraps,’ said William, ‘while making sure the details don’t leak before the first editions come out in the morning.’

Artemisia turned towards her father and gave him a warm smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what that big surprise is?’

‘Not a hope while you’re working for the Daily Mail .’

‘I’m just a cub reporter,’ said Artemisia, ‘and only while the Games are taking place. However, the editor has hinted that if I were to come up with an exclusive, this cub just might be invited to join the pack.’

‘I can’t help you there,’ William repeated, as he helped himself to some salad.

‘I’m taking Arte, Jojo, Robert and Grandpops to the opening ceremony on Friday,’ said Peter. ‘Although I’m not going to tell you how I got hold of five tickets.’

‘No mean feat,’ admitted William. ‘At least ten people have applied for every available seat, and they’re now trading on the black market for over five thousand pounds apiece.’

‘While you, no doubt, will be sitting in the Royal Box living it up,’ said Beth.

‘If only,’ said William. ‘No, I’ll be stuck in the Gold Suite below ground with only the television screens to keep me company. All of them zooming in on the spectators, not the participants, in case there’s any trouble.’

Artemisia looked up and tried a second time. ‘What kind of trouble are you expecting?’

‘If I knew the answer to that,’ said William, avoiding the question, ‘there wouldn’t be any trouble.’

‘Can I visit you in the Gold Suite?’ asked Artemisia, giving her father an even bigger smile.

‘Good try,’ said William, ‘but the answer is still no.’ William took a bite of chicken before he added, ‘So what have you been up to, Peter?’ hoping to silence his persistent daughter.

‘I can’t go into any detail,’ said Peter solemnly. ‘Not while there’s a member of press present.’

William and Beth burst out laughing.

‘Peter’s off to Woolwich Crown Court in the morning,’ said Artemisia. ‘He’s appearing in a case for the Crown, as a junior – very junior.’

‘What’s the case?’ asked William.

‘Trying to make sure that some two-bit ticket tout isn’t granted bail,’ said Artemisia. ‘A story that wouldn’t usually make page fourteen below the fold on a slow day.’

‘So that’s how you got the tickets?’ queried William.

‘I can’t break client privilege,’ said Peter, with a smirk.

William gave up, and turning to his daughter asked, ‘How’s Robert doing?’

‘Working as hard as ever,’ Artemisia replied. ‘Doing his best to climb the greasy pole.’

‘A journalist, a lawyer and a politician in the family. What have I done to deserve that?’ asked William, who was eyeing a chicken leg. He turned to Beth. ‘So how’s the Hermitage exhibition going?’

‘Not a spare ticket available,’ Beth replied. ‘In fact, the demand has been so high we’ve had to add some extra evening sessions, which won’t harm our bank balance. However, I do have something to report that might just be of interest to an astute detective.’

William put down his knife and fork.

Peter grabbed the chicken leg.

‘Christina spotted her ex-husband having tea in the museum’s café with a member of the Hermitage team.’

‘A man or a woman?’ asked William, although he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

‘A man,’ replied Beth.

William nodded, but didn’t comment, while his daughter’s ears pricked up.

‘After Faulkner’s continued interest in the Van Gogh self-portrait, I find that rather interesting,’ said Beth. ‘I don’t suppose you’re in a position to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Not yet,’ William replied.

Artemisia had been listening carefully to every word of the exchange and was about to ask her father another question, when he stood up and said, ‘Sorry to leave you, but I can’t afford to be late for the opening number.’

Artemisia would have liked to know what the opening number was, but didn’t bother to ask.

Beth checked her watch. ‘But it’s still another three hours before the curtain goes up.’

‘And no prizes for guessing who has to be standing in the wings long before the stagehands wheel on the props,’ said William.

‘And what props would those be?’ asked Artemisia, still not giving up.

William didn’t bother to respond.

‘What time can we expect you home tonight?’ asked Beth.

‘I won’t be coming home tonight,’ replied William, ‘or any night for the next fortnight. I’ve already set up a camp bed in the Gold Suite, but don’t worry, there’s a coffee machine in the next room.’

‘If you were to come home,’ said Beth, ‘you could at least have one decent meal a day.’

‘Not a chance,’ said William. ‘I just can’t risk being away from the stadium for more than a couple of hours at a time. If there was a major emergency, you could be sure I’d be stuck in a traffic jam halfway between Fulham and the Olympic Park.’

‘In that case, Commander,’ said Beth, ‘don’t forget to introduce yourself when we next meet.’

William took his wife in his arms and kissed her gently.

‘You two are just soppy,’ said Artemisia, turning away.

‘If you and Robert are as soppy as your mother and me after twenty-five years,’ said William, as he hugged his daughter, ‘you can count yourself lucky.’