Page 22 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

B ETH DIALLED W ILLIAM ’ S MOBILE for the seventh time that day, and finally a familiar voice came on the line.

‘Did you manage to get a good night’s sleep, my darling?’ she asked.

‘Slept like a baby,’ said William. Beth waited for the gag every copper makes when asked that question, ‘Woke every two hours screaming.’

‘Wasn’t the opening ceremony magnificent?’ enthused Beth.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ responded William. ‘I never saw it.’

‘Not even Mr Bean playing the keyboard with the London Symphony Orchestra?’ asked Beth. ‘He brought the house down.’

He wasn’t the only one who nearly brought the house down, thought William, but he satisfied himself with, ‘No. We had one or two problems this end.’

‘You would never have known, watching the ceremony on television,’ said Beth. ‘Over breakfast, Peter was raving about James Bond and the Queen jumping out of a helicopter.’

‘What’s breakfast?’ asked William innocently.

‘A time when families get together over a meal and tell each other what they will be doing that day.’

‘So, what are you all doing today?’ asked William, feeling even more guilty. He kept his eyes on the CCTV screens in front of him as he listened, just in case.

‘Artemisia phoned to say she’s found a way of sneaking into the athletes’ village. Says it’s her only hope of getting an exclusive.’

I could have given her an exclusive last night , thought William, but he simply said, ‘Did she tell you how she proposes to do that?’

‘Are you asking as a father or as a policeman?’

‘Both,’ admitted William.

‘Well, she did ask if she could borrow some money to buy a pair of the latest Adidas trainers, but she wouldn’t tell me why.’

‘They’re part of the British Olympic team’s official kit,’ said William, who by now had a good idea of exactly what his daughter must be up to. ‘But why doesn’t she put them on her expenses? After all, the Daily Mail ’s pockets are far deeper than ours.’

‘She wants to prove herself first. Anyway, she’s promised to pay me back once her “exclusive” hits the front page.’

‘Can you remember a time,’ said William, ‘when Arte paid us back for anything? Our only hope is that she’ll end up marrying a rich man.’

‘As Artemisia is far too independent to take a penny of Robert’s money, and Robert is far too proud to rely on his family’s money, I expect we’ll have to go on paying her “little expenses” for some years to come.’

‘Do you think Robert and Arte will tie the knot at some point?’ asked William.

‘Who knows with her generation,’ offered Beth, ‘but I remain hopeful.’

‘Fathers are usually convinced no one’s good enough for their daughters, but in Robert’s case, it’s the other way round.’

‘You don’t fool me,’ said Beth. ‘You adore Arte.’

‘Guilty as charged, but that isn’t what I said.’ William glanced up again at the CCTV screens, trying to do two things at once. ‘So, how’s your sell-out exhibition going, dare I ask?’

‘Almost as well as yours,’ replied Beth.

‘Tickets are selling at double the price on the black market, and we’ve even got touts trading on the pavement outside the gallery.

And one other rather interesting thing has happened today that I thought you might like to know about, bearing in mind that you don’t believe in coincidences. ’

‘Why don’t you add to my problems?’ teased William.

‘This morning, I received a letter from the Russian Embassy to let me know that when our exhibition closes, we should hold onto Van Gogh’s self-portrait and not return it to the Hermitage along with their other pictures, as it will be collected at a later date by a third party.’

‘Did they name the third party?’ asked William.

‘They did,’ said Beth, ‘a certain Mr Booth Watson QC, and there are no prizes for guessing who he represents. What I don’t know, though I suspect you do, is whether he’s purchasing the painting with money or with something else.’

William was just about to make a noncommittal reply when another phone began to ring. ‘Sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Inspector Stuart, sir,’ said a voice William didn’t recognize, when he picked up the other phone. ‘We’ve got a problem in Glasgow.’

‘What kind of problem, Inspector?’

‘I’m the security officer at Hampden Park, where the North Korean women’s football team is playing Colombia in their opening fixture. I didn’t imagine there would be any problems with a first-round match, especially as the stadium is almost empty, but …’

‘But …’ repeated William.

‘Unfortunately, just before kick-off, a video was played which showed the players of the North Korean team standing in front of a South Korean flag.’

William tried to keep a straight face while he continued to listen.

‘The North Korean team have marched off the pitch and are refusing to return until someone in authority makes an official apology on behalf of the British Olympic Association and, frankly, Commander, I don’t know anyone in authority except you.’

The smile returned to William’s face.

‘The North Korean coach, not an easy woman,’ continued Inspector Stuart, ‘is saying to anyone who will listen, including the local rag, that we have insulted the People’s Republic of North Korea and caused a diplomatic incident.’

‘But if I remember the rules of the competition,’ said William, ‘should a team fail to turn up, they automatically forfeit the game and the three points are awarded to the opposing side.’

‘But that’s the problem, sir. They did turn up, even shook hands with the referee and the Colombian players moments before the wrong national anthem was played.’

‘Why don’t you put the coach on,’ said William. He tried to think while he waited.

‘Who is this?’ demanded the next voice to come on to the line.

‘Commander Warwick,’ said William, hoping he sounded suitably pompous.

‘I’m the senior officer in charge of policing the Games,’ he added, just as Rebecca walked into the Gold Suite.

‘Please allow me to apologize on behalf of the British Olympic Association for the unforgivable mistake someone has made and assure you that I will personally track down the culprit and punish them.’

Across the room, Rebecca looked suitably impressed.

A long silence followed, which William took advantage of.

‘However, I have to point out that under Law Seventeen of the Olympic code, if a team holds up the start of a game for more than fifteen minutes, that side automatically forfeits the match, and the three points will be awarded to the opposing team.’

Another silence followed before Inspector Stuart came back on the line. ‘That seems to have done the trick, sir, because the North Korean coach is ushering her players back onto the pitch and the two captains are once again shaking hands. I’m only sorry to have bothered you.’

‘Not a problem, Inspector. Enjoy the game.’ William put down the phone.

‘Forgive me for asking, sir,’ said Rebecca, ‘but is there a Law Seventeen?’

‘As the head of the policing operation,’ said William with conviction, ‘I make the laws.’

‘I only ask, sir,’ added Rebecca, ‘because North Korea are unlikely to beat Columbia, let alone win a medal.’

William managed a smile.

But the smile slipped from his face as a new thought occurred to him: what if the switching of the national flags hadn’t been a mistake?

After last night, there was no doubt the Russians, in league with Miles Faulkner, were attempting to sabotage the 2012 Olympics.

On the one hand, the incorrect national flag might be a trivial mistake.

On the other hand, nothing that could give the North Koreans cause to complain was ever trivial – and it was possible that this, like the cyclists the previous evening, was just another distraction.

The fireman who tried to put out the eternal flame.

Olympic tickets that didn’t exist. Were they all part of a bigger picture, and was Van Gogh the artist?

They had always been one step ahead of him, but that was before William knew about the triangle of the Russians, the Chinese and Miles Faulkner. But how could he break that triangle?

···

Detective Inspector Paul Adaja was walking around what he expected would be his regular beat of the Olympic Stadium when his mobile rang.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector Adaja. It’s Commander Sinclair calling.’

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Paul, who was taken by surprise, as Sinclair was the last person he’d expected to hear on the other end of the line.

‘You may or may not have heard, Inspector, that the Commissioner has just appointed me to head up the murder squad.’

‘I hadn’t heard,’ admitted Paul. ‘My congratulations, sir.’

‘Thank you, Paul. The reason I’m calling is to offer you the chance to be my second in command, with the rank of Chief Inspector.’ He emphasized the word Chief.

‘I’m presently working with Commander Warwick in Public Order and Operational Support for the Olympics,’ responded Paul, ‘as I feel sure you know, sir.’

‘As you have been for the past seven years, Paul, but as the Olympics will be over in a few weeks’ time, I thought you might be interested in an even bigger challenge.’

‘It’s very generous of you to consider me, sir,’ replied Paul, ‘but I enjoy working with Commander Warwick, who I feel sure will be offered an important new role once the Games are over.’

‘I can only hope you don’t live to regret your decision, Inspector,’ said Sinclair, as he put his phone down.

‘I can’t imagine why I would,’ replied Paul, if only to himself.

He continued his circuit of the stadium, checking in with a few of the constables on duty, before making his way back to the Gold Suite about half an hour later.

He found the Commander absent – no doubt attending to an urgent matter somewhere else in the Olympic Park – while Jackie was manning the phones and keeping a close eye on the CCTV screens.

Ross was sitting on the other side of the room trawling through last night’s CCTV footage for any clue as to where the two Russians had gone after he lost them, but came up with nothing. They clearly knew what they were doing.

Rebecca was tucked in another corner, talking into her mobile, and Paul arrived just in time to hear the tail end of her conversation.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she was saying, ‘but I’m proud to be a Detective Sergeant in Commander Warwick’s team, so I think I’ll stay put for the time being.’

Paul picked up a faint annoyed retort from the speaker, and then Rebecca tucked her phone back in her pocket, muttering, ‘I’d rather be a Constable in admin than work for that man.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Paul. ‘You’ve just had a job offer from Commander Sinclair?’

Rebecca laughed. ‘I suppose that means I was his second choice?’

‘Luckily, neither of us are going anywhere.’

‘Should I be offended that I haven’t had an offer?’ asked Jackie, glancing around from the CCTV screens.

Just then, her mobile phone began to ring.

‘Probably him now,’ said Rebecca, laughing as Jackie took her phone from her pocket.

Ross smiled, turned from his desk and said, ‘If it’s any consolation for being the last resort, Jackie, you can be absolutely sure of one thing: Commander Sinclair won’t be calling me.’

Jackie laughed as she answered her phone.

‘Good evening, Sergeant Roycroft,’ said a voice Jackie immediately recognized.

‘Good evening, Commander Sinclair,’ she responded, to suppressed laughs from the rest of her team. ‘How can I help you?’

‘By becoming a member of my team, Jackie,’ said Sinclair. ‘When I was invited to head up the murder squad, the first name to cross my mind was yours.’

And yours would have been the last to cross mine , thought Jackie, but somehow managed, ‘How kind of you to even consider me sir, but I currently work for one of the finest officers in the Met, and I wouldn’t consider leaving him for someone else, whatever position or rank you offered me.

’ Jackie only just stopped herself saying, for a sleazebag like you .

She put down the phone before Sinclair could respond, and the team all cheered.

···

Artemisia was at the tiny desk she’d been assigned in the corner of the Daily Mail offices, working on her plan to somehow get into the athletes’ village, when the editor’s secretary hurried over to her. ‘The editor would like to see you immediately.’ She repeated the word immediately .

‘Can I ask …?’ Artemisia began, but the secretary was already heading back to the editor’s office.

Artemisia left her desk and took the lift to the top floor, her mind whirring.

In the few minutes it took her to reach the editor’s office, she came up with a dozen reasons why he would want to see her.

Perhaps he had loved her article? Was he discussing with his inner team which page it should go on?

By the time she arrived outside his office door, she was on the front page, and the cub reporter had become a lioness.

The first thing Artemisia noticed as she entered the editor’s office was a printout of her article, along with several of the photographs, spread out on his desk. When he looked up, she gave him her warmest smile.

‘What in hell’s name do you think this load of crap is?’ were the editor’s opening words, as he held up her article between a finger and thumb, as if it was contagious.

‘A human-interest story,’ stammered Artemisia, ‘about a girl from Wakefield whose dreams were shattered on the opening day of the Games.’

‘The Daily Mail doesn’t do shattered dreams,’ snapped the editor, ‘not least because shattered dreams don’t sell papers.

Our two million readers want stories about winners, not losers, preferably gold medallists in a sport they are interested in, and I can assure you épée fencing isn’t amongst them.

In future, I expect you to come up with stories no other paper has, not ones no other paper wants, with the possible exception of the Wakefield Evening News , and I suspect even they would spike it. ’

Artemisia could feel her legs wobbling and was beginning to wish she’d taken up the offer to be a graduate trainee with Peter Jones.

‘The word exclusive , just in case you didn’t know,’ said the editor, ‘means no other paper has it, not no other paper wants it . Do I make myself clear?’ His outstretched arm moved slowly across the desk, his eyes never leaving her for a moment, as he dropped the article and photographs into his wastepaper basket.

Artemisia was about to burst into tears, when the editor’s secretary touched her elbow and quickly led her out of the room.

Once the door had mercifully closed, the secretary tried to console Arte with the words, ‘Be thankful he wasn’t in a foul mood, or he might have told you what he really thought.’