Page 73 of Next in Line

A silence descended on the ground as the bowler polished the ball for the last time before once again advancing menacingly towards the wicket. A well-disguised slower ball seemed to take Ross by surprise. He stepped forward and was beaten by the flight, turned and desperately slid his foot back into the crease just as the wicket-keeper, who had been given a signal alerting him to the bowler’s intention, had come up to the stumps, whipped off the bails and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Howzat!’

Everyone in the ground turned to stare as the square leg umpire considered his decision. After an agonizing few moments’ deliberation, he raised a forefinger high in the air, which was greeted with cries of delight from the Royalty Protection team and their supporters, who immediately began jumping up and down and hugging each other to celebrate their victory by a single run.

‘Unlike Hogan to lose his composure at such a critical moment,’ remarked the Hawk as Ross departed from the field of battle, head bowed.

‘He didn’t,’ said William quietly. ‘He was simply carrying out orders.’

The commander stared at William for some time before saying, ‘I do believe, Superintendent, that you’re every bit as devious as your distinguished father.’

‘That’s the greatest compliment you’ve ever paid me, sir,’ responded William, before strolling out onto the field. ‘Well played, Colin,’ he said as he shook hands with his opposite number. ‘A well-deserved victory.’

‘Every bit as devious as your father,’ the commander repeated as he looked across at Sir Julian, who was quietly applauding.

CHAPTER 25

‘HOW NICE TO SEE YOUagain, Mrs Faulkner,’ said Johnny van Haeften as Christina strolled into his gallery on Duke Street.

Christina was impressed that van Haeften remembered her, as she’d only met him on a couple of occasions when she’d attended packed gallery openings with Miles.

‘Can you tell me anything about a missing Hans Holbein portrait of Henry VIII?’ she asked, coming straight to the point.

‘Hans Holbein the Younger,’ said van Haeften, ‘painted the King on three occasions. The earliest is on display at the Walker Gallery in Liverpool. The next was sadly destroyed in a fire in 1698. The third is in private hands, and hasn’t been seen by the public since it was last exhibited at the old Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart in 1873.’

‘If it were to come on the market, how much would you expect it to fetch?’ asked Christina, sounding like a second-hand car dealer.

‘It’s difficult to make an accurate estimate for a picture of such historic importance, but certainly twelve million, andpossibly fifteen in the present overheated market. Your husband, as you will know, Mrs Faulkner, has been looking for a Holbein for some years.’

She didn’t know, but was delighted to hear it.

‘He once told me he considered it a gaping hole in his Renaissance collection that he intended to fill if one ever came on the market.’

‘How interesting,’ said Christina, glancing at her watch. ‘Forgive me, I have a lunch appointment. Must dash.’

As she turned to leave, van Haeften said, ‘Do give your husband my best wishes when you next see him.’

‘I most certainly will,’ said Christina, adding under her breath, ‘when I next see him.’

She slipped out of the gallery and headed for the Ritz. She didn’t notice the man standing in a doorway on St James’s Street, even though she walked straight past him.

•••

‘How are you, Constable?’ enquired the prison governor.

‘I’m well, thank you, sir,’ said William, ignoring the tongue-in-cheek demotion.

‘Any chance of you calling me Richard, after all these years?’

‘None whatsoever, sir.’

‘I’m not surprised, but then you were old school when you were still in short trousers.’

Rebecca laughed, then looked embarrassed.

‘And who are you?’ the governor asked, peering down at her.

‘Detective Sergeant Pankhurst, sir.’

‘You needn’t worry about her,’ said William. ‘She’s even older school.’