“It wasn’t his to leave, Detective Constable Warwick, as I made clear to DS Roycroft.”
“You did indeed, sir. But I am sure you understand that we must follow the letter of the law.”
“At a snail’s pace, it would seem, despite the fact that our legal team is at your disposal.”
“That’s good to know, sir, because we wouldn’t want to do anything to harm the special relationship between our two countries, would we?”
“Cut out the sarcasm, Warwick, and just get my moon dust back.”
The phone went dead. William swiveled around in his chair to see Jackie grinning at him.
“He grows on you,” she said, “but Underwood’s one of those Americans who considers Britain to be one of their smaller states. It won’t be long before he reminds you that Texas is almost three times the size of the United Kingdom. So if you want to avoid a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you get his moon dust back.”
“I hear you,” said William. “But equally important, how do I get a train ticket to Manchester?”
“You report to Mavis in Travel on the ground floor. But I warn you, if you think Mr. Underwood is tough, compared to Mavis, he’s a softie. If it was up to her, the Queen would travel second class, and the likes of us would be shoveling coal into the engine’s furnace.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
* * *
“Mavis—”
“Mrs. Walters to you, young man. You can’t call me Mavis until you’re at least a chief inspector. Start again.”
“I’m sorry,” said William. “Mrs. Walters, I need—”
“Name, rank, and department?”
“Warwick, DC, Art and Antiques.”
“So what were you hoping for?”
“To be the commissioner.”
“Try again,” said Mrs. Walters, but she did at least manage a smile.
“A return train ticket to Manchester.”
“What is the purpose of your trip, and how long will you be in Manchester?”
“I’ll be visiting the university, and hope to go there and back on the same day.”
“Then you’ll have to catch the seven forty-two from Euston, and the last train back on a weekday is the ten forty-three. If you miss it, you’ll be spending the night on a bench on platform twelve. You are entitled to one meal, at a cost of no more than two pounds eighty, which you can claim on your duty sheet 232, but I’ll require a receipt.” Mrs. Walters began to write out a train warrant for Manchester Piccadilly. “If you’re going to the university, you’ll have to catch the 147 bus. You’ll also need an umbrella.”
“An umbrella?”
“You’ve obviously never been to Manchester before.”
* * *
“Good morning, Mr. Warwick,” said the young woman who met him at the front desk. “I’m Melanie Clore. How can I help you?”
“You have a sale coming up on July the seventeenth—”
“Which lot number do you want us to withdraw?”
“How could you possibly know—”
“The police don’t visit Sotheby’s to put something up for sale.”
William smiled. “Lot number nineteen. A phial of moon dust brought back on the Apollo 11 mission by Neil Armstrong.”
Miss Clore checked the catalog. “Offered to us by a Dr. Keith Talbot, who produced a will to confirm that the moon dust had been left to him.”
“The American Embassy is claiming ownership and say they will sue everybody in sight if you go ahead with the sale.”
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mr. Warwick?”
“It wouldn’t worry me,” said William, “if I thought Dr. Talbot had the law on his side.”
“Even if he does, the legal battle could last for years.”
“My boss is expecting me to solve this one in a couple of days.”
“Is he? Well, if Dr. Talbot is willing to sign a standard release form, we will be happy to hand over the phial, and leave you to return it to the Americans. Let’s just hope Dr. Talbot isn’t another Mr. Finlay Isles.”
“Dare I ask who Mr. Finlay Isles is?”
“He sued us in 1949 over a watercolor worth a hundred pounds, and we’re still waiting for the courts to decide who the rightful owner is.”
“How come?” asked William.
“It’s a Turner which is now worth over a million.”
* * *
As the train rattled over the points on its progress to Manchester the following morning, William studied the moon dust file yet again, but learned nothing new.
He allowed his thoughts to return to the missing Rembrandt and how he could possibly find out the name of the artist who’d made the copy. He was convinced that in order to create such a convincing reproduction, the painter must have worked from the original. William still had difficulty believing that anyone who had been educated at the Slade would be capable of destroying a national treasure, but then he recalled the Hawk’s words—“Wait until you meet the man before you jump to that conclusion.”
William had read Faulkner’s file from cover to cover, and although he didn’t appear in public very often, one event he never missed was the opening night of a new James Bond film, and he was also a collector of first editions of Ian Fleming’s books. William had recently read a diary piece in The Daily Mail reporting that A View to a Kill would be opening at the Odeon Leicester Square in a month’s time. But how could he possibly get hold of a ticket? And even if he did, he couldn’t see Mrs. Walters sanctioning it as a legitimate expense.
His mind returned to Dr. Talbot. One phone call had elicited the information that the professor would be delivering a talk in the geology department’s lecture theater at eleven o’clock. William wondered what sort of man Talbot was, amused by the thought of the American empire bearing down on an innocent geology lecturer from the north of England. He knew where his sympathies lay. He placed the file back in his briefcase and picked up the latest edition of RA Magazine, but after flicking through a few pages decided it would have to wait until the return journey.
When the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly at 10:49, William was among the first to hand over his ticket at the barrier. He jogged past a row of taxis to the nearest bus stop and joined a queue. A few minutes later he climbed onto the 147, which dropped him outside the main entrance to the university. How could Mrs. Walters possibly have known that? He smiled when he saw a group of students ambling through the gates and onto the campus at a leisurely pace he’d quite forgotten since joining the Met. He asked one of them for directions to the geology department, and arrived a few minutes late, but then he wasn’t there to attend the lecture. He climbed the steps to the first floor, entered the theater by the back door, and joined the dozen or so students who were listening intently to Dr. Talbot.
From his seat in the back row, William studied the lecturer carefully. Dr. Talbot couldn’t have been an inch over five foot, and had a shock of curly black hair that didn’t look as if it regularly came into contact with a brush or comb. He wore a corduroy jacket, a check shirt, and a bootlace tie. His long black gown was covered in chalk dust. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice, only occasionally glancing down at his notes.