need clay from the same source as the original. Cast metals are easier to fake. Stone statues are almost all authentic.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘Forging them is too labour intensive. Sometimes there’s a point where a truly elaborate forgery passes into authenticity. But the vessel—ceramics can be dated with thermoluminescence, which measures the natural radiation absorbed by the clay since it was fired. The technique is only useable on very large objects, because it’s pretty destructive. But whether the artefact Gareth is trying to find exists or not, it’s desirable for the most appealing reasons.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It occupies a key position in mythical history, its provenance is intriguingly incomplete, and it possesses just the right amount of romantic appeal. Whenever those factors coincide, human nature takes over and makes such an item appear.’
‘You don’t think he’d try to palm Ubeda off with a fake?’
‘I’m not suggesting that, but the stakes are high. In terms of revenue, the artefact market fits comfortably behind drugs and arms. Looted items from Iraq ended up in the hands of European and American sellers within days of the troops moving in. The problem arises in your husband’s eagerness to locate such an item. If by some miracle he achieved his aim tonight, he would be helping to hide a world treasure from sight. Such a valuable item would never surface in public hands.’
‘So Gareth will make a fool of himself, whatever the outcome,’ said Monica, draining her glass, ‘and you can’t stop him.’
‘I’m afraid we’re no longer able to keep track of him after tonight,’ May agreed. ‘But perhaps we won’t have to.’
‘Then let’s make the most of the evening.’ She brushed his arm lightly, but allowed her fingers to linger. May had intended to rebuff her, but was tired of doing the right thing, of always placing duty ahead of his personal feelings. For once, the image of Bryant’s disapproving features did not appear as a rebuke, and he found himself placing his arms around Monica’s shoulders, kissing her lightly, seeking out those guilty pleasures they had both sought so hard to avoid.
It was a matter of loyalty—if not to Greenwood or his wife, then to John. His partner had never begged a favour in all the years they had worked together. The least Bryant could do was see it through tonight.
They set off along the Paddington arm of the Grand Union Canal at ten p.m., reaching the point where it joined the Regent’s Canal at Little Venice, continuing past the bright enamelled buckets and tarred ropes of the red and blue houseboats. If Bryant had possessed the energy, they would have detoured through Kensal Green Cemetery, just for the pleasure of it, but Greenwood and Ubeda were walking ahead of them, and they could not afford to drop out of range.
May had persuaded Monica to place a tracker in her husband’s coat pocket when he left, so that there would be no mistakes. The device belonged to Banbury, and was the size of a five-pence coin, with a battery life of six hours. They hoped it would transmit a signal long enough to last the PCU through to the end of their involvement in Greenwood’s affairs. The continuation of the murder inquiry at Balaklava Street took precedence over rescuing the reputation of an academic.
‘So many back gardens,’ Meera pointed out. ‘It’s a secret world down here.’ They passed the sloping lawns and willow trees of large Victorian villas. The steadily falling rain made the footpaths safer; there was less danger of being caught in the internecine wars of the alcoholics who frequented them. Meera checked the tiny red light on the reader May had given her. ‘They’re heading toward Regent’s Park and the zoo. This isn’t their usual patch, is it?’
‘No,’ Bryant agreed, pausing beneath a dripping green bridge. He leaned on his stick to catch his breath. The spatter of rain on the canal surface echoed on the curved brick ceiling, pulsing distorted reflections. ‘Of course, they might be going all the way to Hackney, but I think not. They’ll stop at Camden.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s the only point where any of the western tributaries of the Fleet can empty out. They’ve been narrowing down their search since this whole thing began. Ubeda is driven, and they’re running out of places to explore. Take my arm, would you? This looks slippery.’ They continued on over the tilted paving stones and muddied pools of the footpath.
‘So we’re off the Grand Union now?’