unanswered, even if it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
* * *
William checked in at Heathrow just after nine the following morning. He didn’t tell Beth where he was going, and she didn’t ask. A ticket for Nice was waiting for him at the BA counter.
Much to his father’s disapproval, he had called Scotland Yard only moments after the Queen’s message had ended. The switchboard put him straight through to the commander’s home.
When Hawksby heard William’s news, he said, “Book yourself onto the first available flight to Nice. If Mrs. Faulkner is in possession of the Rembrandt, we can’t afford to keep her waiting. Whatever happens, let me know immediately, no matter what time of the day or night, because I won’t be getting much sleep until I find out.”
William fastened his seatbelt as the plane taxied out onto the north runway.
* * *
Grace was dropped off at Heathrow just after ten, and checked the arrivals board to find that Pan Am flight 716 was running twenty minutes late. She bought a copy of The Guardian and a cappuccino, sat down and waited.
When LANDED flicked up on the board next to flight 716, she took her place behind a barrier heaving with impatient greeters.
Professor Abrahams was among the first passengers to come through the gate, as his luggage was being transferred directly to a connecting flight for Warsaw. He came to a halt and scanned the crowd. When she spotted him, Grace was taken by surprise. The photograph on the back of his book didn’t reveal that he was barely five feet tall. But his massive domed forehead and thick pebble glasses made him instantly recognizable, even if the yellow tracksuit and the latest Nike trainers did come as something of a surprise.
“I always wear a tracksuit on a long-haul flight,” he explained as they shook hands. “I got the idea from Joan Collins, but unlike her, I don’t change back for the photographers before getting off the plane.”
“I thought we’d walk across to the Hilton,” said Grace. “It’s not far, and as there’s always a long queue for a taxi, we’ll probably get there quicker.”
“And save a few dollars,” said the professor as they walked the short distance to the hotel, chatting about everything except the one subject that was on both of their minds. Grace had booked a suite for two hours, and the receptionist handed her the room key thinking they were an unusual couple to be booking a private room at that time in the morning.
As Grace made the professor a cup of steaming black coffee, he took a file out of his briefcase and placed it on the table between them. He began to turn the pages while giving her a running commentary, as if he were teaching a bright undergraduate attending one of his lectures on how his particular expertise might—he kept repeating the word “might”—be of assistance in the Rainsford case. Once he’d turned the last page, he dealt with all of Grace’s queries with an assurance that didn’t brook contradiction. By the time he’d answered her last question, Grace knew she’d found the right man.
Abrahams checked his watch and put the file back in his briefcase. “I ought to get moving if I’m going to make my flight,” he said, as he rose from his chair. “Can’t afford to be late for my mother. She’s probably already at the airport waiting for me.”
Grace accompanied Abrahams back to terminal two, and before he went through to the departures gate she thanked him once again and asked, “Can I tell my father that you’d be willing to appear as an expert witness, if there’s a retrial?”
“I wouldn’t have wasted your time if I hadn’t been willing to do that, young lady. However, I still need to see Rainsford’s original two-page statement that was presented as evidence in court before I’ll know if I’d be wasting mine.”
* * *
Professor Abrahams boarded his plane for Warsaw just as William landed in Nice. As William only had hand luggage, he headed straight for passport control and was among the first to step out into the concourse, where he was greeted by a man holding up a placard reading WARWICK.
He sank into the back seat of a Bentley and tried to compose his thoughts before meeting up with Christina Faulkner again. However, the driver had other ideas.
By the time they reached the Villa Rosa, William knew the driver’s views on everything from the Pompidou Center, designed by an Englishman, to