Next In Line

Chapter 24

‘Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?’ asked Beth as William parked the car on the far side of the cricket ground.

‘To start with, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, so there must be a fair chance we’ll get in a full day’s play.’

‘I can’t think of a more exciting way of spending a Sunday afternoon than having to watch a cricket match for five hours.’

‘Be thankful it’s not a test match that can last for five days,’ said William. He got out of the car and opened the back door, releasing three caged children.

‘Daddy,’ said Artemisia, grabbing his trouser leg. ‘Can we have an ice cream?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Beth firmly. ‘You’ve only just had lunch. So you’ll have to wait until the tea interval.’

‘I told you Mum would say that,’ said Peter, who left them and ran off to watch the players warming up in the nets.

‘Ah, I spot a cloud,’ said William as they walked around the boundary.

Beth was puzzled, because the sky was clear with the sun beating down on a contented crowd. Then she saw Christina, sitting on her own.

‘Why don’t you grab the deckchair next to her,’ said William. ‘Give you the chance to find out what she’s been up to recently — no good, I predict.’

‘Do you ever stop thinking like a policeman?’ Beth sighed.

‘Not while she’s sitting there like a praying mantis, because I can’t believe she’s come to watch the cricket.’

‘The cricketers, perhaps,’ said Beth, when she spotted Paul chatting to Christina.

‘And that’s never going to happen,’ said William. He looked around the ground until his eyes settled on Ross and Jackie, who were sitting next to each other, deep in conversation.

‘Whose idea was this?’ asked Jackie as she looked around the ground to see that almost every deckchair had been taken, while others sat on the grass.

‘Choirboy’s of course,’ said Ross. ‘He felt there was a schism between the Royalty Protection officers and uniformed branch.’

‘Not helped by the fact that a Royalty Protection officer can remain working for their principal for many years, while officers protecting cabinet ministers usually have a shelf life of about three or four years, less than the average football manager.’

‘That’s why the Super thought a cricket match might break down some of the barriers,’ said Ross.

‘Who’s that walking out onto the middle of the pitch with William?’ asked Jackie, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun.

‘Chief Inspector Colin Brooks. He was on the PM’s security detail until the Hawk transferred him to head up Royalty Protection in place of Milner.’

‘He can only be an improvement on that man.’

‘He may be doing Milner’s old job, but that’s where the similarities end. Brooks is an old-fashioned copper who thinks of himself as a small cog in a big wheel. Milner had begun to believe he was the wheel.’ Ross frowned. ‘Looks like we lost the toss.’

‘How come an Irishman knows so much about cricket?’

‘Don’t forget I spent my youth at a boarding school in Belfast,’ said Ross, ‘before I was expelled.’

‘What did you do to deserve that?’ asked Jackie as the two captains walked off the pitch together, chatting amicably.

‘I broke the sixth commandment for the first time.’

‘Who was the lucky girl?’

‘My housemaster’s wife. If the truth be known, it was she who seduced me, but they couldn’t expel her, so I had to go,’ said Ross as William walked across to join them.

‘We’re fielding,’ he said. ‘You’ll be opening the bowling, Ross, so you’d better get warmed up.’

Ross stood up to find someone pulling at his trouser leg.

‘Can I have an ice cream?’ asked Jojo.

‘Please,’ prompted Ross.

‘Can I have an ice cream, please?’

Ross took a pound coin out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Make sure Artemisia and Peter get one as well.’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ said Jojo as she ran away.

‘Wrapped around her little finger may well be a cliché,’ said Jackie, ‘but it sure applies to you.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ said Ross, watching as Jojo, holding up the coin in triumph, joined Artemisia and Peter, who had been waiting for her by the ice cream van.

Jackie smiled. ‘Thank heavens she’s got Beth to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground.’

‘Right again. Truth is, I couldn’t have taken on my present job without her support system.’

‘Where are you taking Jojo for her summer holiday?’ asked Jackie.

‘Belfast. We’re going to spend a week with her grandmother. If she can survive that, I’ll sign her up for the SAS.’

‘And what about the other woman in your life?’

‘I’m going on holiday with her as soon as I get back, but I confess I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘Why not?’ asked Jackie, looking surprised. ‘Half the world would like to go on holiday with Princess Diana.’

‘I don’t much care for her present...’ he hesitated for a moment ‘...paramour. A playboy, who enjoys basking in her reflected limelight.’

‘Have you ever told her how you feel about him?’

‘It’s not my position to do so,’ said Ross, sounding unusually formal. ‘Although I’m not very good at hiding my feelings,’ he admitted as William reappeared and tossed him the cherry. ‘Right, Super,’ he said. ‘This is one lot I won’t be protecting. I plan to send them straight back to the pavilion as quickly as possible.’

‘Not too quickly,’ whispered William. ‘Remember our long-term plan.’

Beth’s father, Arthur Rainsford, and Sir Julian were seated in the pavilion waiting for the first over to be bowled. They had, over the years, become close friends, and Sir Julian didn’t make friends easily. They both wore smart blue blazers, Sir Julian’s double-breasted with Lincoln’s Inn brass buttons — even at play he was at work — white shirts and MCC ties, as if it were the opening day of a test match at Lord’s, rather than a hastily arranged fixture between two branches of the police force.

‘Who’s opening the bowling?’ asked Arthur as he focused his binoculars on a tall man who was shining the ball on his trousers.

‘DI Ross Hogan,’ replied Sir Julian. ‘He’s got a foot in both camps as he’s currently the Princess of Wales’s protection officer, which is useful because it means William had someone on the inside from the start.’

‘Not an easy job at the moment,’ said Arthur, without further comment.

‘I think you’ll find that Ross will be up to the challenge. He enjoys flirting with danger.’

‘Beth tells me that’s not the only thing he enjoys flirting with,’ said Arthur as they watched Ross measuring out his run up while William set the field. ‘You must be very proud of William. The youngest Superintendent in the force.’

‘Nelson was a vice admiral by the age of forty-three, I had to remind him,’ said Sir Julian. ‘And Eisenhower was only a colonel when America entered the Second World War, but just two years later he was the supreme Allied commander in Europe.’

‘So where will William end up?’

‘He certainly won’t be President of the United States,’ said Sir Julian, glancing across at his daughter-in-law. ‘How’s Beth coping after being treated so appallingly by Sloane?’

‘She seems fine, as far as I can tell,’ said Arthur. ‘She and Christina Faulkner are up to something, but I don’t know what.’

‘I hope Beth knows what she’s doing. Mrs Faulkner isn’t someone I’d want to rely on.’

‘Good shot, sir!’ shouted Arthur as the ball raced towards the boundary rope. ‘The ministers have got off to a good start.’

‘On a more serious note, Arthur,’ said Sir Julian, ‘now the children are at school, I think we’ll have to top up their trust fund.’

‘Fine by me. Ross Hogan has more than played his part since Jojo joined the fold.’

‘Yes, that arrangement has worked out well, especially now Beth has been able to spend more time with the children since she resigned.’

‘Well bowled, sir,’ said Arthur as one of the opening batsmen’s middle stump was uprooted and the fielders ran over to congratulate the bowler.

‘I have a feeling,’ said Christina, nodding to the old gentlemen, ‘that those two are talking about us. Do they know we’re partners?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Beth. ‘And I don’t intend to tell them until we’ve made our first hundred thousand.’

‘I bet Julian finds out long before then,’ said Christina as she opened a half bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. ‘Any recent coups?’

‘We made a couple of thousand profit when I sold the Brabazon Brabazon to the Chris Beetles Gallery in Mayfair.’

‘Chapeau,’ said Christina, raising her glass. ‘So, what’s next on your hit list?’

‘Have you heard of the Newlyn School?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ admitted Christina.

‘A group of artists who worked in Cornwall at the end of the last century, and are just coming back into fashion. I’ve got my eye on a painting by Albert Chevallier Tayler that’s coming up for sale at Cheffins in Cambridge. If I can pick it up for around three thousand, it would be a bit of a coup,’ said Beth as Ross leapt in the air and cried, ‘Howzat!’

A man in a long white coat pondered for a moment before raising a forefinger high in the air to indicate the fall of the second wicket.

‘William’s side seem to be doing quite well,’ said Christina. ‘Not that I have the slightest idea what I’m talking about.’

‘That’s never worried you in the past,’ teased Beth as the batsman who’d scored a half-century left the field to cries of ‘Well played, sir,’ ‘Bravo,’ and ‘Fine innings!’

‘I hadn’t realized,’ Beth went on, ‘that all the contacts and knowledge I’ve acquired over the past ten years could be turned into a profit. What’s more, I’m more relaxed and have more spare time to spend with the children.’

‘What’s that called?’ asked Christina as a ball soared high over the boundary rope and the crowd cheered loudly.

‘It’s a six,’ said Beth. ‘They happen quite regularly when William puts himself on to bowl. The truth is, I’ve made more in the last three months than a police superintendent earns in a year.’

‘Don’t tell William,’ said Christina.

Beth decided this wasn’t the time to tell Christina that she told her husband everything. ‘Time for tea,’ was all she said. ‘And don’t even think of stealing the sandwiches,’ she added as they joined William, the two teams and their guests in the tea tent, although she feared Christina was more likely to try and steal one of the younger players.

‘Are you winning?’ Beth asked when William offered her a cucumber sandwich.

‘No idea. You often can’t tell who’s going to win until the last ball of the day, which is part of the game’s charm.’

‘You should be able to knock off the hundred and sixty-three needed to win the match,’ said the commander as he poured himself a cup of tea.

‘It’s a fairly challenging score,’ said William. ‘We’ll need to bat well.’

‘It would have been a lot less challenging if you hadn’t put yourself on to bowl,’ said Beth.

‘I remain confident,’ said William, ignoring the jest, ‘that’s assuming Paul gets his usual fifty.’ He looked across the tent to see his opening batsman chatting to Christina.

‘You’d better go and rescue the poor fellow,’ said Beth when she spotted Paul being woven into her web, ‘or he might never reach the crease.’

William strolled across to join Paul, who couldn’t take his eyes off the forbidden fruit. ‘Get your pads on, Paul, you’re opening the batting.’

‘But I usually bat four or five, skipper,’ he protested.

‘Not today you don’t. You and Ross will be opening.’

Paul reluctantly left them to go and pad up. ‘See you later?’ said Christina.

‘Much later, I hope,’ murmured William.

‘Whatever do you mean, William?’ asked Christina, unable to hide a smirk.

‘I need my best batsman to keep his eye on the ball, not on you. If you want to help, try and pick up that chap over there,’ he said, pointing to a large, beer-bellied man scoffing a cream cake.

‘Why him?’

‘He’s their opening bowler. Known as the dirty demon, so do your worst,’ he said, before walking off.

‘Not my type,’ said Christina as she watched Paul putting on his pads.

Lamont stood in line at the visitors’ shop. When he reached the front, he selected two KitKats and a carton of fresh orange juice. He handed over the two-pound voucher he’d obtained in exchange for cash at the reception desk before he entered the jail.

At the appointed hour, he joined a large group of wives, children and assorted criminals who were being escorted to the visitors’ room, and received a plastic disc with the number 18 on it, indicating the table he’d been allocated.

He sat down in the blue chair, and waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing moves quickly in prison, unless there’s a riot.

Eventually, prisoner 0249 appeared and sat down in the red seat opposite him.

‘Before you speak,’ said Lamont, ‘just checking that you know half the officers watching us from the gallery are there with the single purpose of checking to see if anything passes between visitors and the prisoners. Drugs, knives, and I remember on one occasion even a gun, when the visitor ended up with an even longer sentence than the prisoner he was visiting.’

‘And the other half?’ said Miles.

‘Far more dangerous,’ said Lamont as Miles tore the wrapper off his KitKat and continued to listen. ‘Trained lip-readers. They’ve helped solve several crimes even before they were committed just from the information they picked up during visits. You’ll have to play the part of a ventriloquist unless you want our conversation to be repeated word for word to Commander Hawksby.’

‘I’ve been wondering how to get a message to Hawksby,’ said Miles, barely moving his lips. He glanced up at the gallery and quickly spotted the officer who’d been allocated his table, before looking across to the other side where he saw his opposite number. He intended to make sure they spent a wasted hour.

‘I asked to see you because I know you do the occasional job for Booth Watson,’ said Miles, quickly discovering that Bs were a problem.

‘I do,’ said Lamont. Two words that could be said without moving your lips.

‘How much does he pay you?’

‘Twenty pounds an hour,’ said Lamont.

‘He can’t even tell me the truth about that,’ said Miles. ‘From now on, you’ll be paid double. But under no circumstances is he to find out you’re also working for me. Is that understood?’

‘Understood,’ said Lamont firmly. Another word that could be pronounced without moving your lips.

‘I hope so, Lamont, because otherwise it will be the last job you do for me,’ he paused, ‘or anyone else for that matter.’

Lamont looked convinced.

‘I want you to find out if BW...’ Miles’s lips hardly moved for the next ten minutes, while Lamont nodded several times.

‘If you need to get in touch with me,’ Faulkner said finally, ‘you can phone the prison any afternoon at five past four.’

Lamont tried to hide his surprise.

‘I’ve got a cooperative guard who’ll be manning the switchboard at that time, and will be expecting your call. Just say the word “library” and he’ll put you straight through. But don’t stay on the line any longer than necessary.’

‘Understood.’

‘Be warned, if BW discovers you’re working for both sides, he’ll drop you and, more important, realize he’s been sussed. If that happens, you’ll have lost both your paymasters.’

Lamont got the message.

A loud buzzer sounded, the warning that in five minutes the prisoners would have to return to their cells.

Miles gulped down his orange juice and pocketed the second KitKat before he said, ‘If you carry out the job successfully, Bruce’ — the first time he’d ever called him by his first name — ‘you can spend the rest of your days drinking piña coladas in Mallorca. If you fail, you could end up sharing a cell with me.’

Miles rose from his place and without another word got up and walked slowly across the room towards the waiting guards, but not before he’d glanced up at his lip-reader in the gallery, met his eye and said distinctly, ‘I need to see Superintendent Warwick urgently.’

He turned to the other side and repeated the same message.

‘I realize you have other things on your mind at the moment,’ said the Hawk when William joined him at the tea urn, ‘but I’ve just had an urgent call from Belmarsh that we will we need to discuss after stumps.’

‘Of course, sir, but first I have to score a half-century if we’re going to win the match.’

‘Superintendents don’t call me sir when they’re off duty,’ said the Hawk with a wry smile.

‘That’s just not going to happen, sir,’ was William’s immediate response.

‘By the way, if Chief Inspector Brooks runs Royalty Protection as well as he’s captaining his side today, that will at least solve one of our problems,’ said the Hawk as an umpire stepped out onto the ground and loudly rang a bell to alert the players that the game would begin again in five minutes.

‘Good luck, chaps,’ the Hawk shouted as Ross and Paul made their way out to the middle.

Ross took guard. ‘Middle and leg,’ he said to the umpire.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ said William, ‘I’ve got an even more important match to attend.’ He turned his back on Ross and Paul to watch a game of tip and run that was taking place by the side of the pavilion. Peter was facing up to some fairly hostile bowling.

‘Howzat!’ shouted the bowler when he hit Peter on the shins.

‘Out!’ cried another boy, and Peter burst into tears, bringing Beth quickly to his rescue, but Peter just as quickly pushed her aside.

William smiled at his son, until he heard the sound of leather on timber and a cheer coming from behind him. Turning around, he saw Paul, head bowed, walking dejectedly back to the pavilion, having failed to score.

Paul ignored the murmurs of ‘Bad luck, old chap,’ and ‘Unlucky,’ both of which he knew were untrue. He just hadn’t been concentrating. After unbuckling his pads he grabbed a sandwich and went in search of an empty deckchair.

‘Who’s that sitting next to Paul?’ asked Arthur.

Sir Julian glanced to his right. ‘Rebecca Pankhurst. She’s a member of William’s inner team, and has just been promoted to Detective Sergeant.’

‘That can’t be an easy name to inherit.’

‘William tells me she’s every bit as formidable as her campaigning ancestor, and that she regularly outshines the rest of the team, himself included.’

‘I’m an idiot,’ said Paul.

‘That can hardly be described as classified information,’ teased Rebecca.

‘I was determined to get fifty today,’ he said, ‘impress the boss and put us in with a good chance of winning.’

‘Perhaps you should have spent more time in the nets and less time chatting up Christina Faulkner.’

‘Touché. Though I think I’m in with a chance.’

‘With her, even the umpires are in with a chance,’ said Rebecca disdainfully. Paul looked even more hopeful. ‘I hear you spent last week with the Prime Minister’s personal protection officers,’ she added, wanting to change the subject.

‘Yes. Now that Colin Brooks has moved into Buckingham Gate to head up Royalty Protection, the Super asked me to keep an eye on the new guy who’s taken his place.’

‘Any good?’

‘He was doing well until a passing car backfired when the PM was on a Saturday morning stroll around her constituency. Her two protection officers grabbed the Iron Lady, almost threw her into the back of her car and took off.’

‘But isn’t that standard procedure if a PO thinks his principal might be in any kind of danger?’

‘Yes, but they left Denis Thatcher stranded on the pavement.’

Rebecca burst out laughing.

‘I apologized to him, and he told me not to worry, as it wasn’t the first time it had happened, and he suspected it wouldn’t be the last. Damn,’ said Paul as another wicket fell. ‘It’s not looking too good for us now. The Super’s the next man in, and as he was a sprinter in his youth he’ll probably run out Ross, who’s our only hope. Close your eyes and pray.’

‘Like you did when you were at the crease?’

Paul slumped back down in his deckchair, and looked to his left to see Christina smiling at him.

‘You can forget about Paul,’ said Beth, following Christina’s gaze. ‘He’s strictly off-limits.’

‘Why? He looks rather dishy.’

‘He may well be, but while you’re likely to be a star witness at your ex-husband’s trial, he won’t risk being seen with you unless another officer is present.’

‘Do I get to choose the other officer?’ said Christina as Ross raised his bat high in the air to acknowledge the crowd’s applause for his half century.

‘I thought you already had a boyfriend.’

‘My latest is fast approaching his sell by date.’ Christina sighed. ‘So you’ll have to find someone else to distract me until the trial is over.’

‘How do you fancy Hans Holbein?’

‘Can’t say I’ve come across him.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, as he’s been dead for over four hundred years. In any case, he’s out of your league, otherwise I might have introduced you to him earlier.’

‘Am I missing something?’

‘Not unless you’ve got twelve million to spare, because I’ve recently been offered a Holbein portrait of Henry VIII. To be more accurate, the Fitzmolean was offered it, but as the envelope was marked private and confidential, my old secretary sent the letter on to me.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ said Christina, putting down her champagne.

‘The letter was from a Mr Rosen, a Dutch gentleman who lives in Amsterdam. The irony is that the person he should have approached is Miles, who I know doesn’t have a Holbein in his collection, but does have twelve million pounds.’

‘Have you come across this Mr Rosen before?’

‘No, but what makes the painting unusual is that there’s a handwritten letter from Holbein himself attached to the back of the oak panel it was painted on. It’s addressed to a Dr Rosen, who was apparently his doctor at the time of his death. So I think we can assume that the seller has inherited the painting and is having to part with it.’

‘Having to?’

‘Death, divorce or debt. One of that unholy trinity is usually the reason a painting of such importance comes on the market.’

‘And is twelve million a fair price?’ Christina asked casually.

‘It could fetch as much as fifteen on the open market. But Mr Rosen may not want the world to know he’s having to part with a family heirloom, so he won’t be offering it to Christie’s or Sotheby’s. Not that it matters, because I’ve already sent his letter back to the Fitzmolean. The acquisitions committee will spend hours discussing how they can possibly raise the money to acquire the picture, before coming to the conclusion that they can’t. They may even get in touch with you to see if you’ll donate.’

‘Not a hope after the way they treated you,’ said Christina as she turned and once again looked in Paul’s direction, but her mind was preoccupied with something she enjoyed even more than sex: money.

‘William’s done well to hold up his end,’ said Sir Julian, ‘while leaving Ross to keep the scoreboard ticking over.’

‘It’s still going to be a close-run thing,’ said Arthur as he checked the scoreboard. ‘We need another thirty-three runs with only five overs left.’

‘Then these two need to still be around at the close of play if we’re to have any chance of winning,’ said Sir Julian, just as William hit the ball high into the air. Everyone in the ground followed its trajectory as a fielder sprinted in from the boundary, dived full-length and caught the ball in one hand, before tumbling to the ground.

‘The commentator’s curse,’ said Arthur ruefully as William raised his bat in acknowledgement of the fine catch before leaving the pitch. One part of the script he couldn’t have planned any better. He returned to the pavilion to generous applause, took off his pads and rejoined the commander.

‘It might have been better if you’d stayed out there for a couple more overs,’ said the Hawk. ‘You’ve left your lot still needing another thirteen runs to score with only a couple of overs left.’

‘You wanted a word with me, sir,’ said William.

‘I did. Miles Faulkner has been in touch.’

William quickly switched back into his other world. ‘By that, I presume you mean Booth Watson.’

‘No, that’s the strange thing,’ said the Hawk. ‘When Faulkner was returning to his cell following a visitor’s meeting this afternoon, he looked up at the gallery and gave a clear message to one of our lip-readers.’

‘What was the message?’

‘“I need to see Superintendent Warwick urgently.”’

‘He’s got a nerve.’

‘Agreed,’ said the Hawk. ‘But if you refuse to see him, and it turns out he has information that could prevent a serious crime, it would only give Booth Watson even more ammunition to regale the jury with when his case comes to court.’

‘But if he’s pleading guilty,’ said William, ‘there won’t be a trial.’

‘Unless he’s decided to change his plea and wants to make a deal.’

‘Who was visiting him at the time?’ was William’s next question.

‘Lamont.’

‘Then why didn’t Faulkner get him to pass on the message?’

‘I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times, and have come to the conclusion Faulkner simply doesn’t trust him.’

‘Well, at least that’s something we can agree on,’ said William. ‘But why would Faulkner have agreed to see him in the first place?’

‘All the lip-readers could come up with,’ said the Hawk, ‘was art collection, Lee, bank manager and Booth Watson.’

‘I have a feeling Rebecca will enjoy working out the thread that links those particular words,’ said William. ‘But it still doesn’t explain why Faulkner didn’t go through the usual channels and ask Booth Watson to deliver the message, if it’s that urgent.’

‘Perhaps he no longer trusts him either.’

‘You could be right,’ said William. ‘I’ve never understood why Miles Faulkner, of all people, caved in so easily and agreed to only a couple of years being knocked off his sentence, when he had so much ammunition to fire at us.’

‘Only Booth Watson knows the answer to that,’ said the Hawk. ‘And sometimes his right hand doesn’t know what his left hand is up to.’

‘Remembering the fuss Faulkner kicked up when we got him back from Spain,’ said William. ‘I’ve been waiting for Booth Watson to throw a damn sight more than the kitchen sink at us.’

‘Which suggests to me,’ said the Hawk, ‘that what Faulkner wants to discuss so urgently has nothing to do with his trial. Frankly there’s only one way we’re going to find out what it is.’

William looked out onto the pitch, and tried to concentrate on two problems at once.

‘If you do decide to see him,’ continued the commander, ‘take someone with you, so they can record every word he says, because I still wouldn’t trust that man one inch.’

‘And despite that, you still think it’s a risk worth taking?’

‘I don’t think we’ve been left with a lot of choice, Superintendent,’ said the Hawk as a spectator drifted within earshot. ‘It’s going down to the wire,’ he added, stating the obvious.

William glanced at the scoreboard, as he tried to concentrate on the game. The opposition captain was tossing the ball to the fast bowler who had removed Paul in the first over.

‘Eight runs to get off the last over,’ mused the Hawk. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem with Ross at the crease.’

They both switched their attention to what was happening in the middle, where the bowler, with a venomous look on his face, was charging in to deliver the first ball of the final over.

Ross leant back and hit an attempted yorker through the covers for two, but didn’t set off for what would have been a comfortable third, as he wanted to retain the strike. He blocked the next two deliveries, leaving the royals still needing six runs off the last three balls.

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ declared the Hawk confidently.

William didn’t offer an opinion.

The next ball was overpitched, and Ross swept it to the boundary, leaving just two runs required from the last two balls of the match. The bowler furiously polished the ball on his red-stained flannels, before charging in once again and delivering a bouncer that flew over Ross’s shoulder, leaving him needing to score two runs off the final delivery.

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.