Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A RTEMISIA W ARWICK STOOD ON HER toes and removed an atlas from the top of the bookshelf. She placed it on the kitchen table and turned to the index at the back. Her eye ran down a long list of countries, coming to a halt when she reached S. She leafed backwards until she came to page 126, when she studied a vast area of land described as the Middle East.

She glanced across at her brother, who was munching his cornflakes, and wondered if he knew the answer.

‘Why are we so dependent on oil?' she asked, wondering who would be the first to respond.

‘Think about it,' replied her father. ‘We need oil for our power stations, not to mention everything from cars to planes.'

‘And as we don't have enough of our own,' added her mother, ‘we have to rely on other countries to supply us.'

‘Including Saudi Arabia, it would seem,' said Artemisia, unable to hide the contempt in her voice.

‘And what has Saudi Arabia done to annoy you this morning?' asked her father, as he put his paper down.

‘It's not the country that has annoyed me,' said Artemisia, ‘so much as the Labour government, who are trying to close an arms deal with the Saudis in exchange for oil.'

‘That's what's known as bartering,' her father tried to assure her. ‘We supply the Saudis with arms and in return they give us oil. Nothing new in that.'

‘But you've always taught us,' said Peter, siding with his sister, ‘that two wrongs don't make a right.'

‘What makes you think they've done anything wrong?' asked Beth, who agreed with her daughter but wanted her to argue her case.

‘If I had been born in that country,' said Artemisia, looking directly at her mother, ‘I wouldn't have been treated as an equal.'

‘Examples?' said Beth. ‘You can't get away with generalizations. Facts win an argument.'

‘Women still don't get the vote in Saudi, despite the fact we're in the twenty-first century.'

‘If Arte had been born in Riyadh, not London,' chipped in Peter, putting down his spoon, ‘she wouldn't have been allowed to go to a school with boys.'

‘And if you're gay,' said Artemisia, taking both her parents by surprise, ‘you could end up being stoned to death in the market square.'

‘I think you'll find that barbaric custom ceased some time ago,' said William. ‘In fact, everyone accepts the new Saudi leader is more enlightened and is instigating far-reaching reforms.'

‘Not far-reaching enough for those women sitting at home, while their less competent brothers go to work and are overpaid.'

‘So what are you up to today, Beth?' William asked his wife, as he suspected he was in a minority of one when it came to the Saudis and the supply of oil.

‘Dealing with a lack of funds,' said Beth. ‘Not an unusual situation for the director of a gallery like the Fitzmolean,' she added, with a wry smile, ‘but this time I need to raise an extra half a million.'

‘Is it a new roof or a new boiler you need this time?' enquired William.

‘A new picture,' said Beth, ‘or to be more accurate, an old picture. The Fitzmolean has been offered a rare preparatory Rembrandt drawing of an angel for a million pounds, and the government has agreed to match us pound for pound if we can raise the first half million and quickly.'

‘How long have you got?' asked William.

‘Only until the end of the month,' replied Beth, ‘and if we haven't raised our half by the deadline, the drawing will come on the open market and probably end up going abroad, never to be seen again. We're past the two hundred thousand pound mark, but I just don't know if we'll get the full amount in time.'

‘If someone from Saudi Arabia were to offer you the half million,' asked Artemisia, not willing to let go, ‘would you take it?'

William looked across at Beth, glad he hadn't been asked the same question.

‘It wouldn't be my decision,' said Beth. ‘But if the board were to seek my opinion, I would recommend accepting it, so that millions of women would be able to see Rembrandt's masterpiece.'

‘None of them from Saudi Arabia,' Artemisia reminded her mother.

‘Perhaps we don't have the right to disapprove of the laws and customs of another country,' suggested William, testing his daughter's resolve.

‘Possibly,' said Artemisia, ‘but we do have the right not to make deals with a country who refuses to grant women equal rights.'

‘But it was no less a figure than Winston Churchill,' said William, ‘who told us he preferred Jaw Jaw to War War, even when dealing with his enemies.'

‘Does that include Miles Faulkner?' asked Peter, silencing his father. ‘Because I have a feeling he doesn't do Jaw Jaw when dealing with his enemies, and I heard Mum saying that he'll be coming out of prison in a few weeks' time.'

‘Well, I ought to get moving,' said William, ‘if I'm not going to be late for work.'

The rest of the family burst out laughing.

‘Was it something I said?' asked William as he got up from the table.

‘No,' said Beth. ‘I think you'll find it was something you didn't say.'

Artemisia closed her atlas with a bang and returned it to the top shelf of the bookcase, while Peter held the door open for his father.

···

Prisoner number 4602 held a cup of steaming black coffee in one hand and a digestive biscuit in the other. He stared out of the window onto a patch of green grass; had it not been for the sixteen-foot wall topped with razor wire on the far side of the square, he might well have been at his home in Cadogan Place, rather than in the library of a category B prison.

Miles Faulkner placed his coffee cup on the counter before glancing at the calendar on the wall. Eighteen more days of his sentence to complete before he would finally be released, having served three years at Her Majesty's pleasure for attempting to steal the Crown Jewels, and finally bring William Warwick down. Although the theft had ended in failure, and it was he who had been brought down, Faulkner hadn't wasted the last three years, and already had plans to continue disrupting the lives of Chief Superintendent William Warwick and his perfect wife. If they imagined, even for one moment, that Miles had learnt his lesson and was a reformed character, they could think again. In his case time wasn't a healer.

There was a tap on the library door. Miles walked slowly across and opened it, to find Prison Officer Simpson standing out in the cold.

‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner,' he said, handing over a copy of the Financial Times to the chief librarian.

‘Good morning, Bill,' responded Miles.

‘Is there anything else you need?' asked the duty officer, whose income was increased whenever he visited the local newsagent on the prisoner's behalf.

‘Not at the moment, but if anything should arise, Tulip will be in touch,' said Faulkner as he closed the door.

Faulkner returned to his chair by the window, settled down and began to read the morning paper, while his trusted deputy, Tulip, made him another cup of coffee – black, steaming hot, with one spoonful of sugar.

He turned to the Footsie 100 and checked his shares. During his incarceration they had risen year on year by nine per cent, and his stockbroker had continued trading on his behalf as if he was still calling from his home in Chelsea.

Every prison officer was aware that Miles had a mobile phone hidden somewhere in the library. However, only Tolstoy knew where it was secreted: in a copy of War and Peace , on the top shelf of the classics section. Not a book that was regularly taken out.

Miles turned the page, satisfied his fortune remained intact, even though he still had to pay his ex-wife Christina a monthly alimony payment that a judge had decided would allow her to continue living in the style to which she had become accustomed.

He continued to turn the pages of his paper until a headline in the arts section caught his eye. F ITZMOLEAN ATTEMPTING TO RAISE A MILLION TO SAVE R EMbrANDT DRAWING . Miles read the article slowly, but then he had the time on his hands.

A third reading of an interview with the museum's director, Dr Beth Warwick, confirmed that Rembrandt's Jacob Wrestling with the Angel , a rare preparatory drawing by the Dutch master, could be acquired by the gallery, if they could raise one million pounds under the government's new inheritance tax incentive scheme – but only then if the full amount was raised by the end of June. Dr Warwick told the Financial Times arts editor that they had so far only managed to raise ￡241,000, and she was no longer confident they could get the full amount before the deadline. Should they fail to do so, Dr Warwick was in no doubt the masterpiece would sell for a far larger sum when it came on the open market.

An idea began to form in Miles's mind. He leant back and closed his eyes, not because he was tired, but because he needed to concentrate on how he might be able to take advantage of Dr Warwick's situation.

Tulip topped up his coffee but wouldn't have considered interrupting his thoughts. He didn't want to annoy Mr Faulkner while he was still in with a chance of taking his place as chief librarian in eighteen days' time. He placed the pot of coffee back on its little gas ring and continued to put recently returned books in their correct places on the shelves. Once the job was completed, he would begin his morning rounds and collect overdue books from prisoners who were either very slow readers or couldn't be bothered to return them.

The morning rounds were nothing more than an excuse for Tulip to visit his fellow inmates and pick up any inside information he could then pass on to Mr Faulkner, so that he remained one step ahead of everyone in the prison, including the Governor.

Tulip pushed his little trolley silently towards the door, making sure he didn't disturb Mr Faulkner.

Miles opened one eye as Tulip touched the door handle. ‘I need to see Billy the Forger,' he announced. ‘Tell him to come to the library after breakfast tomorrow morning.'

···

Mrs Christina Faulkner is delighted to accept Lord and Lady Mulberry's kind invitation to join them at Royal Ascot for British Champions' Day .

Christina placed the invitation card on her mantelpiece, and was already thinking about the new outfit she would need and, of course, a hat that mustn't go unnoticed. She had thought about little else all morning. Once a taxi had dropped her off in Mayfair, she set about her task with a shopaholic's conviction.

She spent the first hour walking slowly up one side of Bond Street, and even more slowly back down the other, before ending up at Armani – an Italian who understood that forty was just a number. Elegance and style knew no age.

She tried on several outfits, and one in particular that caught her attention. Although it was a little more expensive – Giorgio Armani rather than Emporio Armani – one had to remember this was Royal Ascot. Christina asked the sales assistant to wrap it before handing over her credit card. While she waited, she began to consider which establishments she would grace to complete the ensemble with a hat and a pair of shoes when an assistant interrupted her thoughts.

‘I do apologize, madam,' he said, ‘but I'm afraid your card has been declined.' A Bond Street word for ‘rejected'.

‘Declined?' she repeated. ‘That's just not possible. Try again.'

‘Of course, madam,' he said, and hurried away, only to return moments later with the same embarrassed look on his face.

‘I'll deal with the problem immediately,' said Christina, taking out her phone and checking her contact list.

‘Craig Trotman,' said a voice after she'd dialled the number.

‘Mr Trotman, it's Christina Faulkner,' she announced as if addressing a bank clerk rather than the deputy manager. ‘You've just caused me some considerable embarrassment.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Faulkner,' said Trotman. ‘Is there anything I can do to assist you?'

‘You most certainly can,' said Christina. ‘I have just purchased an exquisite outfit from Armani,' she paused before adding, ‘for Royal Ascot, where I'll be a guest of the Mulberrys, and when I presented my credit card, it was declined. No doubt you have a simple explanation?'

‘Could you hold on for a moment, Mrs Faulkner, while I look into it.'

‘A technical glitch,' said Christina, causing the sales assistant to smile.

Christina began to pace up and down the shop, pretending to consider other items while she waited for Trotman to come back on the line.

In far less salubrious surroundings, Tulip heard the phone ringing and quickly locked the library door, while Faulkner walked across to the classics section and removed Tolstoy from the top shelf. He took out the mobile, pressed the green button, and listened.

‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner, it's Craig Trotman,' he whispered, addressing one of his most valued customers. ‘You asked me to let you know if your ex-wife needed any,' he hesitated, ‘temporary assistance.'

‘And does she?' asked Miles.

‘I'm afraid she does, sir. It's only a small amount, but she has already gone well over her credit limit. However, if you felt able to cover the cost?'

‘How much?' demanded Miles, sensing Christina was waiting on the other end of the line.

‘Fourteen hundred pounds, sir, for an Armani outfit that she wishes to purchase for Royal Ascot.'

‘Tell her to get lost,' said Miles. ‘But thank you for keeping me informed.' He touched the red button and put the mobile back between pages 320 and 572 of War and Peace , before returning Tolstoy to his place on the top shelf next to Resurrection . Tulip unlocked the library door.

‘Are you still there, Mrs Faulkner?' asked Trotman, switching phones.

‘I most certainly am.'

‘I'm sorry to have to tell you you've exceeded your credit limit.' He avoided adding, ‘by some considerable amount'.

‘And I'm sorry to have to tell you, Mr Trotman, that if you don't clear this paltry sum immediately, I will have to consider moving my account to another bank.'

‘As you wish, madam.'

Christina switched off her mobile and marched out of the shop back onto Bond Street, leaving behind a bemused sales assistant and an Armani suit. She walked by Ferragamo, Prada and Cartier without even glancing into their windows. When Christina passed the Ritz, the doorman saluted. She didn't go in, but continued on her way, hoping the fridge wasn't empty.

···

Once Miles's monthly alimony cheque had been cleared, Christina decided to treat herself after suffering three weeks of champagne famine. She weighed up the alternatives – Bond Street or Tramp – and decided an evening at her favourite nightclub would cheer her up, even if she could no longer afford the company of a younger man and would have to satisfy herself with a Caesar salad and perhaps one glass of champagne, possibly two.

Christina arrived at the club fashionably late and fashionably dressed that evening, even if her skirt might have been considered by an uncharitable observer as a little too short for someone of her age.

Tony Guido, the ma?tre d', guided his customer to her usual table and moments later a glass of champagne appeared by her side.

‘We've missed you, Mrs Faulkner,' said Tony, ‘but no doubt you've spent the spring in the Mediterranean.'

‘St Paul de Vence followed by Lake Como,' said Christina, although she hadn't strayed far beyond her flat in Chelsea for several weeks. Christina knew she could just about cover the bill, but nonetheless, she sipped her drink while her eyes scanned a dimly lit room, full of gorgeous men, too many of them accompanied by beautiful young women.

She had just reluctantly decided against a second glass of champagne when the ma?tre d' reappeared, bent down and whispered in her ear, ‘There's a gentleman seated on the far side of the room who wonders if you would care to join him.'

Christina looked across the crowded dance floor to see a handsome, middle-aged man sitting alone, toying with a drink. She was about to give him a warm smile when a stunning young woman joined him. Christina's eyes moved on to the occupant of the next table.

‘But he looks as if it won't be too long before he's collecting his bus pass!' she exclaimed.

‘Possibly,' said the ma?tre d', ‘but if the Sunday Times Rich List is to be believed, Mr W. T. Hackensack III is the nineteenth richest man in America.'

‘Is he indeed?' said Christina, returning his smile. She waited for a few moments before she stood up and slowly made her way across the crowded dance floor. The gentleman rose from his place while she was still a few paces away and waited for her to be seated before he sat back down.

‘Hi, I'm Wilbur,' he said with an accent that wouldn't have left anyone in any doubt which continent he hailed from.

‘Christina Faulkner,' she replied, offering her hand.

‘Can I get you a drink, Christina?' he asked, but the ma?tre d' had already anticipated that.

‘Do you live in London, Wilbur, or are you just visiting our shores?' she asked, setting out on a fishing expedition.

‘Visiting,' he said, as their two glasses touched. ‘I'm about to go on what your countrymen used to call the European tour.'

‘All alone?' she said hopefully.

‘I'm afraid so. My wife and I planned this trip to coincide with my retirement, but sadly Irene died of cancer a few months back but, as everything had been booked, I decided to go ahead with the trip.'

‘How sad,' said Christina. ‘No children to join you?' she asked, still fishing.

‘Two sons who now run the business but couldn't get away. In fact, I was beginning to think I might as well return to Columbus earlier than planned.'

‘I've never been to Ohio,' she said, hoping to impress.

‘You should – it's full of magnificent parks, theatres, and galleries.'

‘I sit on the board of a gallery,' said Christina, waiting for him to ask.

‘Which one?'

‘The Fitzmolean,' said Christina.

‘Packed with Dutch masterpieces, I'm told. It's on my must do list.'

‘I'd be delighted to show you around, Wilbur, if you're in town for a few more days.'

‘I'm here until the end of the week.'

‘And staying nearby?'

‘Just up the road at the Ritz.'

‘My favourite hostelry,' she assured him. At least this time she was telling the truth.

‘Then perhaps you'd care to join me for lunch later in the week? That is if you're not too—'

‘I've just got back from the south of France in time for the season,' said Christina. ‘I do so enjoy Royal Ascot. But of course, you have a famous racetrack in Columbus,' she said, hoping they did.

‘Beulah Park,' said Wilbur, ‘where I've spent many happy hours watching my horses fail to be led into the winners' enclosure.'

Christina laughed and raised her glass. ‘So, are you in the horse-breeding business, Wilbur?' she asked, casting another fly.

‘Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid. I'm in refuse.'

‘Refuse?' she repeated, as if it was a word she was unacquainted with.

‘My company collects waste, burns and recycles everything people no longer want, and thanks to my great-grandpa,' he raised his glass once again, ‘who founded the company over a hundred years ago, we've led a comfortable existence ever since, and will continue to do so for as long as there are politicians needing to raise funds to fight the next election.'

‘Where do the politicians come in?' Christina asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘They regularly want to be re-elected, and if you're in business and hope to survive in Ohio, you have to learn to live with them.'

‘Which party do you support?' asked Christina, trying to keep up.

‘Both the Democrats and the Republicans,' admitted Wilbur. ‘We're a swing state, so I can never be sure whether the Grand Old Party or the Donkeys will be in power the next time around. But that doesn't stop them both from knocking on my door looking for a contribution, and if there's the slightest chance of them being elected, they get one. That way I can't lose.'

‘That can't come cheap,' suggested Christina.

‘It doesn't. And with nineteen mayors, thirty-one state legislators, countless chiefs of police, not to mention a governor and two state senators, it costs me several million a year. But our system is so corrupt I'm allowed to claim any political contributions against tax, even when I support both sides.'

‘But who do you vote for on election day?' teased Christina.

‘Neither and both, according to who I'm talking to at the time. Whenever they ask, I swear blind I'll be backing them on election day, whereas in truth, I never vote. A piece of advice my grandfather passed on to me and I've passed on to both my boys.'

Christina burst out laughing – a genuine laugh. She was surprised how much she was enjoying Wilbur's company.

‘But enough about me,' said Wilbur. ‘Why don't you tell me what a beautiful woman like you is doing all alone?'

···

Eleven o'clock. Miles had chosen the time carefully, an hour before the library opened, so he was confident they would not be disturbed. Tulip had already left to fetch Billy Mumford from the arts and crafts room, on the flimsy excuse that he needed to collect a catalogue on Rembrandt from the library before he could continue his work. That much was true, as Prison Officer Simpson had collected the appeal brochure from the Fitzmolean the night before and delivered it to Miles's cell earlier that morning.

When Tulip reappeared with Mumford in tow, Miles ushered his guest towards the only other chair in the room. He waited for him to settle while Tulip made them both a cup of coffee along with a plate of digestive biscuits supplied by the Governor – the equivalent to lunch at the Savoy when you're in prison.

‘How can I help you, Mr Faulkner?' asked Billy, well aware no one was invited to join the chief librarian for coffee and biscuits unless he wanted something.

Seven precious minutes had already evaporated before the library would open at twelve, so Miles didn't waste any more time.

‘First, Billy, I'd like to check if the rumours on the prison grapevine can be relied on?'

‘Which ones?' asked Billy.

‘That you once forged a Murillo that ended up in the Prado.'

‘Which is how I ended up in the Scrubs,' admitted Billy, as two cups of steaming black coffee were placed on the table between them.

‘But you managed to fool several experts along the way.'

‘For just over a year,' said Billy, ‘and it wasn't the picture that gave me away, but some bastard who shopped me in exchange for a lighter sentence.'

Miles was well aware of inmate 6071's past record, so moved quickly on to his next question. ‘Are you aware of a preparatory drawing by Rembrandt known as Jacob Wrestling with the Angel ?'

‘Of course I am, Mr Faulkner. But then the master only did eleven preparatory drawings that are catalogued, and I doubt if that particular sketch took him more than a few minutes to complete, which is why he's considered a genius, while I am nothing more than a painter and decorator.' Billy stared at the chief librarian for some time, before he said, ‘But didn't I read somewhere that the Fitzmolean are trying to buy the original for a million they haven't got?'

‘In one,' said Miles, before moving on to his next question. ‘So tell me Billy, would you be capable of reproducing a copy of the Angel that would fool an expert?'

‘I could ,' said Billy. ‘But not while I'm locked up in this place.'

‘Why not?' demanded Miles, as Billy tentatively took a biscuit off the plate.

‘Because I'd need the correct materials, wouldn't I? And you won't find them in the art department of Wormwood Scrubs.'

‘Such as?' asked Miles.

‘The correct paper, circa 1650 – not easy to come across. As well as the kind of pen and ink Rembrandt would have used at the time.'

‘Anything else?' asked Faulkner, who had begun making a list.

Billy still couldn't believe he was serious, but played along. ‘Well … the catalogue raisonné, because that will have a full-page photo of the original work.'

Miles made a note. ‘You'll have everything else you need by the end of the day,' which caused Billy to spill his coffee. ‘But how long would it take you to produce a convincing copy?'

‘Two weeks, three at the most,' said Billy, ‘unless you also want a convincing signature, in which case it will take considerably longer.'

‘A signature won't be necessary,' said Miles, ‘but I will need to have the drawing before I'm released on the twenty-third.'

Billy hesitated. ‘As long as you can guarantee this isn't going to land me with an even longer sentence, because I don't want to do anything that will harm my chances of getting parole.'

‘If your copy is good enough, Billy, the only thing you'll end up getting is a grand in your bank account.'

Billy smiled for the first time. He drained his coffee, rose from his place and shook hands with Mr Faulkner – the only way of closing a deal in prison. He grabbed another biscuit and left the library with the smile still on his face.

‘I'll need to see PO Simpson,' said Miles.

‘I'm on my way,' said Tulip, who quickly left the library.

Miles leant back and closed his eyes once again as he thought about part two of his plan.

···

Alice looked at the man seated on the other side of the table, and wondered how they could have possibly ended up in Sicily together. Inspector Ross Hogan had come into her life because she taught his daughter, Jojo, and she would never have thought it possible she could fall in love with a man who was so unreliable, yet so irresistible.

He was known in the force to be a maverick, eccentric and dangerous. But at the same time brave beyond common sense, loyal to a fault when it came to his friends, and ruthless when it came to his enemies. William Warwick was his closest friend and Miles Faulkner his sworn enemy. On both counts the feeling was mutual.

Alice looked across at Jojo, who was drawing a pepper pot on her paper napkin.

‘What's wrong with the drawing pad I bought for you last month?' Ross asked his daughter, as he dabbed some honey on his croissants.

‘Filled up every page,' said Jojo, as she continued to draw an outline of the sugar bowl.

‘Both sides?' enquired Alice.

‘Yes, miss.'

‘I do wish you'd call me Alice. After all, we are on holiday.'

‘I don't think so,' said Jojo, not looking up.

‘Why not?' asked her father, gently probing.

‘When I get back to school, I don't want my friends to know I've been on holiday with one of our teachers.'

‘Why not?' repeated Ross. ‘After all, we've been living together for over a year.'

‘Don't remind me,' said Jojo. ‘It's so embarrassing!'

Alice and Ross both laughed as Jojo turned the menu over and began to draw a teapot, but wasn't pleased with the result, so tore it in half.

‘Can I go back to my room and get my pencil sharpener?'

‘Of course,' said Ross, as he selected another croissant.

Jojo got up and quickly left the dining room.

A waitress placed a fresh basket of warm croissants on the table before asking in pidgin English if they needed anything else.

‘Do you have any paper?' asked Alice.

‘Paper?' said the waitress, pointing to her copy of yesterday's Guardian .

‘No, paper,' said Alice, holding up a napkin.

‘Yes, I go.'

‘I have a feeling you're about to get several more napkins,' said Ross, ‘which should be more than enough to keep Mary Cassatt occupied until I get her another sketch pad.'

‘Two at least,' said Alice, ‘before she moves on to tablecloths!'

Ross looked more carefully at his daughter's drawing of a teapot and smiled.

‘Inspector,' said Alice, ‘you may pose as the scourge of the criminal classes, but Jojo only has to bat an eyelid and you come running.'

‘Guilty as charged,' said Ross. ‘But what do you expect me to do?'

‘Not a lot,' said Alice, taking his hand. ‘In truth, you're no different from the vast majority of fathers whose daughters I teach.'

‘How good do you think she is?' Ross asked, looking more closely at his pepper pot, as the waitress placed a mound of paper napkins on the table.

‘Very good. So keep on encouraging her.'

Ross smiled, abandoned his croissant, leaned across and kissed Alice, just as Jojo came bustling back into the dining room clutching a pencil sharpener.

‘So embarrassing,' she repeated, as she sat down and began to sharpen her pencil. She unfolded one of the new napkins and began to draw Ross's hands, but only remained silent for a moment. ‘Are you both sending Beth some money for the cause?' asked Jojo, not looking up.

‘What cause in particular do you have in mind?' asked Ross.

‘Artemisia says Beth's trying to save a rare Rembrandt drawing of an angel for the Fitzmolean, but she has to raise half a million.'

‘And how much are you giving towards it?' asked Alice.

‘Four weeks of my pocket money,' came back the immediate reply.

‘If everyone is as generous as you,' said Ross, ‘I feel sure Beth will make it, and I'll send a contribution as soon as we get back.'

‘So will I,' said Alice.

‘Will that come to a half million?' asked Jojo.

‘Not quite. So, what have we planned for today?' said Ross, wanting to change the subject.

‘Caravaggio,' said Jojo, before Alice could reply. ‘There are two of his most famous paintings in the local museum in Messina that I just have to see.'

‘And one of them,' said Alice, consulting her guidebook, ‘ The Raising of Lazarus , is considered to be among his finest works.'

‘Did he live in Messina?' asked Jojo as she continued to draw.

‘No,' replied Alice, turning a page of the guidebook, ‘he was on the run at the time, having committed murder in a tavern in Rome, and it was before the Pope pardoned him, making it possible for him to return to the capital, without fear of being arrested.'

‘Why would the Pope of all people pardon a murderer?' demanded Ross.

‘He wanted Caravaggio to paint his portrait before he died,' said Jojo.

Alice smiled, revelling in that wonderful moment when a child teaches you something and the pupil becomes the master.

‘Dad, would you have arrested Caravaggio?'

‘Yes. Unlike the Pope, I consider breaking the sixth commandment a mortal sin.'

‘So, you would have hanged him?' asked Alice.

Ross paused for a moment. ‘I would certainly have locked him up for the rest of his life.'

‘I only ask because during Caravaggio's lifetime,' continued Alice, once again consulting her guidebook, ‘he painted sixty-seven masterpieces, twenty-four of them while he was on the run. An interesting moral dilemma, don't you think?'

‘He could have painted them while he was in prison,' said Ross.

‘I agree with the Pope,' said Jojo, still not looking up.

‘Me too,' said Alice as she now opened the paper instead.

Ross remained silent as he glanced across at the headline: B RITAIN ' S CHIEF A RMS NEGOTIATOR CHARGED WITH MURDER IN S AUDI. He leaned across and tried to read the small print while Jojo continued drawing.