‘I can’t wait,’ said Ross.

‘Don’t let Jo hear you saying that,’ said William, ‘because I know she has other plans for you during the next ten days. So be sure to relax and enjoy your honeymoon. I’m going to need you at your sharpest when you return if we’re going to pull off the biggest operation I’ve ever been involved in.’

‘Bigger than Trojan Horse?’ said Ross.

‘That was the commander’s operation. Masterpiece is mine.’

• • •

Ross spent the next week roaming around the Loire valley, sipping the finest wines, while not being allowed to empty his glass, then devouring several courses of nouvelle cuisine before going to bed feeling hungry. He spent the last three days of the honeymoon enjoying the sights of Paris, unaware that it wouldn’t be long before he returned. He still managed a five-mile run every morning before joining Jo for a breakfast of croissant and coffee. Breakfast, he reflected, was clearly a meal the French hadn’t come to terms with. In his absence, DCI Warwick and the commander spent the time fine-tuning every last detail of an operation that would require split-second timing.

By the time a suntanned Ross returned to work the following Monday morning, everything was in place, awaiting only the commissioner’s imprimatur.

‘If we pull this one off,’ said Ross, after he and William had gone over the plan one last time, ‘I’ll leave the force a happy man. And not just because you won’t be my boss any longer,’ he added, laughing.

‘If we fail,’ said William, not laughing, ‘I’ll also be leaving the force, but I’ll still be your boss.’

CHAPTER 19

IT HAD NEVER CROSSED WILLIAM’S mind how long it would take to pack a valuable work of art, and how many people were involved, even though Beth had tried to warn him.

The key person among the group was Ian Posgate, a senior broker from Lloyd’s of London, who had insured the Caravaggio should it be damaged in transit, and for the full amount of £21 million if it failed to reach its destination. Posgate was delighted the police would be accompanying them on the trip in the guise of his assistants.

William and Ross stood to one side and watched the professionals go about their work. Mr Benmore, the senior fine art handler, could boast a Goya, a Rembrandt and a Velázquez in his catalogue raisonné. However, he’d recently left it to one of his assistants to pack a Warhol for the Tate. Mr Benmore didn’t do modern.

The long process began with four technicians, two of them half-way up ladders, while the other pair had their feet firmly on the ground. Between them, they walked the masterpiece off the wall in a slow, controlled descent, a few links of its chains at a time. William noticed that Lord McLaren appeared to age visibly as he stared up at the dark rectangular space that marked where the pride of his family’s collection had hung for the past two hundred years.