Free The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan Page A

he dabbled in television after graduation from Cambridge University. By then, and with the help of his parents and the considerable time he had spent on the Continent, Oxby could speak French with the ease of a Parisian and Italian with
the singsong fluency of a Florentine. He could detect and he could mimic the infinite ranges of accents throughout the U.K., a not inconsiderable talent that would prove useful in the career he finally chose when he joined the Metropolitan Police Service.
    â€œFishing is what our relationship has come to?” Oxby said, pronouncing the words slowly. “Is that what you’re telling me? That I’m expected to plan, provision, select your hooks and flies, then clean any bloody fish you should be so lucky to catch? Are you saying that if that doesn’t happen, our friendship is out the window?”
    â€œDon’t go on with all that rot,” Heston said. “You know perfectly well I can choose my own flies and clean every fish that I’m very well likely to catch.” It seemed he wanted to go on about fishing because it was a sport that gave him infinite pleasure. But his tone changed. “It’s what’s needed around here that I’m anxious about. Your experience and the way you train the young guys.” Momentarily his eyes strayed from Oxby’s, as if hoping the argument he was about to make would go unchallenged.
    â€œLook, Jack, once the other shoe dropped and the changes were announced, morale around here went to hell and some of the best people—you most of all—opted to bail out.”
    â€œOther shoe? Elliott, what dropped was a fifty-pound jackboot. They’ve eviscerated the Arts and Antiques Squad in the name of the holy Es: Efficiency and Economy.”
    Heston sighed. “You know how they’re always tinkering.”
    â€œGood word, Elliott. It’s time I did some tinkering for myself. I’m all paid up, I don’t have any obligations.”
    â€œSo your mind’s made up?”
    â€œPretty much. I’ve accumulated five weeks’ leave and may run up north and be with old friends. Might play some golf.”
    â€œOh, Christ, not golf. Bad enough you’re leaving the service, but you can’t be serious about that godawful game.” He pronounced golf as if it were a deadly contagion.
    â€œWhy not? With a little practice, I’d be good at it. I can golf and fish if I want.” He smiled a little evilly. “You might join me for a few days.”
    â€œYou know I can’t get away, not until I’ve put this reorganization behind me.” Heston got to his feet and circled around his desk, then sat against it, facing Oxby.
    â€œI know you feel that they downgraded the squad, but it’s happened before and we always brought it back.” He reached behind him for an
envelope marked confidential. “In the meantime, this is my authorization to move you up to Detective Superintendent.”
    Oxby glanced skeptically at the envelope. Then he opened it and took out letters and memoranda and forms with official stamps on them; in all there were a dozen sheets of bureaucratic file fodder. Oxby read a few of the pages, then put all the sheets back in the envelope and placed it on Heston’s desk.
    He looked squarely at the Assistant Commissioner and shook his head. “I’ve been with the Yard for fifteen years and liked every one of them. Even being shot at, knifed, and scared half to death. But before I no longer like it, I’m stepping out.”
    â€œForever? You talked about leave time. Good! Get refreshed, then come back. You’ve got a new spot with more responsibility, more money.”
    â€œI’ve made my choice, Elliott. All I want is for you to wish me good luck.”
    â€œGood luck,” Heston shot back rapidly and retreated to his chair. “What happens after you play golf? Write an exposé of all the deep, dark secrets you