"You've known each other a long time, I take it," Kincaid said, after a grateful sip of his own drink.

"Since university. Oxford. We were at Balliol together. I read art history, and Sophie literature, for all the good it does her now." His fond grin transformed his lean face.

Khan was, Kincaid decided, perhaps only in his midthirties. His poise, his clothes, and the veneer of arrogance he had worn so well at the salesroom had made him seem older. He said, "I think, Mr. Khan, that you had better start at the beginning."

"Ah, well." Khan's smile vanished. "I never thought it would come to this. I specialized in Eastern art and meant to teach. But there were no suitable openings after uni, and the job at Harrowby's came up. I thought it sounded glamorous, wet behind the ears as I was.

"I came up from the floor, like Kristin and Giles Oliver, and I soon found out that it wasn't glamorous at all. But by the time I really began to see all the cracks in the porcelain, Soph and I were married and had bought a house. So I had commitments, and couldn't afford to jump ship, but the higher I climbed, the more rotten things got."

"What sort of rot are we talking about?" Kincaid asked.

Khan waved a hand. "You name it. Dealing in stolen or illegally exported antiquities. Falsifying import documents. Forging provenance. Collusion in the setting of the reserve. Phantom bidding. That, by the way, is Giles Oliver's little specialty, when he works the phones."

"Is it, now?" Kincaid asked thoughtfully, reconsidering his opinion of Oliver. "And this dirty dealing-it goes all the way up?"

"To the top. And between international branches of the firm."

"Why doesn't Fraud step in?" asked Cullen, sounding incensed.

"Because they can't prove anything. And even if they managed to bring a charge against the firm-and believe me, a collector who has paid an obscene amount of money for an antiquity that he thinks might have been illegally exported is not going to admit it, much less complain to the police-the relevant documents would disappear in a heartbeat."

"The documents that Kristin saw you copying-what were they?" asked Cullen.

"Memos from one of the directors to the heads of several departments, very clearly setting out a scheme for the smuggling of listed Italian objects."

"Did Kristin know what they were?"

"God, no. That would have been disastrous. She just saw me copying things in the director's office when I had no reason to be there. I thought if I was hard enough on her, she'd leave."

"It seems to me that you-"

Kincaid cut Cullen off. "You still haven't said exactly what you were doing." He wasn't ready to antagonize Khan, not until they had the whole story. "Or why Fraud should have told us about it."

"No." Khan sat back in his chair and looked out at the garden. One of the little bucket swings moved very slightly in the breeze. "I wish now I'd never had the mind to be so bloody noble. It was before Soph got pregnant with Izzy, and I hadn't so much to lose.

"It ate at me, to see what I'd loved so tarnished, but I didn't know what I could do. Then one night I ran into a friend from university, an investigative journalist. We got to talking, and after a few too many bottles of wine, I told him everything. He lit up like a bloody Christmas tree. He said that if I was patient, I could collect enough evidence to mount a damning exposé. And that we could sell it. Not only to a publisher, but he had a contact at ITV that might be interested in doing a program."

"And the police?"

"My friend met with SO6, told them what we were planning. They said they'd keep a watching brief, whatever that means. I've never spoken directly to anyone, for fear that it would compromise my position. But I assumed that someone would have told you, or at least asked you to tread carefully. I suppose they took our request to keep it quiet a bit too literally."

Khan smiled, this time with no humor. "I didn't know the meaning of patient. Or what it would be like to lead a double life. I suppose I had juvenile fantasies of being a spy." He shook his head, and in the shadows the planes of his face looked hollow.

"Sweating. Lying. Sneaking. I'd always put on a bit of a facade, as it impressed the punters, but this went much deeper. I began to bring that other man home, and Soph was getting fed up. I was getting fed up. But we-my friend and I-had finally come up with a concrete scheme for nailing them, a trail of documents that led all the way through the chain. But my position is getting more precarious every day, and you can see why I couldn't appear to be cooperating with the police.

"I want out." Khan sliced his hand through the air, a figurative cut. "I've had a teaching offer from the University of London, but first I have to finish what I started."

"I can see you wouldn't want to lose out on the money, after all you've done," said Cullen.

Khan gave him an unfriendly glance. "Money would be welcome, especially now that Sophie isn't working. But so far I've not seen a penny, nor do I have any guarantee that I will. It's just that I'd like all my effort to count for something.

"It's a bloody racket," he went on, shaking his head in disgust. "Buy something from a barrow boy at a market, mark it up twenty, fifty, a hundred times, and call it a priceless antique. It's bollocks."

"You're not saying it's all worthless?" said Cullen, sounding as if he'd been told there was no Father Christmas.

"No, of course not. But you have to know what you're doing, and you should never trust an auction house-at least not ours. Kristin liked to sneer a bit at her mum's little antiques shop, but from what Kristin said, her mum is an honest trader and makes an honest living at it."

"And the Goldshtein brooch?"

"Oh, that's real enough. The hallmark and the work are unmistakable," Khan answered with a shrug. "Although I never thought to see an authentic Goldshtein that had not been cataloged. But these things do happen, even if not as often as the salesrooms and the telly auction shows would like you to think. But my guess, with a piece like that, would be that someone had it tucked away. I doubt it's been floating about unidentified on the market for years."

"And you had no previous connection with the seller, Harry Pevensey?" Kincaid asked.

"No. Although I didn't buy the story about the car boot sale-Pevensey just didn't seem the type to go digging about in car park stalls-but you can't exactly call a client a liar if you want to keep the business."

"And Kristin? Do you know what her connection was with Pevensey?"

"She didn't say, and I didn't ask, although I thought it was an unlikely liaison. Kristin was a bit of a social climber, and Pevensey was obviously not going anywhere but down, no matter what sort of profit he might have made on the brooch." Khan frowned. "You'll have talked to him, now that you have the warrant? What did he say?"

"We didn't have the chance to ask," Kincaid answered levelly. "Someone ran Harry Pevensey down last night, just like Kristin. He's dead."

"Dead?" Khan stared at them blankly, then his face hardened and he stood. "You bastards. You came here, to my home, accepting my hospitality, and all the while you meant to trick me into making some kind of admission? You think I killed that poor sod?" There was nothing icy about his rage now, and Kincaid saw him glance at the open kitchen window and make an obvious effort to lower his voice. "Have you put me in the frame for Kristin, too?"

"Mr. Khan." Kincaid stood, but more slowly. "You must realize, from what you yourself have told us, that you had a great deal to lose if Kristin Cahill reported your undercover activities to the directors of your firm. And if she had some connection with Harry Pevensey, he might have been able to compromise you as well." He lifted his jacket from the back of the lawn chair, feeling suddenly weary. He would find no enjoyment in bursting the bubble of this man's family life, and if Khan were genuine, he admired what he had set out to accomplish.