Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Then I won’t be going to any funerals,” said Rashidi, “because they certainly aren’t going to allow me to attend Detective Sergeant Warwick’s.”

  * * *

  “What’s the problem, grumpy?” asked William.

  “Today’s the day,” said Beth.

  “You’re going to give birth today?” said William, sounding excited.

  “No, Caveman. It’s the day we have to give the Vermeer back to Christina.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said William, as he wrapped his arms around her. “No wonder you had such a restless night.”

  “However much Christina says she needs the money, I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to parting with one of the gallery’s finest works.”

  “Is she picking it up herself?”

  “No. Christie’s are sending a representative around to collect the picture this morning, as she’s putting it up for sale. Tim will be responsible for handing it over, but I intend to be there as it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see the lady.”

  William couldn’t think of any words to comfort her, so he just continued to hold her in his arms.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the last painting had been stored safely in the hold that the captain gave the order to cast off.

  He set out on the voyage to England at least a couple of times a year, always docking in Christchurch, but not tonight. The Christina slipped out of the bay that morning in broad daylight without attracting any unwanted attention. But then several far grander yachts were making their way into the harbor to watch the Monte Carlo Grand Prix the following week, so why would anyone give them a second look?

  The captain had locked the villa and handed over the keys to the estate agent, along with clear instructions as to which Swiss bank the funds should be deposited in once the sale had been completed.

  All the valuables, including the fabled art collection, were already on board, and when they eventually came under the hammer the boss would have more than enough money to begin a new life in any country he chose, while the police would be convinced he was dead and buried.

  The Christina would only drop anchor once, to pick up a passenger who would instruct the captain where his next port of call should be.

  The voyage across the Bay of Biscay was calmer than usual. As he sailed into the English Channel a ball of fiery red disappeared in the west, and by the time it reappeared in the east, his boss would have escaped, or be back in jail.

  * * *

  William had described the problem as urgent after they’d left Nettleford on Sunday afternoon.

  His father had suggested they meet in his chambers at eight o’clock the following morning, as he would be appearing in front of Mr. Justice Baverstock at ten.

  William arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields long before the appointed hour. He walked slowly across to the Victorian building that could have passed for a fashionable private residence—and probably was a hundred years ago—on the far side of the square.

  As he entered Essex Court Chambers he stopped to study the long list of names printed neatly in black on the white brick wall. SIR JULIAN WARWICK QC headed the list. His gaze continued on down, only stopping when he reached the name MS. GRACE WARWICK. How long before QC would be added to her name, he wondered. His father would be so proud, though he’d never admit it. He spent a moment thinking about where his name might have appeared if he’d taken his father’s advice and joined him as a pupil in chambers, and not signed up to be a constable in the Met.

  William climbed the well-worn stone steps to the first floor and knocked on a door that he’d first stood outside as a child. He was no less apprehensive now about how his father would react when he told him his news.

  “Come,” said the voice of a man who didn’t waste words.

  William entered a room that hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember. The picture of his mother as a beautiful young woman stood on the corner of his father’s desk. Prints of Sherborne, Brasenose, and Lincoln’s Inn hung on the walls, alongside a photograph of Sir Julian dining with the Queen Mother at High Table, when he’d been treasurer of Lincoln’s Inn. There was even a photograph of William running the one hundred meters at White City when he was an undergraduate. He’d never told his father he’d come last in that race.

  Julian stood up and shook hands with his son as if he were a client, while Grace gave her brother a huge hug.

  “You clearly require the advice of two of the leading advocates in the land, my boy, so be warned, the clock is already ticking and, on your salary, I suspect we can spare you about ten minutes.”

  “I’ve got all morning,” said Grace, giving her brother a reassuring smile.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t,” said William. “I have to be back at the Yard by nine for the Trojan Horse debriefing. But I wanted you both to know, before I tell the commander, that I’m going to resign.”

  Julian didn’t look surprised and simply said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I thought you’d be delighted,” said William. “After all, you never wanted me to join the police force in the first place.”

  “True, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.”

  “Not least your triumph as a leading member of the Trojan Horse team,” suggested Grace. “And there are rumors you’re about to become the youngest inspector in the force.”

  “It’s that so-called triumph that’s the cause of my current dilemma.”

  “What do you mean?” said Grace.

  “One of the senior officers involved in that operation turns out to be just as crooked as the criminals I’m trying to put behind bars.”

  “I’ve given the problem a great deal of thought since we discussed it over the weekend,” said Julian, “and have reluctantly come to the conclusion that you’ll have to expose him.”

  “I agree with you,” said William, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to brazen it out until he’s due to retire in eighteen months’ time.”

  “Given the circumstances,” suggested Sir Julian, “the Hawk might consider it politic to move him to a less high-profile department before he retires.”

  “Like burglary perhaps?” said William, which at least brought a smile to his father’s face.

  “So, what do you plan to do instead?” asked Grace. “Because you’re still young enough to consider a new career.”

  “I’ll do what Father always wanted me to do. Apply for a place at King’s College London to read law. Though the timing isn’t ideal…”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” his father assured him.

  “And once you’ve graduated,” said Grace, “you can join us in chambers.”

  “Only if, like your sister, you’re awarded a first-class honors degree,” said Julian. “I don’t believe in nepotism, so there will be no ‘Bob’s your uncle’ in these chambers.”

  “Remind me, Father,” said William, playing a game that had begun in the nursery.

  “The saying derives from the days when Sir Robert Peel, later Lord Salisbury, was prime minister and put two of his nephews in the cabinet. Hence, Bob’s your uncle. But can you tell me which one of them went on to also become PM?”

  “Sir Anthony Balfour,” said Grace.

  “Correct,” said Julian. “But as you’re in a hurry to get back to the Yard, may I suggest that we discuss your future in greater detail when you and Beth join us for lunch on Sunday?”

  “By which time I will have resigned,” said William, as he rose from his place.

  “Then you’ll need to get your application into King’s College fairly quickly if you’re hoping to join the law faculty in September.”

  “I’ve already filled in the application form,” said William. “All I need to do now is hand it in.”

  “Would you like me to have a word with Ron Maudsley, who’s the law professor at King’s? We were contemporaries at Brasenose and—”

  “If you do that, Father, I’ll
go to Battersea Polytechnic and take up basket-weaving.” He’d closed the door behind him before Julian had the chance to reply.

  “How disappointing,” said Grace. “I agree with you, Father. He made the right choice in the first place.”

  “But it’s not without a silver lining. He’ll make a fine barrister, and all that knowledge gained as a policeman will serve him in good stead whenever he comes up against a hardened criminal in the witness box.”

  “Or a police officer for that matter. But I still think he should have remained in the force and gone on locking up criminals rather than joining us and trying to get them released.”

  “Don’t ever tell him, but I agree with you, and will try and talk him out of it on Sunday.”

  “It may be too late by then.”

  * * *

  Tim Knox picked up the phone.

  “There’s a Mr. Drummond from Christie’s downstairs,” said his secretary. “Says you’re expecting him.”

  Knox glanced at his watch. “He’s early, but then so would I be if I was collecting a masterpiece worth several million. Tell him I’m on my way, and please ask Beth to join us.”

  The director reluctantly left his office and made his way slowly down the wide marble staircase to the ground floor, where he saw a smartly dressed man carrying a large blue Christie’s bag.

  “Good morning, Dr. Knox,” the man said as they shook hands. “Alex Drummond. Mr. Davage asked me to stand in for him as he’s in New York for the autumn sales, but said he’ll phone as soon as he wakes up,” he added, handing the director his business card. “You probably won’t remember, but we met at the Christie’s summer party last year. You asked me what price I thought Teniers’s Night and Day might fetch.”

  “And remind me,” said Tim, “what was the hammer price?”

  “Just over a million.”

  “Well beyond our resources, as I feared. Where did it end up?”

  “The Getty Museum in California.”

  “Petty cash for them,” said Tim ruefully, as Beth joined them, wearing a pair of white cotton gloves. “This is Beth, the gallery’s assistant keeper of paintings.”

  “An unfortunate title, given the circumstances,” said Beth.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Warwick,” said Drummond.

  “Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?” said Tim. “I’d like to get this over with before we open the gallery to the public.”

  Beth carefully lifted the painting off its hook before handing it to the director. At the same time, Drummond removed a small wooden box from his canvas bag, and opened it so Beth could place the picture inside.

  “A perfect fit,” she said.

  Drummond closed the lid, snapped the clasps shut, and slipped the box back into his bag.

  “How much do you expect it to fetch?” asked Tim, after he’d signed the release form.

  “The low estimate is one million, but Mr. Davage thinks it could make as much as two.”

  “More than enough to solve Christina’s problems,” muttered Beth.

  “Divorce, death, and debt,” said Drummond. “The auctioneer’s three best friends. With the added irony on this occasion that it will probably be our client’s ex-husband who ends up buying it. Mr. Faulkner has made it clear that he wants it back at any price.”

  “Then I hope he has to pay way over the top for it,” said Beth with feeling. “Although I can’t see the prison authorities allowing him to hang it in his cell.”

  Drummond smiled after he signed the release form. “If either of you would like me to reserve a seat for you at the auction, just let me know.”

  “I couldn’t face it,” said Beth.

  “Nor me,” said Tim. “Not least because I know only too well that we can’t afford to join in the bidding.”

  “And on that note, I’ll leave you,” said Drummond, shaking hands with them both before taking his leave.

  “A sad day for the gallery,” said Tim, as he and Beth walked back up the stairs together.

  “It was inevitable, I suppose,” said Beth, “after Faulkner stole all Christina’s other paintings. But at least she got the better of him this time.”

  * * *

  After William had left his father’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he walked up the Strand and hesitated for a moment before dropping into King’s College.

  He handed in his application form to join the law faculty in September to the senior porter in the lodge. The porter’s expression suggested that he thought William looked a bit old to be an undergraduate.

  William checked his watch. He didn’t need to be late for the commander’s meeting, when he intended to expose Lamont.

  * * *

  Back in his office, Tim Knox began to go through the morning’s post. Too many bills and not enough donations. A museum director’s perennial problem, he thought, as the phone on his desk began to ring.

  “There’s a Mr. Davage waiting for you in reception.”

  “What? I thought he was meant to be in New York,” said Tim. He immediately called Beth and asked her to join him, and this time they both ran down the stairs.

  “Good morning,” said Davage after they’d caught their breath. “Though not a particularly good one for you, I fear, which is why I decided to come over and collect the painting myself.”

  “But one of your colleagues has already picked it up,” said Tim, pointing to an empty space on the wall.

  “One of my colleagues? What are you talking about?”

  “Alex Drummond,” said Tim nervously. “He said you were in New York.”

  “I was, but I caught the red-eye, and came straight to the gallery from the airport. And I can assure you, there’s no one at Christie’s called Alex Drummond.”

  An embarrassed silence followed before Beth said calmly, “Faulkner’s done it again. And this time he didn’t even have to put in a bid for the painting.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “I should have asked him how he knew…”

  “Knew what?” demanded the director.

  “That I was Mrs. Warwick, when you introduced me as Beth.”

  “And that box he had with him,” said Knox, thumping his leg in anger. “The painting fitted in so neatly.”

  “Far too neatly,” said Beth. “But then it was supplied by the previous owner.”

  “But Faulkner’s in jail,” said Davage.

  “That wouldn’t stop him issuing orders to his flunkies on the outside,” said Beth. “Like the so-called Alex Drummond.”

  “This isn’t the time to stand around chatting about what fools we’ve made of ourselves,” said Tim. “Beth, you’d better call your husband immediately, and tell him what’s happened.”

  Beth walked slowly back to her office, clinging onto the banister. She feared the lady in The White Lace Collar would already be in the arms of another.

  28

  THROW AWAY THE KEY, screamed the Sun’s banner headline.

  The team sat around the table in the commander’s office, perusing the morning papers. William had chosen the Sun because Beth wouldn’t allow him to have it in the house. Half a million pounds in cash, thirty arrests, and five kilos of cocaine discovered in a Brixton drugs den. Beth would have pointed out that Brixton was about the only word in the article that was accurate.

  Jackie was reading the Daily Mail. MET ARREST LEADING DRUG BARON IN MIDNIGHT RAID. A flattering photo of the commander adorned the front page. Profile, page sixteen.

  Lamont had settled for the Express. A VIPER TRAPPED IN HIS NEST! ran the headline, above a photo of Rashidi being dragged out of the building by two armed police officers.

  The Hawk was reading The Guardian’s leader, WAR ON DRUGS, while Paul was the only one who didn’t appear to be enjoying the morning’s press coverage.

  “That’s enough self-indulgence for one day,” said the Hawk finally. “Time to move on.”

  “Great coverage, though,” said Lamont, tossing the Express back on the pile in the center of the tab
le. “Even if, search as I did, I couldn’t find a single mention of DC Adaja and the pivotal role he played in the whole operation.”

  “It’s bound to be in the small print somewhere,” said the commander masking a smile, “if one had the time to look for it.”

  Paul bowed his head and made no attempt to respond.

  “Did you witness the sad event, DS Warwick?”

  “No, sir,” said William. “The last time I saw DC Adaja he was still on the bus.”

  “Which is where he should have stayed,” said Lamont.

  “How about you, Jackie?”

  “The whole tragic incident unfolded right in front of me, sir. DC Adaja jumped off the bus before it had even come to a halt. He hit the ground running, but unfortunately he tripped and fell. Luckily, I was able to drag him to one side so he wasn’t trampled on in the stampede that followed. I shouted ‘Officer down!’ and an ambulance appeared within minutes and immediately whisked him off to A and E at St. Thomas’s.”

  “And once they’d examined the patient, what was the diagnosis?” asked the commander, barely able to keep a straight face.

  They all turned to face Paul.

  “A sprained ankle,” he eventually managed. “Truth is, I played absolutely no part in the success of the operation.”

  “You most certainly did,” said the Hawk. “Don’t forget the hours you spent tracking Rashidi. And, frankly, without your input the whole operation might never have got off the ground.”

  The rest of the team began to bang the table with the palms of their hands in recognition of the role Paul had played, and within moments the familiar grin reappeared on his face.

  The Hawk turned to William. “DS Warwick, I’m puzzled as to how you got that black eye.”

  “One of Rashidi’s thugs punched me in the heat of battle,” said William proudly. “But it was worth it, because I arrested and charged the little bastard.”

  “It certainly was,” said the Hawk. “In fact, that particular little bastard was Marlboro Man.”