Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  The contender took a deep breath before glancing at the honours board, to be reminded that Fred’s name was printed in gold for 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981 and 1982. But not 1983, thought William, as he chalked his cue. He felt like Steve Davis moments before he became world champion.

  He was about to sink the final black when he spotted Fred standing on the other side of the table, looking resigned and dejected.

  William leant over the table, lined up the two balls and hit the cue ball perfectly. He watched as the black touched the rim of the pocket, wobbled precariously over the hole, but remained tantalizingly balanced on the lip, and failed to drop. The stunned crowd gasped in disbelief. The lad had buckled under pressure.

  Fred didn’t squander a second chance, and the room erupted when he sank the final ball to win the frame, and the championship, 73–72.

  The two men shook hands while several officers surrounded them, patting both men on the back, with ‘Well done’, ‘Couldn’t have been closer’, and ‘Bad luck, William’. William stood to one side when the super presented Fred with the cup, which the champion raised high in the air to even louder cheers.

  An older man, dressed in a smart double-breasted suit, whom neither of the gladiators had noticed, slipped quietly out of the room, left the station and instructed his driver to take him home.

  Everything he’d been told about the lad had turned out to be true, and he couldn’t wait for Constable Warwick to join his team at Scotland Yard.

  4

  WHEN CONSTABLE WARWICK emerged from St James’s Park tube station, the first thing he saw on the far side of the road was the iconic revolving triangular sign announcing New Scotland Yard. He gazed across with awe and apprehension, as an aspiring actor might approaching the National Theatre, or an artist entering the courtyard of the Royal Academy for the first time. He pulled up his collar to protect himself from the biting wind, and joined the stampede of early morning lemmings on their way to work.

  William crossed Broadway and continued walking towards the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force, a nineteen-storey building covered in years of grime and crime. He presented his warrant card to the policeman on the door, and headed for the reception desk. A young woman smiled up at him.

  ‘My name is Constable Warwick. I have an appointment with Commander Hawksby.’

  She ran a finger down the morning schedule.

  ‘Ah, yes. You’ll find the commander’s office on the fifth floor, at the far end of the corridor.’

  William thanked her and headed towards a bank of lifts, but when he saw how many people were waiting, he decided to take the stairs. When he reached the first floor, DRUGS, he continued climbing. He passed FRAUD on the second floor, and MURDER on the third, before finally reaching the fifth floor, where he was greeted by MONEY LAUNDERING, ART AND ANTIQUES.

  He pushed open a door that led into a long, brightly lit corridor. He walked slowly, aware that he still had a little time to spare. Better to be a few minutes early than a minute late, according to the gospel of St Julian. Lights were blazing in every room he passed. The fight against crime knew no hours. One door was ajar, and William caught his breath when he spotted a painting that was propped up against the far wall.

  Two men and a young woman were examining the picture carefully.

  ‘Well done, Jackie,’ said the older man, in a distinct Scottish accent. ‘A personal triumph.’

  ‘Thank you, guv,’ she replied.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said the younger man, pointing at the picture, ‘this will put Faulkner behind bars for at least six years. God knows we’ve waited long enough to nail the bastard.’

  ‘Agreed, DC Hogan,’ said the older man, who turned and spotted William standing in the doorway. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  While you’re still a constable, Fred had warned him, call anything that moves ‘sir’. That way you can’t go far wrong. ‘I was just admiring the painting.’ The older man was about to close the door when William added, ‘I’ve seen the original.’

  The three officers turned to take a closer look at the intruder.

  ‘This is the original,’ said the young woman, sounding irritated.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said William.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ demanded her colleague.

  ‘The original used to hang in the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington until it was stolen some years ago. A crime that still hasn’t been solved.’

  ‘We’ve just solved it,’ said the woman with conviction.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ responded William. ‘The original was signed by Rembrandt in the bottom right-hand corner with his initials, RvR.’

  The three officers peered at the right-hand corner of the canvas, but there was no sign of any initials.

  ‘Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, will be joining us in a few minutes’ time, laddie,’ said the older man. ‘I think I’ll rely on his judgement rather than yours.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said William.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much this painting is worth?’ asked the young woman.

  William stepped into the room and took a closer look. He thought it best not to remind her of Oscar Wilde’s comment on the difference between value and price.

  ‘I’m not an expert,’ he said, ‘but I would think somewhere between two and three hundred pounds.’

  ‘And the original?’ asked the young woman, no longer sounding quite as confident.

  ‘No idea, but every major gallery on earth would want to add such a masterpiece to its collection, not to mention several leading collectors, for whom money wouldn’t be an object.’

  ‘So you haven’t got a clue what it’s worth?’ said the younger officer.

  ‘No, sir. A Rembrandt of this quality is rarely seen on the open market. The last one to come under the hammer was at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York.’

  ‘We know where Sotheby Parke Bernet is,’ said the older man, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  ‘Then you’ll know it went for twenty-three million dollars,’ said William, immediately regretting his words.

  ‘We are all grateful for your opinion, laddie, but don’t let us hold you up any longer, as I am sure you have more important things to do,’ he said, nodding towards the door.

  William tried to retreat gracefully as he stepped back into the corridor only to hear the door close firmly behind him. He checked his watch: 7.57. He hurried on towards the far end of the corridor, not wanting to be late for his appointment.

  He knocked on a door that announced in gold lettering, ‘Commander Jack Hawksby OBE’, and walked in to find a secretary seated behind a desk. She stopped typing, looked up and said, ‘PC Warwick?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William nervously.

  ‘The commander is expecting you. Please go straight through,’ she said, pointing to another door.

  William knocked a second time, and waited until he heard the word, ‘Come’.

  A smartly dressed, middle-aged man with penetrating blue eyes and a lined forehead, making him look older than his years, rose from behind his desk. Hawksby shook William’s outstretched hand and pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk. He opened a file and studied it for a few moments before he spoke. ‘Let me begin by asking you if you are by any chance related to Sir Julian Warwick QC?’

  William’s heart sank. ‘He’s my father,’ he said, presuming that the interview was about to come to a premature end.

  ‘A man I greatly admire,’ said Hawksby. ‘Never breaks the rules, never bends the law, but still defends even the most dubious charlatans as if they were saints, and I don’t suppose he’s come across many of those in his professional capacity.’ William laughed nervously.

  ‘I wanted to see you personally,’ continued Hawksby, clearly not a man who wasted time on small talk, ‘as you passed out top in your detective’s exam, and by a considerable margin.’

  W
illiam hadn’t even realized he’d passed.

  ‘Congratulations,’ the commander added. ‘I also noted that you’re a graduate, but chose not to take advantage of our accelerated promotion scheme.’

  ‘No, sir. I wanted to—’

  ‘Prove yourself. As I did myself. Now, as you know, Warwick, if you are to become a detective, you will have to be transferred to another patch. With that in mind, I’ve decided to send you to Peckham to learn the ropes. If you’re any good, I’ll be seeing you again in a couple of years’ time, and then I’ll decide if you’re ready to join us here at Scotland Yard, and take on the first division criminals, or if you should remain in the outer reaches and continue your apprenticeship.’

  William allowed himself a smile, and settled back in his chair only to be shocked by the commander’s next question.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to be a detective?’

  ‘Yes, sir. From the age of eight.’

  ‘It’s not the white-collar criminals your father comes across that you’ll be dealing with, but the worst scum on earth. You’ll be expected to cope with everything from the suicide of a pregnant mother who can’t take being abused by her partner any longer, to finding a young drug addict with a needle sticking out of his arm who’s not much older than you. Frankly, you won’t always be able to sleep at night. And you’ll get paid less than a manager at Tesco.’

  ‘You sound like my father, sir, and he couldn’t put me off.’

  The commander stood up. ‘Then so be it, Warwick. I’ll see you in two years’ time.’ They shook hands again; the obligatory interview over.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said William. After closing the door quietly behind him he wanted to leap in the air and cry Hallelujah, until he saw three figures standing in the outer office looking directly at him.

  ‘Name and rank?’ said the older man he’d seen earlier.

  ‘Warwick, sir. Constable William Warwick.’

  ‘Make sure Constable Warwick doesn’t move, sergeant,’ said the older man to the young woman, before knocking on the commander’s door and going in.

  ‘Good morning, Bruce,’ said Hawksby. ‘I hear you’re about to arrest Miles Faulkner. Not a moment too soon.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. But that wasn’t why I wanted to see you . . .’ was all William heard before the door closed.

  ‘Who’s he?’ William asked the young woman.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lamont. He heads up the Art and Antiques unit and reports directly to Commander Hawksby.’

  ‘Do you also work for the art squad?’

  ‘Yes. I’m DS Roycroft, and the chief’s my gaffer.’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Up to your neck, constable. Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.’

  ‘But I was only trying to help . . .’

  ‘And thanks to your help, you’ve single-handedly managed to scupper a six-month undercover operation.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I suspect you’re about to find out,’ said DS Roycroft as the door swung open and Detective Chief Inspector Lamont reappeared, glaring at William.

  ‘Come in, Warwick,’ he said. ‘The commander wants another word with you.’

  William walked tentatively into Hawksby’s office, assuming he was about to be told that he was back on the beat. The commander’s smile had been replaced by a grim look, and this time he didn’t bother to shake hands with PC 565LD.

  ‘You’re a nuisance, Warwick,’ he said, ‘and I can tell you now, you won’t be going to Peckham.’

  5

  ‘YOUR LAST DAY in uniform,’ said Fred as they left the nick and set out on their evening patrol.

  ‘Unless I’m not cut out to be a detective,’ said William. ‘In which case, I’ll be back on the beat in no time.’

  ‘Balls. You’ll make a name for yourself, and everyone knows it.’

  ‘Only thanks to you, Fred. You’ve taught me more about the real world than I ever learnt at university.’

  ‘Only because you’ve led such a sheltered life, Choirboy. Unlike me. So which unit will you be attached to?’

  ‘Art and Antiques.’

  ‘I thought that was just a hobby for people with too much time and money on their hands, not a crime.’

  ‘It can be a very lucrative crime for those who’ve worked out how to find a way around the law.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘There’s a scam going on at the moment,’ said William, ‘where professional criminals steal paintings without any intention of selling them.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Fred. ‘Why steal something you don’t intend to sell or pass on to a fence?’

  ‘Insurance companies are sometimes willing to make a deal with a go-between rather than pay out the full amount on a policy.’

  ‘A fence in an Armani suit?’ said Fred. ‘So how do you nick ’em?’

  ‘You have to wait until they get too greedy, and the insurance company refuses to pay up.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of paperwork to me, so I’d never have made a detective.’

  ‘Where are we patrolling tonight?’ asked William, well aware that Fred didn’t always follow daily orders to the letter.

  ‘Saturday night. Better check the Barton estate and make sure the Suttons and Tuckers aren’t spoiling for a fight. Then we’ll head back to Luscombe Road before the pubs close. Might even find a drunk and disorderly for you to arrest on your last night on the beat.’

  Although William had spent two years on probation with Fred, he knew almost nothing about his private life. He could hardly complain, because he himself was just as secretive, but as it would be their final patrol together, he decided to ask Fred something that had often puzzled him.

  ‘What made you join the force in the first place?’

  Fred didn’t answer for some time, almost as if he was ignoring the question. ‘As I’m never going to see you again, Choirboy,’ he eventually replied, ‘I’ll tell you. To start with, it wasn’t in the first place. And was more by accident than design.’

  William remained silent as they turned into an alley that led to the back of the Barton estate.

  ‘I was born in a tenement block in Glasgow. My father spent most of his life on the dole, so my mother was our only source of income.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She was a barmaid, who learnt soon enough that she could earn a damn sight more doing favours on the side. Trouble is, I’m still not sure if I was the result of one of those favours.’

  William didn’t comment.

  ‘But the cash dried up when she began to lose her looks, and it didn’t help that my father gave her a regular black eye if she didn’t come home on a Saturday night with enough cash to pay for his next bottle of whisky and the chance to back another fourth-place nag.’

  Fred fell silent, while William thought about his own parents, who usually went out to dinner and the theatre on a Saturday night. He still found it difficult to comprehend the tyranny of domestic violence. He’d never once heard his father raise his voice in front of his mother.

  ‘London’s a long way from Glasgow,’ prompted William, hoping to learn more.

  ‘It wasn’t far enough for me,’ said Fred, flashing his torch down an alley and grinning when a young couple scurried away. ‘I was fourteen when I left home. I jumped on the first tramp steamer that would have me. I’d seen half the world by the time I was eighteen and landed up in London.’

  ‘Is that when you joined the force?’

  ‘No. I still looked on them as the enemy. I spent a few months stacking supermarket shelves before becoming a bus conductor. Soon got bored with that, so decided to join either the army or the police. If the police hadn’t interviewed me first, I might be a general by now.’

  ‘Or dead,’ said William, as they walked onto the estate.

  ‘You’re just as likely to be killed in this job as you are in the modern army,’ said Fred. ‘I’ve lost seve
n colleagues in the past twenty years, and far too many others, injured and invalided out of the force. And at least in the army you know who the enemy is, and you’re allowed to kill them. We’re expected to handle drug dealers, knife crime and gang warfare, while most of the public prefer not to know.’

  ‘So why did you stick at it when you could have chosen a far easier life?’

  ‘We may have come from opposite sides of the tracks, Choirboy,’ said Fred, ‘but we do have one thing in common – we’re both a bit bonkers, but at least we’re doing the job we were destined for. And let’s face it, I’ve never had a job that’s half as exciting or rewarding as being a Met copper.’

  ‘Rewarding?’

  ‘I don’t mean financially, although if you put in the overtime, the pay’s not too bad. Deprehendo Deprehensio Vitum,’ said Fred. ‘Overtime Solves Crime.’

  William couldn’t stop laughing, and Fred added, ‘Don’t worry, it’s the only Latin I know. What I enjoy most about the job is that no two days are ever the same. And, more importantly, this is my manor, and I know almost everyone who lives here. They may not always be one big happy family, but they’re my family, and although I’d never admit it in the canteen, I like to kid myself I’ve made a difference.’

  ‘And you’ve got two commendations to prove it.’

  ‘Not to mention three suspensions, but as I’ve only got a few months left before I hang up my truncheon, I won’t be stepping out of line again. Wouldn’t want to do anything that would affect my pension,’ he added as they strolled off the Barton estate.

  ‘It’s quiet tonight,’ said William.

  ‘They saw us coming, and like rats, they disappeared down the nearest drain. They’ll reappear the minute we’re out of sight. But then, we wouldn’t want any trouble on your last night on the beat, would we, detective?’