‘By the time he left the Slade,’ said Lamont, taking over, ‘he’d worked out exactly what role he was going to play in the art world. But he needed to gain some experience before he could branch out on his own. He joined a leading West End gallery as a trainee, where he learnt how much money could be made in the art world, especially if you were unscrupulous. He was sacked after a couple of years in circumstances that we’re not altogether sure about, although we do know that no other gallery would employ him. For some time he disappeared off the scene, until a Salvador Dalí went missing from the Courtauld, long before the Art and Antiques squad had been set up.’
‘What makes you think he was involved in that theft?’ asked William.
‘We picked him up on a surveillance camera taking a photograph of the painting a month before it was stolen. A mistake he hasn’t made since,’ said Hawksby.
‘And he must have made a good enough profit from that deal, among others, because once again he disappeared off our radar until the Rembrandt was stolen from the Fitzmolean some seven years ago. But on that occasion Mr Booth Watson was unable to reach a deal with the insurers, which looks like his only failure to date. Although the manner in which he carried out the theft would have impressed even Thomas Crown.’
William didn’t interrupt.
‘A squad car turned up outside the Fitzmolean on a Saturday afternoon just after the gallery had closed. Two men dressed as policemen entered the museum claiming an alarm had gone off, coshed the doorman and tied him up. Ten minutes later, they walked out of the front door with the Rembrandt tucked under their arms.’
‘Where were the security guards?’
‘They said they were patrolling the top floor and didn’t report back to the ground floor until half an hour later, at 4.48 p.m.’
‘Is 4.48 relevant?’ asked William.
‘He’s sharp,’ said Lamont.
‘Manchester United were playing Liverpool in the FA Cup that afternoon, and the match was being shown live on BBC1. The final whistle went at 4.46.’
‘Where was the television?’ asked William.
‘In the staff canteen in the basement,’ said Lamont, ‘which I suspect Faulkner was well aware of, because the thieves arrived just after the whistle blew for the start of the second half, and we later discovered that both guards were Manchester United supporters, which I’ve no doubt Faulkner knew only too well.’
‘If the devil’s in the detail, he’s the devil,’ added Hawksby.
‘So now you know what we’re up against,’ said DS Roycroft. ‘A highly professional, well-organized criminal, who only has to steal one major painting every few years to live the life of Riley, and can carry out the whole operation in a matter of minutes.’
‘I must have missed something,’ said William. ‘Why didn’t Booth Watson make a deal with the insurers and settle the claim soon after Faulkner had stolen the Rembrandt?’
‘The Fitzmolean were lamentably under-insured. A problem several leading galleries face at the moment. Their paintings and sculptures have soared in value over the years, and they simply can’t afford to insure them for realistic sums.’
‘However,’ chipped in Lamont, ‘the setback will have taught Faulkner one lesson. Don’t steal from galleries that aren’t fully insured or don’t have sufficient resources to offer a reward.’
‘Any questions, Warwick?’ said Hawksby.
‘Yes, sir,’ said William. ‘We now know that the Rembrandt you thought was the original is in fact a copy.’
‘What’s your point?’ said Jackie, still smarting from her mistake.
‘Someone must have painted that copy.’
‘Faulkner perhaps?’ suggested Lamont. ‘After all, he began life as an art student.’
‘Not if the Slade’s opinion of his talent is to be believed. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t know an artist who was capable of doing the job. They might well have been contemporaries at the Slade.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said Lamont, ‘you’re the obvious man to find out who that person is.’
‘Agreed,’ said Commander Hawksby, checking his watch. ‘Do you have any more questions, DC Warwick?’
‘Just one, sir. How did you get hold of the copy?’
‘We were able to convince a local magistrate that we had reason to believe Faulkner might be in possession of an important work of art that had been stolen from the Fitzmolean. He signed a search warrant, and we raided Faulkner’s home later that night. Until you appeared, we thought we’d hit the jackpot.’
‘Did you get a chance to study the rest of his collection while you were in his home?’
‘Yes,’ said Lamont, ‘and not one of them was on our list of missing pictures, and he was also able to produce receipts for all his other paintings.’
‘So he reinvests his ill-gotten gains in artwork, which makes me even more convinced he won’t have destroyed the Rembrandt.’
‘Don’t bet your pensions on it,’ said Hawksby as he closed his file. ‘That brings us up to date, and I don’t need to remind you that this is not the only case we are currently investigating. So don’t neglect the others gathering dust on your desks. I’m finding it difficult enough to justify any further expense to the commissioner, and a few convictions, however minor, would assist our cause. This government seems to be more interested in the numbers game than in catching real criminals. So let’s get back to work.’
Everyone around the table gathered up their files and headed for the door. But before William could leave the room, Hawksby said, ‘I’d like a word, Warwick.’
The commander waited until the door had been closed before he spoke again.
‘William, I know you’re bright, your colleagues also know you’re bright, so you don’t have to continually remind them you turned what they had thought was a triumph into a disaster. If you want to end up in this chair one day, don’t spend any more time pissing off the people you’ll be working with. I suggest you occasionally seek advice, and don’t just dispense it. Perhaps you should spend a little more time in the snooker room, as it didn’t seem to do you any harm in Lambeth.’
William recalled his father’s words. Not a man to be underestimated.
Quietly he left the room, his head bowed. He thought about the commander’s words as he walked slowly down the corridor. He hadn’t yet visited the snooker room at Scotland Yard. When he returned to the office he shared with his colleagues, he found two case files had been dumped on his desk. He was halfway through one labelled ‘Churchill’, when DS Roycroft appeared by his side.
‘Which one do you think I should start on, sarge?’ he asked her.
‘Remind me,’ said Jackie.
‘Winston Churchill, or moon dust?’
‘Moon dust should be pretty easy to deal with. The professor is clearly not a criminal, and frankly, Mr Underwood, the under-secretary at the American Embassy, is overreacting. But we don’t want a diplomatic incident, so make sure you tread carefully.’
‘And Churchill?’
‘Churchill will be more of a challenge, but as the Hawk reminded us, nowadays it’s all about numbers, so make sure you apprehend the culprit and charge him, even though I suspect he’ll only get a six-month suspended sentence. At least it will be one more for the record. More importantly, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that you’re single-handedly going to find the Rembrandt forger in the hope he’ll lead us to Faulkner. One piece of advice, Bill,’ she said pointedly. ‘Don’t even think about going home before the light under the Hawk’s door has been switched off.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ said William, as he reopened the moon dust file. After reading all the details of the case, he had to agree with Jackie that the professor may have been naive, even culpable, but he certainly wasn’t a criminal.
When Big Ben struck six times, William decided it was too late to phone the under-secretary at the American Embassy, as Mr Underwood wouldn’t have to wait until the light in the Hawk’s office had
been switched off before he could go home.
7
‘CAN YOU PUT me through to Mr Chuck Underwood?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Detective Constable William Warwick, from Scotland Yard.’
‘I’ll see if the under-secretary is available.’
William had to wait so long, he wondered if the line had gone dead. Finally a voice came on the line.
‘Warwick?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s happened to DS Roycroft?’
‘I’ve taken over the case, sir.’
‘Is there anything lower than a detective constable?’
‘Only a probationer, sir, and I was one of those not so long ago.’
‘And you will be again if I don’t get my moon dust back.’
‘I’m working on it, sir, but I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Not again!’
‘Did the American government originally give the phial of moon dust to Professor Francis Denning of Manchester University as a gift?’
‘Yes, we did. But there were conditions attached. We made it clear it was never to be passed on to anyone else, and that under no circumstances was it to be sold to a third party.’
‘And was that put in writing at the time?’
‘It most certainly was, and we have the documentation to prove it. And now, as I’m sure you are aware, a Dr Keith Talbot has put the phial up for sale at Sotheby’s.’
‘Yes, I did know, sir. I have the catalogue in front of me.’
‘Then you will see on page thirty-one, lot nineteen, a phial of moon dust, rare, brought back from the Apollo 11 mission by Mr Neil Armstrong.’
‘However,’ said William, ‘the late Professor Denning left the phial to Dr Talbot in his will.’
‘It wasn’t his to leave, Detective Constable Warwick, as I made clear to DS Roycroft.’
‘You did indeed, sir. But I am sure you understand that we must follow the letter of the law.’
‘At a snail’s pace, it would seem, despite the fact that our legal team is at your disposal.’
‘That’s good to know, sir, because we wouldn’t want to do anything to harm the special relationship between our two countries, would we?’
‘Cut out the sarcasm, Warwick, and just get my moon dust back.’
The phone went dead. William swivelled round in his chair to see Jackie grinning at him.
‘He grows on you,’ she said, ‘but Underwood’s one of those Americans who considers Britain to be one of their smaller states. It won’t be long before he reminds you that Texas is almost three times the size of the United Kingdom. So if you want to avoid a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you get his moon dust back.’
‘I hear you,’ said William. ‘But equally important, how do I get a train ticket to Manchester?’
‘You report to Mavis in Travel on the ground floor. But I warn you, if you think Mr Underwood is tough, compared to Mavis, he’s a softie. If it was up to her, the Queen would travel second class, and the likes of us would be shovelling coal into the engine’s firebox.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Mavis—’
‘Mrs Walters to you, young man. You can’t call me Mavis until you’re at least a chief inspector. Start again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said William. ‘Mrs Walters, I need—’
‘Name, rank and department?’
‘Warwick, DC, Art and Antiques.’
‘So what were you hoping for?’
‘To be the commissioner.’
‘Try again,’ said Mrs Walters, but she did at least manage a smile.
‘A return train ticket to Manchester.’
‘What is the purpose of your trip, and how long will you be in Manchester?’
‘I’ll be visiting the university, and hope to go there and back on the same day.’
‘Then you’ll have to catch the 7.42 from Euston, and the last train back on a weekday is the 10.43. If you miss it, you’ll be spending the night on a bench on platform twelve. You are entitled to one meal, at a cost of no more than two pounds eighty, which you can claim on your duty sheet 232, but I’ll require a receipt.’ Mrs Walters began to write out a train warrant for Manchester Piccadilly. ‘If you’re going to the university, you’ll have to catch the 147 bus. You’ll also need an umbrella.’
‘An umbrella?’
‘You’ve obviously never been to Manchester before.’
‘Good morning, Mr Warwick,’ said the young woman who met him at the front desk. ‘I’m Melanie Clore. How can I help you?’
‘You have a sale coming up on July the seventeenth—’
‘Which lot number do you want us to withdraw?’
‘How could you possibly know—’
‘The police don’t visit Sotheby’s to put something up for sale.’
William smiled. ‘Lot number nineteen. A phial of moon dust brought back on the Apollo 11 mission by Neil Armstrong.’
Miss Clore checked the catalogue. ‘Offered to us by a Dr Keith Talbot, who produced a will to confirm that the moon dust had been left to him.’
‘The American embassy is claiming ownership and say they will sue everybody in sight if you go ahead with the sale.’
‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mr Warwick?’
‘It wouldn’t worry me,’ said William, ‘if I thought Dr Talbot had the law on his side.’
‘Even if he does, the legal battle could last for years.’
‘My boss is expecting me to solve this one in a couple of days.’
‘Is he? Well, if Dr Talbot is willing to sign a standard release form, we will be happy to hand over the phial, and leave you to return it to the Americans. Let’s just hope Dr Talbot isn’t another Mr Finlay Isles.’
‘Dare I ask who Mr Finlay Isles is?’
‘He sued us in 1949 over a painting worth a hundred pounds, and we’re still waiting for the courts to decide who the rightful owner is.’
‘How come?’ asked William.
‘It’s a Turner which is now worth over a million.’
As the train rattled over the points on its progress to Manchester the following morning, William studied the moon dust file yet again, but learnt nothing new.
He allowed his thoughts to return to the missing Rembrandt and how he could possibly find out the name of the artist who’d made the copy. He was convinced that in order to create such a convincing reproduction, the painter must have worked from the original. William still had difficulty believing that anyone who had been educated at the Slade would be capable of destroying a national treasure, but then he recalled the Hawk’s words – ‘Wait until you meet the man before you jump to that conclusion.’
William had read Faulkner’s file from cover to cover, and although he didn’t appear in public very often, one event he never missed was the opening night of a new James Bond film, and he was also a collector of first editions of Ian Fleming’s books. William had recently read a diary piece in the Daily Mail reporting that A View to a Kill would be opening at the Odeon Leicester Square in a month’s time. But how could he possibly get hold of a ticket? And even if he did, he couldn’t see Mrs Walters sanctioning it as a legitimate expense.
His mind returned to Dr Talbot. One phone call had elicited the information that the professor would be delivering a talk in the geology department’s lecture theatre at eleven o’clock. William wondered what sort of man Talbot was, amused by the thought of the American empire bearing down on an innocent geology lecturer from the north of England. He knew where his sympathies lay. He placed the file back in his briefcase and picked up the latest edition of the RA magazine, but after flicking through a few pages decided it would have to wait until the return journey.
When the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly at 10.49, William was among the first to hand over his ticket at the barrier. He jogged past a row of taxis to the nearest bus stop and joined a queue. A few minutes later he climbed onto the 147,
which dropped him outside the main entrance to the university. How could Mrs Walters possibly have known that? He smiled when he saw a group of students ambling through the gates and onto the campus at a leisurely pace he’d quite forgotten since joining the Met. He asked one of them for directions to the geology department, and arrived a few minutes late, but then he wasn’t there to attend the lecture. He climbed the steps to the first floor, entered the theatre by the back door and joined the dozen or so students who were listening intently to Dr Talbot.
From his seat in the back row, William studied the lecturer carefully. Dr Talbot couldn’t have been an inch over five foot, and had a shock of curly black hair that didn’t look as if it regularly came into contact with a brush or comb. He wore a corduroy jacket, a check shirt and a bootlace tie. His long black gown was covered in chalk dust. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice, only occasionally glancing down at his notes.
William became so engrossed in Talbot’s account of how the discovery of a previously unknown fossil in the early seventies had finally disproved the single species theory that he was disappointed when a buzzer sounded at twelve o’clock to indicate that the lecture was over. He waited until all the students had left and Dr Talbot was gathering up his notes before walking casually down the centre aisle to confront the master criminal.
Talbot looked up and peered at William through his National Health spectacles.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked. William produced his warrant card, and Talbot gripped the edge of the long wooden desk in front of him. ‘But I thought I’d paid that parking fine.’
‘I’m sure you did, sir. But I still need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course,’ said Talbot, fidgeting with his gown.
‘Can I begin by asking how you came into possession of a phial of moon dust?’
‘Is that what this is all about?’ said Talbot in disbelief.
‘It is, sir.’
‘It was a gift from the late Professor Denning, who left it to me in his will. The Americans presented it to him after he’d published his findings on the structure of the moon’s surface.’
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