Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘but I’ve seen someone who might.’ He stopped a passing bobby and asked him if he knew where Abbots Road was.

  ‘Second on the right, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said William.

  ‘Were you ever in uniform?’ asked Beth.

  ‘I spent a couple of years on the beat in Lambeth.’

  ‘And are the public always as appreciative and polite as you?’

  ‘Not always,’ said William quietly, before bowing his head.

  ‘What did I say?’ asked Beth, suddenly anxious.

  ‘You brought back the memory of an old friend who should have been out on the beat this morning,’ said William as they turned the corner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Beth. She took his hand, aware that they still had so much to learn about each other.

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ said William.

  As they strolled into Abbots Road, William spotted a colourful sign swinging in the breeze.

  ‘Try not to sound like a policeman,’ whispered Beth as they entered the gallery.

  A man dressed in an open-neck pink shirt, blazer and jeans stepped forward to greet them. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Zac Knight. I’m the proprietor of the gallery. May I ask if you were looking for anything in particular?’

  Yes, thought William, but said nothing.

  ‘No,’ said Beth. ‘We were just passing, and thought we’d take a look around.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. ‘The gallery is on two floors. Here on the ground floor are some remarkable paintings in the style of the modern masters.’

  ‘I’m surprised that’s legal,’ said William.

  Beth frowned as Knight gave William a closer look. He then lifted a picture off the wall and turned it around to reveal the word FAKE daubed on the back of the canvas in large black letters. ‘I can assure you, sir, that if you tried to remove the words, you would damage the painting beyond repair.’

  William nodded, but as Beth was still scowling at him, he didn’t ask another question.

  ‘And in the basement,’ continued Knight, placing the picture back on the wall, ‘you’ll find copies of well-known masterpieces by some extremely talented artists.’

  ‘Is “fake” printed on the back of those as well?’

  ‘No, madam. However, the paintings are always unsigned, and are all either one inch smaller, or one inch larger than the original, so that no serious collector would be fooled. Please, enjoy both exhibitions, and don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions.’

  ‘Thank you, Zac,’ said Beth, returning his smile.

  As they strolled around the ground floor, William was surprised by how convincing some of the fakes were. If you wanted to own a Picasso, a Matisse or a Van Gogh, it could be yours for under a thousand pounds. Even Hockney’s A Bigger Splash was on display, a print of which hung on his bedroom wall. But as they stood in front of a Rothko that might even have fooled an expert, he told Beth that he’d still rather have a Mary Fedden, a Ken Howard or an Anthony Green for about the same price.

  ‘Have you spotted your man?’ whispered Beth.

  ‘No. But he’s far more likely to be downstairs.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop down and take a look? If Mr Knight reappears, I’ll keep him occupied.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said William and disappeared downstairs to find another large gallery filled with paintings, many of which he recognized. Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire for two thousand pounds, and van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, which hung alongside a familiar nude by Goya.

  But it was when he saw A Dance to the Music of Time by Poussin that he had to catch his breath. He had seen the original in the Wallace Collection, and could only marvel at how the artist had created such a likeness. A rare talent that shone in the presence of rude mechanicals. Some of the other copies were excellent, but none of them in this class. William wasn’t in any doubt that he’d found his man, but there was no clue to the identity of the artist on the accompanying label.

  After standing in front of the canvas for some time, he reluctantly returned upstairs, where he found Beth deep in conversation with the proprietor.

  ‘I think you’ll find Renoir’s The Umbrellas rather proves my point,’ Knight was saying when William joined them. He gave Beth a nod.

  ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show me, Zac,’ she purred.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Knight, ignoring William.

  As Beth passed him, William whispered ‘Poussin,’ before she followed the proprietor downstairs. He walked slowly around the upstairs gallery for a second time, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Jez had gone off to Shropshire for the weekend, and William had wanted to tell Beth how he felt about her, but he was worried that she might not be ready to consider a commitment after such a short time, though when his father had proposed to his mother after only three weeks, she was famously reported as replying, ‘What took you so long?’

  Beth and Knight had been downstairs for about twenty minutes when William began to wonder if he should join them, but he somehow restrained himself. Twenty-five minutes. Thirty minutes. Just as he was heading for the stairs, Beth reappeared with the proprietor following closely behind.

  ‘Thank you, Zac,’ she said. ‘That was fascinating, and I look forward to attending the private view on Wednesday. By the way, this is my brother, Peter.’

  Zac shook hands with William.

  ‘Well, we ought to get moving, Sis,’ said William, ‘if we’re not going to be late for lunch with Mother.’

  ‘I must admit,’ said Beth, ‘that I’ve been enjoying myself so much, I’d quite forgotten about dear mama.’

  ‘You have my number, Barbara,’ said Zac. ‘Give me a call any time.’

  William pretended not to notice as Knight opened the door and gave her a flirtatious smile.

  ‘See you on Wednesday, Zac,’ said Beth.

  Once they were back on the street, William said, ‘Keep walking, and try to look like my sister, not my girlfriend, because Zac’s staring at us through the window.’

  Beth kept a sisterly distance, and didn’t say a word until they’d turned the corner. When they reached a coffee shop she walked in and headed straight for a booth in the far corner, well hidden from the street.

  ‘Nell Gwynne,’ said William, as he took the seat opposite her.

  ‘More like Catherine the Great,’ suggested Beth, as she turned her back to the window.

  ‘Reveal all.’

  ‘Zac is also a fake,’ she began, ‘who imagines that he’s irresistible to women. I played along, until his hands began to wander.’

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ said William, rising from his place.

  ‘Not after what I have to tell you, you won’t. Once I told him you were my brother, he couldn’t resist making a move.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘No, Peter Paul. Our mother named you after Rubens and me after Hepworth, which I felt was appropriate.’

  ‘You’re a wicked woman.’

  ‘Cunning, I admit.’

  ‘So what did you find out?’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Beth as a waiter appeared by their side.

  ‘A cappuccino, please.’

  ‘Me too,’ said William.

  ‘When I asked Zac who’d painted A Dance to the Music of Time he was cagey at first. Told me the gallery was careful not to reveal the identity of its artists, otherwise customers might try to deal with the artist direct, and cut them out.’

  ‘So how did you get over that hurdle?’

  ‘I told him I was an impoverished secretary, and couldn’t afford any of his wonderful paintings even if they were half the price. He then let slip that the artist wasn’t available at the moment. “Oh, I’m so sorry, has he left you for another gallery?” I asked, looking sympathetic. He told me it was a little more complicated than that.’

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself, you hussy.’

  ‘Any more remarks l
ike that, Detective Constable Warwick, and I might just forget what else my new friend Zac told me. Now, where was I before you interrupted me?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that . . .’

  ‘Ah yes. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said. “But if you can’t tell me, I quite understand.” He then admitted, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he’s in jail.”’

  ‘I adore you.’

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘What’s he in jail for?’

  ‘It seems he tried to sell a West End art dealer a long-lost Vermeer and got caught red-handed. “How?” I asked. Apparently he didn’t ask for enough money, which made the dealer suspicious, so he reported it to the police.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Zac was beginning to sound suspicious, so I moved on to the Renoir, which is why it took so long to escape. In any case, it shouldn’t be too difficult for one of the nation’s leading detectives to track down someone who’s in jail for faking a Vermeer.’

  ‘True, but Zac still thinks you’re going to his opening on Wednesday?’

  ‘Sadly Barbara won’t be able to make it, or take up his kind offer to join him for the after-dinner party at the Mirabelle.’

  ‘But you gave him your number.’

  ‘01 730 1234.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Harrods Food Hall.’

  ‘I adore you.’

  13

  THEY DIDN’T SIT down for breakfast on Sunday morning until just after ten.

  Beth wanted to go for a run in Hyde Park, claiming she needed to lose a couple of pounds. William couldn’t work out from where, but he agreed to join her.

  ‘We won’t need lunch,’ he said as he buttered another slice of toast. ‘This counts as brunch. But I’ll have to call my mother and let her know I won’t be joining them.’

  ‘You could still make it if you left now,’ teased Beth.

  William ignored her as he helped himself to a dollop of marmalade.

  ‘Jez and I usually go to the cinema on a Sunday evening,’ said Beth. ‘So we can be tucked up in bed at a sensible hour.’

  ‘Suits me. I’ve got a commander’s meeting first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Sounds impressive.’

  ‘He is impressive, and responsible for four departments. A and A is his favourite, although it’s the least important.’ William took a bite of toast before adding, ‘The team meet on the first Monday of every month to bring him up to date on the cases we’ve been investigating.’

  ‘Then you’ll have rather a lot to tell him, won’t you, Detective Constable Warwick?’

  ‘You can be sure that if our artist is banged up, the Hawk will know his name, which prison he’s in and how long his sentence is.’

  ‘You’d like his job one day, wouldn’t you?’ said Beth, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not in any hurry. How about you? Do you want Tim Knox’s job?’

  ‘I love what I’m doing, and am quite happy to stay put until I get a better offer.’

  ‘My bet is you’ll be director of the Tate before I sit in the commander’s chair.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the Tate will ever appoint a woman as its director.’

  ‘Even if she’d been captain of the school and captain of hockey?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A policeman never reveals his sources.’

  ‘I’ll kill Jez.’

  ‘Pity. I rather like him.’

  ‘He’s the ideal flatmate,’ said Beth. ‘Clean, tidy and considerate, and his rent helps to supplement the derisory salary the Fitzmolean pay me.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you owned the flat.’

  ‘I don’t. It belongs to my parents. Dad works for HSBC and he’s been posted to Hong Kong for the next three years. The moment they return, Jez will have to go and I’ll be moving back into his room.’

  Or mine, William wanted to say.

  ‘You’d better call your mother while I do the washing up. The phone’s in the study.’

  ‘Once a head girl, always a head girl,’ said William as he left her and made his way to the study. He picked up the phone and dialled the first number he’d ever known. He was hoping his father would pick up the phone, but a female voice came on the line.

  ‘Nettleford 4163.’

  ‘Hi, Grace, it’s William. I won’t be able to make lunch today. Something’s come up. Would you apologize to Mum and Dad for me?’

  ‘Something or someone?’

  ‘It’s a work thing.’

  ‘You’re such a lousy liar, William. But I won’t say anything, even though I was hoping you’d be around today.’

  ‘Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Dad will be meeting Clare for the first time, so I was relying on you for moral support.’

  ‘I’ve never really cared much for blood sports.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. Will you be around next week? I can’t wait to meet the girl who would go on a second date with you.’

  ‘And I can’t wait to meet the girl who would go on a second date with you.’

  ‘Touché. But I still wish you were here.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Grace. Just remember, when Dad snorts, only hot air comes out, no flames.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say from a safe distance.’

  ‘And in any case, you’ll have Mum on your side.’

  ‘Two against one will make it a close-run thing. Three might have tipped the balance in my favour.’

  ‘I’ll be there in spirit,’ said William, before he wished her luck and put the phone down. He was just about to leave the room when he spotted a row of postcards of the Hong Kong skyline displayed on the mantelpiece. The policeman in him wanted to look on the other side, but he resisted the temptation. He returned to the kitchen to find Beth doing the washing up.

  ‘Jez usually does the drying.’

  ‘Subtle,’ said William, picking up a tea towel. ‘When we’re finished, I’ll go home, put on a tracksuit and join you in the park.’

  ‘No need. You’ll find everything you want in Jez’s room.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered what a ménage à trois would be like.’

  A run in the park, followed by My Beautiful Laundrette, and then a Pizza Margherita – half each – before returning to Beth’s flat and disappearing under the blankets, to end an idyllic weekend.

  When William woke the following morning, he had to untangle himself before he could check his watch.

  ‘Help!’ he said as he leapt out of bed and charged into the bathroom. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for. It would start at nine, with or without him.

  Once he returned to the bedroom, he threw on his clothes and kissed a half-awake Beth.

  ‘Hoping to escape before I woke, were you?’

  ‘I have to go back to my place and get changed. I can’t afford to be late again.’

  Beth sat up and stretched her arms. ‘Now you’ve had your way with me, Detective Constable Warwick, will I ever see you again?’ She sighed and draped a languishing arm across her forehead.

  ‘I could come back straight after work if that’s OK. In which case, I’d be with you around seven.’

  ‘Suits me, then we can all have supper together. Jez can do the cooking, and you can do the washing up.’

  William sat on the bed and held her in his arms. ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Read Proust.’

  ‘By the way,’ said William, as he rose to leave, ‘my sister can’t wait to meet you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s quite complicated, but I’ll reveal all this evening.’

  ‘Make sure you find my painting, DC Warwick!’ were the last words William heard before he closed the bedroom door.

  As he stepped out into the street William spotted a No. 22 bus approaching the stop, and just managed to leap on board as it
pulled away.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, young man,’ said the conductor. ‘There’s no need for that sort of language on my bus.’

  ‘Sorry. I forgot to tell my girlfriend that I’m going to Barnstaple today.’

  ‘Then you’re definitely on the wrong bus.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spare you much time during the past month,’ said Hawksby as he took his seat at the top of the table. ‘No doubt you’ve all read about the drugs haul in Southampton last week. Two hundred pounds of cocaine and six arrests.’

  They all banged on the table with the palms of their hands.

  ‘It’s hardly worth that,’ said Hawksby. ‘The six we arrested were just minnows. The big fish are still sunning themselves on a beach in the south of France, and the biggest shark of all never leaves his estate in Colombia, where even the police are on his payroll. All we can do is try to intercept the next shipment and net another shoal of minnows, while we still have no idea how much is getting through. Be thankful none of you are attached to the drug squad.’

  The Hawk sat back, turned to his right and said, ‘So what have you been up to in my absence, Bruce?’

  ‘I’ve had much the same problem as you, sir,’ said Lamont. ‘Just exchange drugs for diamonds. The uncut stones are coming out of Ghana and being shipped to Dubai, before being sent on to Bombay where they’re sold for cash. That way they avoid import and export tax, while at the same time pushing up house prices in Mayfair.’

  ‘Criminals always want to live in a law-abiding country,’ said Hawksby. ‘It makes it easier for them to carry on with their business.’

  ‘And like you, sir,’ continued Lamont, ‘we only catch some minnows, who regard a few years in jail as no more than part of the deal.’

  ‘No wonder crime is currently fifteen per cent of the world’s economy, and growing,’ commented Hawksby. ‘Anything else, Bruce?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think it’s just possible that DC Warwick might have made a breakthrough in the missing Rembrandt case, but I’ll leave him to fill in the details.’