Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘After further investigation, we—’ began William.

  ‘We?’ interrupted Hawksby.

  ‘Thanks to the help of a research assistant at the Fitzmolean, we’ve identified an artist who I think may have painted the copy of the Rembrandt.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Eddie Leigh,’ said Lamont. ‘He tried to sell a fake Vermeer to a West End gallery. I was in charge of that case, and he’s been banged up in Pentonville for the past two years.’

  ‘What makes you think that Leigh was responsible for the copy of the Rembrandt, DC Warwick?’ asked Hawksby.

  ‘I saw an example of his work at the Fake Gallery in Notting Hill, sir. He has a rare talent, but even so, I don’t think he could have produced something of that quality unless he’d seen the original.’

  ‘But he could have bought a print of The Syndics from the Fitzmolean for five pounds,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘That’s true, but if he only had a print to work from, he wouldn’t have been able to capture the vivid colour, vibrancy, and flair of the original in the way he has, which makes me think it’s just possible the original hasn’t been destroyed.’

  ‘But that’s still damned unlikely,’ said Lamont, without the trace of a smile.

  ‘How long does Leigh have left to serve?’ asked Hawksby.

  ‘Just over four years, sir,’ said Lamont. ‘And I think he let slip where Faulkner is going to strike next.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘SO Langley called me from Pentonville yesterday to tell me that he’s been regularly listening in on Eddie Leigh’s weekly phone conversations with his wife, but there hasn’t been anything worth reporting until last Friday.’

  ‘You have us on the edge of our seats, Bruce,’ said the commander.

  Lamont read out the exact words Leigh had said to his wife.

  ‘“How’s the painting coming along?” “You can tell him I’ve finished Woman on a Beach.” “In the nick of time.”’

  ‘That’s from Picasso’s Blue Period,’ said William.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what period it’s from,’ said Hawksby. ‘Who owns the original?’

  ‘A Mr and Mrs Brookes,’ said Lamont. ‘It’s currently hanging in their country home in Surrey.’

  ‘Not for much longer, I suspect, and now we know where Faulkner intends to strike next, we need to find out when.’

  ‘I think I might have the answer to that,’ said Jackie, looking rather pleased with herself. She allowed herself a moment before continuing. ‘“In the nick of time” is the clue, sir, because the Brookes are going on holiday in two weeks, and although they’ll be away for a fortnight, there is only one evening when the house will be empty.’ She allowed herself an even longer pause.

  ‘Get on with it, sergeant,’ said Lamont.

  ‘The Brookes have a driver, David Crann, and a cook, Elsie. Both live in, but the cook always goes on holiday when they’re away.’

  ‘And the driver?’

  ‘Crann will be on the premises night and day during that fortnight, except for the evening of Monday the twenty-third when Chelsea are playing Liverpool at home.’

  ‘I’m halfway there,’ said Hawksby, ‘but fill in the details.’

  ‘Crann has a season ticket, and never misses a Chelsea home game. The match kicks off at seven, so he’ll leave the house around five and won’t be back much before midnight.’

  ‘Are the premises fully alarmed?’ asked Lamont.

  ‘State of the art, sir. However, the nearest police station is about twenty minutes away, which would give the villains more than enough time to steal the picture and be back on the motorway before the local police could get there.’

  ‘That’s an outstanding piece of policework, sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jackie.

  ‘For a change,’ said Lamont, ‘I think we may be one step ahead of Faulkner.’

  ‘Let’s just hope he’s not two steps ahead of us,’ said Hawksby. ‘However, prepare an outline plan for the twenty-third, Bruce, with the aim of catching them red-handed this time. But we also need some concrete results to keep the commissioner off my back. So before you leave, Warwick, what’s the latest on Churchill and old silver?’

  ‘Cyril Amhurst, the forger of the Churchill signatures, is coming up in front of the bench at Snaresbrook Crown Court later this week,’ said William. ‘We’re expecting him to be granted bail, and to appear in court sometime in the next couple of months. I’m assuming he’ll plead guilty.’

  ‘Never assume anything,’ said Lamont.

  ‘And the silver?’ asked Hawksby.

  ‘Turns out to be one of our regulars,’ said Lamont, taking over. ‘Kevin Carter. In and out of jail like a cuckoo in a Swiss clock. But we’re not sure what he’s up to this time, although one thing’s certain – it can’t be his own money he’s using to buy that amount of silver. Way out of his league. DS Roycroft and DC Warwick will be going down to Barnstaple later today to keep an eye on Carter and try to find out what he’s up to.’

  Bugger, William wanted to say for a second time that morning. He’d have to call Beth at the gallery, which he knew her boss wouldn’t approve of.

  ‘Keep me briefed,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘And, Bruce, I suggest you and DC Warwick pay a visit to Pentonville as soon as William gets back from Barnstaple. Now, returning to the Rembrandt for a moment: Mr Booth Watson QC has been calling my office daily, demanding we return his client’s copy of the painting.’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Lamont.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Hawksby.

  ‘Because if Jackie or I were to turn up at Faulkner’s house, we wouldn’t get past the front gate. But if we were to send an inexperienced, wet behind the ears young constable to deliver the painting, there’s just a possibility he might get a foot in the door.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Hawksby. ‘But why not just yet?’

  ‘Faulkner is booked onto a BA flight to Monte Carlo next Monday, and he won’t be back for at least a month.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘He’s a creature of habit. Every December he leaves for his home in Monte Carlo, and rarely returns before the end of January.’

  ‘And how do you know which flight he’s booked on?’

  ‘BA security is run by a former Met officer, who keeps me well informed, sir.’

  ‘Something else that might be of interest, sir,’ said Jackie. ‘He won’t be travelling with his wife this time. Sitting next to him, her ticket paid for with the same American Express card, will be a Miss Cheryl Bates.’

  ‘She could be his secretary,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘I don’t think typing is her speciality, sir,’ said Jackie as she passed a photo of Miss Bates in a bikini across to the commander.

  A ripple of laughter broke out among the team, but order was quickly restored when Hawksby said, ‘So when Warwick turns up with the copy of the Rembrandt at Faulkner’s home in Hampshire, he will already be in Monte Carlo.’

  ‘Correct, sir, but his wife will still be in Hampshire,’ said Lamont.

  ‘Good, because I have a feeling that Mrs Faulkner might turn out to be a little more accommodating than her husband,’ said the commander after taking a second look at the photograph of Miss Bates.

  14

  ‘I’M IN REAL trouble,’ said William as he turned on the ignition.

  ‘With the Hawk or Lamont?’ asked Jackie, as she fastened her seat belt.

  ‘Far worse. With Beth. I told her I’d be back in time for supper this evening, and now I’m on my way to Barnstaple with another woman.’

  ‘I think this calls for a dozen roses,’ said Jackie. ‘And I know just the person to solve your problem.’

  As they passed through Earls Court, Jackie said, ‘Pull over.’

  ‘But it’s a double yellow,’ said William, ‘and we’re always fair game for traffic wardens.’

  ‘We’ll only be a couple of minutes.
And in any case, it’s official police business.’

  Jackie got out of the car and William reluctantly followed her into a flower shop.

  ‘A dozen roses,’ said Jackie, ‘and make sure they’re fresh or I’ll arrest you for impersonating a florist. And we need them delivered.’

  The florist took his time selecting each rose before asking for a name and address.

  ‘Beth Rainsford, the Fitzmolean Museum, Prince Albert Crescent,’ said William.

  ‘Rainsford . . . Rainsford . . . Why does that name ring a bell?’ said Jackie.

  ‘Do you want to add a message?’ asked the florist, handing William a card and a biro.

  Sorry, something came up. Can’t make this evening. William x

  ‘I thought you liked this girl,’ said Jackie, tearing up the card. ‘Sounds as if you’re writing to your sister to let her know you’ve got the mumps. Try again.’

  Miss you. Will call this evening and explain. Love William xx

  ‘Not a lot better, but I’ve just spotted a traffic warden, so we’d better get moving.’

  ‘That will be two pounds,’ said the florist.

  William handed over a couple of pound notes.

  ‘Thank you, Mike.’

  ‘My pleasure, Jackie,’ said the florist as they ran back to the car.

  ‘So what’s the plan once we get to Barnstaple?’ asked William, when they joined the traffic on the motorway heading west.

  ‘First, we find out where Carter lives, then check into a one-star hotel or guest house nearby.’

  ‘And what are we looking for?’ asked William, as he’d never taken part in a stake-out before.

  ‘Visitors, especially those who obviously aren’t locals. Not that I think Mr Big is likely to come down to Barnstaple just to please us. But we’ll need to take photos of everyone who goes in or out of the house, and when we get back to the Yard we’ll check to see if they match up with anyone in our rogues’ gallery.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Number plates of every car parked near the house, or any suspicious-looking vehicles. We can check them out on the police national computer later. And don’t assume the person we’re looking for will park right outside Carter’s front door. Police work isn’t that convenient.’

  ‘Do we split up or work as a pair?’

  ‘That will depend on whether we can watch the house from the car without being spotted. Either way, it will be hours of patient surveillance, with no certainty of anything to show for it.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find out what he’s up to?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Jackie. ‘But you can bet there’ll be a surprise or two, when we’ll have to think on our feet.’

  ‘Who decides when we go back to London?’

  ‘Lamont.’

  ‘Then we could be stuck down there forever.’

  Jackie laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Don’t forget he expects you to accompany him when he visits Pentonville to interview Eddie Leigh. And you’ve also got to take the copy of the Rembrandt back to Faulkner’s home in the country.’

  They drove on for some time in companionable silence.

  ‘Does Lamont have any family?’

  ‘He’s a triple disaster,’ said Jackie. ‘Three ex-wives, and five children. His first three marriages lasted six years, three years and one year, and I’m not sure the latest will survive for much longer. God knows how he can afford the alimony. It would be cheaper to take the occasional lover, like the rest of us.’

  William laughed. ‘What about the Hawk?’

  ‘Married to Josephine for over thirty years. Three grown-up daughters, who’ve got him wound round their little fingers.’

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ said William. ‘But then you have a daughter,’ he said, hoping Jackie was feeling relaxed enough to exchange confidences, but she didn’t respond. He glanced to his left to see that she had fallen asleep. Always catch some kip whenever possible, wherever possible, she’d advised him often enough.

  Jackie hadn’t wanted to answer any more questions, so she closed her eyes. She had known within days of William joining the team that he was destined for higher things. Far higher than she could ever hope for.

  Reporting an inspector who’d placed a hand on her thigh when she was a young constable hadn’t improved her chances of promotion. And taking six months off after her daughter was born only ensured that when she returned to work she found herself once again back on the beat. It hadn’t deterred her.

  However, when Ms Roycroft was named as co-respondent in a senior officer’s divorce, the local commander suggested that perhaps the time had come for her to consider early retirement. She didn’t point out that she was only thirty-four, and had no intention of giving up the job she loved, well aware they couldn’t sack her. She clung on, but accepted that detective sergeant was probably the highest rank she was likely to attain.

  William was different. He may have been naive and a little too smooth, but after she’d introduced him to the real world, where criminals didn’t say please and thank you, she was sure he would progress quickly through the ranks. But she’d still have to watch his back whenever he came across less capable colleagues who would be only too happy to let him carry the can for their mistakes and, being a public schoolboy, he wouldn’t sneak.

  When William eventually became the commissioner, Jackie wondered if he would even remember her name.

  William stuck to the middle lane and kept a steady speed so as not to wake her. It wasn’t long before his mind drifted back to Beth. How long would she tolerate a boyfriend who was so unreliable? He would call her the moment they arrived in Barnstaple and explain why he wouldn’t be joining her for supper.

  Old silver, a missing Rembrandt and how to get into Faulkner’s house and meet his wife continued to occupy his mind, although Beth was continually trying to butt in.

  The moment William turned off the motorway, Jackie woke up and immediately began to check the map on her lap. ‘Head for the town centre,’ she said, as if she’d never been asleep. ‘It will be a left turn for the street Carter lives in. I’ll warn you in good time.’

  After a couple more miles Jackie said, ‘Take the next turning on the left, and slow down when you pass number ninety-one. Then first right, and make sure you park well out of sight.’

  Jackie took a close look at the modern semi-detached house with its pocket-handkerchief garden as they passed No. 91 Mulberry Avenue, but it wasn’t the house that caught her attention. William turned right and parked behind a large van.

  Jackie got out of the car, stretched her arms and scanned the horizon. ‘Do you see what I see?’ she said.

  William looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘Do you mean that large house up on the hill?’

  ‘The Romans would have occupied that position and built a fortress so they could keep a close eye on their enemies.’

  ‘But it’s a long way away.’

  ‘True, but it has a panoramic view of the town, including Carter’s house. But as we’re not Romans let’s hope it’s a hotel,’ Jackie said as she climbed back into the car.

  William kept the building in sight as he wound his way slowly up the hill until he spotted a sign announcing Sea View Hotel, with an arrow pointing up a long drive.

  ‘All we need now is for the room with that big bay window at the front to be available for the next few days,’ said Jackie. ‘You do the talking. I’ll try and look meek.’

  ‘That will be a first,’ muttered William as he parked the car.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the young woman at the reception desk. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘We were wondering if the room overlooking the bay was free,’ said William.

  ‘The Queen Anne suite? Let me check, sir.’ She took a moment to look at the register, before saying, ‘Yes, but only for a couple of nights. The room’s already booked for Wednesday.’

  ‘How much?’ asked William.

  ‘Thirty pounds a night, br
eakfast included.’

  William hesitated. ‘We’ll take it,’ said Jackie, and whispered, ‘Mr and Mrs Smith,’ before he signed the register.

  ‘The porter will take the bags up to your room, Mr Smith,’ the receptionist said, handing him a key.

  William wondered how many Mr and Mrs Smiths had occupied the Queen Anne suite over the years. Certainly none to do what he and Jackie had in mind.

  They took the lift to the top floor, where they found the porter already standing by an open door carrying their bags.

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ he asked after showing them the room.

  ‘No thank you,’ said William, handing him 50p that he was certain Mrs Walters wouldn’t be reimbursing.

  By the time the porter had closed the door, Jackie was already looking out of the window through a pair of binoculars.

  ‘A professional hitman couldn’t ask for a better sightline,’ she said as she focused in on Carter’s front room.

  ‘Isn’t Lamont going to kick up a fuss about the cost of a suite?’

  ‘Only if we go back to London empty-handed.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ said William, looking enviously at the double bed.

  ‘No one’s going to sleep on the couch,’ said Jackie. ‘We’ll work in shifts, night and day, so we can both get some kip, while never letting Carter out of our sight. Now, you keep your eye on the house while I go and report to the local nick and let them know what we’re up to. And don’t eat all the biscuits, because we won’t be ordering room service.’

  William settled into a comfortable chair and focused the binoculars on Carter’s house. He could just make out the number plate of a Volvo parked in the drive, and made a note of it. He shifted his attention to a large shed in the corner of the garden, then back to the house, where he spotted someone in the front room. A solitary figure, whom he assumed must be Carter, was sitting by the fire reading a newspaper. A woman entered the room and began vacuuming. Was she Angie? After he’d read the back page, Carter folded the newspaper, stood up, poked the fire and left the room. A few moments later the front door opened, and he crossed the lawn, unlocked the shed door and went inside. Once again, William lost sight of him.