‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Antonio Monti. I’m here to give you whatever assistance you require.’
‘Grazie,’ replied William as they shook hands.
‘Parla l’italiano?’
‘Enough to get by,’ said William. ‘Ma poi Roma è la mia città preferita.’
They had to wait for another thirty minutes before Carter sauntered out of the building, bag in hand, and joined a taxi queue, by which time the lieutenant knew almost as much about Carter as William did.
The Italian police driver turned out to be far more adept than William when it came to tailing a suspect, which allowed him to enjoy some familiar sights: the Colosseum, St Peter’s Basilica, Trajan’s Column, all of which he remembered from his student days when he’d sat at the back of an overcrowded bus with no air conditioning, heading for a youth hostel not exactly in the centre of town.
When Carter’s taxi finally came to a halt, it was not outside a hotel as William had expected, but a large municipal building with an Italian flag fluttering from a mast on the roof.
‘Stay put and leave this to me,’ said the lieutenant. ‘We don’t want him to spot you.’ He got out of the car and followed Carter inside.
William also got out, but only to stretch his legs, then suddenly took a step back and hid behind a fountain when he spotted a familiar figure entering the building. His eyes never left the front door for more than a few seconds, but it was almost an hour before the lieutenant reappeared and joined him in the back of the car.
Carter came out a few moments later, and hailed a taxi, but Monti didn’t instruct the driver to follow them.
‘He’s on his way back to the airport,’ said Monti. ‘The bag is now empty,’ he added without explanation. ‘They’ve booked on the 3.10 to Heathrow.’
‘Then I should be on the same plane,’ said William.
‘Not necessary. DS Roycroft will be at Heathrow waiting for them. In any case, we have more important things to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘First, you must experience a little Italian hospitality. We will have lunch at Casina Valadier before dropping into the Borghese, and you will still be in time to catch the five twenty to London.’
‘But my expenses won’t—’
‘You’re in Italy, mio amico,’ said the lieutenant, ‘and have just performed a great service for the Italian people. You must therefore be rewarded. In any case, we don’t get quite so worked up in Italy about expenses as you English.’
Clearly they didn’t have a Mrs Walter to contend with, thought William.
‘Perhaps you might care to take a look at this,’ said Monti, as he handed William an official-looking document.
William glanced at the front page. ‘My Italian isn’t that good,’ he admitted.
‘Then I will have to take you through it, line by line over lunch, because I need to know if you wish us to grant Mr Carter’s application for the licence, or whether Scotland Yard would prefer us to turn his request down.’
William knocked on the front door, and when Beth opened it he was greeted with, ‘Hello, stranger, what’s your excuse this time?’
‘I’ve been to Rome.’
‘To visit another woman?’
‘Napoleon’s sister.’
‘She’s quite cold, I’m told.’
‘As marble,’ said William, bending down to kiss her, but he only brushed her lips, as she turned away.
‘Not until I’ve heard Pauline’s side of the story,’ Beth said, as she led him through to the kitchen.
Over dinner he told her everything that had happened since he’d last seen her, including a memorable meal at Casina Valadier and an afternoon spent with Antonio Monti at the Borghese.
‘You should have joined the Italian police, William, they obviously have superior galleries, finer food, and—’
‘But not more adorable women,’ he said, taking her in his arms.
She pushed him playfully aside and said firmly, ‘Not until you tell me what Carter needed a licence for.’
16
‘I CALLED THIS meeting at short notice,’ said Hawksby, ‘as I understand there has been a development in the Carter case.’
‘There has indeed, sir,’ said Lamont. ‘Carter left Barnstaple early on Wednesday morning. DC Warwick followed him to Heathrow, where he checked in for a flight to Rome. DC Warwick phoned me from the airport, and I told him to keep following Carter, who only had a holdall with him, so he clearly wasn’t going on holiday. I’ll hand over to DC Warwick who can brief you on what happened next.’
‘I sat three rows behind Carter on the flight,’ said William. ‘At Da Vinci, I was met by a Lieutenant Monti of the Italian Special Investigation Team, who could not have been more cooperative. Carter got a taxi, and we tailed him to a government building in the centre of Rome. Monti followed him inside, and informed me afterwards that Carter had an appointment at the Naval Division office, where he applied for a diving and recovery licence to explore a shipwreck off the coast of Elba.’
‘What’s he looking for?’ asked Hawksby.
‘Seven hundred eighteenth-century Spanish silver cob coins,’ said William. ‘In 1741, during a particularly violent storm, a vessel called the Patrice sank off Elba, drowning all fifty-two passengers, along with nine crew and a cargo that included the coins and other valuables. I have the records of the Italian Receiver of Wrecks from the time,’ he continued, ‘which read, “This claim has been confirmed by Lloyd’s of London who insured the vessel and cargo for ten thousand guineas, and paid the amount in full.”’
‘I’m halfway there,’ said Hawksby.
‘Over the years, several attempts have been made to locate the wreck and recover the coins, but without success.’
‘And Carter thinks he might get lucky, despite the odds?’
‘I don’t believe he’s relying on luck, sir,’ said Jackie. ‘While DC Warwick was swanning around Rome, I returned to London and had the photographs he took of Carter’s shed enlarged by our specialists here in Scotland Yard. They confirmed one thing without question: DC Warwick is no David Bailey.’
They all laughed.
‘However, after one of our experts had studied the photographs more closely, she came up with a very interesting suggestion.’ Jackie handed each member of the team an enlarged photo of the workbench in Carter’s shed.
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Hawksby, as he studied the image.
‘You’ll notice all the usual equipment required by any engraver – chisels of various sizes, wire brushes, even a nail file. But if you look more closely, you can also see what Carter is working on.’ She handed round three enlargements showing the top of the workbench for the team to consider.
‘It looks like a half crown to me,’ said Hawksby.
‘Same size, same shape, different value,’ said William, ‘as I discovered when I visited a numismatist at the British Museum, who told me he’s fairly sure it’s a Spanish cob, which as you can see is dated 1649.’
‘No doubt you asked him its value?’
‘He had no idea, sir, but recommended I visit Dix Noonan Webb in Mayfair, who are specialists in the field. Mr Noonan showed me a similar example of a Spanish cob coin from one of his recent catalogues which sold for just over a thousand pounds.’
‘Multiply that by seven hundred,’ said Lamont, ‘and Carter would end up with more than seven hundred thousand.’
‘I think I know what he’s up to,’ said William.
‘Spit it out, Warwick,’ said Hawksby.
‘I suspect that all the old silver he’s been buying recently has been melted down, and he’s spent the last few months stamping seven hundred newly minted Spanish cob coins.’
‘If you look at the photographs more closely,’ said Jackie, ‘you’ll see something we might have missed in normal circumstances.’ She pointed to the bottom left-hand corner of one of the pictures.
‘It looks like a bucket of water to me
,’ said Hawksby.
‘That was my first thought,’ said William, ‘until I think I’ve worked out Carter’s next move.’
‘Don’t keep us all in suspense,’ said Hawksby.
‘I suspect he intends to return to Rome as soon as possible, collect his licence, and then be seen sailing off into the sunset in search of seabed treasure. A few days later he’ll sail back into port bearing a wooden casket full of silver coins. And if you look more closely at photo 2B, you’ll even see the casket that will be raised from the bottom of the sea.’
It was a few moments before Lamont said, ‘And the bucket of water?’
‘Seawater,’ said William.
‘Of course,’ said Hawksby.
‘But I thought seabed treasure was the property of the government in whose waters it’s found,’ said Lamont.
‘That’s correct, sir,’ said William. ‘But the recovery team would typically receive a fifty per cent finder’s fee, which is probably why Booth Watson turned up.’
‘Did I hear you correctly?’ said Hawksby.
‘You did, sir. Booth Watson entered the building a few minutes after we arrived.’
‘You certainly save the best to last, William,’ said the commander. ‘Do you have any idea why he was there?’
‘Monti said he checked all the paperwork meticulously, before he let Carter sign anything.’
‘So this could be just another of Faulkner’s many enterprises,’ said Jackie.
‘Booth Watson does have other clients,’ said the commander. ‘But I agree, the odds must be on Faulkner, who can expect to get around three hundred and fifty thousand pounds once Carter’s retrieved the coins.’
‘I suspect Carter won’t get much more than a few thousand,’ said Lamont, ‘now we know who’s behind this scam.’
‘Why do you say that, Bruce?’
‘I’ve banged him up three times in the past ten years, but never for anything on this scale. And as Lieutenant Monti discovered, when Carter applied for the licence to search for sunken treasure he handed over five thousand pounds in cash to the Italian Naval Office in Rome, although the standard fee is less than half that amount.’
‘That explains why he never let the holdall out of his sight,’ said William. ‘And why, according to Monti, it was empty when he left the building.’
‘No doubt he was hoping that his application would mysteriously find its way to the top of the pile,’ suggested Jackie.
‘In one,’ said Lamont.
‘That may well be the case,’ said William, ‘but Lieutenant Monti made it clear that if we want Carter’s application to be held up indefinitely, or even rejected, all we have to do is ask.’
‘Bruce?’
‘Carter hasn’t committed any crime on British soil that we’re aware of, and the only way we’re going to find out what he’s up to is to tell the Italians we have no objection to him being granted a licence. In fact, the sooner the better.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said Jackie, ‘why not arrest Carter even before he reaches the airport and confiscate the coins?’
‘And charge him with what?’ said Hawksby. ‘With Booth Watson on his side, he’d claim the coins were just reproductions that he intended to sell for a small profit. Besides, if we want to nail whoever’s bankrolling Carter, we have to let him carry out the whole operation. Because whoever is the brains behind it has to be someone with imagination, nerve and enough capital to see the whole operation through, which I agree is looking more and more like Faulkner.’
‘So with your permission, sir,’ said Lamont, ‘I’ll call Lieutenant Monti and ask him to rubber stamp the application, and keep us fully informed. Meanwhile, I’ll ask my contact at BA to call me the moment Carter books another flight to Rome.’
‘Where you, Lieutenant Monti and DC Warwick will be sitting on the dockside waiting for him,’ said Hawksby.
‘Not me, sir,’ said Lamont. ‘Carter knows me far too well.’
Jackie looked hopeful.
‘Then I’ll have to make the sacrifice and accompany DC Warwick myself,’ said Hawksby. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just one thing, sir. DC Warwick and I are going to Pentonville tomorrow morning to interview Eddie Leigh.’
‘The man Warwick is convinced copied the Rembrandt?’
‘Yes, sir. But I can’t pretend I’m hopeful that we’ll get much out of him. People who’ve worked for Miles Faulkner in the past don’t open their mouths if they hope to stay alive.’
‘Just get him talking,’ said Hawksby. ‘He might let something slip he later regrets. And when will Warwick be returning the copy of The Syndics to Faulkner’s home? I ask only because Mr Booth Watson keeps threatening me with fire and brimstone.’
‘Faulkner leaves for Monte Carlo on Monday morning,’ said Lamont. ‘So any time next week.’
‘You’ve got another busy week ahead of you, DC Warwick,’ said the commander, ‘so I won’t hold you up.’
17
‘GOOD COP, BAD cop has become a bit of a cliché,’ said Lamont as he and William were driven out of Scotland Yard on their way to Pentonville. ‘And in our case, a five-year-old could work out which was which. Nevertheless, we need to decide what we’re trying to achieve at this meeting.’
‘Surely our first priority,’ said William as the traffic came to a halt in Trafalgar Square, ‘should be to find out whether or not The Syndics has been destroyed, and if it hasn’t, where it is now.’
‘That wouldn’t be my first priority, laddie,’ said Lamont, his Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. ‘I want to prove the link between Leigh and Miles Faulkner, because I’d sacrifice half my pension to put that man behind bars.’
I’d give up my entire pension to have been born with Eddie Leigh’s talent, thought William, as the car drove onto Kingsway, but he didn’t express his opinion.
‘So let’s discuss tactics,’ said Lamont. ‘I’ll lead the interrogation, and if I sit back, it means you should take over. But don’t interrupt me before then, because I know the exact line of inquiry I want to pursue.’
‘What happens if he goes off in a direction neither of us had anticipated?’
‘That’s unlikely. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with a con who will have worked out exactly what he’s going to say long before he sees us.’
Once again, William didn’t offer an opinion.
‘And if I start to bargain with him, keep schtum. The Hawk has made it clear just how far I can go.’
‘What’s the worst-case scenario?’ William asked as the car turned left into Grays Inn Road.
‘That he refuses to answer any of our questions, in which case the interview will be over in a few minutes, and we’ll have wasted our time.’
‘This will be my first prison visit,’ William volunteered, after neither of them had spoken for some time.
Lamont smiled. ‘Mine was a jolly Irishman who made me laugh with his stories of the Emerald Isle.’
‘What was he in for?’
‘Robbing a post office, which turned out to be quite hard to prove, because he never even made it to the counter, and his only weapon was a cucumber. Luckily he pleaded guilty.’
‘More, more,’ demanded William.
‘Another time,’ said Lamont as they drew up outside HMP Pentonville.
‘You couldn’t blame Her Majesty,’ mused William, ‘if she decided she could do without prisons in her portfolio.’
‘If she did, she might have to do without Buckingham Palace in that same portfolio,’ said Lamont as the car swung into the Caledonian Road.
William stared beyond the high wall at a forbidding brick building that dominated the landscape.
The car came to a halt at the barrier, and a uniformed officer stepped forward. Lamont wound down his window and produced his warrant card.
‘Mr Langley is expecting you, sir,’ said the man, after inspecting the card. ‘If you’ll park over there, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.’
/> The driver slipped into the first available space and turned off the engine.
‘I can’t be sure how long we’ll be, Matt,’ said Lamont to the driver, who was taking a paperback out of the glove compartment. ‘But when we get back, you can let me know if the latest Len Deighton is worth taking on holiday this year.’
‘It’s the third in a trilogy, sir, so I recommend you start with the first, Berlin Game.’
As they got out of the car, they were approached by a senior prison officer whose name tag on the pocket of his uniform read ‘SO Langley’.
‘How are you, Bruce?’
‘Can’t complain, Reg. This is DC Warwick. Keep your eye on him. He’s after my job.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said William, as they shook hands.
‘Follow me,’ said Langley. ‘I apologize for the excessive security procedures, but they’re standard in any Cat. B prison.’
They both signed the register at the gatehouse, before being issued with visitors’ passes. William counted five sets of barred gates that were locked and unlocked before they came across their first prisoner.
‘Leigh’s waiting for you in the interview room, but let me warn you, Bruce, he’s been particularly uncooperative this morning. As you’ve nicked him on three occasions in the past, I don’t suppose you’re his favourite uncle.’
William noticed as they walked down a long green brick corridor that the cons either turned their backs on them, usually accompanied by an expletive, or simply ignored them. But there was one exception, a middle-aged man who stopped mopping the floor to take a closer look at him. William thought there was something familiar about the man, and wondered if he’d arrested him at some time when he was on the beat in Lambeth.
William couldn’t hide his surprise when they came to a halt outside a large glass cube that looked more like a modern sculpture than an interview room. Inside he could see a prisoner sitting at a table, head bowed, who he assumed must be Eddie Leigh.
‘Before you ask,’ said Lamont, pointing at the glass cube, ‘that’s as much for your protection as his. When I was a young sergeant, I was once accused of punching a prisoner during an interrogation. It’s true that I wanted to punch him, but I didn’t,’ he paused, ‘on that occasion.’
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