‘Coffee and biscuits?’ said Langley.
‘Give us a few minutes with him first, Reg,’ said Lamont.
William and Lamont entered the room and sat down opposite Leigh. No suggestion of handcuffs or an officer standing behind him. A privilege afforded only to those with no record of violence. Leigh must have waived his right to have a solicitor present.
William looked carefully at the prisoner seated on the other side of the table. At first glance, the forty-seven-year-old forger looked like any other con, dressed in the regulation prison garb of blue striped shirt and well-worn jeans. He was unshaven, with dark hair and brown eyes, but what surprised William was his hands. How could a man with bricklayers’ hands produce such delicate brush-work? And then he spoke, revealing that he hailed from the same part of the world as Lamont.
‘Can you spare us a fag, guv?’ he asked politely.
Lamont placed a packet of cigarettes on the table, extracted one and handed it to the prisoner. He even lit it for him. The first bribe had been offered and accepted.
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Lamont,’ he said as if they’d never met before, ‘and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Warwick.’ Leigh didn’t even glance at William. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Leigh didn’t respond, other than to exhale a large cloud of grey smoke.
‘We are investigating the theft of a Rembrandt painting from the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington, some seven years ago. We have recently come across a copy which we have reason to believe was painted by you.’
Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but said nothing.
‘Did you paint that picture?’ asked Lamont.
Leigh still made no attempt to respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.
‘If you cooperate with us,’ said Lamont, ‘we might be willing to make a favourable recommendation to the Parole Board when you come up in front of them in a couple of months’ time.’
Still nothing. William began to realize, as he looked into Leigh’s sullen eyes, just how far Miles Faulkner’s tentacles stretched.
‘On the other hand, if you don’t cooperate, we can also report that to the Board. The choice is yours.’
Even this didn’t appear to move Leigh. A few seconds later the door opened and a trusty prisoner entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table before leaving quickly. Leigh grabbed a mug of black coffee, dropped in four sugar lumps and began to stir. Lamont sat back in his chair.
‘Mr Leigh,’ said William, aware that no prison officer would have addressed him as Mr during the past four years, ‘as it’s clear that you have no intention of answering any of our questions, I’d just like to say something before we leave.’ Lamont added another lump of sugar to his coffee. ‘I’m an art nut, a groupie, call it what you will, but more important, I’m a huge admirer of your work.’ Leigh turned to look at William for the first time, as a large piece of ash fell off the end of his cigarette and onto the table. ‘Your Vermeer, Girl at a Virginal, was certainly accomplished, although I wasn’t surprised it didn’t fool the leading Dutch scholars, particularly Mr Ernst van de Wetering. But the copy of The Syndics is unquestionably a work of genius. It’s currently in our office at Scotland Yard, and I’m reluctant to return it to Miles Faulkner, who claims it’s his. It’s just a pity you weren’t born in Amsterdam three hundred years ago, when you could have been a pupil of the master, even a master yourself. If I had a fraction of your talent, I wouldn’t have bothered to join the police force.’
Leigh continued to stare at William, no longer smoking.
‘May I ask you a question that has nothing to do with our inquiry?’
Leigh nodded.
‘I can’t work out how you managed the yellow effect on the Syndics’ sashes.’
It was some time before Leigh said, ‘Egg yolk.’
‘Yes, of course, how stupid of me,’ said William, well aware that Rembrandt had experimented with the yolks of gulls’ eggs when mixing his pigments.
‘But why didn’t you add Rembrandt’s familiar RvR? That was the one thing that made me realize it wasn’t the original.’
Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but this time he didn’t respond, probably fearing he’d already gone too far. William waited for a few more moments, before he accepted that Leigh wasn’t going to answer any more questions.
‘Thank you. I’d just like to say what an honour it’s been to meet you.’
Leigh ignored him, looked at Lamont and said, ‘Can I have another fag?’
‘Keep the packet,’ said Lamont before he turned and nodded to SO Langley, to indicate that the interview was over.
Langley joined them in the glass box. ‘Back to your cell, Leigh, and be sharp about it.’
Leigh rose slowly from his place, put the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, then leant across the table and shook hands with William. Lamont couldn’t hide his surprise. Nobody spoke until Leigh had left the room.
‘There can’t be any doubt he painted the copy,’ said Lamont, ‘which makes me all the more convinced it was Faulkner who was responsible for the theft. Did you notice that Leigh’s hands trembled at just the mention of his name? Congratulations, William.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And Reg, are you still listening in on Leigh’s telephone conversations?’
‘Yes. Every Thursday evening, six o’clock, and always to his wife.’
‘Any further mention of the Picasso?’ asked William.
‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Reg.
‘Of course not,’ said Lamont. ‘Leigh wouldn’t risk repeating the message twice, so the Hawk will have to decide if that is enough for us to mount a full operation.’
‘I would,’ said William.
‘You haven’t got his job yet, laddie.’
The first thing William did after they’d returned to Scotland Yard was to look up a number in the S-Z telephone directory.
‘This is Detective Constable Warwick,’ he told the girl who answered the phone. ‘Can you tell me if an Edward Leigh was ever a student at the Slade? It would probably have been around the early 1960s.’
‘Give me a moment, Mr Warwick, and I’ll look up the name.’ A few minutes later she came back on the line. ‘Yes, he graduated with honours in 1962. In fact, he won the founder’s prize that year, and his one-man show was a sell-out.’
‘Thank you, that’s most helpful.’ William put the phone down, and smiled after he checked another file that confirmed Faulkner had attended the Slade between 1960 and 1963. Fred Yates had taught him never to believe in coincidences.
William spent the next hour writing up his report on the visit to Pentonville. After putting it on Lamont’s desk, he checked his watch. Although it was only 5.30, he felt he could leave before the light under the Hawk’s door was switched off.
He grabbed his coat and was about to slink out when Jackie said, ‘Have a good weekend. You’ve earned it.’
‘Thanks,’ said William, who couldn’t wait to see Beth, and tell her there was just a possibility she might be reunited with the other man in her life.
Back at his room in Trenchard House, he showered and changed into more casual clothes. He was looking forward to a weekend of debauchery. Well, his idea of debauchery – a meal at Elena’s, a couple of glasses of red wine, a run around Hyde Park in the morning and the latest film in the evening – anything that didn’t have cops in it – and tucked up in bed with Beth by eleven.
He decided to walk to Beth’s so he could pick up some flowers on the way. By the time he reached her front door, he could feel his heartbeat quickening. He knocked twice and a moment later Jez appeared, looked at the flowers and said, ‘Are those for me?’
‘You wish.’
‘But Beth’s gone away for the weekend.’
‘What? I thought that—’
‘She asked me to apologize. Something came up at the last minute. She’ll call y
ou as soon as she gets back.’
‘Then they are for you,’ said William, thrusting the flowers into his hands.
Jez watched as the forlorn suitor turned around and walked slowly away, shoulders slumped. He closed the door and returned to the sitting room, where he handed the flowers to Beth and said, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told him the truth?’
18
BETH PHONED WILLIAM at home on Sunday night to apologize, explaining that she’d had to visit a friend in hospital, and she’d been nervous about calling him at work.
‘Of course you can ring if it’s something important enough to deprive me of sleep,’ said William.
‘Can you come to supper tomorrow?’
‘As long as something else doesn’t come up,’ said William, regretting how harsh his words must have sounded the moment he put down the phone.
William was the first to arrive at the office on Monday morning. He sat down at his desk and was about to open one of his case files when the phone rang. He immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
‘William, you asked me to let you know as soon as Carter had been granted a licence to search for the Patrice,’ said Lieutenant Monti. ‘It was rubber stamped this morning, and posted to his home address. So he should have it by the end of the week.’
‘Thank you, Toni. I’ll tell the boss immediately.’
‘Tell me what?’ said Lamont, who had just walked into the room.
‘Carter’s been granted his exploration licence, so he could be on the move within days.’
‘I’ll call the Devon Constabulary and ask them to keep an eye on him. I’ll also warn Jim Travers at BA to keep an eye open, so he can let us know when a booking comes up in Carter’s name. Shouldn’t you be on your way?’
‘On my way, sir?’
‘You’re meant to be at Snaresbrook Crown Court this morning giving evidence. We got a call after you swanned off on Friday afternoon to say that, to everyone’s surprise, Cyril Amhurst put in a plea of not guilty, and the case would be heard this morning. You’d better get going if you don’t want to lose your first case before the judge even opens proceedings.’
William quickly retrieved the Amhurst–Churchill file from his desk drawer, and put his jacket back on.
‘Make sure he goes down for twenty years,’ said Lamont.
‘At least,’ said Jackie, who appeared just as he was heading for the door.
The long tube journey to Snaresbrook gave William a chance to reacquaint himself with the details of the case, but when he reached the last page of the file, he still couldn’t understand why Amhurst was pleading not guilty.
The train pulled into the station just after 9.45, and once William was out on the street he asked a news vendor the way to the Crown Court. He followed the man’s directions and it wasn’t long before he spotted an imposing building looming up in front of him. He sprinted up the steps and pushed his way through the door just before ten o’clock. Checking the court timetable, he saw that The Crown v. Amhurst was scheduled for 10.00 in court five. He ran up another flight of steps to the first floor, where he found a young man dressed in a long black gown and holding a wig pacing around, looking anxious.
‘Are you Mr Hayes?’ asked William.
‘I am, and I’m hoping you’re Detective Constable Warwick.’ William nodded.
‘The first thing I should tell you,’ said Hayes, ‘is that because Amhurst’s case has come up at such short notice, I could apply for a postponement and get the trial set for a later date.’
‘No, let’s get on with it,’ said William. ‘The damn man hasn’t got a leg to stand on.’
‘I agree, but your evidence may still prove crucial, so I’ll quickly take you through what I consider to be the salient points.’
‘When do you think we’ll be called?’ asked William as they sat down on a bench outside court five.
‘There are a couple of bail applications to be heard, and a request for a liquor licence to be dealt with before us, so we should be on around 10.30.’
By the time Hayes had finished briefing William, he felt even more confident that Amhurst was whistling in the wind, although he did admit to Hayes that this would be the first time he’d given evidence in a trial.
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ said Hayes. ‘I have to leave you now and set up my stall in the court. Just hang about until your name is called.’
William didn’t hang about. He paced up and down the corridor, becoming more nervous as each minute passed. Finally, the court usher appeared from within and announced, ‘Detective Constable Warwick.’
William nervously followed him into the courtroom. He passed the defendant in the dock, and without looking at him, headed straight for the witness box.
The clerk of the court handed William a Bible and he delivered the oath, relieved to hear that his voice sounded more assured than he felt. But when Mr Hayes rose from his place, what little confidence William possessed had evaporated.
‘Detective Constable Warwick, would you please tell the court how you became involved in this case.’
William began by describing his meeting with Mr Giddy, the manager of Hatchards, and his concern that he might have been sold a set of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War with fake signatures. He went on to tell the court about his visits to other bookshops, a number of which had been offered, and some had purchased, a total of twenty-two volumes of Churchill’s memoirs purportedly signed by the former prime minister.
‘And what happened next?’ asked Hayes.
‘I had a call from an assistant at John Sandoe Books in Chelsea, to tell me that the suspect had returned so I went straight to the shop. But he had just left.’
‘So you lost him?’
‘No. The assistant was able to point the man out as he was walking towards Sloane Square. I chased after him, and had nearly caught up with him when he disappeared into Sloane Square tube station. I continued to pursue him, and just managed to jump on the train he’d got onto as the doors were closing.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘The suspect got off at Dagenham East, when I followed him to a house in Monkside Drive. I made a note of the address, and then took the tube back to Scotland Yard. The following day I obtained a search warrant for the defendant’s home, where I found a number of signed books, including a complete set of Sir Winston Churchill’s The Second World War, three of which had been signed, and several sheets of paper with rows of handwritten Churchill signatures.’
‘These are all in the list of exhibits, Your Honour,’ said Hayes, before turning back to the witness. ‘And did you discover anything else of particular interest?’
‘Yes, sir. I found a first edition of A Christmas Carol, signed by Charles Dickens.’
‘Your Honour,’ said Hayes, ‘that is also in the court bundle. Perhaps you and the jury would care to examine the exhibits.’
The judge nodded, and the jury took their time studying the books, as well as the pages of Churchill signatures, before they were handed back to the clerk of the court.
‘What did you do next, Detective Constable Warwick?’
‘I arrested Mr Amhurst, and escorted him to Dagenham police station, where he was later charged with three counts of fraud, deception and forgery.’
‘Thank you, Detective Constable Warwick. I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour,’ said Hayes, before sitting down.
William was relieved that the ordeal was over. Not as bad as he’d feared. He was about to leave the witness box when Hayes leapt back up and said, ‘Please remain there, Detective Constable, as I suspect my learned friend may have a question or two for you.’
‘I most certainly do,’ said defence counsel, as she rose from her place at the other end of the bench. William stared at her in disbelief.
‘Before I begin my cross-examination, Your Honour, I should point out to the court that this witness is my brother.’
The judge l
eant forward and took a closer look first at Grace, and then at William, but made no comment.
‘I can assure Your Honour that neither my instructing solicitor nor my client is at all concerned about this unusual situation. But it is of course possible that my learned friend, or indeed the witness himself, may be. In which case I will withdraw and allow my junior to conduct the cross-examination.’
Mr Hayes was quickly on his feet. ‘I believe that would be the simplest solution, Your Honour.’
‘Possibly,’ said the judge. ‘But I’m more interested to hear Detective Constable Warwick’s opinion.’
William recalled his father’s words: Grace only takes on hopeless cases, and never wins. ‘Bring her on,’ he muttered, staring defiantly at his sister.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the judge.
‘I’m quite happy for my sister to conduct the cross-examination, Your Honour.’
‘Then you may proceed, Ms Warwick.’
Grace bowed, straightened her gown and turned to the witness. She gave him a warm smile, which he didn’t return.
‘Constable Warwick, may I begin by saying how much I enjoyed your colourful description of how you chased my client halfway across London and then failed to arrest him, but returned the following morning to make a second attempt. It all sounded rather like an episode from the Keystone Cops, which may make the jury wonder just how long you have been a detective.’ William hesitated. ‘Don’t be shy, constable. Are we talking about weeks, months or years?’
‘Three months,’ said William.
‘And was this your first arrest as a detective constable?’
‘Yes,’ admitted William reluctantly.
‘Would you speak up, constable. I’m not sure the jury heard your reply.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said William, as he gripped the sides of the witness box.
‘Now, I’m curious to understand, constable, why, having pursued my client from Chelsea to Dagenham, you didn’t arrest him long before he reached the safety of his home?’
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