He got out of the car and walked up to the gates to find two buzzers nestled in the wall. One had a brass plaque reading ‘Limpton Hall’, and another below, ‘Tradesmen’. He pressed the top button and immediately regretted his decision, as he might have had a better chance of getting inside the house if he’d pressed Tradesmen. A voice on the intercom demanded, ‘Who is it?’
‘I have a special delivery for Mr Faulkner.’
William held his breath, and to his surprise the gates swung open.
He drove slowly, admiring the centuries-old oaks that lined the long drive as he considered the next part of his plan. Eventually he pulled up in front of a house that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Country Life.
The front door was opened by a tall slim man dressed in a black tail coat and pinstriped trousers. He looked at William as if he’d come to the wrong entrance. Two younger men came scurrying down the steps and quickly made their way to the back of the van. Time to consider Plan B.
William opened the back door of the van, and picked up a clipboard, while the two young men lifted the crate carefully out, carried the painting up the steps and propped it against a wall in the hall. The butler was closing the door, when William said in an authoritative voice that he hoped sounded like his father’s, ‘I need a signature before I can release the package.’
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the door had been slammed in his face. But the butler reluctantly took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Time for plan C.
‘I’m sorry, but the release form has to be signed by Mr Faulkner,’ said William, placing a foot inside the door like a door-to-door salesman. If the butler had said take it or leave it, he would have had to take it and leave without another word.
‘Will Mrs Faulkner do?’ asked a voice in the background.
An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a red silk dressing gown that emphasized her graceful figure. Did the rich, as Fred Yates had often suggested, not get up before ten in the morning? However, it was her raven-black hair, tanned skin and air of quiet authority that left him in no doubt she was the mistress of the house.
She signed the form, and William was about to leave when she said, ‘Thank you, Mr—’
‘Warwick, William Warwick,’ he replied, breaking his rule of trying not to sound like a public schoolboy.
‘I’m Christina Faulkner. Do you have time to join me for a coffee, Mr Warwick?’
William didn’t hesitate, although it wasn’t part A, B or C of his plan. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Coffee in the drawing room, Makins,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘And when the painting has been unpacked, I’d like it re-hung.’
‘Yes, of course, madam.’
‘Miles will be so pleased to see the picture back in place when he eventually returns,’ said Mrs Faulkner, emphasizing the word ‘eventually’, as she led William into the drawing room.
William couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent paintings that adorned every wall. Miles Faulkner may have been a crook, but he was without question a crook with taste. The Sisley, Sickert, Matisse and Pissarro would have graced any collection, but William’s gaze settled on a small still life of oranges in a bowl, by an artist he hadn’t come across before.
‘Fernando Botero,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘A fellow countryman, who, like myself, escaped from Colombia at a young age,’ she added as the butler appeared carrying a tray of coffee and a selection of biscuits.
William sat down and looked at a large empty space above the mantelpiece where the copy of the Rembrandt must have hung. The butler placed the tray on an antique coffee table William thought he recognized, but was distracted when the two young men entered the room carrying the painting.
The butler took charge of the hanging, and once the picture was back in place, he gave Mrs Faulkner a slight bow before discreetly leaving.
‘Am I right in thinking,’ said Mrs Faulkner as she poured her guest a coffee, ‘that you are a detective, Mr Warwick?’
‘Yes, I am,’ William replied, without adding, but not a very experienced one.
‘Then I wonder if I might seek your advice on a personal matter?’ she said, crossing her legs.
William stopped staring at The Syndics and turned to face his hostess. ‘Yes, of course,’ he managed.
‘But before I do, I need to be sure I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ he repeated.
‘I need the services of a private detective. Someone who’s discreet, professional, and more important, can be trusted.’
‘A number of retired Met officers act as private detectives,’ said William, ‘and I’m sure my boss would be happy to recommend one of them. Unofficially,’ he added.
‘That’s good to know, Mr Warwick. However, I can’t stress how important it is that my husband doesn’t find out. He’s away at the moment and won’t be back for at least a month.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find the right person for you, Mrs Faulkner, long before your husband returns.’ He stole a final glance at a picture he doubted he would ever see again.
‘You really like that painting, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ admitted William without guile.
‘It’s also one of Miles’ favourites, which may be the reason we have one just like it in our drawing room in Monte Carlo. In fact I can never tell the difference between the two.’
William’s hand began shaking so much he spilt some coffee on the carpet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘How clumsy of me.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Warwick, it’s not important.’
If you only knew how important it is, thought William, his mind still racing with the implications of what she’d just revealed.
‘Can I tempt you to stay for lunch?’ asked Mrs Faulkner. ‘It would give me a chance to show you the rest of the collection.’
‘That’s kind of you, but my boss will be wondering where I am. So I ought to be getting back.’
‘Another time, perhaps.’
William nodded nervously, as Mrs Faulkner accompanied him back into the hall, to find the butler standing by the front door.
‘It was nice to meet you, Mr Warwick,’ she said as they shook hands.
‘You too, Mrs Faulkner,’ said William, aware that the butler was watching him closely.
William couldn’t wait to get back to the Yard and let the team know that Mrs Faulkner had accidentally let slip that the original of The Syndics was hanging in Faulkner’s villa in Monte Carlo. He could already see Beth jumping up and down with joy when he told her the news. But as the gates closed behind him, he put his head in his hands and shouted, ‘You’re an idiot!’ Why hadn’t he accepted her invitation to lunch? He could have seen the entire collection and possibly identified other paintings that were unaccounted for.
‘Idiot!’ he repeated even louder. Perhaps he wouldn’t mention the missed opportunity to Lamont when he wrote his report.
William reluctantly left Limpton Hall, but not before repeating the word ‘idiot’ several more times before he reached the motorway.
On his arrival back at the Yard, he parked the van, returned the keys and went straight up to the office. He found Lamont and Jackie poring over a map covered in little red flags, as they put the finishing touches to Operation Blue Period, which he knew was planned for the following evening. They both looked up as he entered the room.
‘Did you get past the front gates?’ asked Lamont.
‘I not only got past the front gates, I can tell you where the Rembrandt is.’
The little red flags were abandoned while Lamont and Jackie listened to William’s report. After he had fully briefed them – well, almost fully – all Lamont had to say was, ‘We should inform the commander immediately.’
As William and Jackie assumed he wasn’t using the royal ‘We’, they followed him out of the room and down the corridor to Hawksby’s office.
‘Angela, I need to see
the commander urgently,’ Lamont told Hawksby’s secretary as he entered the room.
‘Chief Inspector Mullins is with him at the moment,’ she said, ‘but I don’t expect them to be too much longer.’
‘Mullins?’ whispered William to Jackie.
‘Drugs. Pray you don’t get transferred to his section. Few survive, and the ones that do are never the same again.’
After a few more minutes the door opened and the chief inspector came out, accompanied by Commander Hawksby.
‘Good morning, Bruce,’ said Mullins, not breaking his stride as he left the room.
‘I hope you have some good news for me,’ said Hawksby. ‘Because so far, it’s been one lousy day.’
‘A possible breakthrough in the missing Rembrandt case, sir.’
‘Then you’d better come in.’
Once they had all settled around the table in Hawksby’s office, William went over his meeting with Mrs Faulkner in great detail. He was surprised by the Hawk’s immediate response.
‘I don’t think that “we have one just like it in our drawing room in Monte Carlo. In fact I can never tell the difference between the two” was a slip of the tongue. I think Mrs Faulkner knew exactly what she was telling the young detective she’d invited to join her for coffee.’
‘I agree,’ said Lamont. ‘And coupled with that, she asked for the name of a private detective who can be trusted. It’s no wonder the gates were opened.’
‘So what’s she up to?’ asked William.
‘At the risk of stating the obvious,’ said Jackie, ‘it’s my bet she needs a private detective because she’s planning to divorce her husband, and getting her hands on a large settlement won’t be enough. She’s looking for revenge, and what better way than telling us where the Rembrandt is?’
‘That’s a risky game she’s playing,’ said Hawksby, ‘considering who she’s up against.’
‘She’s had seven years to think about it,’ said William.
‘It still may not be enough,’ said Lamont.
‘Got anyone in mind for the job, Bruce?’ said Hawksby.
‘Mike Harrison would be my first choice. Capable, reliable, and trustworthy. And if she gives him the job, we’d have someone on the inside.’
‘Set up a meeting,’ said Hawksby, ‘and if he’s agreeable, William can introduce him to Mrs Faulkner.’
‘I’ll get on it right away, sir,’ said Lamont.
‘And well done, William, although it won’t be easy to get the Rembrandt out of Monte Carlo while Faulkner’s in residence. But if his wife is on our side, it might just be possible for us to take him by surprise for a change. Now to more immediate problems. Jackie, are you all set for Operation Blue Period?’
‘It’s green lit for tomorrow night, sir. We’ll have the property so well surrounded even a mole wouldn’t be able to burrow its way out without us knowing about it.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got all the necessary back-up, Bruce?’
‘The Surrey Constabulary couldn’t have been more cooperative, sir. They’re supplying us with around twenty officers, who’ll be stationed in two buses at the entry and exit points. We’ll be sitting waiting for the villains the moment they come out of the house.’
‘And the owners?’
‘They’re away on holiday in the Seychelles, as Faulkner must know, so safely out of harm’s way.’
‘Once the thieves are in custody, be sure to call me, whatever time it is.’
‘It’s likely to be around two or three in the morning, sir,’ said Jackie.
‘Whatever time it is,’ repeated Hawksby.
Lamont, Jackie and William stood up, aware that the meeting was over.
‘Warwick,’ said Hawksby, as they turned to leave, ‘could you stay behind for a moment? I’d like a private word.’
William was amused by the word ‘could’, although he assumed he was about to receive a bollocking for his lack of preparation in the Amhurst case.
‘William,’ said Hawksby once Lamont and Jackie had left, ‘I make a point of never involving myself in the private lives of my officers unless it’s likely to affect an ongoing inquiry.’
William sat tensely on the edge of his seat.
‘However, it has come to my attention that you have developed a friendship with a young woman who works at the Fitzmolean Museum, and is therefore an interested party in the missing Rembrandt case.’
‘It’s more than a friendship, sir,’ admitted William. ‘I’m all but living with her.’
‘All the more reason to be cautious. And what I’m about to say is an order, not a request. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You will not, under any circumstances, reveal to anyone outside of this office that we might know where the missing Rembrandt is. In fact, it would be wise not to tell Miss Rainsford anything further concerning our investigation, and I mean anything.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I don’t have to remind you that as a police officer, you have signed the Official Secrets Act, and if you were responsible for undermining this, or any other operation you were involved in, you could find yourself in front of a disciplinary board, which would undoubtedly set your career back, if not derail it. Do you have any questions?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you will return to your unit and not discuss this conversation with anyone, even your colleagues. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Back at his desk, William looked at the pile of pending cases in front of him, but couldn’t get the commander’s words out of his mind. This morning he had been dreading coming into the office. This evening he was dreading going home.
When Beth heard the front door open she immediately ran out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
‘So how did your meeting with Mrs Faulkner go?’ she asked, before William had a chance to take his jacket off.
‘I didn’t get past the front gates.’
‘You’re a dear sweet man,’ she said, draping her arms around his neck, ‘but such an unconvincing liar.’
‘No, it’s the truth,’ protested William.
She stood back and looked at him more closely. ‘What have they told you about me?’ she asked, her tone suddenly changing.
‘Nothing, I swear. Nothing.’ And then he recalled Hawksby’s words: You will not, under any circumstances . . . tell Miss Rainsford anything further concerning our investigation, and I mean anything. What circumstances? thought William. And then he remembered Jackie’s words when he’d bought Beth some flowers before going to Barnstaple: Rainsford? Why does that name ring a bell?
The first thing William did when he arrived at work the following morning was to write up a detailed report of his visit to Limpton Hall. Once he’d handed it in to Lamont, he called Mrs Faulkner on her private line.
‘I think I may have found the right person to help you, Mrs Faulkner. When would you like to meet him?’
‘I’m driving up to London next Monday. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I can’t risk you coming down here again.’
‘Why not?’ asked William, sounding disappointed.
‘Makins would be on the phone to my husband before you reached the front gate. In fact, Miles called me last night to ask why I’d even let you into the house.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That when you returned the picture, you let slip that the Rembrandt investigation had been dropped and relegated to the unsolved cases file.’
‘Do you think he believed you?’
‘You can never tell with Miles. I don’t think even he knows when he’s telling the truth. Shall we say the Ritz, one o’clock? My treat.’
Well, it certainly wasn’t going to be Mrs Walters’ treat, thought William as he put down the phone.
Later that morning he joined Lamont for a different type of lunch. A pork pie, a packet of crisps and a pint of bitter in the Sherlock Holmes pub, and a chance to meet Mike Harrison. A
policeman’s policeman, was how Lamont had described him, and William could immediately see why. He was uncomplicated, forthright, and treated William as an equal from the moment they met. More importantly, he was just as keen to unearth the missing Rembrandt as the rest of the team. He’d been a member of the unit when it had been stolen seven years ago, so he considered it unfinished business.
On his way home that night, William picked up a bunch of flowers as a peace offering for Beth. But the moment he turned the key in the lock, he knew she wasn’t there. And then he remembered – Tuesday was Friends’ Night at the Fitzmolean. Smoked salmon sandwiches, bowls of nuts, and sparkling wine to loosen the wallets of the museum’s loyal supporters. She wouldn’t be back much before eleven. He returned to Trenchard House for the second night in a row, called her at 10.30, and again at eleven, but she didn’t answer the phone, so he went to bed.
20
05.43 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
WILLIAM WAS WOKEN by the phone ringing. He grabbed it, wondering who could possibly be calling him at that hour of the morning. He hoped it was Beth.
‘Carter’s on the move,’ said a voice he recognized immediately. ‘Meet me at Heathrow, terminal two. There’s a car on its way. Should be with you in a few minutes. Bring an overnight bag, and don’t forget your passport this time.’
William put the phone down and headed straight for the bathroom. He took a quick shower, followed by an even quicker shave, with two nicks to prove it, then returned to the bedroom to pack an overnight bag. A couple of shirts, plus pants, socks and a toothbrush, before finally picking up his passport from a desk drawer. The car was waiting outside, its engine running. He immediately recognized the driver who’d whisked him to Chelsea.
‘Good morning, Danny,’ he said.
06.37 GMT
Jackie didn’t need a wake-up call that morning. She was already on her way to Waterloo station by the time William was speeding down the M4.
Lamont was waiting for her on platform eleven, and they boarded the 7.29 to Guildford, second class. On arrival they were met by Superintendent Wall, the only man from the Surrey Constabulary who’d been fully briefed on what they had planned for the rest of the day.
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