Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

‘No, I don’t think so. After Melbourne Miles plans to fly to Sydney so he’ll be among the first to see in the New Year, by which time all his paintings will be hanging in their new home – my new home.’

  William didn’t waste his time asking her where that might be.

  Grace and her father spent the evening holed up in his study.

  ‘The next thing Professor Abrahams needs to do,’ said Grace, ‘is study Arthur’s original two-page statement that was presented in court. He did warn me that it could also prove that Arthur has been lying and the jury got it right.’

  ‘If that turns out to be the case,’ said Sir Julian, ‘we’ll say nothing to Joanna or Beth other than that we’ve been unable to come up with any fresh evidence that would make it possible for us to apply for a retrial.’

  ‘And if Arthur has been telling the truth?’

  ‘My next call will be to the DPP’s office to request a retrial.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me, Father, why the DPP would give priority to this case?’

  ‘Desmond Pannel and I were at Oxford together. I was his campaign manager when he stood for president of the University Law Society, and you’d never believe who his main rival was. The president’s job was a thankless task, but then Desmond is a man who has always enjoyed taking on thankless tasks, which is why he’s ended up as DPP. And now, after thirty years, I intend to call in my marker.’

  It wasn’t long after he’d climbed into bed that William heard the door open. Suddenly he was wide awake. A sylph-like figure silhouetted in the moonlight glided across the room, slid under the blanket and began kissing him on the back of his neck.

  He didn’t have long to consider what he should do next. Turn on the light and politely ask her to leave, was his first thought, or just get on with it but don’t tell Beth, was his second. And then he wondered what Beth would say if he told her he’d rejected Christina’s advances and sacrificed the Rembrandt. A one-night stand in exchange for a masterpiece. He wasn’t in any doubt which she would expect him to do.

  Professor Abrahams made a second stopover in London on his way back to New York, and once again he was met at the arrivals gate by Grace. This time he was clinging on to what he described as his box of tricks.

  The following morning Sir Julian and Grace accompanied him to a room in the basement of Scotland Yard where, in the presence of an independent witness, he spent the next few hours closely examining the two-page statement that had been submitted at Arthur’s trial.

  Sir Julian and Grace returned to chambers, where they anxiously awaited the outcome of the professor’s findings. It was Grace who spotted him sauntering across Lincoln’s Inn carrying his box of tricks in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She leapt in the air and cheered.

  After listening in silence to the professor’s pronouncements, they both bombarded him with questions to which he always had an answer. Finally Sir Julian picked up the phone and dialled a private number. When the Director of Public Prosecutions came on the line, all he said was, ‘Desmond, I need a favour.’

  A large removal van arrived outside the Villa Rosa at nine the following morning, and it took the heavy brigade nearly two hours to load all sixty-nine crates on board. They were then driven slowly, very slowly, down to the port, where it took another three hours to transfer them into the Christina’s hold. After he’d seen the door of the hold locked and bolted, William went ashore and called Commander Hawksby to let him know he’d be on the next flight home.

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Hawksby firmly. ‘Get back on that boat and don’t let the Rembrandt out of your sight until you dock at Southampton.’

  ‘But shouldn’t I be keeping an eye on Mrs Faulkner?’

  ‘No. You should be keeping an eye on six Syndics from Amsterdam, who mustn’t be allowed to wander off again.’

  William didn’t argue.

  ‘When you dock tomorrow evening, I’ll be on the quayside,’ said Hawksby, ‘along with a small army to make sure the painting is returned safely to the Fitzmolean.’

  Christina was disappointed that the commander had insisted William remain on board, as she was rather hoping he would be keeping an eye on her. William leant over the railing and waved to her as the yacht left the harbour. As soon as it was out of sight Christina told her driver to take her to the airport, so she could carry out the second part of her plan.

  27

  IF IT WAS all in the timing, as Christina Faulkner suggested to William, then she made one fatal error. She instructed her solicitor to issue a writ for divorce on 22 December. The petition landed on Booth Watson’s desk on the 24th.

  Booth Watson wasn’t surprised by the timing, as he assumed Mrs Faulkner had chosen the date in a clumsy attempt to spoil his client’s Christmas. He decided not to contact Miles until he returned to his chambers on 28 December. After all, what difference would a few days make? He locked the petition in his safe and went home.

  Mike Harrison called Mrs Faulkner from Melbourne on 27 December, to report that her husband had spent the day in a hospitality box at the MCG, watching the second day of the Test match. After stumps, he’d gone to dinner with friends and picked up his room key from reception just after midnight.

  ‘Was he alone?’ asked Christina.

  ‘No, he was with a young lady who works as a cocktail waitress in the hospitality suite. I have a photograph and a name.’

  ‘Thank you, Mike.’

  Harrison then called DCI Lamont at the Yard and repeated the same message before going to bed.

  Booth Watson returned to his chambers just after ten o’clock on the morning of the 28th, pleased that Christmas was over and he could get back to work. He read the divorce petition a second time, aware that the grounds were a real concern. Faulkner’s wife had clearly been preparing the petition for some time, as several women were named. He decided to call his client and let him know the news of his impending divorce, although he suspected it would not come as much of a surprise.

  He first phoned Limpton Hall, but there was no reply, so he assumed Makins must still be on holiday. If he’d made the call an hour later, Mrs Faulkner would have answered. He next called the Faulkners’ home in Monte Carlo, and a maid picked up the phone. Clearly English wasn’t her first language.

  ‘May I speak to Monsieur Faulkner?’ he asked.

  ‘No here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Booth Watson, enunciating each word slowly.

  ‘No. Young man say Australia.’

  Booth Watson wrote on his pad: Australia/young man.

  ‘And is Mrs Faulkner there?’ he asked just as slowly.

  ‘No, Madame fly home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Angleterre.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Most helpful.’

  He wondered what Miles could possibly be doing in Australia, and in which city he might be. Reg Bates, the chambers’ head clerk, came to his rescue.

  ‘Has to be Melbourne, sir. He’ll be watching the second Test.’

  Booth Watson had no interest in cricket, and simply instructed the head clerk to find his client.

  Bates spent the rest of the morning calling all the leading hotels in Melbourne, and by the time Booth Watson had returned from lunch he found a yellow Post-it on his desk with the details. He immediately called the Sofitel and asked to be put through to Miles Faulkner’s suite.

  ‘Before I do, sir,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘are you aware it’s 1.30 in the morning?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted Booth Watson. ‘I’ll call back later.’

  After he’d hung up, he did some calculations, and decided he would try again when he got home that evening.

  Miles Faulkner was shaving when the phone rang in his suite, but he abandoned his razor when he heard Booth Watson’s resonant tones. Whenever BW called it was rarely good news. Faulkner sat on the end of the bed and listened to what his lawyer had to say.

  ‘Is there an
y reason I should hurry back, BW?’ he asked after Booth Watson had informed him about the writ. ‘The Test match is finely balanced. I’d planned on flying up to Sydney to celebrate the New Year, so wouldn’t be home before the third at the earliest.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got fourteen days to acknowledge receipt of the petition, so we can deal with it when you get back.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll call you in a couple of weeks’ time. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, there was something. It seems your wife spent Christmas in Monte Carlo with a young man. By the time you return, I’ll have his name and all the details. It might prove helpful when it comes to making a settlement in claim.’

  ‘Put a private detective onto it straight away,’ said Faulkner.

  ‘I already have,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and you should assume your wife’s done the same thing.’

  ‘Any good news?’ asked Miles.

  ‘I’ve handed over the Renoir to Standard Life, and they’ve transferred half a million to your account in the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘Half a million Christina won’t be able to get her hands on.’

  ‘Enjoy the Test match, and call me the moment you’re back.’

  Miles put the phone down and finished shaving. After the cocktail waitress – whose name he couldn’t remember – had left, he decided to find out if his wife was still in Monte Carlo.

  The maid was able to go into far greater detail with her boss than she had with Booth Watson, but then Faulkner spoke fluent French. He asked when Madame had left for England, and she replied, ‘I’m not sure, sir. All I know is she followed the van down to the yacht.’

  ‘What van?’ demanded Faulkner.

  ‘The removal van that came to take away all your pictures.’

  Miles slammed the phone down, then immediately picked it back up again.

  ‘I’m checking out,’ he told the receptionist on the front desk. ‘Get me on the first available flight to London, I don’t care which airline.’

  ‘But Australia look like winning—’ she began.

  ‘Fuck Australia.’

  Mike Harrison called Mrs Faulkner’s number in Monte Carlo and was also told by the maid, ‘Madame fly home.’ He next tried Limpton Hall, but there was no reply. He finally called the commander, who was at his desk.

  ‘Faulkner’s booked onto a Qantas flight to Heathrow that lands at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That wasn’t part of his original plan.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said Hawksby. ‘And I have no way of getting in touch with DC Warwick to warn him.’

  When Christina Faulkner’s plane touched down at Heathrow, she was picked up by her husband’s chauffeur and driven to Limpton Hall, where she had a light supper before going to bed. After all, she had a busy day ahead of her.

  William was sitting in a deckchair sunning himself and enjoying a glass of Pinot Grigio when Faulkner’s plane took off on its twenty-three-hour journey to London. He had a clear view of the entry to the hold, which no one had gone near for the past two days. But then why should they? The sun was shining, the sea was calm, and he didn’t have a care in the world.

  At nine o’clock the following morning, a Bishop’s Move removal van drew up outside the front door. The loaders took their time packing the sixty-nine artworks into crates before loading them onto the van. After a long lunch break they set off for Southampton.

  ‘Do not, under any circumstances, go more than thirty miles an hour,’ Christina instructed the driver. ‘We can’t risk damaging any of the pictures.’

  ‘Whatever you say, madam,’ he replied, only too pleased to oblige, as it guaranteed that he and his men would clock up more overtime.

  Christina enjoyed a leisurely lunch in a dining room surrounded by picture hooks. She set off for Southampton just after three, but then she wasn’t in any hurry as the Christina wasn’t due to dock until later that evening. She did hope Miles was enjoying his cricket match. She had been pleased to read in the Mail that morning how finely balanced the game was.

  Miles Faulkner cleared customs at Heathrow just after two o’clock. He had considered calling Limpton Hall from the first-class lounge at Melbourne airport and asking his driver to pick him up, but he decided against the idea as it might alert Christina to his unscheduled return.

  He made a taxi driver happy when he asked ‘Where to, guv?’ and received the reply, ‘Limpton in Hampshire. And you can double the fare if you make it in under an hour.’

  Mike Harrison had travelled on the same plane as Faulkner, but not in the same class. He didn’t follow his mark out of the terminal, as he considered it was more important to contact Mrs Faulkner and warn her that her husband was on his way to Limpton Hall. But there was no reply.

  He then rang Scotland Yard, and asked to be put through to DCI Lamont.

  ‘DS Roycroft,’ said a voice.

  ‘Hi, Jackie, it’s Mike Harrison. Can I have a word with Bruce?’

  ‘He set off for Southampton with Commander Hawksby just over an hour ago, Mike.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harrison. ‘Good to know you’re back, Jackie,’ he added.

  ‘On probation, more like,’ said Jackie before putting down the phone.

  Harrison made another taxi driver happy when he told him ‘Southampton’.

  It took well over an hour before Faulkner was dropped off at Limpton Hall, but then he knew the cabbie had no chance of getting there in under an hour.

  ‘Hang about,’ he said as he jumped out of the cab. ‘I may not be long.’

  He ran up the steps and unlocked the front door. When he walked into the hall, he felt sick. No Constable, no Turner. She’d even removed the Henry Moore. He walked slowly around the house, horrified by the extent of her looting, to find only dark rectangles and squares where pictures had once hung, and empty stands where sculptures had proudly been displayed. But the final humiliation came when he entered the drawing room, and saw the one painting she’d left behind. Eddie Leigh’s copy of the Rembrandt was still hanging above the fireplace. If Christina had walked into the room at that moment, he would have happily strangled her. He ran back out of the house and shouted at the driver, ‘The front gates.’

  The taxi accelerated down the long drive, coming to a halt by the entrance gates. Faulkner leapt out and ran into the gatehouse.

  ‘Have you seen Mrs Faulkner today?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, after checking his list of arrivals and departures. ‘She left just over an hour ago.’

  ‘Left for where?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘What about them,’ said Faulkner placing a finger on the words ‘Bishop’s Move, arrived 8.55 a.m., departed 2.04 p.m.’ ‘Where were they going?’

  ‘No idea, sir,’ repeated the hapless guard.

  Faulkner grabbed the phone, and it took him two calls and a lot of threatening before an area manager reluctantly gave him the information he wanted. He leapt back in the taxi and said ‘Southampton’, without bothering to look at the ticking meter. The cabbie couldn’t believe his luck.

  The commander sat alone in the back of the lead car. They were followed by a Black Maria with six constables and a sergeant on board. Bringing up the rear was a Wolseley with DCI Lamont in the driving seat. Mob-handed was how Lamont had described the exercise, but the Hawk wasn’t going to take any risks.

  The little convoy kept to the inside lane of the motorway, and although they never once exceeded the speed limit, they still managed to reach the exit for Southampton docks with a couple of hours to spare.

  Hawksby immediately reported to the harbour master, who confirmed that the MV Christina was due to dock at quay twenty-nine around seven that evening. The commander then handed the harbour master a special warrant which authorized the removal of one specific crate from the yacht, without interference or inspection by customs and excise.

  ‘Must be the Crown Jewels,’ said the harbour master, after he’d studied the warra
nt.

  ‘Not far off,’ said Hawksby. ‘But all I can tell you is that it has to be handled with the utmost care, and its contents mustn’t be exposed to sunlight.’

  ‘Sounds like Dracula.’

  ‘No, that’s the present owner,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘Can I help in any way?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to have a couple of your boys hanging around, just in case there’s any trouble.’

  ‘Brains or brawn?’

  ‘Two of each, if possible.’

  ‘Consider it done. They’ll be with you half an hour before the Christina is due to dock. I think I’ll come along myself,’ he said. ‘Sounds as if it might be interesting.’ Hawksby climbed back into his car, and the small convoy made its way across to quay twenty-nine to await the arrival of the six Syndics who were resting peacefully in the hold of the Christina.

  Everyone was in place and waiting impatiently when a Bentley appeared on the dockside and parked about fifty yards away.

  ‘Who the hell—?’ said Lamont.

  ‘Has to be Mrs Faulkner,’ said Hawksby. ‘Just ignore her. As long as the Rembrandt is handed over, it’s none of our business what she does with the rest of her husband’s art collection, although I hope for her sake she knows he’s back in the country.’

  ‘Should we inform her?’ asked Lamont.

  ‘Also none of our business,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘And what are they doing here?’ asked Lamont as a large Bishop’s Move van proceeded slowly along the dockside and came to a halt behind the Bentley.

  ‘Not hard to guess what’s inside,’ said Hawksby, as the driver climbed down from his cab and walked across to the Bentley.

  Mrs Faulkner wound down her window.

  ‘What the hell are that lot doin’ here?’ the driver demanded, pointing at the three police vehicles.

  ‘They’re picking up a crate from my husband’s yacht before returning it to its rightful owner in London. Once it’s been handed over, they’ll be on their way and you can start loading the paintings on board.’