‘What are the cops so interested in?’
‘Six gentlemen from Amsterdam, who left the country several years ago without a visa.’
‘Very funny,’ said the driver, who returned to the van without another word.
Christina was winding the window back up when a black taxi appeared. Mike Harrison paid off the cabbie, and then quickly joined his client in the back of her Bentley, without acknowledging any of his former colleagues.
‘I think I can see our Dutch friends,’ said Lamont, who had a pair of binoculars trained on the harbour entrance. He passed them to Hawksby.
‘How long do you estimate before they’re with us?’ Hawksby asked the harbour master, while keeping his eyes focused on the Christina.
‘Twenty minutes, thirty at the most.’
‘I’ve just spotted Warwick standing on the bridge,’ said Hawksby. ‘Do you suppose he’s taken over?’
‘Or been clapped in irons,’ said Lamont. ‘Either way, I’d better put the troops on standby.’
The commander, the harbour master, DCI Lamont, a sergeant and six constables, Mrs Faulkner, Mike Harrison, and the loaders from the removal van watched as the MV Christina drew closer and closer, until it finally came alongside and tied up at the dock. William was the first person to come running down the gangway.
‘We’re all set, sir. The crate should be unloaded in a few minutes.’
‘Then we’ll—’ began Hawksby as a second taxi raced past them and screeched to a halt beside the yacht. Faulkner leapt out, ran up the gangway, stopped and exchanged a few words with the captain before they disappeared into the hold.
‘Don’t move,’ Hawksby said to William, who was champing to get back on board. ‘If our crate isn’t unloaded, we’ve got him bang to rights.’
‘But—’
‘Be patient, William. He’s not going anywhere. Harbour master, if they were to make a run for it . . .’
‘They wouldn’t get as far as the harbour entrance before my men cut them off.’
‘So if they even consider unmooring,’ said Hawksby to William, ‘you have my permission to go back on board and arrest Faulkner.’
‘It doesn’t look as if that’s going to be necessary,’ said Lamont, as four of the crew emerged from the hold carrying a large crate. It took them some time to carry it across the deck, down the narrow gangway, and onto the dockside.
Hawksby took his time checking the label: ‘Property of the Fitzmolean Museum, Prince Albert Crescent, London SW7. To be collected’. He nodded, and four constables took the place of the four crewmen. ‘Put it in the back of the van,’ ordered Hawksby, ‘and don’t let it out of your sight.’
The four young constables lifted up the crate and, like crabs, began to edge their way slowly towards the Black Maria.
‘OK, Bruce,’ said Hawksby. ‘I think you’ve earned the right to lead the convoy back to London. Warwick, you can join me. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’
William didn’t move. He was still watching Miles Faulkner, who was standing on the bridge, looking smug as members of the crew began preparing for an imminent departure.
‘Let’s go, Warwick. We’ve got what we came for.’
‘I’m not so sure we have, sir.’
‘But we have our crate. You saw the label.’
‘Yes, I saw the label, but I’m not convinced we’ve got the right crate? Do you have the authority, sir, to open any crate on board?’
‘No,’ said Hawksby. ‘We’d need a search warrant for that.’
‘But I have the authority,’ said the harbour master, heading towards the gangway, with William only a pace behind. Hawksby and Lamont were left to chase after them.
William went straight to the hold, to be faced with eighty crates of varying sizes. ‘One must have been re-labelled,’ he announced.
‘But which one?’ asked Hawksby.
‘Be my guest,’ said Faulkner as he strolled back into the hold, the captain following close behind. ‘But should you damage any of my priceless works, I can assure you the compensation bill will not be covered by your combined wages,’ he added with a smirk.
William took a closer look at Faulkner. If he’d expected a broken-nosed, muscle-bound, tattoo-covered thug, he could not have been more mistaken. Faulkner was tall, elegant, with a head of thick wavy fair hair and deep blue eyes. His warm smile explained why so many women had been so easily taken in. He wore a blazer and slacks, an open-necked white shirt and loafers, which gave him the look of an international playboy rather than a hardened criminal.
For the first time, William understood what the commander had meant when he said to wait until you meet the man.
‘Perhaps you’d be wise to remember what happened the last time you raided one of my properties,’ said Faulkner. ‘I was able to supply you with receipts for every one of my artworks. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you thought you’d got the Rembrandt that time too.’
William hesitated, as his eyes circled the hold, but he was none the wiser.
‘So which one do you want opened, detective constable?’ said Hawksby defiantly.
‘This one,’ said William, walking across to a large crate and tapping it firmly.
‘Are you absolutely convinced that’s the right one?’ said Faulkner.
‘Yes,’ said William, more out of bravado than conviction.
‘I see, commander, that a young rookie is now running your department,’ said Faulkner.
‘Open it,’ said Hawksby.
The harbour master stepped forward and, assisted by two of his team, began to extract the nails one by one until they were finally able to prise the crate open. Once they’d removed several layers of covering, they were greeted by six Syndics from Amsterdam, who peered back at them.
‘I’ve wanted to do this for years,’ said Hawksby. The commander stepped forward and told Faulkner he was under arrest, then read him his rights. Lamont thrust Faulkner’s hands behind his back, handcuffed him and frogmarched him off the yacht as four constables carried the second crate slowly down the gangway before placing it carefully in the back of the Black Maria next to its unidentified companion.
‘How could you possibly have known which case the Rembrandt was in?’ Lamont asked William once they were back on shore.
‘I wasn’t absolutely sure,’ admitted William, ‘but it was the only one that had a large circular impression where the original label must have been. Faulkner obviously switched the labels, but he didn’t notice that the crate he chose was considerably larger than the one that contains the Rembrandt, or that a circular mark had been left on the Rembrandt’s crate where the original label must have been ripped off.’
‘You might make a detective after all,’ said Hawksby.
‘So what’s in the other crate?’ demanded Lamont.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said William. ‘We’ll only find out after it’s been delivered to the Fitzmolean as the label clearly instructs us to do.’
Mrs Faulkner had remained in the Bentley observing the whole operation from a distance. She didn’t move until she saw Miles had been arrested, when she leapt out of her car and ran towards the dockside shouting, ‘Stop them! Stop them!’
Mike Harrison was only a yard behind as they both watched the Christina heading out of the harbour towards the open sea.
‘On what grounds?’ Harrison asked once he’d caught up with her.
‘They’ve still got my pictures on board.’
‘That would be quite hard to prove,’ said Harrison, ‘when the captain is probably only carrying out your husband’s orders.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ demanded Christina.
‘Yours, Mrs Faulkner, and once your husband is safely locked up, I feel sure you’ll find a way of getting them all back.’
‘But he’ll come after me,’ protested Christina.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Harrison. ‘Your husband’s off to Pentonville, and I can’t see him being released for
several years.’
‘Right, lads,’ said Hawksby. ‘Time to return the Rembrandt to its rightful owner, along with whatever’s in the other crate.’
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said a man who looked even more distressed than Mrs Faulkner. ‘But that bloke you’ve just arrested owes me £274 for his cab fare.’
‘Which I fear you won’t be seeing for some time,’ said Lamont. ‘I suggest you contact his lawyer, a Mr Booth Watson QC at Lincoln’s Inn. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige you.’
‘A job well done, DC Warwick,’ said Hawksby, as William joined him in the back of his car, and the little convoy set off for London. ‘You can be proud of the role you played.’
William didn’t respond.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked the commander. ‘We’ve arrested Faulkner, and got the Rembrandt back, plus a possible bonus in the other crate that we couldn’t have expected. What more could you possibly ask for?’
‘Something’s not quite right,’ said William.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. But Faulkner was smiling when you arrested him.’
28
‘I THINK I know what’s in the other crate,’ said William.
‘But you’re not going to tell me, are you?’ said Beth.
‘No. Just in case I’m wrong, and then you’ll be disappointed.’
‘You do realize that the painting would have to be of Dutch or Flemish origin and pre-1800 before it could be considered by our hanging committee.’
‘If I’m right,’ said William, ‘that won’t be a problem. And its provenance is every bit as impressive as the Rembrandt. In any case, thanks to you, I’ve been invited to the opening ceremony.’
‘Not me,’ said Beth. ‘It was the museum’s director, Tim Knox, who invited you to the “opening of the crates ceremony”. I can tell you, you wouldn’t have been my first choice.’
‘Dare I ask?’
‘Christina Faulkner, the woman who made it all possible, and who I can’t wait to meet and thank personally.’
William didn’t need reminding of the last occasion he’d seen Christina, and wondered if there would ever be a better opportunity to tell Beth exactly what had taken place that night in Monte Carlo.
‘I might even bump into her on Saturday,’ continued Beth, ‘if she visits Pentonville to console her husband.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said William. ‘But my father and Grace are going to the prison this morning to give your father some important news.’
‘Good or bad?’ asked Beth, sounding anxious.
‘I’ve no idea. He wouldn’t even tell my mother.’
‘I wish I could be there to hear the news,’ said Beth, ‘but we’d better get moving if we’re not going to be late for the opening of the crates ceremony. This is one of those days when I wish I could be in two places at once.’
‘Good morning, Sir Julian. The prisoner is waiting for you in the interview room.’
‘Thank you, Mr Rose.’ The leading silk and his junior followed the prison officer along a corridor that was becoming all too familiar.
When they reached the interview room Sir Julian shook hands with his client. ‘Good morning, Arthur.’
‘Good morning, Sir Julian,’ Arthur replied, before kissing Grace on both cheeks.
‘Let me begin with some good news,’ said Sir Julian, sitting down and placing his Gladstone bag by his side. Arthur looked apprehensive. ‘Thanks to the expertise of Professor Leonard Abrahams, a forensic document analyst at Columbia University in New York, the DPP has agreed to support our application for leave to appeal against sentence, which is virtually a retrial.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Arthur.
‘And even better,’ said Grace, ‘we’ve been given an early slot in the court calendar, so your appeal should be heard in a few weeks’ time.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ said Sir Julian.
‘Especially if you and the DPP were at Oxf—’
‘Behave yourself, Grace,’ said her father. ‘Although I must confess I’ve used up all my markers.’
‘I’m most grateful,’ said Arthur.
‘It was worth playing the long game,’ said Sir Julian, without explanation. ‘However, as we only have an hour, Arthur, we must use the time constructively. First, I should tell you that I intend to call only three witnesses.’
‘Will I be one of them?’ asked Arthur.
‘No point,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Appeal hearings are held in front of three judges, not a jury, and you have nothing new to tell them. They will only be interested in any fresh evidence.’
‘So who will you be calling?’
‘The two police officers who gave evidence at the original trial.’
‘But they’re hardly likely to change their stories.’
‘You’re probably right. However, William has received some information from an unimpeachable source that might make their original testimony look a little less credible. However, our principal witness will still be Professor Abrahams. Grace has been dealing directly with him, so she’ll take you through the evidence he has compiled, and, more importantly, his conclusions.’
Grace took a thick file out of her briefcase and placed it on the table.
‘Let me begin . . .’
‘Let me begin,’ said Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, as he faced a small gathering of friends and staff, ‘by welcoming you all to what my colleague Beth Rainsford has described as the “opening of the crates ceremony”. Once the Rembrandt has been removed from its crate and returned to its rightful place, we will then open the second crate and discover what hidden treasure is inside.’
Get on with it, William wanted to say.
Beth contented herself with, ‘I can’t wait.’
‘When you’re ready, Mark,’ said the director.
Mark Cranston, the keeper of paintings, stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid of the first crate as if he were a conjuror, to reveal a mass of small polystyrene chips that his team took some time clearing, only to discover that the painting was wrapped in several layers of muslin. Cranston delicately peeled each layer away until the long-lost masterpiece appeared.
The rapt audience gasped, and a moment later burst into spontaneous applause. The works manager and his crew carefully lifted up the canvas and gently lowered the painting into its frame, securing it with tiny clamps. A second round of applause broke out when the picture was hung on its waiting hooks to once again fill a space that had been unoccupied for seven years.
‘Welcome home,’ said the director.
The assembled gathering gazed in awe at the six Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, who returned their admiration with disdain. It was some time before the keeper suggested that they should now open the other crate, although it was clear that some of the patrons were reluctant to be dragged away from their long-lost companions.
Eventually they all joined the director around the second crate, some more in hope than expectation. They waited in silence for the ceremony to be repeated. First the lid was lifted by the keeper, then the packing chips were removed, before the layers of muslin were finally peeled away to reveal that Rembrandt had a genuine rival.
A collective gasp went up as a magnificent depiction of Christ’s descent from the cross by Peter Paul Rubens was revealed.
‘How generous of Mr Faulkner,’ said one of the patrons, while another ventured, ‘Two for the price of one. We are indeed blessed.’
‘Shall I hang it next to the Rembrandt?’ asked the keeper.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the director. ‘In fact I must ask you to place it back in the crate and nail the lid down.’
‘Why?’ demanded another of the patrons. ‘The label on the crate clearly states that the painting is the property of the Fitzmolean.’
‘It does indeed,’ said the director. ‘And I can’t deny that this remarkable painting would have
adorned our collection, and attracted art lovers from all over the world. But unfortunately, I received a letter this morning from a Mr Booth Watson QC who pointed out that the labels on the two crates had obviously been switched by someone, but certainly not his client. Mr Faulkner had always intended to return the Rembrandt, and is delighted to know that it is safely back in its rightful place. However, the Rubens, which has been in Mr Faulkner’s private collection for the past twenty years, must be returned to him immediately.’
William now understood why Faulkner had been smiling when he was arrested, but still couldn’t resist asking, ‘Where’s he going to hang it? In his cell?’
‘Of course, I immediately sought legal advice,’ said the director, ignoring the interruption, ‘and our solicitors confirmed that we have no choice but to accede to Mr Booth Watson’s demand.’
‘Did they give a reason?’ asked the keeper.
‘It was their opinion that if a dispute over ownership were to result in litigation, not only would we lose, but it would be extremely costly. For the time being, the painting will be placed in secure storage until the board make a final decision, though I have no reason to believe they will disagree with our legal advisers and instruct me to return the Rubens to Mr Faulkner.’
Some of the patrons and guests continued to admire the Rubens, aware they would never see it again. William only turned away when the lid of the crate was finally nailed down. A cold shiver went down his spine when he turned to see Beth deep in conversation with Christina Faulkner. He wondered if Christina was telling her the truth about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo.
Mr Booth Watson didn’t acknowledge Sir Julian as they passed each other in the corridor.
‘No prizes for guessing who he’s about to have a consultation with,’ said Grace. ‘What’s the speculation in the robing room?’
‘Faulkner’s looking at six years at least, possibly eight, but it doesn’t help that the tabloids keep referring to him as a modern-day Raffles, rather than the common criminal he is.’
Nothing Ventured Page 24
