Tell Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  VIEW OF AUVERS-SUR-OISE

  “IT’S LIKE MAKING love for the first time,” said the chief inspector. “A copper never forgets his first arrest.”

  While all his chums at school wanted to be Han Solo or James Bond, Guy Stanford saw himself more as Sherlock Holmes. So when the careers master asked him what he wanted to do when he left school, no one was surprised when he replied, “I’m going to be a detective.”

  Guy’s only problem was his father, who assumed that like him, he would train to be a barrister and later join him in chambers. Being English, they agreed on a compromise. And as with parents who are unsure their son is marrying the right girl, Guy agreed to a trial separation; if he still felt the same way about it after three years, his father would put up no objection to him joining the police force.

  Guy spent the next three years at Exeter University studying the history of art—the second love of his life. He graduated with a good enough honors degree for his tutor to suggest he might consider returning to do a Ph.D. thesis on Sorolla, the Spanish impressionist. Guy thanked his tutor, took the next train back to Coventry, and after a two-week holiday, joined the local police force.

  Guy didn’t take advantage of the graduate entry scheme that guaranteed accelerated promotion because, as he told his father, he preferred to win his spurs on the battlefield. His four years on the beat before he became a detective turned out to be full of challenges. For example … no. This is not a story about the recently promoted Chief Superintendent Guy Stanford, but a tale about PC Stanford’s first arrest.

  It had been a particularly grueling week for Guy, which had ended on Saturday afternoon with his having to accompany the visiting Cardiff City football supporters back to the station, after they’d lost to Coventry, 3–0.

  Once the last train had departed, Guy decided not to join his mates at the pub that evening, but to curl up in bed with a good book. But he was so exhausted that he only managed a couple of chapters of Duveen by S. N. Behrman before he fell into a deep sleep.

  Twenty minutes later his dreams were interrupted by an insistent ringing. But it was still some time before he managed to pick up the phone.

  “Stanford,” said a voice that wasn’t used to being disobeyed. “Report to the station immediately. And immediately means you’re already late.”

  “Yes, sarge,” said Guy, suddenly wide awake. He leaped out of bed, took a two-minute shower, didn’t shave, and threw on his uniform. He ran downstairs and out onto the street, jumped on his bike and didn’t stop pedaling until he reached the station.

  Once he’d dumped the bike, he joined several of his colleagues who were charging up the steps into the nick.

  “Downstairs, lads,” said the desk sergeant. An order Guy obeyed without stopping.

  When he entered the large situations room in the basement, he joined thirty or forty of his colleagues who had clearly all been drafted in at short notice. Although none of them had any idea what they were doing there, they didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  When Chief Superintendent Dexter (crime) walked in, Guy realized it had to be serious, and when the chief constable followed only a pace behind, the whole room fell silent.

  “OK, listen up, lads,” said the super, as he placed his hands on his hips, “because I don’t have time to repeat myself. A small inner group of senior police officers have been working for several weeks on a particularly sensitive investigation. However, I was unwilling to give the go-ahead until we were confident every piece of the jigsaw was in place. An hour ago, we received information from a reliable source that we wouldn’t get a better opportunity than tonight to bang up Bernie Manners, along with a few other well-known villains.”

  Several of the officers began to cheer and applaud. Although Guy hadn’t come in contact with Manners, he knew only too well who he was. His photograph had become a dartboard in the crime room long before Guy had joined the force. He knew Manners was the local drug baron, who controlled a territory that stretched from Watford to Birmingham, and anyone who strayed onto his patch went missing. But far worse were the number of young lives he had ruined with the distribution of heroin and crack cocaine by his army of dealers. Thanks to a cadre of expensive lawyers, Manners had never been convicted or seen the inside of a prison cell. Even when they’d found a shotgun in the boot of his Mercedes, Manners was able to prove he was on the way to a pheasant shoot, and that the gun was registered. The jury didn’t seem to understand the difference between a shotgun and a rifle.

  “My informant tells me,” continued the super, “that Manners is holding a party in his home tonight to celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and among his guests will be some of the biggest rogues in Christendom, so we’ll never get a better opportunity to give him an unexpected birthday present.”

  This time the cheer was even louder.

  “All of you will now be divided into three groups with a senior officer in charge of each section. Group one will be under my orders and will act as the lead unit. Group two will consist of twenty-one officers under Chief Inspector Wallis, who will surround the house, and if you find as much as a half-smoked joint on anyone trying to beat a hasty retreat, arrest them, bring them back to the nick, and lock ’em up. Group three, you’re the search party and will be led by Chief Inspector Hendry. Once you get the signal from me, you will enter the house, where you will each be allocated a room, and then I expect you to take the place apart. Any drugs you find must be listed, bagged, and handed over to Inspector Hendry.”

  Guy looked around to see that most of his colleagues couldn’t wait to get going. This was the reason they’d joined the police.

  “And don’t forget. Every ounce of heroin or coke you find is another year in jail for Manners, and it’s a life sentence if we can prove he’s a dealer. Right, report to your group commanders who will brief you more fully.”

  There was almost a stampede toward a large noticeboard where every officer was listed in alphabetical order, showing which group they had been allocated to.

  Guy knew he wasn’t senior enough to be a member of the command unit, but he still wanted to be in the search party, and not left standing outside the house hoping someone would try to do a runner.

  He let out a muted “Yes!,” when he saw the number 3 by his name, and quickly made his way back upstairs and out of the nick. He climbed into a black patrol van, marked only with the number 3, and took a seat near the front. Once the door of the van slid shut, Chief Inspector Hendry began to brief his group.

  “Right, pay attention. Like the chief, I’m only going to say this once. Our job will be to search the house from top to bottom, making sure we don’t miss anything, and I mean anything. If you come across any drugs, even marijuana or poppers, bag them up and bring them straight to me. Don’t expect to find everything stacked and labeled neatly on shelves. Manners will have stashed them in places you won’t even have thought of, so make sure you do a thorough job, because we’re not going to get a second chance.”

  Guy looked out of the window as the convoy moved off. He was in the third of three unmarked vans, with two patrol cars in front leading the way, and another two behind bringing up the rear. They were clearly expecting a lot of guests at the party.

  The convoy drove silently out of the city, ignoring drunks and vagrants who quickly disappeared down unlit alleys the moment they saw them. And once they’d crossed the city boundary and began to drive through neighboring villages, Guy noticed that few lights were still on, as most civilized people were already in bed, sound asleep.

  With about a mile to go, Hendry stood up, turned to face his group, and said, “Look lively, lads, it won’t be long now.”

  As they swung off the main road, the two police cars in front turned off their headlights and parked down a narrow lane. Guy looked out of the window to see a vast Georgian mansion lit only by the full moon. In fact the first thing Guy noted was that there wasn’t a light on in the house. If Bernie Manners was holding a party to celebra
te his fiftieth birthday, he found it hard to believe the guests had already gone home.

  When the convoy came to a halt, Guy and his colleagues sat waiting impatiently for the off. But in which direction, wondered Guy. He assumed the senior officers sitting in the front two cars were discussing whether to go ahead with the operation or slink back to the station, tails between their legs and admit they’d been sold a bum steer. In Guy’s opinion that would have been the most sensible thing to do. But he knew Chief Superintendent Dexter only had a few months to go before he retired, and no doubt that was also being weighed in the balance. What a scalp to end his career with.

  And then it became obvious what decision had been made, because the two police cars in front switched their headlights back on and began to move slowly up the drive toward the house. Guy watched as his colleagues poured out of the first van and began to surround the building, while Hendry led his team off the second van and onto the front lawn. He raised an arm and his group stopped, just yards from the front door.

  No one moved when the super banged a clenched fist on the door. Moments later, a light shone from a second-floor window, followed by another on the stairs, and finally one in the hallway, before the front door was opened to reveal the massive figure of Bernie Manners framed in the doorway, adorned in a purple silk dressing gown.

  “What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Chief Superintendent?” demanded Manners.

  Guy’s immediate reaction was, why wasn’t Manners surprised when he saw Dexter standing on his front doorstep? And why no shouting or bad language? Guy was beginning to wonder if the reliable source had always been working for the other side, but it was too late to turn back now.

  “I have a warrant to search these premises,” said the superintendent, who handed over a court document for Manners to study, and he didn’t wait to be invited in. Guy knew the warrant would have been issued by a judge earlier that evening, no doubt with a warning of the consequences if they didn’t come up with a substantial cache of drugs that couldn’t be described by a seasoned lawyer as recreational.

  A few minutes later, the super reappeared in the doorway and waved a beckoning hand. The sign for the search party to join him in the house.

  “OK, lads, let’s get moving,” said Hendry as he led his men across the gravel courtyard and into the house.

  Guy and two other officers were ordered to search the drawing room. To start with, they satisfied themselves with checking inside drawers, removing cushions from the sofas and chairs, and pulling books, CDs, and DVDs from the shelves above the widescreen television. Inspector Hendry moved from room to room waiting for the first officer to report a find, while Manners poured himself a drink. An hour later the CO gave the order to move on to what he described as a more thorough search.

  “You ain’t gonna find a damn thing,” said Manners. “Not that I have any idea what you’re looking for,” he added as he poured himself another large whiskey.

  Guy believed the first statement, but not the second. The young constable switched his attention back to the job in hand, as a sergeant unsheathed a knife and thrust the blade deep into the sofa, causing feathers to fly in every direction. Guy started to remove the few books from the shelves and began to sift through the pages, but all he came up with was a fifty-pound note that had been used as a book mark—not a crime.

  The second hour also yielded nothing, except the downstairs rooms now resembled a council rubbish dump, and it worried Guy that Manners didn’t seem to care. In fact he was beginning to wonder just who had planned this whole operation months in advance.

  Manners put down his drink, checked his watch, and made a phone call. It wasn’t difficult for Guy to work out who he’d be calling at that time of night, but he was surprised how quickly the phone was answered.

  In desperation, the super gave orders for everyone to change floors, and double-check their colleagues hadn’t missed anything.

  Guy was allocated the bathroom. He made his way slowly up to the first floor, taking a moment to look at the paintings on the wall that were, with one exception, second-rate dross, probably bought from the railings on Piccadilly by an interior decorator who knew a sucker when he saw one.

  He moved into the bathroom, which resembled a rugby changing room after a hard-fought game, and it only took him a few moments to realize his colleagues had done a thorough job, even removing the panels from the side of the bath and checking behind a medicine cabinet filled with drugs from Boots. But search as he might, Guy couldn’t come up with anything stronger than an aspirin.

  They all heard the whistle, the sign that the search was being called off. Guy came slowly back down the stairs to see the super looking as if he might be facing an earlier retirement than he had originally anticipated, but Guy now suspected that was all part of Manners’s plan. Bang on cue, a black BMW came up the drive and double-parked outside the front door.

  A moment later a tall, elegantly dressed man marched into the house, looking as if he hadn’t been to bed.

  “Michael,” said Manners. “I wanted you to see what these bastards have been up to,” he added before he took his lawyer on a tour of the house so he could survey the carnage. When they reappeared, the man walked straight across to the chief superintendent and said, “My name is Michael Carstairs.”

  “I know exactly who you are, Mr. Carstairs.”

  “And I have the privilege of representing Mr. Manners,” he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “whose home you have ransacked for no apparent reason, especially as you must be well aware that my client is a respected local businessman, who has resided in the area for many years. So I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I shall be making an official complaint on his behalf, but not before I’ve spoken to the chief constable.”

  Guy watched carefully to see how the super would react. Dexter looked as if he couldn’t be sure which of the two men to punch first, the lawyer or his client. At least if he had, he would have something to show for his troubles.

  “If you’re not going to charge my client with any offense,” continued Carstairs, “perhaps it’s time for you and your thugs to get out.”

  The chief superintendent was about to give the order for his men to leave the premises, when Guy stepped forward.

  “And what have we here?” said Carstairs, staring at the fresh-faced young constable standing in front of his client. “Are you by any chance the arresting officer?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Guy.

  Manners burst out laughing, while the lawyer added contemptuously, “On what charge, dare I ask?”

  “Possession of stolen goods.”

  “No doubt you’re able to substantiate your wild claim, Constable,” he said, making no attempt to mask any sarcasm.

  “I most certainly can,” said Guy, before he began to climb back up the stairs while his colleagues watched nervously. He stopped halfway, and removed an oil painting from the wall before coming back down to the hall.

  “Do you recognize this painting, Mr. Manners?” asked Guy, holding it up in front of him.

  Manners just stood there, looking at his lawyer.

  “It’s a Cézanne,” said Guy. “He was one of the most influential artists of the early twentieth century.” Guy paused to admire the painting. “Never signed or dated, because the artist considered View of Auvers-sur-Oise unfinished, but more interesting is that the painting was stolen from the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford the night before the Millennium.” Guy turned to face the lawyer. “I wonder if you have any idea of its value, Mr. Carstairs?”

  The lawyer didn’t offer an opinion.

  “Sotheby’s valued it at a little over three million, but that’s possibly a conservative estimate, as Sir Nicholas Serota, the director of the Tate, described the painting as a national treasure, and irreplaceable.”

  The chief superintendent nodded, and two of his senior officers stepped forward, handcuffed Manners, read him his rights, and led him out to a waiting car. Guy reluctant
ly handed over the painting to the chief superintendent.

  As Hendry caught up with Guy on his way back to the van, the chief inspector remarked, “It’s like making love for the first time, lad. A copper never forgets his first arrest.”

  A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR

  WHEN SHE ENTERED the lecture theater for the last time, the entire faculty rose and cheered. She progressed up the steps and onto the stage, feigning to be unaffected by their warm reception. She waited for her students to resume their places before she began to deliver her final lecture.

  She held her emotions in check as she looked up at the assembled audience for the first time. A lecture theater that held three hundred and was rarely full was now so packed with professors, lecturers, and scholars she had taught over the past four decades, that some of them had spilled out onto the steps at the sides, while others stood hugger-mugger at the back.

  Many had traveled from across the nation to sit at her feet and acknowledge the curtain coming down on an illustrious career. But as she stood and looked at them, Professor Burbage couldn’t help recalling it hadn’t always been that way.

  * * *

  Margaret Alice Burbage had studied English literature at Radcliffe before sailing across the ocean to spend a couple of years at the other Cambridge, where she completed a Ph.D. on Shakespeare’s early sonnets.

  Dr. Burbage was offered the chance to remain in Cambridge as a teaching fellow at Girton, but declined as she wished to return to her native land, and like a disciple spreading the Gospel, preach about the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon to her fellow countrymen.

  Although vast areas of America had become emancipated, there still remained a small group of universities who were not quite ready to believe a woman could teach a man—anything. Among the worst examples of these heathens were Yale and Princeton, who did not allow women to darken their doors until 1969.

  In 1970, when Dr. Burbage applied for the position of assistant professor at Yale, she told her mother after being interviewed by the all-male panel that she had no hope of being offered the post, and indeed, she expected to return to Amersham, where she would happily teach English at the local girls’ school where she had been educated. But to everyone’s surprise, other than that of the interviewing panel, she was offered the position, albeit at two-thirds of the salary of her male colleagues.