“I do believe, Sir Julian, you are enjoying yourself.”
“Certainly not, madam. I am simply carrying out my fiduciary duties on behalf of a client. No more.”
“And certainly no less.”
Sir Julian allowed himself a wry smile. He didn’t care much for Mrs. Faulkner, but he had to admit he always enjoyed her company. “I need to ask,” he continued, “how strongly you feel about the paintings being part of the final settlement?”
“I couldn’t feel more strongly about it,” she said. “In fact, it’s a deal breaker.”
“May I ask why, Mrs. Faulkner, when you’ve made it abundantly clear you have no particular interest in art?”
“The moment the decree absolute is granted, I’ll be putting them all up for auction. Miles won’t be able to resist buying them back, and I intend to make sure he doesn’t get them cheaply.”
Sir Julian avoided asking the obvious question, and simply said, “Then I shall insist the paintings at Limpton Hall are part of the settlement.”
“All seventy-three of them,” said Christina. “And you can tell Miles not to bother trying to foist me off with copies or fakes, because if he does, my next call will be to Commander Hawksby.”
Sir Julian suppressed a smile. “Do you have any other questions concerning the settlement, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“Just one. Did the other side agree to pay your fees?”
“They did.”
“Then I will be calling on you for advice fairly regularly, Sir Julian, and it may not always be about Miles. But it will always concern him.”
* * *
Jackie walked quickly across to the other side of the room when the phone on William’s desk began to ring.
“DC Roycroft.” The line went dead.
“Probably William’s old school chum,” said Lamont. “Unfortunately he’s unlikely to talk to anyone else.”
“What if he calls again?”
“We’ll have to hope Warwick’s back by then.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then you’ll have the unenviable task of deciding whether to interrupt his honeymoon.”
* * *
William stared up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel that, according to the guidebook, scholars considered had changed the history of Western art.
“How long did Michelangelo take to complete the fresco?” Beth asked.
“He worked on it tirelessly from 1508 to 1512,” replied William. “The poor man spent most of that time lying on his back on the top of a crudely constructed scaffold. By the time he’d finished he was virtually a cripple. It didn’t help that Pope Julius the Second never paid him on time.”
Beth was mesmerized by the sheer ambition of the project, and didn’t stop staring up at the ceiling until her neck began to ache.
“You could have used one of the large mirrors provided,” suggested William.
“I could also have bought a postcard. If Rome wasn’t littered with masterpieces, I’d visit the chapel every day until you had to drag me away!”
“Even though you’d have to join a long queue of fellow worshippers early each morning?”
“Michelangelo lay on his back for four years to achieve this unique masterpiece, so I’d be only too happy to queue for a couple of hours to pay homage to his memory.”
* * *
The phone on William’s desk was ringing again. If it hadn’t been the third time that morning, Lamont would have ignored it.
“Answer it,” he said in exasperation. “But don’t tell whoever it is that William’s still on his honeymoon.”
Jackie picked up the receiver and said, “DS Warwick’s not available at the moment.”
“I need to speak to him urgently.”
“Can I pass on a message?”
“Tell him Faulkner has placed his dinner order.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll call back in an hour’s time, when I’ll expect him to be on the other end of the line. I can’t believe he’s got anything more important to do than catching Faulkner in the act.”
“That won’t be possible,” said Jackie, but the line had already gone dead.
* * *
The phone began to ring just as William finished shaving. He grabbed the bathroom extension in the hope it hadn’t woken Beth.
“Good morning,” he said quietly.
“William, it’s Jackie. Your OSC has just called, to say that Faulkner’s placed his dinner order, whatever that means. He needs to talk to you about it urgently. Do you want me to give him your number when he next rings?”
“Yes, of course. Tell him to get in touch as soon as possible,” whispered William, before putting the phone down.
“Another woman?” said Beth sleepily when he returned to the bedroom.
“That’s never going to be your problem,” William said, as he sat down on the bed beside her and gently rested an ear on her stomach. “I can hear something.”
“A little boy?”
“No, it’s a little girl.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s grumbling.”
“About their father wanting to desert both of us and go home, rather than spend another day with the other man in my life.”
“So is that what you have planned for today?”
“Yes. I want to go back to the Sistine Chapel.”
“Fine by me. But we’ll have to queue.”
“I’ll queue and get the tickets, and you can join me there in a couple of hours’ time. That should give you enough time to take any messages from the office without me finding out who’s been calling you,” she said before disappearing into the bathroom.
* * *
“I’m delighted to report, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Sir Julian, “that the other side have accepted our latest terms unconditionally, so I can now draw up a final settlement.”
“Miles agreed that I could keep all of the paintings at Limpton Hall?” asked Christina, not sounding convinced.
“Without exception. They’ve even sent an inventory so you can check they’re all accounted for,” he said, handing her a two-page document.
Christina studied the list carefully, and long before she’d reached the Vermeer, she said, “They have to be copies.”
“I thought you might say that,” said Sir Julian, “so as you instructed, I warned Booth Watson that a specialist from Christie’s would have to authenticate every one of the works before we’d agree to sign a binding document.”
“What did he say?”
“No more than my client expected.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Christina. “Miles never rolls over that easily.” It was some time before she added, “He’s up to something.”
* * *
An hour passed, and Adrian hadn’t called. But then, he always felt the need to make a point. William continued to check his watch every few minutes, but the phone remained resolutely silent. He was trying to decide if he should skip the Sistine Chapel, and face Beth’s wrath, or go and join her and live happily ever after. He was just putting on his jacket when the phone rang. He picked it up before the second ring. “William Warwick.”
“You wanted to know what would be on the menu for Saturday’s dinner party at Limpton Hall.” William didn’t interrupt. “For starters, top-shelf cannabis, nothing but the best, followed by the finest wraps of ninety-six percent pure Colombian cocaine for the main course.” He paused. “I think you owe me another two hundred.”
“You’ll be paid in full,” said William, “but only after you’ve delivered the goods.”
“I’ll be traveling down to Limpton Hall at seven o’clock on Saturday. I could report back to you around eight and collect my money.”
Not from me, thought William, but satisfied himself with, “Would you be willing to testify in court that you’d sold the drugs to Faulkner?”
“Possibly. But we’ll need to discuss terms, because if I agree to do that, I’ll never be ab
le to work in England again. Everything comes at a price.” He didn’t bother to say good-bye.
After making a hurried phone call to brief Superintendent Lamont, William headed quickly for the door. He was confident he could still make it in time, even if he might find it hard to concentrate on The Creation of Adam, rather than the downfall of Miles.
* * *
“William’s just called from Rome,” said Lamont. “He briefed me on the conversation he had with his OSC, and I’m recommending we go ahead with a full-scale operation on Saturday night. Just a pity William will miss out on the raid.”
“I’d ask him to cut short his honeymoon,” said the Hawk, “if I didn’t think Beth would kill him first, and then come looking for me. Take me through your plan, Bruce, so I can brief the commissioner.”
“I’ve already obtained a search warrant for Limpton Hall…”
* * *
“Perhaps you should fly home a couple of days early?” suggested Beth as they walked back into the hotel.
“Certainly not,” said William. “I’m only going to have one honeymoon in my life, and I don’t intend to spend a single day of it with Miles Faulkner.”
“But you might not get another opportunity like this, and you’ve somehow managed to survive ten days with the phone only ringing once.” William didn’t respond. “Why do I get the distinct impression that you’d rather be spending Saturday night at Limpton Hall with Faulkner, than eating another spaghetti in the Campo de’ Fiori with me?”
“Certainly not,” repeated William, but not with quite the same ringing conviction.
“It may come as a shock to you, Detective Sergeant Warwick, that after Faulkner’s pathetic attempt to stop us getting married, I wouldn’t be unhappy to see him behind bars.”
“Despite the fact you’re still hoping to get some other pieces from his collection once the divorce has been settled.”
“Only one painting in particular,” admitted Beth. “I confess it would enhance the gallery’s collection, but I won’t believe it until I see it hanging on the museum’s wall.”
“What have you been up to behind my back?”
“My new best friend, Christina Faulkner, has promised the Fitzmolean first choice of any of the seventy-three paintings in Limpton Hall once her divorce has been settled. I’ve got my eye on a small but exquisite Vermeer, The White Lace Collar, which would grace the south entrance of the museum.”
“What makes you think she’s any more likely than her husband to keep her word?”
“Because your father is her lawyer and Clare has drawn up the agreement, so we’re all on the same team now.”
William stopped at the concierge’s desk.
“Si, signor, how can I help?”
“I need to catch the first available flight back to London.”
* * *
Once the flight attendant had opened the plane door, William shot through the gap like a greyhound out of the slips. He didn’t stop running until he reached a row of public phones.
“Where are you?” asked Lamont.
“Gatwick. Should be with you in about an hour.”
“How does Beth feel about that?”
“It was her idea. In any case, there’s a gentleman with a back problem whose work she wants to visit one more time.”
“Then ask her to fall on her knees and pray, because we may need the intervention of the Almighty to pull this one off. Meanwhile, get back here as quickly as you can.”
William went straight to the front of the queue at passport control and produced his warrant card. An officer checked his passport and he was ushered quickly through. Thanks to Beth having agreed to take care of his luggage, he was able to skip the baggage hall and head straight for the Gatwick Express. When the train pulled into Victoria station thirty minutes later, he was the first to hand his ticket to the collector at the barrier, before running all the way to Scotland Yard. Once the automatic doors had opened, he ignored the lifts, bounded up the stairs to the fourth floor, and headed straight for the commander’s office.
As he ran along the corridor, William noticed the odd looks he was getting from his fellow officers as he passed them, and realized he was still wearing an open-neck floral shirt, jeans, and slip-on sandals. But they weren’t to know that only hours before, he’d been strolling around Rome enjoying temperatures in the nineties. He knocked on the commander’s door and waited for a moment to catch his breath before he walked in. The team rose as one when he entered the room, and began to bang the palms of their hands on the table.
“Take a seat,” said the Hawk after the clamor had died down. “Thanks to you, the assistant commissioner has green-lit the operation, and authorized a full-scale raid on Faulkner’s home tomorrow evening. I know exactly the role I have in mind for you, DS Warwick, but arresting someone wouldn’t be appropriate dressed in that outfit, even in Italy.”
12
William sat in the back of a taxi, and waited for the super to join him.
The final briefing in the commander’s office had lasted for over three hours, and only broke up after every detail had been thrashed out for a third time.
Over lunch at a corner table in the canteen, Lamont continued to double-check the plan for any flaws while his soup went cold. William was aware that his boss couldn’t afford to be involved in another Operation Blue Period. Not how he hoped to end his days at the Yard.
Just after five o’clock, Lamont joined William in the cab. Danny Ives, waiting behind the wheel, didn’t need to be told where to go. He’d done a dry run the day before, and even selected the dropping-off point. DC Adaja, DC Roycroft, and a photographer were in a second taxi, waiting for Danny to move off.
The two cabs left the Yard and headed west toward the M4. Five miles from Limpton Hall, Danny pulled into a petrol station. He hadn’t run out of petrol, he was far too professional for that. But the advance party needed the sun to go even farther west before they set out on the final part of the journey.
Jackie got out and stretched her legs, while William bought a Kit Kat from the shop, not because he was hungry, just to kill time. He had paced around the perimeter of the petrol station several times before Lamont finally said, “Let’s get going.”
William had never felt so nervous. He knew that everything now depended on the credibility of his contact. If Heath didn’t turn up, the whole operation would be aborted and they would have to return to Scotland Yard and face the wrath of the Hawk, who would be sitting waiting for them. William was all too aware that there would only be one person to blame. The word “detective” would be erased from his warrant card and the mothball removed from his uniform.
After a short drive along the motorway, Danny turned down a country lane, and a mile or so farther on the two cabs swung off the road and parked in a copse, from which they had a clear view of the house. Lamont was quickly out of the lead car, and immediately trained his binoculars on the front gates.
“Perfect, Danny,” he said. “We can see them, but they can’t see us.”
A photographer got out of the second car and climbed up into the branches of a nearby oak tree. He only needed a clear view of the road, and would have nothing to show them until they met up in the commander’s office the following morning for the debriefing. No one else was thinking about tomorrow.
Lamont turned his attention to a farmyard on the other side of the road. Officers in four squad cars and two large black windowless vans were well hidden behind the barn, awaiting their orders.
“How did you manage that?” asked William.
“The farmer sits on the bench, and he hasn’t, how shall I put it, formed a high opinion of Faulkner over the years. He was only too happy to help.”
Jackie joined Lamont, a radio in her hand. “The taxis have all arrived at the local railway station, and are parked and ready, in case any of Faulkner’s guests should arrive by rail.”
“Unlikely,” said Lamont. “Criminals rarely travel by train. They don’t
want to be in a situation where they can find themselves trapped. They like to be able to make themselves scarce at a moment’s notice, which is difficult on a moving train.”
“What about the commander?” asked William.
“He’ll be behind his desk waiting impatiently for any news. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince him he shouldn’t join us.”
“Winston Churchill had the same problem with King George the Sixth on D-Day,” said William.
“That’s a comfort to know,” said Lamont, his dry Scottish humor getting the better of him. They returned to the car. Only Danny seemed to be relaxed.
“So in theory, DS Warwick, the next car to come over that hill will be driven by your OSC, who’ll be on his way to deliver the gear to Faulkner. Should he fail to make an appearance,” Lamont added, his tone changing, “the Hawk’s orders couldn’t have been clearer. Abort. We’re not going to raid Faulkner’s house unless we can be sure the evidence we need to convict him has been delivered.”
“No pressure,” whispered Jackie as William checked his watch: 18:47.
No one spoke as they all stared intently in one direction, willing a car to appear. Heath might have been casual about his meetings with William, but surely he’d be on time for an important customer like Faulkner. Several more minutes passed before William breathed a sigh of relief, when he spotted a red MGB heading toward them. The binoculars confirmed that it was Heath at the wheel. He drove past them a few minutes after seven.
Lamont followed the car’s progress all the way to the front gates, where it came to a halt. A guard stepped out of the gatehouse, clipboard in hand. He spent a few moments talking to Heath before the gates swung open and the MGB proceeded up the long drive before disappearing from view.
Lamont picked up his radio and pressed the red button. “OSC has arrived and entered the grounds.”
Hidden in Plain Sight Page 9