William laughed, and was about to ask another question, when Fred glanced across the road and said, ‘Silly old moo. But I don’t suppose she knows any better.’
William suspected that another piece of homespun philosophy was about to be dispensed, although he couldn’t see what Fred was going on about.
‘Number twenty-three,’ said Fred. ‘Mrs Perkins.’
‘Burgled a couple of weeks ago,’ said William. ‘A TV and a VCR, if I remember correctly.’
‘Five out of ten,’ said Fred. ‘Now earn the other five.’
William stared at No. 23 but was none the wiser.
‘What do you see, Choirboy?’
‘Two empty cardboard boxes.’
‘And what does that tell you?
William tried to think like a thief catcher, an accolade only given to those who, like Fred, could smell a crime even before it took place.
Fred let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Mrs Perkins’s insurance company must have paid up, so she’s now the proud owner of a new television and VCR. But what she doesn’t know is that a burglar often returns to the scene of the crime a few weeks later, well aware there will probably be a brand-new TV set for them to steal. And in her case, she’s actually advertising the fact. All the villain has to do is wait until she goes out one evening to visit her friend Mrs Cassidy at number ninety-one, then pop back in and rob her a second time.’
‘So what should we do?’ asked William.
‘Have a quiet word with her, and suggest she destroys the evidence,’ said Fred as he knocked on the door of No. 23. Mrs Perkins answered almost immediately, and once Fred had explained why two policemen were standing on her doorstep, she hastily removed the boxes, thanked him, and offered them a cup of tea.
‘That’s good of you, Mrs Perkins, but I’d better get on.’ He touched the rim of his helmet before they continued on their round.
‘When do you start your new job?’ Fred asked after they’d walked a few more yards.
‘I’m taking a couple of weeks’ holiday in Italy before reporting to Scotland Yard on the first of October.’
‘Lots of pretty girls in Italy, I’m told.’
‘Most of them framed.’
‘Framed?’
‘In gold.’
Fred laughed. ‘I’ve never been to Italy, or even Scotland Yard for that matter, but I’m told they’ve got the finest snooker room in the Met.’
‘I’ll come back and tell you what it’s like . . .’
‘You’ll never come back, Choirboy. Lambeth has just been the first rung on what I expect will be a very long ladder. But be warned, on your way up you’ll come across plenty of snakes who’ll be only too happy to send you back down a ladder, and some of them will be wearing blue uniforms,’ he said, rattling a shop door to make sure it was locked.
William chuckled. Never a shift went by when he didn’t learn something from Fred.
‘Evenin’, Jacob.’
‘Hello, Fred.’
William looked down at a man who was sitting cross-legged on the pavement, nursing a half-empty bottle of whisky. When he was first on the beat, Fred had taught him that there were four types of drunks: the sleepers, who fall into a drunken stupor, and when they eventually wake up, go home; the harmless, who are usually drowning their sorrows and are rarely any trouble; the lovers, who want to take you home and try on your uniform; and the aggressive ones, who are looking for a fight and consider a policeman fair game. Fred could identify each category at a dozen paces, especially those looking for a fight, who regularly ended up spending the night in a cell, and were often a completely different person the following morning. William had come across all four types over the past couple of years, and thanks to Fred’s common sense and strong right arm, he only had one or two bruises to show for it.
‘Which category?’ asked William.
‘Drowning his sorrows. Spurs must have lost this afternoon.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Jacob’s as good as gold when they win, but if they lose, he’s a lost cause.’
They turned into Luscombe Road to see a few locals making their way home from the Marlborough Arms.
‘Disappointing,’ said Fred. ‘Luscombe Road isn’t what it used to be since the council cleaned it up. I was hoping we might come across a drug dealer, or even Lenny the Snitch, so you’d have something to remember from your last night on the beat.’
‘We could always arrest her,’ said William, pointing to a girl in a short black leather skirt who was chatting to a man through an open car window.
‘What’s the point? She’ll only spend the night in a cell, pay a fine in the morning, and be back on the game tomorrow evening. It’s not the girls I’d like to nick, but the pimps who live off them. And one in particular,’ Fred added.
The car sped away when the driver spotted two policemen in his rear-view mirror. They ambled on towards the town centre, Fred regaling William with stories, some of which he’d heard before but were worth a second outing, and others that he wasn’t sure hadn’t been embellished with the passing of the years.
William was going to ask Fred about his retirement plans when his mentor grabbed his arm and pulled him into the nearest doorway, suddenly no longer the friendly neighbourhood bobby but transformed into a policeman who’d spotted a real criminal.
‘It’s our lucky night,’ said Fred, nodding in the direction of a giant of a man clutching a terrified girl by the neck. ‘I’ve been after that bastard for years. Don’t bother reading him his rights. That can wait until he’s banged up in a cell.’
Fred drew his truncheon, leapt out from the shadows, and began running towards the assailant, causing several other girls to scatter like pigeons in every direction the moment they saw him. William followed and quickly overtook the old timer, who was not only thirty years older, but hadn’t won the 100 yards in his last year at school.
The thug looked round and, seeing William heading towards him, let go of the girl, who fell on her knees, whimpering. That was when William saw the knife, but he was only a couple of strides away and committed to the tackle. He dived low, hitting the man just below the knees, causing them both to crash onto the pavement. By the time William had recovered, the man was already back on his feet. William instinctively raised an arm to protect himself as the knife was thrust down. The last thing he remembered was the shock of the blade entering his chest.
‘Officer down, officer down! Urgent assistance required in Luscombe Road!’ shouted Fred over his radio, as he leapt on the assailant.
His eyes opened. He blinked and looked around the unfamiliar room. His parents and sister were standing by the side of the bed, and a senior officer he didn’t recognize was stationed by the door. Three pips on each epaulette indicated that he was a chief inspector.
William gave his family a weak smile as he tried to sit up, but he could only manage a few inches, suddenly aware that his chest was heavily bandaged. He slumped back down.
‘How’s Fred?’ were his first faltering words.
None of them seemed willing to answer the question. Finally the police officer stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Chief Inspector Cuthbert, and I’m sorry about this Constable Warwick, but I have to ask you some questions about what happened on Saturday night, because as you well know, we can’t hold a suspect for more than twenty-four hours unless we have enough evidence to charge them.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said William, once again trying to sit up.
The chief inspector opened a large brown envelope and extracted several black-and-white photos of different men, one of whom William would never forget.
‘Is that the man you attempted to arrest on Saturday night?’ asked Cuthbert.
William nodded. ‘But why do you need to ask me, when Fred could identify him in person?’
Chief Inspector Cuthbert remained silent as he placed the photographs back in the envelope.
The parish church of St Michael and St George was rarel
y full, even for the mayor’s annual carol concert, but on this occasion the pews were packed long before the choir had entered the nave. PC Fred Yates QGM had been granted a full police service funeral, while a uniformed guard of honour lined the approach to the church.
The funeral cortege was escorted by mounted officers, and Fred’s coffin was draped in the blue and silver colours of the Metropolitan Police, along with the Queen’s Gallantry Medal and a silver trophy resting on top. Inside the church, senior officers were seated at the front, while those who couldn’t find a seat had to be satisfied with standing at the back. William, seated in a wheelchair, was pushed down the aisle by his father, and the congregation rose to acknowledge him. A church warden guided them to reserved places in the front row.
He who would valiant be . . .
William held up well, until the coffin, borne on the shoulders of eight serving officers, made its slow progress down the aisle towards the chancel, when he was unable to hold back the tears. The parish priest looked down from the altar steps and offered prayers for the locals from Fred’s patch, many of whom rarely, if ever, attended a church service. They had come to pay their respects, even though some of them didn’t know Fred’s second name. William looked around and spotted Mrs Perkins among the mourners.
To be a pilgrim . . .
When the congregation knelt to pray, William bowed his head and recalled Fred’s words: ‘I like to kid myself that I’ve made a difference.’ He only wished that Fred could have been there to witness what a difference he’d made.
The hymns were sung lustily by Fred’s colleagues and friends, which William knew Fred would have appreciated, although he would have described the eulogy delivered by the station’s chief superintendent as way over the top. William could hear Fred chuckling away when the super talked about his commendations. ‘What about my suspensions?’ he could hear him saying.
After the priest had given the final blessing, the congregation stood and the pall-bearers resumed their duties, bearing the coffin back down the aisle and out of the church to the burial plot. William tried to stand as it passed by, but he couldn’t quite manage it until the desk sergeant and the super came to his aid.
When they got home that night, his father suggested that it wouldn’t be a disgrace if William felt he had to leave the force. He was sure his colleagues would understand. ‘You could go to night school, study law, and then join me in chambers, where you could still fight criminals, but in the safety of a courtroom by day, rather than on the streets at night.’
William knew his father was right. But it was Fred who had the last word.
We may have come from opposite sides of the tracks, Choirboy, but we do have one thing in common – we’re both a bit bonkers, but at least we’re doing the job we were destined for.
6
COMMANDER HAWKSBY SAT at the head of the table, as befitted the chairman of the board. The other three directors waited for him to open the meeting.
‘I would like to begin by welcoming a new recruit to our team. Although DC Warwick doesn’t have a great deal of experience as a detective –’ that’s putting it mildly, thought William – ‘he has considerable expertise in the field of art, which was his chosen subject at university. In fact he turned down the chance to do a PhD so he could join the Met. So I’m rather hoping that his specialized knowledge will make a difference when it comes to finally nailing Miles Faulkner. Bruce,’ he said, turning to the senior officer on the case, ‘perhaps you can bring us up to date.’
Detective Chief Inspector Lamont had several files in front of him, but he didn’t need to open any of them as most of the contents were indelibly lodged in his mind. He looked directly at Detective Constable Warwick, as he didn’t have anything new to tell his two colleagues.
‘For the past seven years we’ve been trying to catch a thief who by any standards is a master criminal, and to date he’s been running rings around us. Miles Faulkner has developed an almost infallible system that allows him to steal major works of art and make a fortune without appearing to break the law.’ Several questions had already occurred to William, but he decided not to interrupt his new boss.
‘First, you’ll need to realize, Bill—’
‘William, sir.’
Lamont frowned. ‘You’ll need to realize that if you’ve ever seen the film The Thomas Crown Affair, you should dismiss it for what it is. Pure fiction. Entertaining, I accept, but nevertheless, fiction. Miles Faulkner is no Steve McQueen. He doesn’t steal masterpieces for the sheer pleasure of it and then hide them in his basement where he alone can spend hours admiring them. That’s for filmgoers who want to enjoy a couple of hours imagining what it would be like to fool our colleagues in Boston, while sleeping with a beautiful woman who just happens to be the insurance broker working on the case. Although that’s the one person in the film who does bear some similarity to the real world: the insurance broker – except in our case he’s more likely to be a middle-aged, middle-management pen pusher who goes home at six every evening to his wife and two children. And more important, he won’t be in Faulkner’s league.’
‘Still with us, Warwick?’ asked Hawksby.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you’ll be able to tell us what DCI Lamont is going to say next.’
‘That Faulkner steals valuable pictures from galleries or collectors with the intention of making a deal with the relevant insurance company, which is willing to settle for considerably less than the sum insured.’
‘Usually about half,’ said Lamont. ‘But Faulkner still ends up making a handsome profit.’
‘Clever as he may be,’ said William, ‘he can’t be carrying out such a complex operation on his own.’
‘No, he isn’t. He has a small, highly professional team working alongside him, but whenever we’ve caught any of his associates, they’ve kept their mouths firmly shut.’
‘On one occasion,’ said Detective Sergeant Roycroft, ‘we even caught two of the thieves red-handed. But Faulkner was in Monte Carlo at the time of the robbery, sleeping peacefully in bed with a wife to confirm his alibi.’
‘And do we think his wife is also one of his most trusted associates?’ asked William.
‘She’s covered for him several times in the past,’ said Hawksby, ‘but we’ve recently discovered that Faulkner has a mistress.’
‘That’s not yet a crime,’ said William.
‘True. But if she were to find out . . .’
‘Weren’t you able to turn either of the gang you arrested, and make a plea bargain?’ was William’s next question.
‘Not a chance,’ said Lamont. ‘Faulkner had an unsigned contract with both of them, with no get-out clause.’
‘They were both sentenced to six years,’ said Hawksby, picking up the thread, ‘and their families on the outside were well looked after, although we’ve never been able to connect the crime to Faulkner. A third villain, who was involved in the Fitzmolean break-in, had his lips sewn together just to remind him what would happen if he decided to turn Queen’s evidence.’
‘But if Faulkner is the fence . . .’
‘Faulkner, according to his tax return,’ said Lamont, ‘is a farmer. He lives in a nine-bedroom mansion in Hampshire surrounded by three hundred acres on which a few cows graze, but never go to market.’
‘But presumably someone has to carry out the negotiations with the insurance companies?’
‘Faulkner leaves that to another of his acolytes,’ said Lamont. ‘Mr Booth Watson QC. A barrister who always acts on behalf of an unnamed client. However hard we press him, he simply reminds us about lawyer–client confidentiality.’
‘But if Booth Watson knows he’s dealing directly with a criminal, isn’t it his professional responsibility to report—’
‘We aren’t dealing with your father in this case, Warwick,’ said Hawksby, ‘but a man who has twice appeared before the Bar Council for conduct unworthy of his profession. On both occasions, he narrowly escaped be
ing disbarred.’
‘But he still practises,’ said William.
‘Yes, but he rarely appears in court nowadays,’ said Hawksby, ‘having discovered a way of charging exorbitant fees without ever having to leave his chambers. Whenever a major work of art is stolen, it’s no coincidence that the first call the insurance company makes is to Mr Booth Watson, who they ask to act as an intermediary. Surprise, surprise, the picture reappears a few days later in perfect condition, and the insurance company settles, often without even bothering to inform us.’
‘I find it hard to believe,’ said William, ‘that Faulkner’s enjoyed a seamless record of success. This sounds as much like the stuff of fiction as The Thomas Crown Affair.’
‘Quite right,’ said Hawksby. ‘At least one of the more established insurance companies has refused to pay the piper, and if the gallery concerned doesn’t have the resources to offer a reward, then Faulkner can find himself stuck with the picture.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said William, ‘the Rembrandt stolen from the Fitzmolean could still be out there.’
‘Unless Faulkner has destroyed it, to make sure the theft can never be traced back to him.’
‘Surely no one would destroy a Rembrandt?’
‘I’d wait until you meet the man before you jump to that conclusion. We’re not dealing with an art lover here, but someone who would shop his own mother, if it meant he would get off.’
‘What else do we know about Faulkner?’ asked William, chastened.
This time it was DS Roycroft who opened a file. ‘Born in Sevenoaks in 1942, the only child of an estate agent and a hairdresser. Although that isn’t what he tells his friends at the golf club. Awarded an open scholarship to Harrow at the age of eleven, and in his final year he won the school’s art prize. After leaving Harrow, he took up a place at the Slade School of Art, but soon realized that although he was one of the brightest students of his year, he was, to quote the principal’s graduation report, never going to make a living as an artist. They recommended that he consider a career in teaching. He ignored their advice.’
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