Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  William could see that Jackie was struggling to control her emotions.

  ‘There’s no one else to blame,’ she repeated, looking directly at Hawksby.

  The commander closed his file, and William assumed he would move on, but then he said, ‘Why didn’t you follow the basic rule every copper learns on their first day on the beat? Accept nothing, believe no one and challenge everything.’ William would always remember the person who’d first told him that. ‘Perhaps your recent promotion was a step too far, DS Roycroft,’ Hawksby continued. ‘A few weeks on traffic duty might not do you any harm.’ At least she’d got that right.

  A long silence followed, which was finally broken when Lamont said, ‘I understand your fishing trip to Italy couldn’t have gone better, sir.’

  ‘Except as the commissioner pointed out that when Carter is eventually arrested, it will be the Italian police, and not the Met, who end up getting the credit for an operation we masterminded.’

  ‘But if we were to find the missing Rembrandt, and return it to the Fitzmolean—’ said William, trying to rescue his colleagues.

  ‘Let’s hope that’s not another false alarm,’ said Hawksby. ‘Are you still having lunch with Mrs Faulkner today?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll report back to DCI Lamont as soon as I return this afternoon.’

  ‘Is Mike Harrison going with you?’ asked the commander, sounding a little calmer.

  ‘No, sir. She has an appointment with him in his office at four o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘That woman’s up to something,’ said Lamont. ‘We should assume she’s every bit as devious as her husband, and quite capable of dangling the bait of a Rembrandt in front of us, especially if she knows William’s girlfriend works at the Fitzmolean.’

  ‘How could she possibly know that?’ said William.

  ‘Try to think like a criminal, for a change,’ barked Lamont.

  ‘I agree,’ said Hawksby. ‘And if it turns out that she’s taking you for a ride too, it won’t only be DS Roycroft who’s on traffic duty. Now, let’s all get back to work, and I don’t want to see any of you unless you’ve got something positive to report.’

  Back in the office the atmosphere felt like a prison cell, while the condemned woman waited for the priest to come and read her the Last Rites.

  William was relieved to escape just after 12.30 for his lunch with Mrs Faulkner.

  He walked briskly across the park and into St James’s, arriving well in time for his lunch date. As he entered the Ritz, a liveried doorman saluted as if he were a regular. William had to stop at the reception desk and ask where the dining room was.

  ‘Far end of the corridor, sir. You can’t miss it.’

  He strolled down the thick carpeted corridor, past little alcoves filled with people chattering away while ordering exotic cocktails. He had to agree with F. Scott Fitzgerald, the rich are different.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the maître d’ when he reached the entrance to the restaurant. ‘Do you have a reservation?’

  ‘I’m a guest of Mrs Faulkner.’

  The maître d’ checked his list. ‘Madam hasn’t arrived yet, but allow me to take you to her table.’

  William followed him across the large, ornately decorated dining room to a window table overlooking Green Park. While he waited, he took a discreet look at the other diners. The first thing that struck him was that it could have been a gathering of the United Nations.

  He rose the moment he saw Mrs Faulkner enter the room. She was wearing an elegant green dress that fell just below the knee with a matching scarf and carrying a tan leather handbag Beth would have coveted. She sailed across the room, leaving William in no doubt that, unlike his, this wasn’t her first visit to the Ritz. Despite the Hawk’s warning, even he couldn’t have denied her style and class.

  While one waiter held back her chair, another one approached.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’

  ‘Just a glass of champagne, while I decide what I’m going to eat.’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ he said before melting away.

  ‘I’m so glad you were able to join me for lunch, William,’ she said as the waiter reappeared and poured her a glass of champagne. ‘I was afraid you might cancel at the last minute.’

  ‘Why would I do that, Mrs Faulkner?’

  ‘Christina, please. Because Commander Hawksby might have felt it was inappropriate, considering how much is at stake.’

  ‘You know the commander?’ asked a surprised William.

  ‘I only know my husband’s opinion of him, which is why I want him in my corner,’ she said as the head waiter handed them both a menu.

  ‘I’ll just have the smoked salmon, Charles,’ she said, not even bothering to open the menu. ‘And perhaps another glass of champagne.’

  ‘Yes, of course, madam.’

  William studied the rows of dishes that gave no hint of their price.

  ‘And for you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll just have fish and chips, Charles.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘And a half pint of bitter.’

  Christina stifled a laugh.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t Mike Harrison you should be having this lunch with?’ asked William once the waiter had left them.

  ‘Quite sure. If anything were to go wrong, I need to know the cavalry are on my side, not just a former foot soldier.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should have asked Commander Hawksby to lunch.’

  ‘If I had,’ said Christina, ‘Miles would have known about it before they’d served coffee, and then I would have had no chance of pulling off my little coup.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘If Miles is told I was seen having lunch with a good-looking young man, he’ll assume we’re having an affair, because that’s how his mind works. And as long as you can convince your boss I’m not Mata Hari, there’s a good chance the Fitzmolean will get their Rembrandt back, and I don’t mean a copy.’

  William wanted to believe her, but Lamont’s words, that woman’s up to something, lingered in his mind. ‘And what would you expect in return?’ he asked.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, my husband flew off to Monte Carlo last week with his latest tart, and I’ll be instructing Mr Harrison to gather enough evidence to initiate divorce proceedings.’

  So Jackie saw that coming, thought William.

  ‘I also need to know where he is night and day during the next month.’

  ‘Why is that so important?’ asked William, as a plate of wafer-thin smoked salmon was placed in front of her, while he was served with cod and chips, not in a newspaper.

  ‘I’ll come to that in a moment,’ said Christina, as another waiter refilled her glass with champagne, and poured half a pint of bitter into a crystal tumbler for her guest.

  ‘But first I have to let you know what I have in mind for Miles, whom I assume you despise as much as I do.’

  William tried to concentrate, knowing that the commander would expect a verbatim account of what Mrs Faulkner had said from the moment she’d arrived to the moment she left.

  ‘Do you know the great Shakespearean actor Dominic Kingston?’

  ‘I saw his Lear at the National last year,’ said William. ‘Quite magnificent.’

  ‘Not as magnificent as his wife’s recent performance.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was an actress.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ said Christina, ‘but she does give the occasional performance that brings the house down.’ William stopped eating. ‘It turns out that Mrs Kingston knew her husband’s theatrical routine whenever he was performing, down to the last minute, and took advantage of it. I intend to do the same. When Kingston was playing Lear at the National, he followed a routine that never varied. He would leave his home in Notting Hill around five in the afternoon, and be in his dressing room at the theatre by six, giving him more than enough time to transform himself into the ageing king before the curtain rose at 7.3
0.

  ‘The first half of the show ran for just over an hour, and the curtain came down on the second half around 10.20. After taking his bow, Kingston would return to his dressing room, remove his make-up, shower and change before being driven back home to Notting Hill, where he was dropped off around 11.30. So, from the moment he left the house, to the moment he got back home was over six hours. More than enough time.’

  ‘More than enough time for what?’ asked William.

  ‘One Thursday evening, just after six,’ continued Christina, ‘three removal vans turned up outside Mr Kingston’s home and left five hours later, by which time every stick of furniture and, more importantly, his celebrated art collection, had been removed. So when Mr Kingston arrived home at 11.30, he found the cupboard was literally bare.’

  ‘Would you care for another drink, sir?’ asked the wine waiter.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said William, not wanting her to stop.

  ‘I’m grateful to Mr Kingston,’ continued Christina, ‘because I intend to create even more devastation for Miles, and, more importantly, I’ll have seven days, not seven hours, in which to carry out my little subterfuge.’

  ‘Why do you need seven days?’ asked William.

  ‘Because like Mrs Kingston, I know exactly what he has planned for the next month. On December 23rd, he intends to dump the tart and give her a one-way ticket back to Stansted, before he flies on to Melbourne to spend Christmas with some of his more dubious friends. On December 26th, he’ll be sitting in a box watching the opening day of the second Test match, so the earliest he could possibly return to Monte Carlo or England is December 31st. While he’s engrossed in a cricket match on the other side of the world, I’ll be packing up all of his most valuable paintings in Monte Carlo and shipping them to Southampton. I’ll then return to England and carry out the same exercise at Limpton Hall. By the time he gets home, his treasured art collection will consist of just one picture: the copy of the Rembrandt.’

  The head waiter whisked away their plates while the wine waiter poured Mrs Faulkner another glass of champagne.

  ‘But what about Makins? He won’t just sit back and watch while you pack up all your husband’s paintings.’

  ‘Makins is spending Christmas with his daughter and son-in-law in the Lake District, and won’t be returning until January 2nd, by which time I’ll be in New York, removing the paintings from our apartment on Fifth Avenue. A couple of Rothkos, a Warhol and a magnificent Rauschenberg among them.’

  ‘But he’ll come after you.’

  ‘I don’t think so, because my final destination will be a country where he is persona non grata, and would be arrested even before he reached passport control. I must admit, I had several to choose from.’

  ‘You do realize that everything you’ve just told me will be repeated word for word to Commander Hawksby?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d say that.’ She touched William’s hand gently, before adding, ‘I don’t know about you, darling, but I’m ready to look at the dessert menu.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any chance that she might be on the level?’ asked Lamont after William had delivered a blow-by-blow account of his lunch with Mrs Faulkner.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Hawksby, ‘although I wouldn’t bet on it. But as long as Mike Harrison’s down under keeping an eye on Faulkner, there’s not a lot we can do about it until she invites William to join her in Monte Carlo.’

  ‘What makes you think she’ll do that?’ asked William.

  ‘Because the Rembrandt’s too hot for her to handle, and she also realizes it’s her one chance of keeping us on side. My bet is she won’t be in touch with you again for at least a couple of weeks, by which time Carter should have been arrested and the memory of that disastrous night in Surrey might just have faded a little.’

  The phone on the commander’s desk rang. ‘Commander Hawksby.’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. It’s Lieutenant Monti. I thought I’d give you a call and bring you up to date on what’s been happening at our end.’

  ‘I appreciate that, lieutenant,’ said Hawksby, switching on the intercom so William could hear the conversation.

  ‘As you know, Carter has submitted a claim to the Italian Naval Office for fifty per cent of the value of the cob coins, which he’s telling the press are worth around seven hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘Which would be a fair price if they had originated from Madrid around 1649, rather than Barnstaple in 1985.’

  ‘A specimen coin has been sent to the Museum of Ancient Artefacts in Florence to be examined by their professor of numismatics. I expect to have his report on my desk in a few days’ time.’

  ‘He’s certain to dismiss the coin as bogus,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘Bogus?’

  ‘Not the real thing.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ said Monti. ‘And the moment he does, all I will need is an extradition order so you can arrest Carter and Grant when they set foot back in England.’

  ‘What are those two up to at the moment?’

  ‘They’re staying at the Albergo Del Senato hotel, waiting to hear the expert’s opinion.’

  ‘That’ll cost them an arm and a leg,’ said Hawksby.

  ‘How appropriate,’ added William.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Monti.

  ‘In the sixteenth century, Italian portrait painters would paint your head and shoulders for an agreed set sum, but if you wanted a full-length portrait, it would cost you an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Monti.

  Hawksby didn’t look fascinated. ‘Call me the moment the professor’s report lands on your desk.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, lieutenant.’

  ‘Actually, sir, when I next call, I may well be a captain.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Hawksby. ‘You’ve certainly earned it.’

  William returned to his office and stared at the pile of case files on his desk that never seemed to diminish. A tough week ahead, but at least a quiet weekend to look forward to. Just a doctor’s appointment for his annual check-up on Saturday, and lunch with his parents on Sunday. Beth had promised to be back from visiting her sick friend in time for them to go to the cinema that evening, but he was disappointed that she still hadn’t met his family, because he felt he couldn’t propose to her before she did. ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ he could hear his father saying.

  23

  WILLIAM ARRIVED A few minutes early for his appointment at 31A Wimpole Street, and pressed the bell marked Dr Ashton. He felt confident he would tick every box. After all, he ran two or three times a week, played squash regularly, and his new mantra of walking five miles a day had usually been achieved by the time he’d walked back to Fulham in the evening.

  ‘All you’ll have to do, laddie,’ Lamont had told him, ‘is touch your toes, do twenty press-ups and cough when he grabs your balls, and you’ll be clear for another year.’

  A buzzer sounded. William pushed the door open, walked up to the second floor and gave the receptionist his name.

  ‘The doctor is with another patient at the moment, Mr Warwick, but he’ll see you shortly. Please take a seat.’

  William sat down in an ancient leather chair and examined the limited choice of reading material neatly laid out on the coffee table. Out-of-date copies of Punch and Country Life seemed to be obligatory in every doctor’s waiting room. The only other periodical on offer was a large selection of the Metropolitan Police’s fortnightly newspaper, The Job.

  After he’d exhausted the wit and wisdom of Mr Punch and admired the photos of several country houses he would never be able to afford, William gave in and turned to copies of the Met’s frayed newspapers. He flicked through several editions, only stopping when he came across a photograph of Fred Yates on an old cover. Turning to the editorial, the heroism of the mentor constable who’d saved his life stretched to four pages; William offered up another silent prayer in Fred’s memory. H
e was just about to put the copy back on the table when the front page headline from an earlier issue caused him to catch his breath: ‘RAINSFORD SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDERING BUSINESS PARTNER. Two Met officers praised for their handling of the case.’

  ‘The doctor will see you now, Detective Constable Warwick,’ said the receptionist, before he’d had a chance to finish the article.

  As predicted by Lamont, the examination was fairly cursory, although Dr Ashton did check William’s resting heart rate a second time, as he thought it was quite high for a man of his age.

  After a page of little boxes had been filled in with ticks, William was given a clean bill of health. ‘See you next year,’ said Ashton.

  ‘Thank you,’ said William as he zipped up his trousers.

  Back in the waiting room, he picked up the Met newspaper and continued to read the article. If the murderer had been named Smith or Brown, he wouldn’t have given the coincidence a second thought, but Rainsford was not a common name. He dropped the newspaper back on the table and tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. But he couldn’t.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said. The receptionist looked offended. ‘Sorry,’ said William. ‘Me, not you.’ But as he made his way towards the tube station, he couldn’t remove the possibility from his mind, and he knew the one person who could dismiss his fears.

  William got off the tube at St James’s Park and crossed the road as if it was a normal work day. He went straight to his desk and looked up the number. He was well aware that he shouldn’t be making a personal call from the office, but he had no choice.

  ‘SO Rose,’ said a voice.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said William. ‘It’s DC Warwick calling from Scotland Yard. You might not remember me. I—’

  ‘How could I forget you, constable. The sad man who supports Fulham. What can I do for you this time?’