The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘“And what could you possibly have to offer, Jackson?” the Sergeant asked incredulously.

  ‘“I’ll take you to The Reclining Woman,” said Jackson, “if in return you only charge me with breaking and entering” – for which he knew he had a chance of getting off with a suspended sentence.

  ‘“If we recover The Reclining Woman,” the Sergeant told him, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” As the portrait of the second Duchess was a poor copy that would only have fetched a few hundred pounds at a boot sale, the deal was struck. Jackson was bundled into the back of a car, and guided three police officers across the Yorkshire border and on into Lancashire, where they drove deeper and deeper into the countryside until they came to a deserted farmhouse. From there, Jackson led the police on foot across several fields and into a valley, where they found an outbuilding hidden behind a copse of trees. The police forced the lock and pulled open the door, to discover they were in an abandoned foundry. Several scraps of lead piping were lying on the floor, probably stolen from the roofs of churches and old houses in the vicinity.

  ‘The police searched the building, but couldn’t find any trace of The Reclining Woman. They were just about to charge Jackson with wasting police time when they saw him standing in front of a large lump of bronze.

  ‘“I didn’t say you’d get it back in its original condition,” said Jackson. “I only promised to take you to it.”’

  The curator waited for the slower ones to join in the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, or simply to nod their understanding.

  ‘Disposing of the masterpiece had obviously proved difficult, and as the criminals had no wish to be apprehended in possession of stolen goods to the value of over a million pounds, they had simply melted down The Reclining Woman. Jackson denied knowing who was responsible, but he did admit that someone had tried to sell him the lump of bronze for £1,000 – ironically, the exact sum the fifth Duke had paid for the original masterpiece.

  ‘A few weeks later, a large lump of bronze was returned to the National Trust. To our dismay, the insurance company refused to pay a penny in compensation, claiming that the stolen bronze had been returned. The Trust’s lawyers studied the policy carefully, and discovered that we were entitled to claim for the cost of restoring damaged items to their original state. The insurance company gave in, and agreed to pay for any restoration charges.

  ‘Our next approach was to the Henry Moore Foundation, asking if they could help in any way. They studied the large lump of bronze for several days, and after weighing and chemically testing it, they agreed with the police laboratory that it could well be the metal which was cast into the original sculpture bought by the fifth Duke.

  ‘After much deliberation, the Foundation agreed to make an unprecedented exception to Henry Moore’s usual practice, and to cast a thirteenth edition of The Reclining Woman, provided the Trust was willing to cover the foundry’s costs. We naturally agreed to this request, and ended up with a bill for a few thousand pounds, which was covered by our insurance policy.

  ‘However, the Foundation did make two provisos before agreeing to create this unique thirteenth edition. Firstly, they insisted that we never allow the statue to be put up for sale, publicly or privately. And secondly, if the stolen sixth edition were ever to reappear anywhere in the world, we would immediately return the thirteenth edition to the Foundation so that it could be melted down.

  ‘The Trust agreed to abide by these terms, which is why you are able to enjoy the masterpiece you see before you today.’

  A ripple of applause broke out, and the curator gave a slight bow.

  I was reminded of this story a few years later, when I attended a sale of modern art at Sotheby Parke-Bernet in New York, where the third edition of The Reclining Woman came under the hammer and was sold for $1,600,000.

  I am assured that Scotland Yard has closed the file on the missing sixth edition of The Reclining Woman by Henry Moore, as they consider the crime solved. However, the Chief Inspector who had been in charge of the case did admit to me that if an enterprising criminal were able to convince a foundry to cast another edition of The Reclining Woman, and to mark it ‘6/12’, he could then dispose of it to a ‘stolen to order’ customer for around a quarter of a million pounds. In fact, no one can be absolutely sure how many sixth editions of The Reclining Woman are now in private hands.

  THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER . . .

  BILL WOKE with a start. It was always the same following a long sleep-in over the weekend. Once the sun had risen on Monday morning they would expect him to move on. He had slept under the archway of Critchley’s Bank for more years than most of the staff had worked in the building.

  Bill would turn up every evening at around seven o’clock to claim his spot. Not that anyone else would have dared to occupy his pitch after all these years. Over the past decade he had seen them come and go, some with hearts of gold, some silver and some bronze. Most of the bronze ones were only interested in the other kind of gold. He had sussed out which was which, and not just by the way they treated him.

  He glanced up at the clock above the door: ten to six. Young Kevin would appear through that door at any moment and ask if he would be kind enough to move on. Good lad, Kevin – often slipped him a bob or two, which must have been a sacrifice, what with another baby on the way. He certainly wouldn’t have been treated with the same consideration by most of the posher ones who came in later.

  Bill allowed himself a moment to dream. He would have liked to have Kevin’s job, dressed in that heavy, warm coat and peaked hat. He would still have been on the street, but with a real job and regular pay. Some people had all the luck. All Kevin had to do was say, ‘Good morning, sir. Hope you had a pleasant weekend.’ Didn’t even have to hold the door open since they’d made it automatic.

  But Bill wasn’t complaining. It hadn’t been too bad a weekend. It didn’t rain, and nowadays the police never tried to move him on – not since he’d spotted that IRA man parking his van outside the bank all those years ago. That was his army training.

  He’d managed to get hold of a copy of Friday’s Financial Times and Saturday’s Daily Mail. The Financial Times reminded him that he should have invested in Internet companies and kept out of clothes manufacturers, because their stocks were dropping rapidly following the slowdown in High Street sales. He was probably the only person attached to the bank who read the Financial Times from cover to cover, and certainly the only one who then used it as a blanket.

  He’d picked up the Mail from the bin at the back of the building – amazing what some of those yuppies dropped in that bin. He’d had everything from a Rolex watch to a packet of condoms. Not that he had any use for either. There were quite enough clocks in the City without needing another one, and as for the condoms – not much point in those since he’d left the army. He had sold the watch and given the condoms to Vince, who worked the Bank of America pitch. Vince was always bragging about his latest conquests, which seemed a little unlikely given his circumstances. Bill had decided to call his bluff and give him the condoms as a Christmas present.

  The lights were being switched on all over the building, and when Bill glanced through the plate-glass window he spotted Kevin putting on his coat. Time to gather up his belongings and move on: he didn’t want to get Kevin into any trouble, on account of the fact he hoped the lad would soon be getting the promotion he deserved.

  Bill rolled up his sleeping bag – a present from the Chairman, who hadn’t waited until Christmas to give it to him. No, that wasn’t Sir William’s style. A born gentleman, with an eye for the ladies – and who could blame him? Bill had seen one or two of them go up in the lift late at night, and he doubted if they were seeking advice on their PEPs. Perhaps he should have given him the packet of condoms.

  He folded up his two blankets – one he’d bought with some of the money from the watch sale, the other he’d inherited when Irish died. He missed Irish. Half a loaf of bread from the back of the City Club, after he
’d advised the manager to get out of clothes manufacturers and into the Internet, but he’d just laughed. He shoved his few possessions into his QC’s bag – another dustbin job, this time from the back of the Old Bailey.

  Finally, like all good City men, he must check his cash position – always important to be liquid when there are more sellers than buyers. He fumbled around in his pocket, the one without a hole, and pulled out a pound, two 10p pieces and a penny. Thanks to government taxes, he wouldn’t be able to afford any fags today, let alone his usual pint. Unless of course Maisie was behind the bar at The Reaper. He would have liked to reap her, he thought, even though he was old enough to be her father.

  Clocks all over the city were beginning to chime six. He tied up the laces of his Reebok trainers – another yuppie reject: the yuppies all wore Nikes now. One last glance as Kevin stepped out onto the pavement. By the time Bill returned at seven that evening – more reliable than any security guard – Kevin would be back home in Peckham with his pregnant wife Lucy. Lucky man.

  Kevin watched as Bill shuffled away, disappearing among the early-morning workers. He was good like that, Bill. He would never embarrass Kevin, or want to be the cause of him losing his job. Then he spotted the penny underneath the arch. He picked it up and smiled. He would replace it with a pound coin that evening. After all, wasn’t that what banks were meant to do with your money?

  Kevin returned to the front door just as the cleaners were leaving. They arrived at three in the morning, and had to be off the premises by six. After four years he knew all of their names, and they always gave him a smile.

  Kevin had to be out on the pavement by six o’clock on the dot, shoes polished, clean white shirt, the bank’s crested tie and the regulation brass-buttoned long blue coat – heavy in winter, light in summer. Banks are sticklers for rules and regulations. He was expected to salute all board members as they entered the building, but he had added one or two others he’d heard might soon be joining the board.

  Between six and seven the yuppies would arrive with, ‘Hi, Kev. Bet I make a million today.’ From seven to eight, at a slightly slower pace, came the middle management, already having lost their edge after dealing with the problems of young children, school fees, new car or new wife: ‘Good morning,’ not bothering to make eye contact. From eight to nine, the dignified pace of senior management, having parked their cars in reserved spaces in the carpark. Although they went to football matches on a Saturday like the rest of us, thought Kevin, they had seats in the directors’ box. Most of them realised by now that they weren’t going to make the board, and had settled for an easier life. Among the last to arrive would be the bank’s Chief Executive, Phillip Alexander, sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Jaguar, reading the Financial Times. Kevin was expected to run out onto the pavement and open the car door for Mr Alexander, who would then march straight past him without so much as a glance, let alone a thank-you.

  Finally, Sir William Selwyn, the bank’s Chairman, would be dropped off in his Rolls-Royce, having been driven up from somewhere in Surrey. Sir William always found time to have a word with him. ‘Good morning, Kevin. How’s the wife?’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Let me know when the baby’s due.’

  Kevin grinned as the yuppies began to appear, the automatic door sliding open as they dashed through. No more having to pull open heavy doors since they’d installed that contraption. He was surprised they bothered to keep him on the payroll – at least, that was the opinion of Mike Haskins, his immediate superior.

  Kevin glanced around at Haskins, who was standing behind the reception desk. Lucky Mike. Inside in the warmth, regular cups of tea, the odd perk, not to mention a rise in salary. That was the job Kevin was after, the next step up the bank’s ladder. He’d earned it. And he already had ideas for making reception run more efficiently. He turned back the moment Haskins looked up, reminding himself that his boss only had five months, two weeks and four days to go before he was due to retire. Then Kevin would take over his job – as long as they didn’t bypass him and offer the position to Haskins’s son.

  Ronnie Haskins had been appearing at the bank pretty regularly since he’d lost his job at the brewery. He made himself useful, carrying parcels, delivering letters, hailing taxis and even getting sandwiches from the local Pret A Manger for those who wouldn’t or couldn’t risk leaving their desks.

  Kevin wasn’t stupid – he knew exactly what Haskins’s game was. He intended to make sure Ronnie got the job that was Kevin’s by right, while Kevin remained out on the pavement. It wasn’t fair. He had served the bank conscientiously, never once missing a day’s work, standing out there in all weathers.

  ‘Good morning, Kevin,’ said Chris Parnell, almost running past him. He had an anxious look on his face. He should have my problems, thought Kevin, glancing round to see Haskins stirring his first cup of tea of the morning.

  ‘That’s Chris Parnell,’ Haskins told Ronnie, before sipping his tea. ‘Late again – he’ll blame it on British Rail, always does. I should have been given his job years ago, and I would have been, if like him I’d been a Sergeant in the Pay Corps, and not a Corporal in the Greenjackets. But management didn’t seem to appreciate what I had to offer.’

  Ronnie made no comment, but then, he had heard his father express this opinion every workday morning for the past six weeks.

  ‘I once invited him to my regimental reunion, but he said he was too busy. Bloody snob. Watch him, though, because he’ll have a say in who gets my job.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Parker,’ said Haskins, handing the next arrival a copy of the Guardian.

  ‘Tells you a lot about a man, what paper he reads,’ Haskins said to Ronnie as Roger Parker disappeared into the lift. ‘Now, you take young Kevin out there. He reads the Sun, and that’s all you need to know about him. Which is another reason I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get the promotion he’s after.’ He winked at his son. ‘I, on the other hand, read the Express – always have done, always will do.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Tudor-Jones,’ said Haskins, as he passed a copy of the Telegraph to the bank’s Chief Administrator. He didn’t speak again until the lift doors had closed.

  ‘Important time for Mr Tudor-Jones,’ Haskins informed his son. ‘If he doesn’t get promoted to the board this year, my bet is he’ll be marking time until he retires. I sometimes look at these jokers and think I could do their jobs. After all, it wasn’t my fault my old man was a brickie, and I didn’t get the chance to go to the local grammar school. Otherwise I might have ended up on the sixth or seventh floor, with a desk of my own and a secretary.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Alexander,’ said Haskins as the bank’s Chief Executive walked past him without acknowledging his salutation.

  ‘Don’t have to hand him a paper. Miss Franklyn, his secretary, picks the lot up for him long before he arrives. Now he wants to be Chairman. If he gets the job, there’ll be a lot of changes round here, that’s for sure.’ He looked across at his son. ‘You been booking in all those names, the way I taught you?’

  ‘Sure have, Dad. Mr Parnell, 7.47; Mr Parker, 8.09; Mr Tudor-Jones, 8.11; Mr Alexander, 8.23.’

  ‘Well done, son. You’re learning fast.’ He poured himself another cup of tea, and took a sip. Too hot, so he went on talking. ‘Our next job is to deal with the mail – which, like Mr Parnell, is late. So, I suggest . . .’ Haskins quickly hid his cup of tea below the counter and ran across the foyer. He jabbed the ‘up’ button, and prayed that one of the lifts would return to the ground floor before the Chairman entered the building. The doors slid open with seconds to spare.

  ‘Good morning, Sir William. I hope you had a pleasant weekend.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Haskins,’ said the Chairman, as the doors closed. Haskins blocked the way so that no one could join Sir William in the lift, and he would have an uninterrupted journey to the fourteenth floor.

  Haskins ambled back to the reception desk to find
his son sorting out the morning mail. ‘The Chairman once told me that the lift takes thirty-eight seconds to reach the top floor, and he’d worked out that he’d spend a week of his life in there, so he always read the Times leader on the way up and the notes for his next meeting on the way down. If he spends a week trapped in there, I reckon I must spend half my life,’ he added, as he picked up his tea and took a sip. It was cold. ‘Once you’ve sorted out the post, you can take it up to Mr Parnell. It’s his job to distribute it, not mine. He’s got a cushy enough number as it is, so there’s no reason why I should do his work for him.’

  Ronnie picked up the basket full of mail and headed for the lift. He stepped out on the second floor, walked over to Mr Parnell’s desk and placed the basket in front of him.

  Chris Parnell looked up, and watched as the lad disappeared back out of the door. He stared at the pile of letters. As always, no attempt had been made to sort them out. He must have a word with Haskins. It wasn’t as if the man was run off his feet, and now he wanted his boy to take his place. Not if he had anything to do with it.

  Didn’t Haskins understand that his job carried real responsibility? He had to make sure the office ticked like a Swiss clock. Letters on the correct desks before nine, check for any absentees by ten, deal with any machinery breakdowns within moments of being notified of them, arrange and organise all staff meetings, by which time the second post would have arrived. Frankly, the whole place would come to a halt if he ever took a day off. You only had to look at the mess he always came back to whenever he returned from his summer holiday.

  He stared at the letter on the top of the pile. It was addressed to ‘Mr Roger Parker’. ‘Rog’, to him. He should have been given Rog’s job as Head of Personnel years ago – he could have done it in his sleep, as his wife Janice never stopped reminding him: ‘He’s no more than a jumped-up office clerk. Just because he was at the same school as the Chief Cashier.’ It wasn’t fair.