Hidden in Plain Sight

27

Saturday

It wasn’t until the last painting had been stored safely in the hold that the captain gave the order to cast off.

He set out on the voyage to England at least a couple of times a year, always docking in Christchurch, but not tomorrow evening. The Christina slipped out of the bay on Saturday morning in broad daylight without attracting any unwanted attention. But then several far grander yachts were making their way into the harbour to watch the Monte Carlo Grand Prix the following week, so why would anyone give them a second look?

The captain had locked the villa and handed over the keys to the estate agent, along with clear instructions as to which Swiss bank the funds should be deposited in once the sale had been completed.

All the valuables, including the fabled art collection, were already on board, and when they eventually came under the hammer the boss would have more than enough money to begin a new life in any country he chose, while the police would be convinced he was dead and buried.

The Christina would only drop anchor once, to pick up a passenger who would instruct the captain where his next port of call should be.

The voyage around the Bay of Biscay was calmer than usual. As he sailed into the English Channel the following day, a ball of fiery red disappeared in the west, and by the time it reappeared in the east his mission would be accomplished, or he would be on his way back to Monte Carlo.

Sunday

‘The Observer has done you proud, William,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and it’s not always complimentary about the police. And as you’ve never once mentioned Operation Trojan Horse during the past year, it must have been a tightly guarded secret.’

‘Not even Beth knew until she heard about it on the news this morning.’

‘The raid has even made the first leader,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I quote: “The arrest of Assem Rashidi is a genuine breakthrough in the war against drugs, and the Metropolitan Police are to be congratulated on their relentless pursuit of these ruthless criminals who do so much harm to our society.” ’ He looked up from behind the paper. ‘There’s a photograph of Commander Hawksby sitting on a bus. Not his normal mode of transport, I suspect.’ He put down the paper and looked across at his son. ‘You don’t appear to be overwhelmed by your triumph.’

‘The press only has one side of the story.’

‘And the other side?’

‘Isn’t quite as commendable. In fact, it’s something I need to seek your guidance on.’

‘Take me through your concerns slowly, and don’t leave anything out,’ said his father, as he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as he always did during a consultation.

‘While I was in the slaughter—’

‘Slaughter?’

‘Boiler room, drugs factory... I came across three sports bags filled with cash — hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds. By the time I got back to the Yard, there were only two.’

‘And you think you know who removed the third bag?’

‘I’m in no doubt who did. But I can’t prove it.’

‘Can’t have been anyone particularly bright, that’s for sure,’ said Sir Julian.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It would have been more sensible to have taken the same amount of cash from each of the three bags, then no one would have been any the wiser.’

‘You even think like a criminal.’

‘I’m a QC,’ said Sir Julian, ‘a Qualified Criminal. But tell me, did you leave the bags where they were?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said William.

‘Then why did you leave the boiler room?’ asked Sir Julian, his eyes remaining closed.

‘Superintendent Lamont ordered me to report to the commander, who was overseeing the operation from the top of the bus. Told me it was urgent.’

‘And it wasn’t?’

‘No. In fact, the Hawk wasn’t pleased that I’d left the crime scene without his permission.’

‘Circumstantial at best. If that’s all you’ve got to go on, you should give Lamont the benefit of the doubt. However, I can see your dilemma. Do you tell Commander Hawksby that you suspect a senior officer of stealing a large sum of money from a crime scene?’ He still didn’t open his eyes. ‘If I recall correctly, Superintendent Lamont is due to retire in a few months’ time.’

‘Yes, but what difference does that make? If there’s one thing worse than a professional criminal, to quote the Hawk, it’s a bent copper.’

‘I agree with him. But I do like to know all the facts before I pass judgment.’

William pursed his lips.

‘Has Lamont ever come under investigation before?’

‘Once, many years ago. But since then he’s received three commendations.’

‘Ah yes, I remember he turned a blind eye when he was a young sergeant. And now you’re wondering if you should do the same.’

William was about to protest when Sir Julian added, ‘How do you get on with Lamont?’

‘Not that well,’ admitted William.

‘Which only adds to the problem, because if you were to report a senior officer for such a serious offence, it would have to be investigated at the highest level, although I suspect Lamont would resign before a disciplinary hearing was held — if he was found guilty, he would undoubtedly be dismissed from the force, lose his pension and might even end up serving a prison sentence.’

‘I’ve already considered that, and I realize turning a blind eye would be the easy way out.’

‘Not for you it wouldn’t,’ said his father. ‘However, if you do report him, whether he’s found guilty or not, you might well have to consider your own position.’

‘But why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I accept that without question. But it’s the one thing your fellow officers will remember about you. They might never say anything to your face, but behind your back you’d be called snitch, traitor or worse. And friends of Lamont will go out of their way to derail your chances of promotion. Never forget, the police are a tribe, and some of them will never forgive you for turning against one of their own.’

‘Only the dishonest ones, in which case I’m in the wrong profession.’

‘Possibly, but I hope you won’t do something in haste that you’ll later regret.’

‘What would you do, Father?’

‘I would...’ began Julian when there was a knock on the door, and Beth walked in. ‘Lunch is ready,’ she said. ‘And Marjorie is looking for a carver.’

‘We’ll have to talk about this again, my boy. And soon,’ said Julian, rising from his chair.

‘Don’t you think William’s black eye is rather fetching?’ said Beth, as she linked arms with her father-in-law and accompanied him through to the dining room.

Monday

Faulkner smiled up at Rashidi, and waved a hand to indicate he could join him for breakfast. The first inmate he’d treated as an equal, even if he didn’t trust him an inch.

‘Why are you dressed in civilian clothes?’ asked Rashidi, taking the seat opposite Faulkner. ‘Are you about to be released?’

‘No. I’m going to a funeral.’

‘Whose?’

‘My mother’s.’

‘I adore my mother.’

‘I haven’t spoken to mine for over twenty years,’ said Faulkner, as a warder placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him.

‘Then why bother to attend her funeral?’ asked Rashidi.

‘It’s an excuse to get out of this place for the day,’ said Faulkner, dropping a couple of sugar lumps into his tea.

‘I won’t be seeing the outside world again until my case comes up in about six months’ time.’

‘And what are your chances?’

‘Zero, while one of my so-called mates has turned Queen’s evidence in exchange for a lesser sentence.’

‘There are people in here who can take care of that little problem,’ said Faulkner.

‘Not while the filth have two other witnesses in reserve who’d be only too willing to take his place should he fail to turn up.’

‘So who’s running your empire while you’re away?’

Rashidi pointed to a young man seated at the next table smoking a cigarette. ‘One of the few who stood by me when the shit hit the fan.’

‘But he’s also stuck in here, Assem, in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Not for much longer. He pleaded guilty to possession of a half-smoked reefer, the only thing they found on him other than a packet of Marlboro. And as he has no previous convictions, he won’t get more than six months, possibly less, so he could be out of here in a few weeks’ time.’

‘But surely someone has to run the business while you’re away?’ said Faulkner.

‘My deputy wasn’t even on the premises when the raid took place. Doesn’t usually take over from me much before midnight. So he’ll keep the business ticking over in my absence.’

‘Can you trust him?’

‘Can you trust anyone?’ said Rashidi. ‘However, it’s not all bad news. Since I arrived here, I’ve discovered a new bunch of even more desperate customers. Did you know there are a hundred and thirty-seven prisons in Britain?’ he continued. ‘And they’re all about to become branches of my new company.’

Faulkner looked interested.

‘Give me a year, and I’ll control the supply of drugs to every last one of them. I’ve already identified the officer I’ll use as my go-between, while Tulip will be my main prison dealer, so all I need now is a phone.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Faulkner. ‘I’ll point you in the right direction when you go to chapel on Sunday.’

‘I’m Roman Catholic.’

‘Not any longer, you aren’t. You’re the Church of England’s latest convert. That is, if you want to control the drugs scene in this place. The Sunday morning service is the only time we’re all gathered together in one place, when the business for the following week is sorted out during the sermon.’

‘How does the chaplain feel about that?’

‘He fills in another Home Office form reporting how well his services are attended.’

‘Speaking of the Home Office, what’s the latest on your appeal?’

‘Couldn’t be much worse. They’re now accusing me of burning down my own home, but not before I’d removed my art collection.’

‘What motive could you possibly have for doing that?’ asked Rashidi, as another officer poured him a cup of coffee.

‘Revenge. I did it to make my ex-wife penniless.’

‘And did you succeed?’

‘Not yet, but I’m still working on it. In fact, I’ve arranged a little surprise for her this morning.’

‘So what are your chances of getting off the latest charges?’

‘Not good. My lawyer tells me they’ve got enough evidence to bury me, and it doesn’t help that the detective in charge of the case, a certain DS Warwick, is a friend of my wife’s.’

‘Detective Sergeant William Warwick?’ spluttered Rashidi, spilling his coffee.

‘The same.’

‘He was the officer who arrested me. But I’m not expecting him to give evidence at my trial.’

Faulkner smiled. ‘That’s a funeral I would like to attend. By the way, if you need a lawyer, I can recommend one,’ he said, as another warder appeared by his side.

‘Your carriage awaits, Mr Faulkner.’

‘No doubt accompanied by three police cars, six outriders and an armed escort.’

‘Not to mention a helicopter,’ said the warder.

Rashidi laughed. ‘Only you and the Royal Family get that sort of treatment. I’m going to have to come up with a funeral they’ll let me go to.’

‘The Home Office regulations only allow you to attend the funerals of your parents or children, not even other close relatives.’

‘Then I won’t be going to any funerals,’ said Rashidi, ‘because they certainly aren’t going to allow me to attend Detective Sergeant Warwick’s.’

‘What’s the problem, grumpy?’ asked William.

‘Today’s the day,’ said Beth.

‘You’re going to give birth today?’ said William, sounding excited.

‘No, caveman. It’s the day we have to give the Vermeer back to Christina.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said William, as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘No wonder you had such a restless night.’

‘However much Christina says she needs the money, I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to parting with one of the gallery’s finest works.’

‘Is she picking it up herself?’

‘No. Christie’s are sending a representative round to collect the picture this morning, as she’s putting it up for sale. Tim will be responsible for handing it over, but I intend to be there as it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see the lady.’

William couldn’t think of any words to comfort her, so he just continued to hold her in his arms.

Sir Julian had suggested they meet in his chambers at eight o’clock the following morning, as he would be appearing in front of Mr Justice Baverstock at ten.

William arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields long before the appointed hour. He walked slowly across to the Victorian building that could have passed for a fashionable private residence — and probably was a hundred years ago — on the far side of the square.

As he entered Essex Court Chambers he stopped to study the long list of names printed neatly in black on the white brick wall. Sir Julian Warwick QC headed the list. His gaze continued on down, only stopping when he reached the name Ms Grace Warwick. How long before QC would be added to her name, he wondered. His father would be so proud, though he’d never admit it. He spent a moment thinking about where his name might have appeared if he’d taken his father’s advice and joined him as a pupil in chambers, and not signed up to be a constable in the Met.

William climbed the well-worn stone steps to the first floor and knocked on a door that he’d first stood outside as a child. He was no less apprehensive now about how his father would react when he told him his news.

‘Come,’ said the voice of a man who didn’t waste words.

William entered a room that hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember. The picture of his mother as a beautiful young woman stood on the corner of his father’s desk. Prints of Sherborne, Brasenose and Lincoln’s Inn hung on the walls, alongside a photograph of Sir Julian dining with the Queen Mother at High Table, when he’d been treasurer of Lincoln’s Inn. There was even a photograph of William in the blocks for the one hundred metres at White City when he was an undergraduate. He’d never told his father he’d come last in that race.

Julian stood up and shook hands with his son as if he were a client, while Grace gave her brother a huge hug.

‘You clearly require the advice of two of the leading advocates in the land, my boy, so be warned, the clock is already ticking and, on your salary, I suspect we can spare you about ten minutes.’

‘I’ve got all morning,’ said Grace, giving her brother a reassuring smile.

‘Unfortunately, I haven’t,’ said William. ‘I have to be back at the Yard by nine for the Trojan Horse debriefing. But I wanted you both to know, before I tell the commander, that I’m going to resign.’

Julian didn’t look surprised and simply said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I thought you’d be delighted,’ said William. ‘After all, you never wanted me to join the police force in the first place.’

‘True, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.’

‘Not least your triumph as a leading member of the Trojan Horse team,’ suggested Grace. ‘And there are rumours you’re about to become the youngest inspector in the force.’

‘It’s that so-called triumph that’s the cause of my current dilemma.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Grace.

‘One of the senior officers involved in that operation turns out to be just as crooked as the criminals I’m trying to put behind bars.’

‘I’ve given the problem a great deal of thought since we discussed it over the weekend,’ said Julian, ‘and have reluctantly come to the conclusion that you’ll have to expose him.’

‘I agree with you,’ said William, ‘but I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to brazen it out until he’s due to retire in eighteen months’ time.’

‘Given the circumstances,’ suggested Sir Julian, ‘the Hawk might consider it politic to move him to a less high-profile department before he retires.’

‘Like burglary perhaps?’ said William, which at least brought a smile to his father’s face.

‘So, what do you plan to do instead?’ asked Grace. ‘Because you’re still young enough to consider a new career.’

‘I’ll do what Father always wanted me to do. Apply for a place at King’s College London to read law. Though the timing isn’t ideal with the twins on their way...’

‘Don’t worry about the money,’ his father assured him.

‘And once you’ve graduated,’ said Grace, ‘you can join us in chambers.’

‘Only if, like your sister, you’re awarded a first-class honours degree,’ said Julian. ‘I don’t believe in nepotism, so there will be no “Bob’s your uncle” in these chambers.’

‘Remind me, Father,’ said William, playing a game that had begun in the nursery.

‘The saying derives from the days when Robert Cecil, later Lord Salisbury, was prime minister and put his nephew in the cabinet. Hence, Bob’s your uncle. But can you tell me the name of the nephew who went on to also become PM?’

‘Sir Arthur Balfour,’ said Grace.

‘Correct,’ said Julian. ‘But as you’re in a hurry to get back to the Yard, may I suggest that we discuss your future in greater detail when you and Beth join us for lunch on Sunday?’

‘By which time I will have resigned,’ said William, as he rose from his place.

‘Then you’ll need to get your application into King’s College fairly quickly if you’re hoping to join the law faculty in September.’

‘I’ve already filled in the application form,’ said William. ‘All I need to do now is hand it in.’

‘Would you like me to have a word with Ron Maudsley, who’s the law professor at King’s? We were contemporaries at Brasenose and—’

‘If you do that, Father, I’ll go to Battersea Polytechnic and take up basket-weaving.’ He’d closed the door behind him before Julian had the chance to reply.

‘How disappointing,’ said Grace. ‘I agree with you, Father. He made the right choice in the first place.’

‘But it’s not without a silver lining. He’ll make a fine barrister, and all that knowledge gained as a policeman will serve him in good stead whenever he comes up against a hardened criminal in the witness box.’

‘Or a police officer for that matter. But I still think he should have remained in the force and gone on locking up criminals rather than joining us and trying to get them released.’

‘Don’t ever tell him, but I agree with you, and will try and talk him out of it on Sunday.’

‘It may be too late by then.’

Tim Knox picked up the phone.

‘There’s a Mr Drummond from Christie’s downstairs,’ said his secretary. ‘Says you’re expecting him.’

Knox glanced at his watch. ‘He’s early, but then so would I be if I was collecting a masterpiece worth several million. Tell him I’m on my way, and please ask Beth to join us.’

The director reluctantly left his office and made his way slowly down the wide marble staircase to the ground floor, where he saw a smartly dressed man carrying a large blue Christie’s bag.

‘Good morning, Dr Knox,’ the man said as they shook hands. ‘Alex Drummond. Mr Davage asked me to stand in for him as he’s in New York for the autumn sales, but said he’ll phone as soon as he wakes up,’ he added, handing the director his business card. ‘You probably won’t remember, but we met at the Christie’s summer party last year. You asked me what price I though Teniers’ Night and Day might fetch.’

‘And remind me,’ said Tim, ‘what was the hammer price?’

‘Just over a million.’

‘Well beyond our resources, as I feared. Where did it end up?’

‘The Getty Museum in California.’

‘Petty cash for them,’ said Tim ruefully, as Beth joined them, wearing a pair of white cotton gloves. ‘This is Beth, the gallery’s assistant keeper of paintings.’

‘An unfortunate title, given the circumstances,’ said Beth.

‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Warwick,’ said Drummond.

‘Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?’ said Tim. ‘I’d like to get this over with before we open the gallery to the public.’

Beth carefully lifted the painting off its hook before handing it to the director. At the same time, Drummond removed a small wooden box from his canvas bag, and opened it so Beth could place the picture inside.

‘A perfect fit,’ she said.

Drummond closed the lid, snapped the clasps shut and slipped the box back into his bag.

‘How much do you expect it to fetch?’ asked Tim, after he’d signed the release form.

‘The low estimate is one million, but Mr Davage thinks it could make as much as two.’

‘More than enough to solve Christina’s problems,’ muttered Beth.

‘Divorce, death and debt,’ said Drummond. ‘The auctioneer’s three best friends. With the added irony on this occasion that it will probably be our client’s ex-husband who ends up buying it. Mr Faulkner has made it clear that he wants it back at any price.’

‘Then I hope he has to pay way over the top for it,’ said Beth with feeling. ‘Although I can’t see the prison authorities allowing him to hang it in his cell.’

Drummond smiled after he signed the release form. ‘If either of you would like me to reserve a seat for you at the auction, just let me know.’

‘I couldn’t face it,’ said Beth.

‘Nor me,’ said Tim. ‘Not least because I know only too well that we can’t afford to join in the bidding.’

‘And on that note, I’ll leave you,’ said Drummond, shaking hands with them both before taking his leave.

‘A sad day for the gallery,’ said Tim, as he and Beth walked back up the stairs together.

‘It was inevitable, I suppose,’ said Beth, ‘after Faulkner stole all Christina’s other paintings. But at least she got the better of him this time.’

After William had left his father’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he walked up the Strand and hesitated for a moment before dropping into King’s College.

He handed in his application form to join the law faculty in September to the senior porter in the lodge. The porter’s expression suggested that he thought William looked a bit old to be an undergraduate.

William checked his watch. He didn’t need to be late for the commander’s meeting, when he intended to expose Lamont.

Back in his office, Tim Knox began to go through the morning’s post. Too many bills and not enough donations. A museum director’s perennial problem, he thought, as the phone on his desk began to ring.

‘There’s a Mr Davage waiting for you in reception.’

‘What? I thought he was meant to be in New York,’ said Tim. He immediately called Beth and asked her to join him, and this time they both ran down the stairs.

‘Good morning,’ said Davage after they’d caught their breath. ‘Though not a particularly good one for you, I fear, which is why I decided to come over and collect the painting myself.’

‘But one of your colleagues has already picked it up,’ said Tim, pointing to an empty space on the wall.

‘One of my colleagues? What are you talking about?’

‘Alex Drummond,’ said Tim nervously. ‘He said you were in New York.’

‘I was, but I caught the red-eye, and came straight to the gallery from the airport. And I can assure you, there’s no one at Christie’s called Alex Drummond.’

An embarrassed silence followed before Beth said calmly, ‘Faulkner’s done it again. And this time he didn’t even have to put in a bid for the painting.’ After a moment’s pause, she added, ‘I should have asked him how he knew...’

‘Knew what?’ demanded the director.

‘That I was Mrs Warwick, when you introduced me as Beth.’

‘And that box he had with him,’ said Knox, thumping his leg in anger. ‘The painting fitted in so neatly.’

‘Far too neatly,’ said Beth. ‘But then it was supplied by the previous owner.’

‘But Faulkner’s in jail,’ said Davage.

‘That wouldn’t stop him issuing orders to his flunkies on the outside,’ said Beth. ‘Like the so-called Alex Drummond.’

‘This isn’t the time to stand around chatting about what fools we’ve made of ourselves,’ said Tim. ‘Beth, you’d better call your husband immediately, and tell him what’s happened.’

Beth walked slowly back to her office, clinging onto the banister. She feared the lady in The White Lace Collar would already be in the arms of another.