Next In Line

Chapter 20

Ross climbed into the front of the Jaguar after the Princess had taken her seat in the back. He checked in his personal rear-view mirror, and saw that Victoria hadn’t joined them, so she must have gone home. Although Victoria would never have raised the subject in front of him, it was clear she didn’t approve of Diana’s other life.

Only one member of the paparazzi was waiting for them when they drove into Jermyn Street. He jumped out into the middle of the road the moment he spotted the car. Ross wondered if he was just there on the off chance, or if someone had tipped him off. Given half a chance, he’d have run him over.

The Princess used her handbag to shield her face as she ran down the steps into the nightclub. The maître d’ accompanied her to her usual table — heads turning as she crossed the dance floor — where she found Jamil standing waiting for her. He kissed her on both cheeks and, once they’d sat down, they held hands openly across the table, no longer even attempting to conceal their relationship.

Ross retired to his usual discreet table behind a pillar. When the two of them strolled out onto the dance floor shortly afterwards, it would have been obvious to any casual observer they were lovers. The bobbing ponytail still irritated Ross. He wrote nothing down, but would make a full report to William in the morning. He knew William was keeping the commander up to date so that no one was left out of the loop.

Once again, Diana left the club just after midnight. As she stepped out onto the pavement, she found several photographers waiting to greet her.

Ross did his best to protect her from the more persistent of them as she scrambled into the back of the car, but they still pursued her, cameras flashing, until the Jaguar turned the corner into St James’s only to find one of them waiting by the traffic lights as they slowed down at the top of Piccadilly. Ross clocked that it was the same one who’d been waiting outside Tramp when she’d arrived there earlier that evening.

‘Do you know the name of that photographer, Ross?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Alan Young.’

‘Poor man, standing out there just in case I turn up.’

‘I wouldn’t waste your sympathy on him, ma’am. He’s the best-paid snapper in Fleet Street, and he only takes photos of you.’

They travelled on in silence for some time before the Princess eventually said, ‘I’ll be spending the weekend with Jamil at his home in Sussex. It’s not on the official schedule, of course, but I hope you’ll be kind enough to make the usual arrangements.’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ said Ross without hesitation, although he’d been looking forward to spending a weekend with Jojo. He’d planned a trip to the cinema to see The Little Mermaid — ending up at her favourite ice cream shop. Thank God for William and Beth, he thought as the car swung into Kensington Palace Gardens.

‘I thought Jojo was meant to be spending the weekend with Ross,’ said Beth as she strapped the three children into their car seats.

William climbed behind the wheel. ‘Change of plan. Seems the Princess needs him for a special assignment.’

‘What could be more special than Jojo?’ asked Beth, not letting him off the hook.

‘Well, she won’t be spending the weekend with Prince Charles,’ was all William had to say on the subject.

‘Are you telling me Diana’s having an affair?’ whispered Beth as they set off for Nettleford.

‘I’m not telling you anything,’ said William.

Beth was about to protest when Artemisia said, ‘What’s an affair?’

William and Beth remained silent, but were rescued by Peter asking, ‘How long before we get there?’ even before they’d reached the first set of traffic lights.

‘About an hour,’ said William. ‘But you always enjoy spending the day with your grandparents.’

‘Why doesn’t Grandpops have a TV?’ asked Peter.

Beth and William were trying to come up with a suitable response, when Jojo asked plaintively, ‘Will Daddy be there?’

‘No, he won’t,’ said Artemisia. ‘He’s spending the weekend with my friend, the Princess of Wales.’

‘But I know he’s got next weekend off,’ said William, ‘when he still intends to take you to see The Little Mermaid, and if you’re very good, you may even get your favourite double chocolate sundae.’

Jojo clapped her hands.

‘What are you up to next week,’ asked Beth, ‘other than spying on the Princess?’

‘Don’t even ask,’ replied William, lowering his voice. ‘The Commissioner has an appointment with the Prince of Wales tomorrow morning, and none of us has any idea how he’ll react when he hears what his senior protection officer has been up to for the past eleven years.’

‘They’ll want to make sure nothing gets into the press that will embarrass the Queen. Although I have a feeling the Prince of Wales will know only too well that Diana’s playing away from home.’

‘Princess Diana,’ said Artemisia, correcting her mother.

‘Well, at least you must be looking forward to next week,’ said William. ‘The museum should be packing them in after all those five-star reviews for the Frans Hals exhibition in this morning’s papers.’

‘I would be, if the new director didn’t spend so much of his time trying to undermine me in front of the rest of the staff.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll come round, given time.’

‘I doubt it. We’ve barely exchanged a civil word since the day he took over, and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to appease him.’

‘What does appease mean?’ asked Artemisia.

‘Falling in with someone else’s views to please them,’ said Beth, looking around to see that Peter and Jojo had fallen asleep.

‘I sympathize,’ said William. ‘Especially remembering how well you got on with Tim Knox.’

‘Don’t remind me. And it doesn’t help that Sloane’s asked to see me first thing tomorrow morning, leaving me to stew over the weekend wondering what he’s annoyed about this time.’

‘Perhaps he wants to congratulate you on the successful opening of the Frans Hals exhibition?’

‘Don’t bet on it. Much more likely he’s found something new to grumble about.’

‘You mustn’t become paranoid about him,’ said William. ‘He’s not worth it.’

‘What does paranoid mean?’ asked Artemisia.

This was one meeting Booth Watson wasn’t going to be late for. He’d never visited the Connaught Hotel before, but was well aware of its reputation. Old-world, luxurious, the finest cuisine, and always fully booked for months in advance. Americans, they’d discovered, were happy to be parted from their money as long as it was masked in the cloak of tradition, especially as the hotel was almost as old as their country.

Miles had once complained to Booth Watson that he hadn’t been able to make a booking in the hotel’s restaurant despite several attempts. His lawyer didn’t explain why they wouldn’t have offered him a table even if they’d been empty.

Booth Watson gave his name to the receptionist who, without bothering to check, said, ‘Mr Lee is expecting you, sir. If you’ll take the lift to the top floor, someone will meet you.’

‘What’s his room number?’

‘There is only one suite on the top floor, sir,’ the receptionist said, the courteous smile never leaving her face.

Booth Watson crossed the lobby to the lift, now even more convinced that he’d found the right man. A profile in Forbes magazine had described Lee as a successful Chinese businessman with banking and real estate interests, whose hobbies included collecting art and fine wines. He had outbid Miles at Bonhams for a Blue Period Picasso a few years before.

Booth Watson stepped into a lift that had only one button, and proceeded without interruption to the top floor. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a young woman dressed in a red silk cheongsam. She bowed low and said, ‘Please follow me, Mr Booth Watson.’

Without another word she led him along a thickly carpeted corridor towards an oak-panelled door, which she opened before standing aside.

Booth Watson entered a large, ornately furnished room, bedecked with a fresh flower arrangement on almost every available surface. But what struck him most were the superb paintings that adorned every wall. Miles would have both admired and envied the collection. It was obvious why no one else was permitted to book this particular suite.

‘Can I offer you some tea while you’re waiting?’ asked the young woman.

‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson, just as a door on the far side of the room opened and a tall, grey-haired man dressed in a double-breasted suit, white shirt and silk tie walked across to welcome his guest. A typical Hong Kong businessman, who knew no international borders, was Booth Watson’s first impression.

‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Mr Booth Watson,’ Lee said as they shook hands. ‘The phone always seems to ring just as a guest is about to appear.’

‘What a magnificent art collection you have,’ said Booth Watson as the young woman reappeared carrying a laden tea tray which she placed on the table, before lowering herself to her knees and serving the two men.

‘How kind of you to say so,’ said Lee. ‘I confess that what began as a hobby has over the years become something of an obsession.’

‘Milk and sugar?’ asked the young woman.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Booth Watson.

‘I have never mastered the English tradition of small talk,’ said Lee. ‘So I’ll put this as delicately as I can. Would I be right in thinking that due to his present circumstances, Mr Miles Faulkner is considering parting with his fabled art collection?’

‘That is correct. But I would stress,’ said Booth Watson, ‘he is only considering.’

‘I once spent a couple of years in such an establishment,’ said Lee, taking Booth Watson by surprise, ‘as a rebellious student during the revolution.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was released, but only because my side won.’ Both men laughed as the young woman returned carrying a plate of salmon and cucumber sandwiches, which she placed on the table between them.

‘I confess,’ Lee continued, ‘to have learnt almost as much in prison as I did at the Harvard Business School. And indeed, the contacts I made there proved every bit as useful.’

Booth Watson helped himself to a sandwich before returning to the subject they both wanted to discuss. ‘Are you familiar with Mr Faulkner’s collection?’ he asked.

‘Indeed I am. When he put his villa in Monte Carlo on the market several years ago, I viewed the house as a prospective buyer. I took photographs of all one hundred and seventy-three paintings, as well as the twenty-one sculptures in the garden, every one of which I was later able to verify in the relevant catalogues raisonnés. I particularly admired the reclining nude by Henry Moore.’

‘There are actually a hundred and ninety-one paintings and twenty-six sculptures in the collection,’ said Booth Watson after selecting another sandwich.

‘Then eighteen of the paintings and five of the sculptures must have been acquired after he moved into his most recent home just outside Barcelona,’ Lee said casually, once again taking Booth Watson by surprise. ‘In any case,’ continued Lee, ‘I’m sure Mr Faulkner has a view on what his collection is worth.’

‘According to the experts,’ said Booth Watson, ‘somewhere in the region of three hundred million.’

‘We all have experts to advise us, Mr Booth Watson, and they usually know if their client is a buyer or a seller. Mine consider one hundred million is nearer the mark.’

‘I believe Mr Faulkner would consider two hundred million a fair price, given his present circumstances,’ said Booth Watson, picking up Lee’s earlier expression.

‘Then I won’t waste any more of your time,’ said Lee standing up. ‘No doubt you have other interested parties, who would be only too willing to write a cheque for two hundred million without asking too many questions.’

‘If my client were to consider your offer of one hundred million,’ said Booth Watson, trying to recover his composure, ‘would it be possible for the money to be deposited with a bank in Hong Kong?’

‘I have a controlling interest in two banks in the protectorate,’ said Lee as the young woman reappeared and cleared the table.

‘And could you give a guarantee that no items from Mr Faulkner’s collection would come on the market in the near future? Because that could cause him considerable embarrassment.’

‘Look around you, Mr Booth Watson,’ said Lee as he sat back down, ‘and you will see I am a collector, not a dealer. I can assure you none of the works will come up for sale during my lifetime.’

‘Before I consult my client, Mr Lee, can I also confirm that one hundred million pounds is your final offer?’

‘Dollars, Mr Booth Watson. I don’t deal in pounds. It’s not a currency I feel safe with.’

‘I’ll let you know my client’s answer as soon as I have consulted him,’ said Booth Watson, heaving himself up out of his chair.

‘As I’ll be in London for the next few weeks, please feel free to call me at any time,’ said Lee. ‘A simple yes or no will suffice, as I wouldn’t want to waste your time.’ He rose from his seat and once again the young woman reappeared as if he’d waved a wand. Lee bowed low, but not as low as the woman, who accompanied Booth Watson out of the room and back to the lift.

As the doors slid closed, she bowed once more before returning to the suite.

‘What did you think of our guest, Mai Ling?’ Lee asked as she re-entered the room.

‘Not a man I would trust.’

‘I agree with you. In fact, I’m not convinced Mr Faulkner is even aware that the meeting was taking place.’

‘What would convince you either way?’

‘If Booth Watson accepts my offer of one hundred million dollars, you can be fairly sure he isn’t representing his client, but himself, because I don’t think Mr Faulkner would consider parting with a collection it’s taken him a lifetime to put together for such a paltry sum.’

‘I can think of another way you can find out if he’s telling the truth, Father,’ said Mai Ling.

‘Audrey’s such an excellent cook,’ said Beth, ‘that, whenever we visit you, I always feel guilty about my feeble efforts in the kitchen. Not that William ever complains.’

‘You have other gifts,’ said Julian, ‘which I can assure you Audrey greatly admires. Not least how well you’re doing at the museum.’

‘That may not be the case for much longer.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is that the reason you wanted to see me?’

Beth nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I can’t pretend I’m enjoying working under the new director, and although I don’t think he’d consider sacking me, unless he found me with my hand in the till, I’m seriously considering resigning.’

‘Would you be able to find an equivalent position in another gallery?’ asked Julian.

‘Not easily. They don’t come up that often. The irony is the Tate approached me a few months ago to ask if I’d be interested in the post of deputy director. I would definitely have considered the offer if Tim Knox hadn’t told me he’d already recommended me to the board as his replacement.’

‘Is the job at the Tate still available?’

‘No. It was filled by an outstanding candidate from the V&A, who I’m told is doing an excellent job.’

‘Then my advice would be to stay put until another opportunity arises. You won’t enjoy being unemployed, not to mention the loss of income.’

‘That’s the real reason I needed to seek your advice, Julian. I’d like to take advantage of an opportunity that’s arisen, but it poses a bit of a moral dilemma for me.’

‘Details, details,’ demanded Julian as if dealing with one of his clients.

‘I may have come across a pencil drawing by Rembrandt, which is coming up for sale at a small auction house in Pittsburgh.’

‘So, where’s the moral dilemma?’

‘The drawing isn’t listed as a Rembrandt, but by an unknown artist. The truth is, I’m not altogether certain about it myself. But if I’m right, it could be worth up to forty thousand pounds while the auction house’s estimate is only two hundred dollars.’

‘That’s called experience and scholarship, while at the same time being willing to take a punt,’ said Julian. ‘It’s not your fault the auction house hasn’t done its homework.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Beth. ‘But should I tell Sloane about my possible discovery, or should I risk two hundred dollars of my own money, in the hope of making a killing myself?’

‘What would you have done if Tim Knox was still director?’

‘Told him immediately,’ said Beth without hesitation, ‘so the Fitzmolean could benefit.’

‘Then you’ve answered your own question. Your first responsibility is to the museum, not its director, whoever that might be. Museums are permanent, directors are temporary.’

‘Even if Sloane were to tell the board it was his discovery, and take the credit for it?’

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Beth not attempting to hide her feelings.

‘Disliking the man is not a good enough reason to allow it to cloud your judgement, or lower yourself to his level.’

‘Of course you’re right. I’ll tell him about the drawing first thing in the morning.’

‘I think that would be wise,’ said Julian. ‘If nothing else, it might improve your relationship with him.’

‘Don’t count on it.’

‘Let’s rejoin the others before William starts wondering what we’re up to,’ said Julian.

‘I have no secrets from William,’ said Beth. ‘I’ve already discussed the problem with him, so you won’t be surprised to learn he agrees with you.’

‘He’s a lucky man,’ said Julian as he got up from his chair, opened the study door, and stood aside to allow Beth to make her way back to the drawing room.

‘Artemisia has been telling us about her most recent conversation with the Princess of Wales,’ said Audrey, when they reappeared.

‘Verbatim,’ said William.

‘Yes, I was,’ said Artemisia. ‘I can’t wait to see her again, because I have an important question to ask her.’

‘And what might that be?’ enquired Julian.

‘In the car Mummy told Daddy that Diana was playing away from home, and I wondered which sport she was playing.’

Sir Julian didn’t answer his granddaughter’s question, as he wasn’t altogether sure how to advise his youngest client.