Next In Line

Chapter 23

The only qualification for the job of librarian in any prison was the ability to read and write. You worked in a large warm room all day, weren’t bothered by too many inmates, and if you didn’t look out of the window, you wouldn’t even know you were in a prison.

Most inmates preferred to work in the kitchen, some in the gym, and a few as wing cleaners. However, the position of chief librarian suited all of Miles Faulkner’s immediate requirements.

He was also able to select his deputy, and he chose someone whose reading and writing skills wouldn’t have made him an obvious candidate for the job.

Faulkner was reading Lex in the Financial Times when Tulip returned from his morning round collecting overdue books from the cells. This gave him the opportunity to drop in on any prisoner Faulkner needed to do business with, and ensured he remained the best-informed person in the jail, including the governor.

Mansour Khalifah never visited the library, so Tulip had to rely on Tareq Omar, his wing cleaner, to pass on any information that might prove useful. Until now, nothing worthwhile had come his way, other than that Khalifah was planning something big, but Tulip still had no idea what. But that morning he rushed back to the library to report a breakthrough to his boss.

Faulkner put down his paper, switched on the kettle and settled back in the most comfortable chair in the prison to listen to Tulip’s news. He didn’t press his deputy to get to the point, as neither of them had a great deal to do for the rest of the day.

‘It may have been a long wait, boss,’ began Tulip, ‘but Omar’s finally come up with the goods.’ The kettle whistled, and Tulip got up from the second-most comfortable chair in the prison and poured two mugs of coffee. Faulkner added one lump of sugar but no milk to his, and extracted a single biscuit from a packet of shortbread. Not because they were in short supply, but because he was hoping to lose a stone before he was released.

‘Omar,’ Tulip continued after taking a sip, ‘has managed to convince Khalifah he’s a True Believer.’

Faulkner leant back and closed his eyes, storing every detail in his notebook mind.

‘You were right, boss, Khalifah is planning something big.’ Tulip took another sip of coffee. It was still too hot. ‘The Albert Hall,’ he announced triumphantly.

‘What about the Albert Hall?’

‘It seems that every year there’s a series of concerts held there called the Proms—’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘The Last Night of the Proms is always sold out months in advance.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Miles, sounding irritated for the first time.

‘But did you know they remove all the stalls seats for a group of fans known as the promenaders, who stand throughout the entire concert?’ Faulkner nodded, waiting for Tulip to turn the page. ‘One of Khalifah’s contacts on the outside has got hold of a scalper’s ticket, and paid way over the top.’

‘Shit,’ said Miles, who’d already skipped to the last chapter. ‘You mean he’s planning to send in a suicide bomber and blow the place apart?’

‘While the promenaders are singing “Land of Hope and Glory”, just to rub it in.’

‘Guaranteeing headlines on the front page of every paper across the world.’

‘But if you could warn the police about what Khalifah’s got in mind...’

‘Even the Home Secretary would be kissing my arse.’

‘And you’d be out of here faster than shit off a shovel.’

‘I’ll need to see Hawksby as soon as possible,’ said Miles as there was a knock on the door. ‘Who’s that?’ he growled.

The door opened, and the visitors’ warder appeared.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Faulkner, but someone’s made an appointment to see you on Saturday.’

‘That would be a first,’ said Tulip.

‘Probably Christina wanting her pictures back. Tell her to bugger off.’

‘That’s not the name on the application form,’ said the warder. ‘It’s someone called Miss Mai Ling Lee.’

‘I don’t know anyone by that name, so she can bugger off as well.’

‘It would get you out of your cell for an hour,’ Tulip said, ‘plus tea and biscuits...’

‘I’m hardly ever in my cell, in case you haven’t noticed, Tulip. And you’re eating my biscuits.’

‘She might be good-looking.’

‘She could also be old and ugly.’

‘She’s twenty-six,’ said the warder. ‘And as regulations demand, she’s supplied a photograph.’

After one look Tulip said, ‘I could take your place, boss.’

But Miles was already signing the form, though not for the reason Tulip had in mind.

Christina asked Beth to join her in the Palm Court tea room at the Ritz, which was just about enough to tempt Beth to see her again.

‘It’s kind of you to come,’ said Christina after they’d ordered.

‘I was fascinated to find out what excuse you’d come up with this time,’ said Beth, not attempting to hide her anger.

‘I don’t have any excuse,’ replied Christina. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear you’d been sacked.’

‘I resigned,’ said Beth firmly as a pot of tea and a three-tier silver stand loaded with cakes, scones and wafer-thin sandwiches was placed in front of them.

‘That’s not what the director told me when I visited the museum last week.’

‘Why would you want to see Sloane?’

‘To tell him why I will be cancelling my annual donation of ten thousand pounds. He grovelled of course, but I also insisted my name be removed from the patrons’ list. I didn’t leave him in any doubt that you were the only reason I supported the Fitzmolean in the first place.’

Beth found herself beginning to thaw, but couldn’t help wondering if Christina had even seen the director.

‘I also told him,’ she continued while pouring Beth a cup of tea, ‘that I would double my annual donation if he offered you your job back.’

‘I don’t want my job back. Well, not as long as Sloane’s the director.’

‘But you have to earn a living, Beth. And I know you’re not the begging type.’

‘I’ve had a bit of a triumph on that front,’ said Beth, desperate to tell someone. ‘I picked up a sketch at a sale in Pittsburgh for four hundred and twenty dollars. Christie’s Old Masters expert has authenticated it as a Rembrandt, and valued it at twenty to thirty thousand pounds. So I could make more in one day as a dealer than I did in a year as Keeper of Pictures at the Fitzmolean. And that’s only for starters,’ she added, after selecting a smoked salmon sandwich from a lower tier.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Christina.

‘Although that kind of opportunity doesn’t arise too often, with so many small auction houses all over the world, important works are occasionally overlooked. For example, a painting by an artist who’s well-known in one country may sell well below its market value in another. Have you ever heard of Hercules Brabazon Brabazon?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘He was a nineteenth-century English watercolourist, and one of his landscapes is coming up for sale in Frankfurt next week with an estimate of twenty-five thousand marks. I know several galleries in London that would pay double that, without a second thought.’

‘So you’d double your money?’

‘No, it’s never that straightforward. After deducting the auction house’s commission of around twenty per cent, and the gallery’s profit margin, I’d be lucky to end up with twenty-five or thirty per cent, and that’s assuming no one else has spotted the picture, which would probably put it out of my price range.’ Beth’s gaze settled on a tiny chocolate éclair, but she resisted the temptation.

‘Why don’t I become your backer?’ said Christina. ‘That would allow you to deal at a higher level, and help me to assuage my guilt.’

Beth was silent for a few moments, still staring at the éclair, while Christina continued. ‘If you spotted something you knew was underpriced and could make a decent profit on, I’d be happy to put up the capital. With your expertise and my resources, we could both end up making a killing.’

‘That’s generous of you, Christina, but auction houses require you to put down ten per cent of the hammer price on the day of the sale, and to pay the balance within fourteen days. If I failed to do so, not only would I lose the picture but they wouldn’t deal with me again.’

‘Why should that be a problem?’

‘You haven’t exactly proved reliable in the past,’ Beth reminded her sharply.

Christina looked suitably chastened before saying quietly, ‘Would it help if I were to give you a hundred thousand in advance?’

Beth refused to believe the offer was real, but somehow managed, ‘What would you expect in return?’

‘Twenty-five per cent of the profits.’

‘There has to be a catch,’ said Beth, still not convinced.

‘There is,’ replied Christina, opening her handbag. She took out her cheque book and wrote a cheque for £100,000, made out to Beth Warwick. ‘You’ll give me a third chance — or is it a fourth? — to prove whose side I’m on.’

Beth stared at the noughts, but was distracted when Christina began to remove the cakes from the stand, before wrapping them up in her napkin one by one.

‘What are you doing?’ said Beth, horrified.

‘You can share these with the children when you get home,’ said Christina, handing her the napkin.

‘But how do the management feel about that?’

‘They’ve got used to it,’ said Christina as she signalled to a waiter for the bill.

The prisoner didn’t take his eyes off the young woman who was heading slowly towards him.

It wasn’t until Miles had seen a photo of Mai Ling that he’d considered the possibility she might be the daughter of his rival art collector, Mr Lee, a man who had outbid him several times in the past. He had therefore agreed to see her.

Mai Ling took the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Faulkner,’ she said as if she was joining him for tea at the Savoy rather than visiting him in a category A prison, with guards, not waiters scattered around the tables.

Faulkner nodded.

‘My father has been offered your art collection for one hundred million dollars, and wanted to be sure the seller had your blessing,’ said Mai Ling. Like her father, she didn’t deal in small talk.

It was some time before Miles recovered enough to reply. ‘Blessing isn’t the word I would have chosen. As I know your father to be a man of few words, you can tell him, never. But I would like to know who it was claiming to represent me?’

‘My father thought you might ask that question and, if you did, instructed me not to answer it.’

Miles accepted that bribery wouldn’t work with this young woman, and even the suggestion of a threat would have been counter-productive. He simply said, ‘Was it Booth Watson, or my ex-wife?’

Mai Ling rose from her place, turned her back on him and walked away without once looking back.

The duty officer looked surprised when Mr Faulkner’s guest left the visitors’ room only a few minutes after she’d booked in, and the lip-readers on the balcony were even more puzzled.

Faulkner had only one thought on his mind as he made his way back to his cell. His next visitor would have to be ex-superintendent Lamont.

When Beth walked in the front door of their home, having had tea with Christina, she heard the phone ringing in the hall. She grabbed it, and was surprised to be greeted by a familiar voice she hadn’t heard for some time.

‘James,’ said Beth, ‘how lovely to hear from you.’

Beth happily recalled first meeting James aboard the SS Alden when they were on holiday. They had both liked the precocious and bright young American who had helped William to solve the murder of his grandfather. She assumed he would want to have a word with William.

‘I’m afraid William’s not at home,’ Beth said. ‘But I’m expecting him—’

‘It’s not William I wanted to speak to,’ said James. ‘I’ve got a problem I’m not sure how to deal with, and I think you’d be the ideal person to advise me.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘In William’s latest letter,’ said James, ‘he wrote to explain why you’d left the Fitzmolean, which I was sad to hear, but he also told me you’d started your own business.’

‘Which is still in its infancy and I’m afraid works on a limited budget,’ said Beth. ‘But if I can help in any way, I’d be delighted to do so.’

‘Do you specialize in anything in particular?’

‘We represent buyers and sellers of fine art, and I occasionally buy works myself if I spot something I think I can turn quickly. But I repeat, my budget is limited.’

‘But your brain isn’t, and that’s what I need.’

‘It’s clear you’ve inherited your grandfather’s charm,’ teased Beth.

‘That’s not the only thing I’ve inherited,’ said James, ‘which is why I need to seek your advice.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Beth.

‘You’re right about that,’ said James. ‘But it’s also a little too sensitive to discuss over the phone, so I was thinking of coming to London so I could brief you in person.’

‘Then you must stay with us,’ said Beth. ‘Though I have to warn you the spare room is about the size of a below-deck cabin on a Buchanan cruise liner.’

‘Couldn’t be better because it’s a deckhand you’re dealing with.’

‘When were you thinking of coming?’

‘Next Monday.’

‘Then that’s something else you’ve inherited from your grandfather, James. You don’t hang about.’