Next In Line

Chapter 25

‘How nice to see you again, Mrs Faulkner,’ said Johnny van Haeften as Christina strolled into his gallery on Duke Street.

Christina was impressed that van Haeften remembered her, as she’d only met him on a couple of occasions when she’d attended packed gallery openings with Miles.

‘Can you tell me anything about a missing Hans Holbein portrait of Henry VIII?’ she asked, coming straight to the point.

‘Hans Holbein the Younger,’ said van Haeften, ‘painted the King on three occasions. The earliest is on display at the Walker Gallery in Liverpool. The next was sadly destroyed in a fire in 1698. The third is in private hands, and hasn’t been seen by the public since it was last exhibited at the old Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart in 1873.’

‘If it were to come on the market, how much would you expect it to fetch?’ asked Christina, sounding like a second-hand car dealer.

‘It’s difficult to make an accurate estimate for a picture of such historic importance, but certainly twelve million, and possibly fifteen in the present overheated market. Your husband, as you will know, Mrs Faulkner, has been looking for a Holbein for some years.’

She didn’t know, but was delighted to hear it.

‘He once told me he considered it a gaping hole in his Renaissance collection that he intended to fill if one ever came on the market.’

‘How interesting,’ said Christina, glancing at her watch. ‘Forgive me, I have a lunch appointment. Must dash.’

As she turned to leave, van Haeften said, ‘Do give your husband my best wishes when you next see him.’

‘I most certainly will,’ said Christina, adding under her breath, ‘when I next see him.’

She slipped out of the gallery and headed for the Ritz. She didn’t notice the man standing in a doorway on St James’s Street, even though she walked straight past him.

‘How are you, Constable?’ enquired the prison governor.

‘I’m well, thank you, sir,’ said William, ignoring the tongue-in-cheek demotion.

‘Any chance of you calling me Richard, after all these years?’

‘None whatsoever, sir.’

‘I’m not surprised, but then you were old school when you were still in short trousers.’

Rebecca laughed, then looked embarrassed.

‘And who are you?’ the governor asked, peering down at her.

‘Detective Sergeant Pankhurst, sir.’

‘You needn’t worry about her,’ said William. ‘She’s even older school.’

‘Glad to hear it. But you ought to know your distinguished ancestor spent a few weeks here. Before my time, of course.’

‘Only just,’ whispered William to Rebecca.

‘The last time we met,’ continued the governor, ‘you wanted to know about a young woman who was visiting her father at Pentonville, when I was then deputy governor, if I remember correctly.’

‘You have a good memory,’ said William, joining in the game. Rebecca looked puzzled.

‘The young lady’s father, a Mr Rainsford, was on remand while facing a charge of murder, and your brilliant father got him off. It must have been one of his easier cases, as even his fellow inmates knew he wasn’t guilty.’

‘It didn’t feel that way at the time,’ said William.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you end up marrying the young lady in question?’

‘I did indeed, sir. We have two children — well, three, in a way. A pair of twins, Artemisia and Peter, and—’

‘Josephine Junior,’ said the governor, ‘Ross Hogan’s daughter. A man I greatly admire, who, as you know, spent some time in Pentonville working undercover, which made it possible for you to close down the Rashidi drugs empire. I believe Hogan also came into contact with Miles Faulkner around that time, when he was first working in the prison library. Don’t tell Faulkner, but I’m glad to have him back, as the library has never been more efficiently run.’

‘It was good of you to arrange a meeting with Faulkner at such short notice,’ said William.

‘Jack Hawksby called me this morning, so I’m fully briefed. I’ll take you to the library by the “off-limits” route. That way, there’ll be less chance of any of the other inmates spotting you and the rumour mill grinding into action.’

Without another word, the governor led them out of his office and down a long, bleak corridor into a barren yard, surrounded on all sides by concrete walls topped with razor wire. They crossed the yard to an isolated brick building with a sign reading ‘LIBRARY’ on its door. The governor marched in, followed by William and Rebecca.

When William saw Miles, he was taken by surprise. A blue and white striped open-neck shirt, faded jeans and trainers had replaced the hand-tailored suit, silk tie and black highly polished leather shoes William had become accustomed to seeing him wearing. He’d also put on a few pounds.

Miles put down the book he was reading, stood up and said, ‘Good morning, governor.’

‘Good morning, Faulkner. But be warned, it won’t be a good one for you if you cause my old friend, Superintendent Warwick, any trouble. If you do, I’ll be looking for a new librarian. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal, governor.’

‘Good. Then I’ll leave you two to get on with it, whatever it is you’re getting on with,’ he said, before departing.

‘Please have a seat, Superintendent,’ said Miles. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea, if either of you would care to join me. Not exactly silver service, but it is Earl Grey.’

‘No, thank you,’ said William as he and Rebecca sat down in the only two comfortable chairs. ‘DS Pankhurst is here as an observer, and will take verbatim notes of everything that is said, in case you should—’

‘I’m well aware of the rules of this particular game,’ interrupted Miles as Rebecca opened her notebook and began writing. ‘I cannot talk about my case, or anything associated with it, if I recall the governor’s words. Should I break that agreement, I will, as the governor has just pointed out, not only lose my job, but will also be charged with wasting police time.’

Rebecca went on writing, but William didn’t comment.

‘I’ve been in here for just over nine months,’ said Miles, perching himself on a stool in front of them, ‘so it won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve built up a network that has made it possible for me to know more about what’s going on in this prison than your friend the governor.’

Rebecca turned a page of her notebook.

‘What I’m about to tell you is therefore based on fact, not supposition.’ Miles paused while he took a sip of tea. ‘One of my inner team, a prisoner called Tareq Omar, works as a cleaner on the first-floor landing of A block, where Mansour Khalifah is currently housed.’

William grimaced when Khalifah’s name was mentioned, but still said nothing.

‘A nasty piece of shit that I’d happily flush down the nearest toilet,’ said Faulkner. ‘Excuse my language, miss.’

Something Rebecca didn’t write down.

‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on Khalifah ever since he arrived, which hasn’t been easy as he’s not exactly the sociable type. He has his own network of followers, known as the True Believers, who take care of his every need. His only reading material is the Financial Times and Playboy, and he hasn’t applied for a library card.’

William continued to listen.

‘However,’ Miles went on, ‘Tareq Omar is not a True Believer, as Mansour Khalifah was responsible for the death of his brother, which is why I had him switched to that wing as a cleaner. Over the past few months, he’s ingratiated himself with Khalifah by supplying him with porn magazines, and a particular brand of dates he craves, which can only be purchased from Harrods. Recently, Omar has become more trusted, and is occasionally allowed to guard Khalifah’s cell while he’s praying. However, it’s still taken him some time to come up with anything interesting.’

Miles climbed off his stool, walked across to the counter and extracted a brown file from the shelf below. There was nothing written on the cover. He sat back down and took out a glossy brochure which he handed to William.

William studied the four pages back and front, but still didn’t speak as he waited for an explanation.

‘As you can see, Superintendent, it’s a booking form for this year’s Promenade concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. Omar found it in Khalifah’s wastepaper bin when he was cleaning his room. He checks its contents every morning, but this was the first time he’d found anything he thought might interest me.’

‘You’ve underlined one particular date,’ said William, turning to the final page of the brochure.

‘Not me. It was already underlined when Omar handed it over.’

‘Was he able to supply any other information?’ asked William.

‘Snippets of conversations he’d overheard on his rounds suggest Khalifah is planning something big for the Last Night of the Proms. He also caught the words, “Land of Hope”—’

‘—“And Glory”,’ said William. ‘But planting a bomb in the Albert Hall would be nigh on impossible. The whole building is checked by sniffer dogs and specialist search officers on the morning of every concert.’

‘Which is why Omar is convinced Khalifah is planning to use a suicide bomber to carry out the job. Someone who’s already been planted in this country, and is just waiting for the order to move. But I still didn’t consider that was enough to interest you, Superintendent, until a few days ago when I had a stroke of luck — the kind on which we both have to rely from time to time.’

William leant forward.

‘A well-known scalper sold a most unlikely punter a single ticket for the Last Night of the Proms, for which he paid way over the top. He didn’t give it much thought at the time, until later when it began to nag at him.’

‘Then why didn’t he contact the police?’ asked William.

‘Scalpers don’t advertise, Superintendent, and when they spot a policeman, they have a tendency to make themselves scarce.’

‘I don’t suppose he got the punter’s name?’

‘Scalpers only deal in cash, and don’t ask questions,’ Miles replied. ‘But he described the man as young, short, thin, and of Middle Eastern extraction. What puzzled the scalper, and later made him suspicious, was that the man hardly spoke a word of English, and kept calling it the Last Night of Poms. He clearly isn’t planning to place a garland of flowers around the bust of Sir Henry Wood.’

‘So, we’re down to a shortlist of about a hundred thousand,’ said William.

‘But I know you have a unit at Scotland Yard whose sole purpose is to keep an eye on anyone with terrorist connections. And let’s face it, Superintendent, you now have one big advantage. You know exactly when and where he’s planning to carry out the bombing.’

‘Possibly,’ said William as he placed the brochure in an inside pocket. ‘If your information turns out to be accurate, you can be assured I’ll personally inform Mr Booth Watson of the valuable role you played in preventing a serious terrorist attack, and recommend he raises the matter with your trial judge before he passes sentence.’

‘That’s the last thing I want you to do,’ said Miles, once again taking William by surprise. ‘But if my information turns out to be kosher, the next person I’ll want to see won’t be Booth Watson but your father, as I have something even bigger to offer him.’

William could not come up with a suitable reply. ‘I can’t make any promises, but I will pass your message on to him,’ he said eventually as Rebecca continued to write down every word. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me before we leave?’

‘No, but you can be sure I’ll be watching the Last Night of the Proms on the television in my cell, Superintendent. I can never resist joining in the chorus of “Land of Hope and Glory”.’

It was now William’s turn to take Faulkner by surprise. ‘What was the book you were reading when we came in?’

‘Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig. Are you familiar with his work?’

‘Can’t say I am,’ said William.

‘Then I can recommend him. When you’re stuck in here all day,’ said Miles, looking around the crowded shelves, ‘you read a lot. Usually a chapter is more than enough for me, but that was until I came across Zweig, who can transport me out of this place for hours at a time. It’s about the only good thing that’s happened to me since you dragged me back from Spain.’

‘Unless it turns out that you’ve foiled a terrorist attack, and saved countless innocent lives,’ suggested William as Rebecca closed her notebook.

‘Before you leave, Superintendent, may I be allowed to give you one piece of advice?’

Rebecca quickly reopened her notebook and took out her pen.

‘Please tell your wife not to trust Christina under any circumstances.’

William had at last found something on which he and Miles Faulkner could agree, but Rebecca closed her notebook and they both left without offering an opinion. Once the door was closed behind them, he turned to Rebecca and said, ‘How much of that did you believe?’

‘Every word. Not least because there’s nothing in it for him to set you up. And if his intel turns out to be reliable, the judge would have no choice but to take it into consideration when he passes sentence. What I can’t be sure about is whether Mansour Khalifah or Tareq Omar — or both of them working in tandem — are setting Faulkner up.’

‘There’s only one way we’re going to find out,’ said William as they walked back across the yard. ‘One thing’s for sure, we can’t ignore the threat. The first thing I’ll have to do when we get back to the Yard is brief the Hawk.’

‘Did Faulkner have anything worthwhile to say?’ were the governor’s first words when they returned to his office. ‘Or was it a complete waste of your time?’

‘I can’t be sure,’ said William, ‘but for the moment I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Pity. I was looking forward to putting him in solitary with only bread and water on the menu.’

‘Not yet, governor, because if his information turns out to be reliable, we might well be returning again in the near future.’

‘So be it. Goodbye, Superintendent. And remember to give my best wishes to your commander, as I won’t be seeing him on Saturday. We’ll be sitting on opposite sides of the ground — that’s assuming the idiot still supports Arsenal.’

‘I’ll pass on your best wishes, sir.’

‘Ten points if you remember which team I support, Constable.’

‘Tottenham Hotspur.’

‘Not bad, Superintendent. And you?’

‘Chelsea, sir.’

‘I will allow vagabonds, scoundrels and even perverts to enter my prison, but not Chelsea supporters. By the way, do you have any idea who Faulkner supports?’

‘Himself,’ replied William.

When William got back home that evening, he found James Buchanan had arrived from the States and was sitting in the kitchen with Beth and the children, having supper.

James leapt up, shook hands with William and said, ‘Good to see you.’

‘You too,’ said William as he sat down. ‘No doubt the children have been entertaining you.’

‘They sure have. I’ve been learning all about Artemisia’s new best friend — Princess Diana.’

‘The long or the short version?’ asked William.

‘I was about half-way through when you walked in,’ said Artemisia, ‘and was just about to tell James...’

‘James didn’t come to London to talk about Princess Diana.’

‘Then why did he come to London?’ Artemisia asked.

‘Behave yourself,’ said Beth. ‘Try to remember James is our guest, and don’t speak with your mouth full.’

‘It’s quite simple really,’ said James. ‘I came to seek your mother’s advice on a delicate matter.’

‘Must be about art,’ said Artemisia, ‘and not crime.’

‘A little bit of both,’ admitted James.

‘Do you still own one of the biggest shipping lines in the world?’ asked Peter.

‘Peter!’ said William, sounding exasperated.

‘I was only asking.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said James, smiling. ‘My father is chairman of the Buchanan Shipping Line, but I’m still at Harvard, and when I graduate, I plan to join the FBI.’

‘What’s the FBI?’ piped up Jojo, speaking for the first time.

‘The Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

‘Who do they investigate?’ asked Artemisia as Sarah walked into the room.

‘It’s past your bedtime, children,’ she announced firmly, which elicited a groan from Artemisia, before she asked, ‘Can you read, James?’

‘I think you’ll find it’s still a requirement if you hope to get into Harvard,’ said James.

‘Then you can read to us once you’ve told Mum why you’ve really come to London.’

‘Out!’ said William firmly.

James stifled a laugh. After several good nights and Artemisia giving her father a half-hearted kiss, the children were ushered out of the kitchen by Sarah.

Once the door was closed, Beth said, ‘Artemisia was right about one thing, I can’t wait to find out why you wanted to see me.’

‘And not me,’ said William, trying to sound offended.

James finished his coffee and waited for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

‘You’ll no doubt remember my late grandfather, Hamish Buchanan, who founded the shipping line, and who, to say the least, led an unpredictable and complicated life. But it’s only recently I’ve discovered just how unpredictable and complicated.’

Beth sat back and listened.

‘I’ve recently become aware,’ continued James, ‘that my grandfather was a bigamist.’ He paused for a moment to allow them to take in the revelation. William spilt his coffee, while Beth tried to remain composed. ‘It turns out that not only did he have a wife in New York, my grandmother, but another one in London, who none of my family knew about.’

Several questions flashed through William’s mind, but he remained silent. He had a feeling most of them were about to be answered.

‘My grandmother, God bless her, still remains unaware of the double life Grandfather led, and my father wishes it to remain that way.’

‘Understandably,’ said William. ‘But how did you find out?’

‘I would never have found out if I hadn’t received a letter from a solicitor in London who represented the late Mrs Isla Buchanan, informing me that she’d died and left everything to me in her will.’

‘Didn’t she have any children of her own?’ asked Beth.

‘That was my first question. But her solicitor assured me there were no other relations who had any claim on the estate.’

‘Then I suspect she was doing no more than carrying out your grandfather’s wishes,’ said William. ‘After all, it was well-known you were his favourite grandson.’

‘So where do I fit into this unlikely triangle?’ asked Beth.

‘The bulk of her estate,’ continued James, ‘consists of a house in Onslow Square, which I’ve already put on the market. However, it turns out that Isla also shared my grandfather’s passion for Scottish art, and they collected works by Sir Henry Raeburn, Samuel Peploe, Allan Ramsay and someone called Charles Rennie Mackintosh.’

‘Never utter those three words to a Scotsman without bowing your head. He’s become part of Glaswegian folklore.’

James lowered his head and said, ‘However, if I’m to comply with my father’s wishes, I must dispose of the entire collection without drawing attention to its provenance.’

‘You don’t want to hold on to any of them?’ asked Beth in disbelief.

‘It’s not a risk my father is willing to take. So I was wondering what you would advise me to do in the circumstances.’

‘I’d live with them for the rest of my life,’ said Beth, with considerable feeling. ‘But if you have to sell them, you certainly can’t risk putting them up for auction. The provenance would be listed in the catalogue for all to see.’

‘So what’s the alternative?’ asked James.

‘You’ll have to sell them privately, and I’m afraid that could take some time.’

‘Would you be willing to visit the house and take a look at the collection for me?’

‘Of course I will. I’ll go tomorrow and start making an inventory of the works and let you know how much I think they’re worth.’

‘I couldn’t ask for more,’ said James. ‘But I fear I must now leave you.’

Beth raised an eyebrow.

‘I have to go and prove to Artemisia that I can read.’

It had taken Christina only one visit to Gerald Sloane with the suggestion that she might be willing to reinstate her annual donation to the Fitzmolean for him to reveal everything she needed to know.

‘Your visit couldn’t have come at a more opportune time,’ he purred.

‘Why?’ asked Christina, innocently.

After she had gleaned all the information she needed to know about the Holbein, she took a leaf out of Beth’s book and thought carefully about what she would say to Mr Rosen when she phoned him. It was some time before her call was answered.

‘Thomas Rosen,’ said a refined voice, with a slight accent.

‘Mr Rosen, my name is Christina Faulkner, and I understand from my good friend, Beth Warwick, that you have a picture for sale that I might be interested in.’

‘Are you calling on behalf of the Fitzmolean, Mrs Faulkner?’

‘Yes, I am. However, they wish the approach to remain confidential for the time being.’

‘I understand,’ said Rosen. ‘Like you, we wouldn’t want the sale to become public knowledge.’

‘You can be assured of my discretion,’ said Christina, who certainly didn’t want Sloane or Miles to find out what she was up to.

‘That being the case, Mrs Faulkner, I would be only too happy for you to visit me in Amsterdam where you could view the painting.’

‘As well as the artist’s handwritten note that’s attached to the back of the panel?’

‘You are well-informed, Mrs Faulkner, which doesn’t surprise me. So if you’d be kind enough to make the journey to Amsterdam at your convenience, I’ll have my chauffeur pick you up in the airport and drive you to my home.’