Next In Line

Chapter 28

Christina arrived at the bank well in time for her meeting with Mr Rosen. She had spoken to the deputy director of the Kunstmuseum in Basel, who’d confirmed the wording of Holbein’s letter to Dr Rosen, and that according to the museum’s records the painting was still owned by the Rosen family, who lived in Amsterdam.

Mr Rosen was punctual, but looked worn out. After greeting Christina he introduced his sons, Cornelius and Sander. One was carrying a wooden casket adorned with a family crest, while his brother had brought two large suitcases which Christina assumed were empty.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Rosen said. ‘But then, it has been some time since I last travelled by plane, and even a short flight is no longer a pleasant experience. Not as unpleasant, however, as having to part with a treasured family heirloom.’

Christina looked suitably sympathetic, but her eyes rarely left the little wooden box Cornelius was still clutching.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Rosen, ‘after considerable soul-searching, we decided if you were able to confirm that the painting will become part of the Fitzmolean’s collection, we would reluctantly accept your offer.’

‘I give you my word,’ said Christina. A sentiment she delivered with complete conviction.

Rosen bowed, and she couldn’t help reflecting on what an old-fashioned gentleman he was. His word was clearly his bond. Whereas his sons looked as if they were much more interested in the money.

Christina headed for the lift, and when they reached the basement they were met by a security guard who guided them along a well-lit corridor, stopping only when a floor-to-ceiling reinforced door blocked their progress. After entering an eight-digit code on the keypad, a code Christina had been assured was changed every morning, he pulled open the heavy door and stood aside to allow them to enter a room that held many secrets only the keyholders were privy to.

The walls were lined with safe-deposit boxes. The security guard checked the small red numbers, selected one and pulled it out as if it were a body in a morgue, then placed it on the table in the centre of the room. Producing a large set of keys from his pocket, he chose one and opened the first of two locks, before stepping back and saying, ‘I’ll leave you now, Mrs Faulkner. Please, take your time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Christina. She didn’t move until the heavy door had been closed behind him; she then opened her handbag and took out the second key to open the client’s lock. Rather enjoying herself, she lingered before lifting the box’s lid, to reveal ten thousand neatly wrapped cellophane packets each containing twenty crisp fifty-pound notes.

Mr Rosen’s sons stepped forward and after one look began to transfer the money from the deposit box into their suitcases, while their father sat silently behind them on the only chair.

Christina walked up to the table, unclipped the locks of the wooden casket and raised the lid. Henry VIII was staring directly at her, as he’d done with so many beautiful women in his day. But she rejected his advances until she had lifted the portrait from its bed of red satin and carried it nearer to the light so she could check the letter attached to the back. Once she recognized Holbein’s hand, she felt reassured.

She placed the picture carefully back in its box, and closed the lid. The two young men were still filling their suitcases when she bade Mr Rosen farewell, before jabbing the green button on the wall by the door.

The old man rose unsteadily from his chair and bowed as the door opened and Christina quickly departed.

‘They will be here for a few more minutes,’ she said to the waiting security guard. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘As you wish, madam,’ he replied, before he pushed the heavy door back into place.

Christina took the lift to the ground floor and left the bank, tightly clutching onto the small wooden casket. She crossed James’s Street, and hurried off in the direction of the Van Haeften gallery, a few blocks away. Once again, she failed to notice a man standing in the entrance of Lobb’s, watching her walk past. He didn’t bother to follow her, but then he knew where she was going.

The moment he saw the wooden casket, Johnny van Haeften recognized the family crest on the lid. He could feel his excitement mounting as Christina placed it on the table in the centre of the gallery. She flicked open the clasps and lifted the lid to reveal Henry VIII in all his pomp and glory.

‘May I?’ van Haeften asked, his fingers trembling.

Christina nodded, and he gently lifted the painting out of its red satin resting place. He studied Henry for some time before turning him over and reading the letter attached to the back.

‘I think you said twelve million, possibly fifteen,’ said Christina, ‘if I remember correctly.’

‘I did indeed,’ replied van Haeften.

The man waited a few minutes before crossing the road and entering the bank, where he hung around in the lobby looking as if he were waiting for someone, which indeed he was. He didn’t have to wait long before the lift doors opened and three men appeared, one of them pulling two large suitcases. They walked straight past him without saying a word, and left the cases by his side, before walking out of the bank and going their separate ways.

He gripped the handles of the cases and began pulling them towards the door, surprised by how heavy they were. Once out on the pavement, he hailed a taxi, hoisted the cases into the back and pulled the door shut. Safer than an armoured car, he’d decided, because that would only attract attention and require a lot of form-filling.

‘Where to, guv’nor?’ asked the cabbie.

‘The Mayfair Trust Bank on Park Lane,’ said Lamont. He would have given the address of his bank in Hammersmith if he’d thought he could get away with it. But he was well aware that other eyes would be watching him, and if he didn’t deliver the money straight back to where it had originally come from, it would be the last cab journey he’d ever take.

Van Haeften studied the painting closely for some time before he said, ‘Fifteen million would have been a fair price, had it been the original.’

Christina stared at him. ‘But I saw it in Mr Rosen’s home in Amsterdam only a week ago,’ she eventually managed, her voice rising with every word.

‘I’m sure you did,’ said van Haeften calmly. ‘And the casket, the oak panel and the frame are all contemporary, as is the painting. But sadly, it isn’t by Holbein.’

‘But the letter on the back,’ she protested, ‘proves it’s the original. If you read it, you’ll see that I’m right.’

‘I fear not, Mrs Faulkner.’

‘Read it!’ she demanded.

Van Haeften didn’t protest, knowing only too well that although the client was not always right, one should never contradict them.

Christina was speechless.

‘What would you like me to do with the picture, Mrs Faulkner?’ van Haeften eventually asked.

‘I don’t give a damn what you do with it!’ Christina yelled as she turned and ran out of the gallery. She didn’t stop running until she reached St James’s, where she crossed the road — narrowly avoiding being run over by a black cab — and pushed open the door into the bank. She charged up to the reception desk.

‘Those three men I was with,’ she snapped at the receptionist, still out of breath.

‘They’ve just left, Mrs Faulkner.’

‘Do you know where they went?’

‘No, but they left their two suitcases with another man I did recognize, and I saw him get into a taxi.’

Christina didn’t need to ask for a description of the fourth man.

‘I know you’ll all be glad to hear that the young Sergeant who challenged the bomber is no longer in a critical condition,’ began Holbrooke. ‘The medics think he’ll make a good recovery, although he may lose the sight in his left eye.’

William couldn’t explain why his first thought was of the angry promenader who’d complained about living in a police state after having his backpack searched.

‘And his fiancée?’ asked Jackie quietly.

‘She handed in her resignation this morning. There was nothing I could do to dissuade her. It’s one of the biggest problems we face in Counter Terrorism.’

‘There’s nothing in the morning papers about the incident,’ said William. ‘Should I assume you slammed a D-notice on Fleet Street?’

‘Only just in time,’ said Holbrooke. ‘The Mail’s front page was about to go to press. Their crime correspondent had put two and two together, and although he made about six, it was too close to the truth for comfort.’

‘So can my team stand down and get back to their day jobs?’ asked the Hawk.

‘For the time being, yes. But don’t be surprised if Khalifah has something else planned for us in the not-too-distant future, which, as I’ve already warned Superintendent Warwick, could be even more devastating.’

‘Any ideas?’

Rebecca opened a file that she’d been working on overnight. ‘In a few weeks’ time, England are playing Sweden at a World Cup qualifier. Sixty thousand people will be at Wembley where the security is fairly lax. Then there’s the Ryder Cup—’

‘No,’ said William, ‘they won’t wait that long.’

‘The Edinburgh Festival?’ said Rebecca. ‘It wouldn’t be too difficult to hide someone among the half a million young people who invade that city during August. And there’s the final test match against Australia at the Oval. Sold out.’

‘We don’t have the authority to cover Edinburgh,’ admitted the Hawk. ‘They could plant six suicide bombers along the Royal Mile and we’d be none the wiser.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Holbrooke. ‘I’ll put a full team on to it immediately, and leave you to get on with policing London. I want you to know how grateful I am for the role you played, and not just on the night.’ He gave William a nod as he rose from his place at the other end of the table. ‘It’s been a privilege to work with your team. But for now, you can all get back to protecting the Royal Family.’ He smiled at Rebecca as he left and added, ‘If you’re ever looking for a real job, DS Pankhurst, you know where to find me.’

‘Nail her to the ground,’ said the Hawk as the head of Counter Terrorism left the room.

‘Why didn’t he offer me a job?’ said Paul.

‘If he had,’ said William, ‘we would have reluctantly had to let you go.’

‘Right, the rest of you can bugger off,’ said the Hawk after the laughter had died down. ‘I need to have a word with Superintendent Warwick.’ He waited until the door had closed before saying, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to visit Faulkner again. And this time, he’ll be expecting more than an olive branch.’

‘I’ll fix an appointment with the governor, and report back to you.’

‘By the way, why didn’t Ross join us this morning?’ asked the Hawk.

‘He’s taken Jojo on holiday. He won’t be back for a fortnight, when he will resume his duties with the Princess.’

‘Not dressed the way he was last night, I hope.’

‘He’s a chameleon, sir. He can blend into any background, whether it be a palace or a brothel. Do you need to see him?’

‘Yes, but it can wait until he gets back. We’ve had a complaint from a promenader. It seems Ross kneed him in the groin during the final verse of “Land of Hope and Glory”, and ruined the evening for him.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said William.

‘You’re getting better at lying, William,’ said the Hawk. ‘But you’re still not very good at it.’

Lamont dialled the number at five minutes past four. The call was answered after four rings, without any acknowledgement. All he said was, ‘Library,’ and a few seconds later he heard a second ringing tone.

‘Yes?’ said a voice after another four rings.

‘The money has been returned to your bank in Mayfair,’ he said without introducing himself. ‘I put it in your deposit box with the other twelve million, then returned the key to the head of security.’

‘Expenses?’

‘All covered, including the portrait of Henry VIII which is now on display at the Van Haeften gallery, listed as by a follower of Hans Holbein, with an asking price of five thousand.’

‘Buy it, and have van Haeften send it to Mrs Warwick as a gift.’

‘From you?’ he asked.

‘No. An admirer.’

‘And the house in Amsterdam?’

‘The keys have been returned to the agent.’

‘And the actors?’

‘Have all been paid well above Equity rates. I thought the old man gave a magnificent performance, every bit as accomplished as his John of Gaunt at the Old Vic a few years ago. His two sons may only have had walk-on parts, but they were also totally convincing.’

Miles was well satisfied. Christina had once again underestimated him and his knowledge of how the art market worked. But he would still have to remain wide awake, because she would exact revenge given the slightest opportunity, and she had one advantage. He was still locked up, while she was on the outside.

He assumed Lamont was still on the other end of the line. ‘If you check your personal account tomorrow,’ said Miles, ‘you’ll find the agreed sum has already been deposited. But don’t even think about retiring yet, Lamont, because I’ve got an even bigger assignment for you. I’ll be in touch.’