Next In Line

Chapter 31

‘Lot number twenty-one, the Max Ernst,’ said the auctioneer. ‘I have an opening bid of seven thousand pounds. Eight thousand,’ he announced after turning his attention to the other side of the room. ‘Do I see nine thousand?’ he asked, to be greeted with a nod. ‘Ten thousand?’ he suggested to the former bidder, but received no response. He brought the hammer down with a thud, ‘Sold, for nine thousand pounds.’

‘So how much profit did we make on that one?’ asked Christina.

‘I originally paid eight thousand for it,’ said Beth, ‘but after Christie’s have deducted the seller’s premium, we’ll be lucky to break even.’

‘How unlike you.’

‘Everybody loses sometime. The trick is not to make a habit of it.’

‘Are you thinking of buying anything else today?’

‘There’s a Graham Sutherland watercolour of Coventry Cathedral that I’m interested in. Lot twenty-seven. But on this occasion, I’ll be representing a client.’

‘Why don’t they bid for themselves?’

‘Whenever this particular client attends an auction, she gets carried away. So she tells me her upper limit and then I bid on her behalf.’

‘How much do you charge for your services?’

‘Five per cent of the hammer price.’

‘Lot twenty-seven,’ proclaimed the auctioneer. ‘The Graham Sutherland. I have an opening bid of six thousand pounds. Do I see seven?’

Beth raised her paddle high in the air. ‘Thank you, madam. Eight thousand?’ He received an immediate response from a telephone bidder. ‘Do I see nine?’ Once again, Beth raised her paddle.

‘Ten thousand?’ asked the auctioneer, and back came her rival. ‘Eleven thousand?’ He smiled hopefully at Beth, who shook her head, as it was above her agreed limit. ‘Sold, for ten thousand pounds,’ declared the auctioneer as he wrote down the paddle number of the phone bidder.

Beth’s heart was still thumping, and she wondered how many years it would be before it didn’t do so whenever she was bidding. She hoped it never would.

‘That won’t pay for lunch,’ said Christina. ‘Are we going to be given another chance of getting our money back?’

‘Possibly. But Lot thirty-four is the only one I’m still interested in.’

Christina flicked through the pages of her catalogue until she came to a painting of a woman lying in a field of corn, by Andrew Wyeth. ‘I like it,’ she whispered.

‘Did I hear you correctly?’ asked Beth.

‘You did. It reminds me of a Pissarro Miles now has after I foolishly parted with my half of his collection. If he hadn’t stolen all my money,’ she said wistfully, ‘I’d buy the Wyeth and start my own collection.’

Words Beth thought she’d never hear, but then Christina never failed to surprise her.

‘Why are you so keen on this particular painting?’ Christina asked.

‘Wyeth’s an American artist, and has a devoted following in the States, particularly in Pennsylvania, where he was born. If I can get hold of it, I’ll put it back on the market with Freeman’s, the leading auction house in the state.’

‘Cunning,’ said Christina. ‘Unless of course there are any Americans sitting in the room.’

‘We’re about to find out,’ said Beth as the auctioneer announced, ‘Lot thirty-four, the Andrew Wyeth. What am I bid?’

‘Will you—’

‘Shush!’ said Beth.

‘I’m looking for an opening bid of five thousand pounds. Five thousand?’ he repeated, several times.

‘Why aren’t you bidding?’ asked Christina.

‘Shush,’ repeated Beth.

‘Do I see four thousand?’ he asked, trying not to sound desperate. Just when it looked as if he would have to call the lot in, Beth slowly raised her paddle. Her heart was at it again, and it only started to return to normal when the auctioneer’s hammer eventually came down and he said, ‘Sold, for four thousand pounds to the lady seated on the aisle.’ Beth raised her paddle a second time so that the auctioneer could record her paddle number on his sales sheet.

‘That’s it for today,’ said Beth, getting up from her place. As she and Christina were making their way out of the sales room, a man rushed past them and grabbed her seat. ‘A good morning’s work,’ declared Beth, before walking across to the sales counter and writing out a cheque for £4,400.

‘So if you sell it for anything over four thousand four hundred, we’ll make a profit,’ said Christina as they stepped out onto Bond Street.

‘I wish,’ said Beth. ‘We first have to cover the packing costs, shipping and insurance, not to mention the American auctioneer’s seller’s premium. Five thousand would be nearer the mark before we can even start thinking about a profit.’

They had only walked a few more yards when they heard a voice behind them shouting, ‘Mrs Warwick?’

Beth turned to see the man who had seemed in such a hurry when he’d passed them in the aisle. He came to a halt, and caught his breath before saying in a broad American accent, ‘I got held up at a board meeting. I’d intended to bid for the Wyeth, and wondered, if you’re a dealer, would you consider selling it to me? I’d be willing to pay five thousand.’

Beth shook her head.

‘Six thousand?’

Beth waited long enough for him to say seven, and was just about to accept his offer when Christina said firmly, ‘No, thank you,’ and began to walk away. He immediately left Beth and chased after Christina. ‘Eight?’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t sell it for ten thousand,’ said Christina. ‘It will fit in so well with my collection.’

‘Eleven,’ said the American, still breathing heavily.

‘Thirteen,’ said Christina, finally coming to a halt.

‘Twelve,’ he countered.

‘Twelve thousand four hundred, and it’s yours.’

The American took out his cheque book and asked, ‘Who do I make it out to?’

‘Mrs Beth Warwick,’ said Christina, without hesitation.

He wrote out the cheque and handed it to Christina before bowing low and leaving them with a smile on his face.

‘So now we’ve made a profit of eight thousand,’ said Christina.

‘You’re a witch,’ said Beth.

‘Of course I am, but then I was taught by the head of the coven.’

‘Miles isn’t that bad.’

‘I wasn’t referring to Miles,’ said Christina, smiling at her friend.

It took Faulkner and Lamont just over an hour to transfer the cash from one large safe-deposit box to another. After he’d checked the final amount, Miles realized Booth Watson must have helped himself to another £126,000 along the way, clearly having made several more visits to the bank during the last few weeks, accompanied by his Gladstone bag. Miles now knew the real reason BW wanted him to plead guilty; it would give his lawyer more than enough time to remove every last penny both from his business account and safe-deposit boxes before he was finally released.

As Lamont returned the empty box to its place, Miles extracted a fifty-pound note from his wallet and dropped it inside. ‘Wouldn’t want BW to go away empty-handed, would we?’

Lamont’s thin smile turned into a broad grin when Miles took ten thousand pounds from the full safe-deposit box and handed it to him.

‘I’ll deposit another ten thousand in your account tomorrow, as long as I’m in bed before lights out.’

Miles locked the box, put the key in his pocket and pressed the green button by the reinforced door, which immediately sprang open. He stepped out into the corridor, barely acknowledging the security guard as he headed back towards the lift. When the door slid open, Miles stepped inside and hit the number 5 button with a vengeance. Lamont joined him just in time.

They returned to the manager’s office on the fifth floor, to find all the necessary paperwork had been completed, and all Miles had to do was add his signature. He double-checked all three documents, and once he’d signed them, he handed his pen to Lamont and invited him to witness his signature. Miles knew this would ensure Lamont kept his mouth shut if he didn’t want to end up sharing the same cell as the beneficiary.

‘When you next see my esteemed lawyer,’ Miles said as he handed back the old key to Cotterill, ‘be sure to give him my best wishes.’

‘And if he should ask—’

‘Simply tell him I gave ex-superintendent Lamont my power of attorney while I was away.’

Once Miles and Lamont had returned to the ground floor, they left the bank without a backward glance and headed straight for the car. Lamont cursed as he removed a parking ticket from the windscreen.

‘Make sure you pay it,’ said Miles. ‘It’s always the little mistakes that catch you out.’ Before Lamont could comment, he added, ‘Let’s get moving. We still have one more important job to do.’

‘The Connaught Hotel. How may I help you?’

‘Please put me through to Mr Lee’s apartment.’

‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘Booth Watson.’

‘I’ll put you through, Mr Watson.’

BW didn’t bother to correct her as he waited to be connected.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Booth Watson,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I trust you’re well.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Lee. And you?’

‘I am indeed,’ said Lee, who considered that having dealt with the English niceties of small talk, he was now entitled to move on. ‘Have you had an opportunity to discuss my offer with your client?’

‘I most certainly have,’ said Booth Watson. ‘To my surprise, Mr Faulkner is willing to accept your offer of one hundred million dollars for his collection, and has asked me to handle all the details.’

‘I’m delighted to hear that, Mr Booth Watson. So how would you like to proceed?’

‘If you tell me where you want the pictures delivered, I’ll organize the packing and insurance, and have them transported to Hong Kong.’

‘Jardine Matheson have a large warehouse facility in Kowloon where the paintings can be stored. Once I’ve inspected them, I’ll transfer the money to your account the following day.’

‘That sounds most satisfactory, Mr Lee. I’ll be back in touch once the paintings have been shipped so we can complete the transaction.’

‘I look forward to seeing you in Hong Kong, Mr Booth Watson. Please pass on my best wishes to your client.’

‘I most certainly will,’ said Booth Watson.

‘What did you make of that?’ asked Mai Ling, after her father had put the phone down.

‘He certainly hasn’t taken advice from his client as he claimed. Faulkner would never part with his collection for a hundred million dollars, even if he was on death row. No, Mr Booth Watson allowed just enough time to pass before he called me back to tell me something he’d already planned even before he’d met me.’

‘Do you think the pictures will ever turn up in Hong Kong?’

‘Not a hope,’ said Mr Lee. ‘In fact, when Mr Booth Watson next visits his storage facility at Gatwick, I have a feeling he’ll find the cupboard is bare.’

‘But if you hadn’t agreed to me visiting Mr Faulkner at Belmarsh, Father, you could have got hold of his entire collection for one hundred million.’

‘If I’m going to make an enemy, my child, I would rather it was Booth Watson than Miles Faulkner.’

Ross walked onto the bridge and joined the captain.

‘Can I borrow your binoculars for a moment, skipper?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest, Inspector.’

Ross turned back and scanned the beach about half a mile away. It didn’t take him long to spot a lone figure lying flat on his stomach, his long-lens camera focused on two swimmers splashing around by the side of the yacht, who appeared blissfully unaware of his presence.

Like a fisherman, the photographer would wait patiently for Diana to return to the yacht and embrace her lover. He knew it was only a matter of time before he landed the picture he wanted. An embrace would be worth several thousand pounds, a kiss — not on the cheek — twenty-five thousand. How Ross despised him.

‘I’m going to have a word with Mr Chalabi,’ said Ross.

‘Rather you than me,’ said the captain. Ross left the bridge and made his way down to the main deck, where he found Chalabi lying on a lounger, a pair of dark glasses shielding his eyes from the midday sun. An abandoned paperback had fallen by his side while he snoozed.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Chalabi,’ he said.

Chalabi slowly came to, removed his glasses and looked up at the intruder.

‘I thought you would want to know that there’s a photographer on the beach taking pictures of the Princess and Lady Victoria swimming.’

‘Perhaps I should join them,’ he said, glancing over the side and not bothering to suppress a grin.

‘It might be wiser, sir,’ suggested Ross, ‘if we were to move to a more secluded spot, where he won’t bother you.’

‘He’s not bothering me. And as you can see, the Princess is clearly enjoying herself, so why don’t we leave her in peace?’

‘But that’s the point, sir. She’s not being left in peace.’

‘That’s for me to decide, Inspector, not you, and this time you won’t be able to stop him.’

Ross clenched a fist.

‘I may have to tolerate you being on my yacht, but you’d do well to remember you’re nothing more than a butler with a gun.’

As the Volvo pulled into the parking lot beside a warehouse in Lambeth, Miles was relieved to see the removal van had already arrived, and half a dozen appropriately clad men were unloading its contents. However, he still had to hang around for another hour, and sign even more forms, before the last painting was safely deposited in its rack and the doors to his collection’s new abode had been double-locked.

Another £500 changed hands before the storage manager was willing to hand over two large keys, which would allow Miles to enter his own private code and ensure that no one else could remove the paintings without his knowledge.

Once Miles had pocketed the keys, he joined the storage manager who was dividing the spoils among his crew, and said, ‘If anyone should ask—’

‘My boys never saw nothin’. Nice to have done business with you, Mr...’ he hesitated, ‘Booth Watson.’

Miles joined Lamont in the car, its engine already turning over. ‘We’re going to have to get a move on,’ he said as he took off his jacket and checked his watch, ‘if we’re going to be back in under two hours and eleven minutes.’

Lamont took off, but the rush-hour traffic prevented him reaching the motorway for another forty-two minutes.

‘To hell with the speed limit,’ said Miles, finally giving in.

Although the speedometer rarely dipped below 90 mph, Lamont only managed to reach the layby near the prison with seventeen minutes to spare.

Miles, who had already changed back into his gym kit and trainers in the car, jumped out and set off at a pace that barely raised a sweat. Gone were the days when he could run a mile in under five minutes. By the time he reached the copse just outside the prison grounds, he was exhausted. He quickly retrieved his jeans and sweater from under the bramble bush and hurriedly pulled them on. He checked carefully in every direction before venturing out into no man’s land, relieved to find some friendly clouds were masking a full moon that would have alerted a patrolling officer to a moving figure on the wrong side of the demarcation zone.

An anxious cleaner was waiting for him by the fire escape door, and quickly pushed up the bar to let him in. Miles wearily climbed the stone steps to the second floor, and when he was only a few yards from his room, the lights went out. He fumbled with several keys before he managed to find the right one to open the door. When the lock finally turned, he almost fell inside.

Before he had time to undress, he heard the night officer advancing along the corridor on his round to check that every prisoner was safely tucked up after lights out.

Miles slipped into bed, pulled the blanket up to his neck and closed his eyes.

There was a gentle tap at the door. The duty officer looked inside and flashed his torch over the bed. ‘Hope you’re feeling better, Mr Faulkner,’ he said, before quickly switching off the torch.

‘A lot better, thank you, officer.’ Miles waited for the door to close before he got back out of bed, took off his clothes and hid four keys under his pillow, before falling asleep.

Superintendent Warwick and DS Adaja sat in an unmarked car in a layby a hundred yards from the prison.

‘Are we going to give him a wake-up call?’ asked Paul when the lights in C block went out.

‘No. We owe him one,’ replied William. ‘But if he hadn’t come back, I would have happily arrested him.’

‘And if he tries it on again?’

‘He won’t need to. But I’d love to see Booth Watson’s face next time he turns up at the bank.’