Nothing Ventured

17

‘Good cop, bad cop has become a bit of a cliché,’ said Lamont as he and William were driven out of Scotland Yard on their way to Pentonville. ‘And in our case, a five-year-old could work out which was which. Nevertheless, we need to decide what we’re trying to achieve at this meeting.’

‘Surely our first priority,’ said William as the traffic came to a halt in Trafalgar Square, ‘should be to find out whether or not The Syndics has been destroyed, and if it hasn’t, where it is now.’

‘That wouldn’t be my first priority, laddie,’ said Lamont, his Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. ‘I want to prove the link between Leigh and Miles Faulkner, because I’d sacrifice half my pension to put that man behind bars.’

I’d give up my entire pension to have been born with Eddie Leigh’s talent, thought William, as the car drove onto Kingsway, but he didn’t express his opinion.

‘So let’s discuss tactics,’ said Lamont. ‘I’ll lead the interrogation, and if I sit back, it means you should take over. But don’t interrupt me before then, because I know the exact line of inquiry I want to pursue.’

‘What happens if he goes off in a direction neither of us had anticipated?’

‘That’s unlikely. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with a con who will have worked out exactly what he’s going to say long before he sees us.’

Once again, William didn’t offer an opinion.

‘And if I start to bargain with him, keep schtum. The Hawk has made it clear just how far I can go.’

‘What’s the worst-case scenario?’ William asked as the car turned left into Grays Inn Road.

‘That he refuses to answer any of our questions, in which case the interview will be over in a few minutes, and we’ll have wasted our time.’

‘This will be my first prison visit,’ William volunteered, after neither of them had spoken for some time.

Lamont smiled. ‘Mine was a jolly Irishman who made me laugh with his stories of the Emerald Isle.’

‘What was he in for?’

‘Robbing a post office, which turned out to be quite hard to prove, because he never even made it to the counter, and his only weapon was a cucumber. Luckily he pleaded guilty.’

‘More, more,’ demanded William.

‘Another time,’ said Lamont as they drew up outside HMP Pentonville.

‘You couldn’t blame Her Majesty,’ mused William, ‘if she decided she could do without prisons in her portfolio.’

‘If she did, she might have to do without Buckingham Palace in that same portfolio,’ said Lamont as the car swung into the Caledonian Road.

William stared beyond the high wall at a forbidding brick building that dominated the landscape.

The car came to a halt at the barrier, and a uniformed officer stepped forward. Lamont wound down his window and produced his warrant card.

‘Mr. Langley is expecting you, sir,’ said the man, after inspecting the card. ‘If you’ll park over there, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.’

The driver slipped into the first available space and turned off the engine.

‘I can’t be sure how long we’ll be, Matt,’ said Lamont to the driver, who was taking a paperback out of the glove compartment. ‘But when we get back, you can let me know if the latest Len Deighton is worth taking on holiday this year.’

‘It’s the third in a trilogy, sir, so I recommend you start with the first, Berlin Game.’

As they got out of the car, they were approached by a senior prison officer whose name tag on the pocket of his uniform read ‘SO Langley.’

‘How are you, Bruce?’

‘Can’t complain, Reg. This is DC Warwick. Keep your eye on him. He’s after my job.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said William, as they shook hands.

‘Follow me,’ said Langley. ‘I apologize for the excessive security procedures, but they’re standard in any Cat. B prison.’

They both signed the register at the gatehouse, before being issued with visitors’ passes. William counted five sets of barred gates that were locked and unlocked before they came across their first prisoner.

‘Leigh’s waiting for you in the interview room, but let me warn you, Bruce, he’s been particularly uncooperative this morning. As you’ve nicked him on three occasions in the past, I don’t suppose you’re his favorite uncle.’

William noticed as they walked down a long green brick corridor that the cons either turned their backs on them, usually accompanied by an expletive, or simply ignored them. But there was one exception, a middle-aged man who stopped mopping the floor to take a closer look at the man. William thought there was something familiar about him, and wondered if he’d arrested him at some time when he was on the beat in Lambeth.

William couldn’t hide his surprise when they came to a halt outside a large glass cube that looked more like a modern sculpture than an interview room. Inside he could see a prisoner sitting at a table, head bowed, who he assumed must be Eddie Leigh.

‘Before you ask,’ said Lamont, pointing at the glass cube, ‘that’s as much for your protection as his. When I was a young sergeant, I was once accused of punching a prisoner during an interrogation. It’s true that I wanted to punch him, but I didn’t,’ he paused, ‘on that occasion.’

‘Coffee and biscuits?’ said Langley.

‘Give us a few minutes with him first, Reg,’ said Lamont.

William and Lamont entered the room and sat down opposite Leigh. No suggestion of handcuffs or an officer sanding behind him. A privilege afforded only to those with no record of violence. Leigh must have waived his right to have a solicitor present.

William looked carefully at the prisoner seated on the other side of the table. At first glance, the forty-seven-year-old forger looked like any other con, dressed in the regulation prison garb of blue striped shirt and well-worn jeans. He was unshaven, with dark hair and brown eyes, but what surprised William was his hands. How could a man with bricklayers’ hands produce such delicate brushwork? And then he spoke, revealing that he hailed from the same part of the world as Lamont.

‘Can you spare us a fag, guv?’ he asked politely.

Lamont placed a packet of cigarettes on the table, extracted one and handed it to the prisoner. He even lit it for him. The first bribe had been offered and accepted.

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Lamont,’ he said as if they’d never met before, ‘and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Warwick.’ Leigh didn’t even glance at William. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Leigh didn’t respond, other than to exhale a large cloud of gray smoke.

‘We are investigating the theft of a Rembrandt painting from the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington, some seven years ago. We have recently come across a copy which we have reason to believe was painted by you.’

Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but said nothing.

‘Did you paint that picture?’ asked Lamont.

Leigh still made no attempt to respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.

‘If you cooperate with us,’ said Lamont, ‘we might be willing to make a favorable recommendation to the Parole Board when you come up in front of them in a couple of months’ time.’

Still nothing. William began to realize, as he looked into Leigh’s sullen eyes, just how far Miles Faulkner’s tentacles stretched.

‘On the other hand, if you don’t cooperate, we can also report that to the Board. The choice is yours.’

Even this didn’t appear to move Leigh. A few seconds later the door opened and a trusty prisoner entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table before leaving quickly. Leigh grabbed a mug of black coffee, dropped in four sugar lumps, and began to stir. Lamont sat back in his chair.

‘Mr. Leigh,’ said William, aware that no prison officer would have addressed him as Mr. during the past four years, ‘as it’s clear that you have no intention of answering any of our questions, I’d just like to say something before we leave.’ Lamont added another lump of sugar to his coffee. ‘I’m an art nut, a groupie, call it what you will, but more important, I’m a huge admirer of your work.’ Leigh turned to look at William for the first time, as a large piece of ash fell off the end of his cigarette and onto the table. ‘Your Vermeer, Girl at a Virginal, was certainly accomplished, although I wasn’t surprised it didn’t fool the leading Dutch scholars, particularly Mr. Ernst van de Wetering. But the copy of The Syndics is unquestionably a work of genius. It’s currently in our office at Scotland Yard, and I’m reluctant to return it to Miles Faulkner, who claims it’s his. It’s just a pity you weren’t born in Amsterdam three hundred years ago, when you could have been a pupil of the master, even a master yourself. If I had a fraction of your talent, I wouldn’t have bothered to join the police force.’

Leigh continued to stare at William, no longer smoking.

‘May I ask you a question that has nothing to do with our inquiry?’

Leigh nodded.

‘I can’t work out how you managed the yellow effect on the Syndics’ sashes.’

It was some time before Leigh said, ‘Egg yolk.’

‘Yes, of course, how stupid of me,’ said William, well aware that Rembrandt had experimented with the yolks of gulls’ eggs when mixing his pigments.

‘But why didn’t you add Rembrandt’s familiar RvR? That was the one thing that made me realize it wasn’t the original.’

Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but this time he didn’t respond, probably fearing he’d already gone too far. William waited for a few more moments, before he accepted that Leigh wasn’t going to answer any more questions.

‘Thank you. I’d just like to say what an honor it’s been to meet you.’

Leigh ignored him, looked at Lamont, and said, ‘Can I have another fag?’

‘Keep the packet,’ said Lamont, before he turned and nodded to SO Langley, to indicate that the interview was over.

Langley joined them in the glass box. ‘Back to your cell, Leigh, and be sharp about it.’

Leigh rose slowly from his place, put the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, then leaned across the table and shook hands with William. Lamont couldn’t hide his surprise. Nobody spoke until Leigh had left the room.

‘There can’t be any doubt he painted the copy,’ said Lamont, ‘which makes me all the more convinced it was Faulkner who was responsible for the theft. Did you notice that Leigh’s hands trembled at just the mention of his name? Congratulations, William.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And Reg, are you still listening in on Leigh’s telephone conversations?’

‘Yes. Every Thursday evening, six o’clock, and always to his wife.’

‘Any further mention of the Picasso?’ asked William.

‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Reg.

‘Of course not,’ said Lamont. ‘Leigh wouldn’t risk repeating the message twice, so the Hawk will have to decide if that is enough for us to mount a full operation.’

‘I would,’ said William.

‘You haven’t got his job yet, laddie.’

The first thing William did after they’d returned to Scotland Yard was to look up a number in the S — Z telephone directory.

‘This is Detective Constable Warwick,’ he told the girl who answered the phone. ‘Can you tell me if an Edward Leigh was ever a student at the Slade? It would probably have been around the early 1960s.’

‘Give me a moment, Mr. Warwick, and I’ll look up the name.’ A few minutes later she came back on the line. ‘Yes, he graduated with honors in 1962. In fact, he won the founder’s prize that year, and his one-man show was a sellout.’

‘Thank you, that’s most helpful.’ William put the phone down, and smiled after he checked another file that confirmed Faulkner had attended the Slade between 1960 and 1963. Fred Yates had taught him never to believe in coincidences.

William spent the next hour writing up his report on the visit to Pentonville. After putting it on Lamont’s desk, he checked his watch. Although it was only 5:30, he felt he could leave before the light under the Hawk’s door was switched off.

He grabbed his coat and was about to slink out when Jackie said, ‘Have a good weekend. You’ve earned it.’

‘Thanks,’ said William, who couldn’t wait to see Beth, and tell her there was just a possibility she might be reunited with the other man in her life.

Back at his room in Trenchard House, he showered and changed into more casual clothes. He was looking forward to a weekend of debauchery. Well, his idea of debauchery — a meal at Elena’s, a couple of glasses of red wine, a run around Hyde Park in the morning, and the latest film in the evening — anything that didn’t have cops in it — and tucked up in bed with Beth by eleven.

He decided to walk to Beth’s so he could pick up some flowers on the way. By the time he reached her front door, he could feel his heartbeat quickening. He knocked twice and a moment later Jez appeared, looked at the flowers, and said, ‘Are those for me?’

‘You wish.’

‘But Beth’s gone away for the weekend.’

‘What? I thought that—’

‘She asked me to apologize. Something came up at the last minute. She’ll call you as soon as she gets back.’

‘Then they are for you,’ said William, thrusting the flowers into his hands.

Jez watched as the forlorn suitor turned around and walked slowly away, shoulders slumped. He closed the door and returned to the sitting room, where he handed the flowers to Beth and said, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told him the truth?’