Nothing Ventured

27

If it was all in the timing, as Christina Faulkner suggested to William, then she made one fatal error. She instructed her solicitor to issue a writ for divorce on December 22. The petition landed on Booth Watson’s desk on the 24th.

Booth Watson wasn’t surprised by the timing, as he assumed Mrs. Faulkner had chosen the date in a clumsy attempt to spoil his client’s Christmas. He decided not to contact Miles until he returned to his chambers on December 28. After all, what difference would a few days make? He locked the petition in his safe and went home.

Mike Harrison called Mrs. Faulkner from Melbourne on December 27, to report that her husband had spent the day in a hospitality box at the MCG, watching the second day of the Test match. After stumps, he’d gone to dinner with friends and picked up his room key from reception just after midnight.

‘Was he alone?’ asked Christina.

‘No, he was with a young lady who works as a cocktail waitress in the hospitality suite. I have a photograph and a name.’

‘Thank you, Mike.’

Harrison then called DCI Lamont at the Yard and repeated the same message before going to bed.

Booth Watson returned to his chambers just after ten o’clock on the morning of the 28th, pleased that Christmas was over and he could get back to work. He read the divorce petition a second time, aware that the grounds were a real concern. Faulkner’s wife had clearly been preparing the petition for some time, as several women were named. He decided to call his client and let him know the news of his impending divorce, although he suspected it would not come as much of a surprise.

He first phoned Limpton Hall, but there was no reply, so he assumed Makins must still be on holiday. If he’d made the call an hour later, Mrs. Faulkner would have answered. He next called the Faulkners’ home in Monte Carlo, and a maid picked up the phone. Clearly English wasn’t her first language.

‘May I speak to Monsieur Faulkner?’ he asked.

‘No here.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Booth Watson, enunciating each word slowly.

‘No. Young man say Australia.’

Booth Watson wrote on his pad: Australia/young man.

‘And is Mrs. Faulkner there?’ he asked just as slowly.

‘No, Madame fly home.’

‘Home?’

‘Angleterre.’

‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Most helpful.’

He wondered what Miles could possibly be doing in Australia, and in which city he might be. Reg Bates, the chambers’ head clerk, came to his rescue.

‘Has to be Melbourne, sir. He’ll be watching the second Test.’

Booth Watson had no interest in cricket, and simply instructed the head clerk to find his client.

Bates spent the rest of the morning calling all the leading hotels in Melbourne, and by the time Booth Watson had returned from lunch he found a yellow Post-it on his desk with the details. He immediately called the Sofitel and asked to be put through to Miles Faulkner’s suite.

‘Before I do, sir,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘are you aware it’s one thirty in the morning?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted Booth Watson. ‘I’ll call back later.’

After he’d hung up, he did some calculations, and decided he would try again when he got home that evening.

Miles Faulkner was shaving when the phone rang in his suite, but he abandoned his razor when he heard Booth Watson’s resonant tones. Whenever BW called it was rarely good news. Faulkner sat on the end of the bed and listened to what his lawyer had to say.

‘Is there any reason I should hurry back, BW?’ he asked after Booth Watson had informed him about the writ. ‘The Test match is finely balanced. I’d planned on flying up to Sydney to celebrate the New Year, so wouldn’t be home before the third at the earliest.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got fourteen days to acknowledge receipt of the petition, so we can deal with it when you get back.’

‘Good. Then I’ll call you in a couple of weeks’ time. Anything else?’

‘Yes, there was something. It seems your wife spent Christmas in Monte Carlo with a young man. By the time you return, I’ll have his name and all the details. It might prove helpful when it comes to making a settlement in claim.’

‘Put a private detective onto it straight away,’ said Faulkner.

‘I already have,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and you should assume your wife’s done the same thing.’

‘Any good news?’ asked Miles.

‘I’ve handed over the Renoir to Standard Life, and they’ve transferred half a million to your account in the Cayman Islands.’

‘Half a million Christina won’t be able to get her hands on.’

‘Enjoy the Test match, and call me the moment you’re back.’

Miles put the phone down and finished shaving. After the cocktail waitress — whose name he couldn’t remember — had left, he decided to find out if his wife was still in Monte Carlo.

The maid was able to go into far greater detail with her boss than she had with Booth Watson, but then Faulkner spoke fluent French. He asked when Madame had left for England, and she replied, ‘I’m not sure, sir. All I know is she followed the van down to the yacht.’

‘What van?’ demanded Faulkner.

‘The removal van that came to take away all your pictures.’

Miles slammed the phone down, then immediately picked it back up again.

‘I’m checking out,’ he told the receptionist on the front desk. ‘Get me on the first available flight to London, I don’t care which airline.’

‘But Australia look like winning—’ she began.

‘Fuck Australia.’

Mike Harrison called Mrs. Faulkner’s number in Monte Carlo and was also told by the maid, ‘Madame fly home.’ He next tried Limpton Hall, but there was no reply. He finally called the commander, who was at his desk.

‘Faulkner’s booked onto a Qantas flight to Heathrow that lands at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That wasn’t part of his original plan.’

‘That’s all I need,’ said Hawksby. ‘And I have no way of getting in touch with DC Warwick to warn him.’

When Christina Faulkner’s plane touched down at Heathrow, she was picked up by her husband’s chauffeur and driven to Limpton Hall, where she had a light supper before going to bed. After all, she had a busy day ahead of her.

William was sitting in a deck chair sunning himself and enjoying a glass of Pinot Grigio when Faulkner’s plane took off on its twenty-three-hour journey to London. He had a clear view of the entry to the hold, which no one had gone near for the past two days. But then why should they? The sun was shining, the sea was calm, and he didn’t have a care in the world.

At nine o’clock the following morning, a Bishop’s Move removal van drew up outside the front door. The loaders took their time packing the sixty-nine artworks into crates before loading them onto the van. After a long lunch break they set off for Southampton.

‘Do not, under any circumstances, go more than thirty miles an hour,’ Christina instructed the driver. ‘We can’t risk damaging any of the pictures.’

‘Whatever you say, madam,’ he replied, only too pleased to oblige, as it guaranteed that he and his men would clock up more overtime.

Christina enjoyed a leisurely lunch in a dining room surrounded by picture hooks. She set off for Southampton just after three, but then she wasn’t in any hurry as the Christina wasn’t due to dock until later that evening. She did hope Miles was enjoying his cricket match. She had been pleased to read in the Mail that morning how finely balanced the game was.

Miles Faulkner cleared customs at Heathrow just after two o’clock. He had considered calling Limpton Hall from the first-class lounge at Melbourne airport and asking his driver to pick him up, but he decided against the idea as it might alert Christina to his unscheduled return.

He made a taxi driver happy when he asked ‘Where to, guv?’ and received the reply, ‘Limpton in Hampshire. And you can double the fare if you make it in under an hour.’

Mike Harrison had traveled on the same plane as Faulkner, but not in the same class. He didn’t follow his mark out of the terminal, as he considered it was more important to contact Mrs. Faulkner and warn her that her husband was on his way to Limpton Hall. But there was no reply.

He then rang Scotland Yard, and asked to be put through to DCI Lamont.

‘DS Roycroft,’ said a voice.

‘Hi, Jackie, it’s Mike Harrison. Can I have a word with Bruce?’

‘He set off for Southampton with Commander Hawksby just over an hour ago, Mike.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harrison. ‘Good to know you’re back, Jackie,’ he added.

‘On probation, more like,’ said Jackie before putting down the phone.

Harrison made another taxi driver happy when he told him ‘Southampton.’

It took well over an hour before Faulkner was dropped off at Limpton Hall, but then he knew the cabbie had no chance of getting there in under an hour.

‘Hang about,’ he said as he jumped out of the cab. ‘I may not be long.’

He ran up the steps and unlocked the front door. When he walked into the hall, he felt sick. No Constable, no Turner. She’d even removed the Henry Moore. He walked slowly around the house, horrified by the extent of her looting, to find only dark rectangles and squares where pictures had once hung, and empty stands where sculptures had proudly been displayed. But the final humiliation came when he entered the drawing room, and saw the one painting she’d left behind. Eddie Leigh’s copy of the Rembrandt was still hanging above the fireplace. If Christina had walked into the room at that moment, he would have happily strangled her. He ran back out of the house and shouted at the driver, ‘The front gates.’

The taxi accelerated down the long drive, coming to a halt by the entrance gates. Faulkner leaped out and ran into the gatehouse.

‘Have you seen Mrs. Faulkner today?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, after checking his list of arrivals and departures. ‘She left just over an hour ago.’

‘Left for where?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘What about them,’ said Faulkner, placing a finger on the words Bishop’s Move, arrived 8:55 a.m., departed 2:04 p.m. ‘Where were they going?’

‘No idea, sir,’ repeated the hapless guard.

Faulkner grabbed the phone, and it took him two calls and a lot of threatening before an area manager reluctantly gave him the information he wanted. He leaped back in the taxi and said ‘Southampton,’ without bothering to look at the ticking meter. The cabbie couldn’t believe his luck.

The commander sat alone in the back of the lead car. They were followed by a Black Maria with six constables and a sergeant on board. Bringing up the rear was a Wolseley with DCI Lamont in the driving seat. Mob-handed was how Lamont had described the exercise, but the Hawk wasn’t going to take any risks.

The little convoy kept to the inside lane of the motorway, and although they never once exceeded the speed limit, they still managed to reach the exit for Southampton docks with a couple of hours to spare.

Hawksby immediately reported to the harbor master, who confirmed that the MV Christina was due to dock at quay 29 around seven that evening. The commander then handed the harbor master a special warrant which authorized the removal of one specific crate from the yacht, without interference or inspection by customs and excise.

‘Must be the Crown Jewels,’ said the harbor master, after he’d studied the warrant.

‘Not far off,’ said Hawksby. ‘But all I can tell you is that it has to be handled with the utmost care, and its contents mustn’t be exposed to sunlight.’

‘Sounds like Dracula.’

‘No, that’s the present owner,’ said Hawksby.

‘Can I help in any way?’

‘It wouldn’t do any harm to have a couple of your boys hanging around, just in case there’s any trouble.’

‘Brains or brawn?’

‘Two of each, if possible.’

‘Consider it done. They’ll be with you half an hour before the Christina is due to dock. I think I’ll come along myself,’ he said. ‘Sounds as if it might be interesting.’ Hawksby climbed back into his car, and the small convoy made its way across to quay 29 to await the arrival of the six Syndics who were resting peacefully in the hold of the Christina.

Everyone was in place and waiting impatiently when a Bentley appeared on the dockside and parked about fifty yards away.

‘Who the hell—?’ said Lamont.

‘Has to be Mrs. Faulkner,’ said Hawksby. ‘Just ignore her. As long as the Rembrandt is handed over, it’s none of our business what she does with the rest of her husband’s art collection, although I hope for her sake she knows he’s back in the country.’

‘Should we inform her?’ asked Lamont.

‘Also none of our business,’ said Hawksby.

‘And what are they doing here?’ asked Lamont as a large Bishop’s Move van proceeded slowly along the dockside and came to a halt behind the Bentley.

‘Not hard to guess what’s inside,’ said Hawksby, as the driver climbed down from his cab and walked across to the Bentley.

Mrs. Faulkner wound down her window.

‘What the hell are that lot doin’ here?’ the driver demanded, pointing at the three police vehicles.

‘They’re picking up a crate from my husband’s yacht before returning it to its rightful owner in London. Once it’s been handed over, they’ll be on their way and you can start loading the paintings on board.’

‘What are the cops so interested in?’

‘Six gentlemen from Amsterdam, who left the country several years ago without a visa.’

‘Very funny,’ said the driver, who returned to the van without another word.

Christina was winding the window back up when a black taxi appeared. Mike Harrison paid off the cabbie, and then quickly joined his client in the back of her Bentley, without acknowledging any of his former colleagues.

‘I think I can see our Dutch friends,’ said Lamont, who had a pair of binoculars trained on the harbor entrance. He passed them to Hawksby.

‘How long do you estimate before they’re with us?’ Hawksby asked the harbor master, while keeping his eyes focused on the Christina.

‘Twenty minutes, thirty at the most.’

‘I’ve just spotted Warwick standing on the bridge,’ said Hawksby. ‘Do you suppose he’s taken over?’

‘Or been clapped in irons,’ said Lamont. ‘Either way, I’d better put the troops on standby.’

The commander, the harbor master, DCI Lamont, a sergeant and six constables, Mrs. Faulkner, Mike Harrison, and the loaders from the removal van watched as the MV Christina drew closer and closer, until it finally came alongside and tied up at the dock. William was the first person to come running down the gangway.

‘We’re all set, sir. The crate should be unloaded in a few minutes.’

‘Then we’ll—’ began Hawksby as a second taxi raced past them and screeched to a halt beside the yacht. Faulkner leaped out, ran up the gangway, stopped, and exchanged a few words with the captain before they disappeared into the hold.

‘Don’t move,’ Hawksby said to William, who was champing to get back on board. ‘If our crate isn’t unloaded, we’ve got him bang to rights.’

‘But—’

‘Be patient, William. He’s not going anywhere. Harbor master, if they were to make a run for it...’

‘They wouldn’t get as far as the harbor entrance before my men cut them off.’

‘So if they even consider unmooring,’ said Hawksby to William, ‘you have my permission to go back on board and arrest Faulkner.’

‘It doesn’t look as if that’s going to be necessary,’ said Lamont, as four of the crew emerged from the hold carrying a large crate. It took them some time to carry it across the deck, down the narrow gangway, and onto the dockside.

Hawksby took his time checking the label: PROPERTY OF THE FITZMOLEAN MUSEUM, PRINCE ALBERT CRESCENT, LONDON SW7. TO BE COLLECTED. He nodded, and four constables took the place of the four crewmen. ‘Put it in the back of the van,’ ordered Hawksby, ‘and don’t let it out of your sight.’

The four young constables lifted up the crate and, like crabs, began to edge their way slowly toward the Black Maria.

‘OK, Bruce,’ said Hawksby. ‘I think you’ve earned the right to lead the convoy back to London. Warwick, you can join me. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

William didn’t move. He was still watching Miles Faulkner, who was standing on the bridge, looking smug as members of the crew began preparing for an imminent departure.

‘Let’s go, Warwick. We’ve got what we came for.’

‘I’m not so sure we have, sir.’

‘But we have our crate. You saw the label.’

‘Yes, I saw the label, but I’m not convinced we’ve got the right crate? Do you have the authority, sir, to open any crate on board?’

‘No,’ said Hawksby. ‘We’d need a search warrant for that.’

‘But I have the authority,’ said the harbor master, heading toward the gangway, with William only a pace behind. Hawksby and Lamont were left to chase after them.

William went straight to the hold, to be faced with eighty crates of varying sizes. ‘One must have been relabeled,’ he announced.

‘But which one?’ asked Hawksby.

‘Be my guest,’ said Faulkner as he strolled back into the hold, the captain following close behind. ‘But should you damage any of my priceless works, I can assure you the compensation bill will not be covered by your combined wages,’ he added with a smirk.

William took a closer look at Faulkner. If he’d expected a broken-nosed, muscle-bound, tattoo-covered thug, he could not have been more mistaken. Faulkner was tall, elegant, with a head of thick wavy fair hair and deep blue eyes. His warm smile explained why so many women had been so easily taken in. He wore a blazer and slacks, an open-necked white shirt and loafers, which gave him the look of an international playboy rather than a hardened criminal.

For the first time, William understood what the commander had meant when he said to wait until you meet the man.

‘Perhaps you’d be wise to remember what happened the last time you raided one of my properties,’ said Faulkner. ‘I was able to supply you with receipts for every one of my artworks. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you thought you’d got the Rembrandt that time too.’

William hesitated, as his eyes circled the hold, but he was none the wiser.

‘So which one do you want opened, detective constable?’ said Hawksby defiantly.

‘This one,’ said William, walking across to a large crate and tapping it firmly.

‘Are you absolutely convinced that’s the right one?’ said Faulkner.

‘Yes,’ said William, more out of bravado than conviction.

‘I see, commander, that a young rookie is now running your department,’ said Faulkner.

‘Open it,’ said Hawksby.

The harbor master stepped forward and, assisted by two of his team, began to extract the nails one by one until they were finally able to prise the crate open. Once they’d removed several layers of covering, they were greeted by six Syndics from Amsterdam, who peered back at them.

‘I’ve wanted to do this for years,’ said Hawksby. The commander stepped forward and told Faulkner he was under arrest, then read him his rights. Lamont thrust Faulkner’s hands behind his back, handcuffed him, and frogmarched him off the yacht as four constables carried the second crate slowly down the gangway before placing it carefully in the back of the Black Maria next to its unidentified companion.

‘How could you possibly have known which case the Rembrandt was in?’ Lamont asked William once they were back on shore.

‘I wasn’t absolutely sure,’ admitted William, ‘but it was the only one that had a large circular impression where the original label must have been. Faulkner obviously switched the labels, but he didn’t notice that the crate he chose was considerably larger than the one that contains the Rembrandt, or that a circular mark had been left on the Rembrandt’s crate where the original label must have been ripped off.’

‘You might make a detective after all,’ said Hawksby.

‘So what’s in the other crate?’ demanded Lamont.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said William. ‘We’ll only find out after it’s been delivered to the Fitzmolean as the label clearly instructs us to do.’

Mrs. Faulkner had remained in the Bentley observing the whole operation from a distance. She didn’t move until she saw Miles had been arrested, when she leaped out of her car and ran towards the dockside shouting, ‘Stop them! Stop them!’

Mike Harrison was only a yard behind as they both watched the Christina heading out of the harbor toward the open sea.

‘On what grounds?’ Harrison asked once he’d caught up with her.

‘They’ve still got my pictures on board.’

‘That would be quite hard to prove,’ said Harrison, ‘when the captain is probably only carrying out your husband’s orders.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ demanded Christina.

‘Yours, Mrs. Faulkner, and once your husband is safely locked up, I feel sure you’ll find a way of getting them all back.’

‘But he’ll come after me,’ protested Christina.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Harrison.

‘Right, lads,’ said Hawksby. ‘Time to return the Rembrandt to its rightful owner, along with whatever’s in the other crate.’

‘Sorry to bother you,’ said a man who looked even more distressed than Mrs. Faulkner. ‘But that bloke you’ve just arrested owes me two hundred and seventy-four pounds for his cab fare.’

‘Which I fear you won’t be seeing for some time,’ said Lamont. ‘I suggest you contact his lawyer, a Mr. Booth Watson QC at Lincoln’s Inn. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige you.’

‘A job well done, DC Warwick,’ said Hawksby, as William joined him in the back of his car, and the little convoy set off for London. ‘You can be proud of the role you played.’

William didn’t respond.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked the commander. ‘We’ve arrested Faulkner, and got the Rembrandt back, plus a possible bonus in the other crate that we couldn’t have expected. What more could you possibly ask for?’

‘Something’s not quite right,’ said William.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. But Faulkner was smiling when you arrested him.’