Nothing Ventured

6

Commander Hawksby sat at the head of the table, as befitted the chairman of the board. The other three directors waited for him to open the meeting.

‘I would like to begin by welcoming a new recruit to our team. Although DC Warwick doesn’t have a great deal of experience as a detective—’ that’s putting it mildly, thought William — ‘he has considerable expertise in the field of art, which was his chosen subject at university. In fact he turned down the chance to do a PhD so he could join the Met. So I’m rather hoping that his specialized knowledge will make a difference when it comes to finally nailing Miles Faulkner. Bruce,’ he said, turning to the senior officer on the case, ‘perhaps you can bring us up to date.’

Detective Chief Inspector Lamont had several files in front of him, but he didn’t need to open any of them as most of the contents were indelibly lodged in his mind. He looked directly at Detective Constable Warwick, as he didn’t have anything new to tell his two colleagues.

‘For the past seven years we’ve been trying to catch a thief who by any standards is a master criminal, and to date he’s been running rings around us. Miles Faulkner has developed an almost infallible system that allows him to steal major works of art and make a fortune without appearing to break the law.’ Several questions had already occurred to William, but he decided not to interrupt his new boss.

‘First, you’ll need to realize, Bill—’

‘William, sir.’

Lamont frowned. ‘You’ll need to realize that if you’ve ever seen the film The Thomas Crown Affair, you should dismiss it for what it is. Pure fiction. Entertaining, I accept, but nevertheless, fiction. Miles Faulkner is no Steve McQueen. He doesn’t steal masterpieces for the sheer pleasure of it and then hide them in his basement where he alone can spend hours admiring them. That’s for filmgoers who want to enjoy a couple of hours imagining what it would be like to fool our colleagues in Boston, while sleeping with a beautiful woman who just happens to be the insurance broker working on the case. Although that’s the one person in the film who does bear some similarity to the real world: the insurance broker — except in our case he’s more likely to be a middle-aged, middle-management pen pusher who goes home at six every evening to his wife and two children. And more important, he won’t be in Faulkner’s league.’

‘Still with us, Warwick?’ asked Hawksby.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you’ll be able to tell us what DCI Lamont is going to say next.’

‘That Faulkner steals valuable pictures from galleries or collectors with the intention of making a deal with the relevant insurance company, which is willing to settle for considerably less than the sum insured.’

‘Usually about half,’ said Lamont. ‘But Faulkner still ends up making a handsome profit.’

‘Clever as he may be,’ said William, ‘he can’t be carrying out such a complex operation on his own.’

‘No, he isn’t. He has a small, highly professional team working alongside him, but whenever we’ve caught any of his associates, they’ve kept their mouths firmly shut.’

‘On one occasion,’ said Detective Sergeant Roycroft, ‘we even caught two of the thieves red-handed. But Faulkner was in Monte Carlo at the time of the robbery, sleeping peacefully in bed with a wife to confirm his alibi.’

‘And do we think his wife is also one of his most trusted associates?’ asked William.

‘She’s covered for him several times in the past,’ said Hawksby, ‘but we’ve recently discovered that Faulkner has a mistress.’

‘That’s not yet a crime,’ said William.

‘True. But if she were to find out...’

‘Weren’t you able to turn either of the gang you arrested, and make a plea bargain?’ was William’s next question.

‘Not a chance,’ said Lamont. ‘Faulkner had an unsigned contract with both of them, with no get-out clause.’

‘They were both sentenced to six years,’ said Hawksby, picking up the thread, ‘and their families on the outside were well looked after, although we’ve never been able to connect the crime to Faulkner. A third villain, who was involved in the Fitzmolean break-in, had his lips sewn together just to remind him what would happen if he decided to turn Queen’s evidence.’

‘But if Faulkner is the fence...’

‘Faulkner, according to his tax return,’ said Lamont, ‘is a farmer. He lives in a nine-bedroom mansion in Hampshire surrounded by three hundred acres on which a few cows graze, but never go to market.’

‘But presumably someone has to carry out the negotiations with the insurance companies?’

‘Faulkner leaves that to another of his acolytes,’ said Lamont. ‘Mr. Booth Watson QC. A barrister who always acts on behalf of an unnamed client. However hard we press him, he simply reminds us about lawyer-client confidentiality.’

‘But if Booth Watson knows he’s dealing directly with a criminal, isn’t it his professional responsibility to report—’

‘We aren’t dealing with your father in this case, Warwick,’ said Hawksby, ‘but a man who has twice appeared before the Bar Council for conduct unworthy of his profession. On both occasions, he narrowly escaped being disbarred.’

‘But he still practices,’ said William.

‘Yes, but he rarely appears in court nowadays,’ said Hawksby, ‘having discovered a way of charging exorbitant fees without ever having to leave his chambers. Whenever a major work of art is stolen, it’s no coincidence that the first call the insurance company makes is to Mr. Booth Watson, who they ask to act as an intermediary. Surprise, surprise, the picture reappears a few days later in perfect condition, and the insurance company settles, often without even bothering to inform us.’

‘I find it hard to believe,’ said William, ‘that Faulkner’s enjoyed a seamless record of success. This sounds as much like the stuff of fiction as The Thomas Crown Affair.’

‘Quite right,’ said Hawksby. ‘At least one of the more established insurance companies has refused to pay the piper, and if the gallery concerned doesn’t have the resources to offer a reward, then Faulkner can find himself stuck with the picture.’

‘If that’s the case,’ said William, ‘the Rembrandt stolen from the Fitzmolean could still be out there.’

‘Unless Faulkner has destroyed it, to make sure the theft can never be traced back to him.’

‘Surely no one would destroy a Rembrandt?’

‘I’d wait until you meet the man before you jump to that conclusion. We’re not dealing with an art lover here, but someone who would shop his own mother, if it meant he would get off.’

‘What else do we know about Faulkner?’ asked William, chastened.

This time it was DS Roycroft who opened a file. ‘Born in Sevenoaks in 1942, the only child of an estate agent and a hairdresser. Although that isn’t what he tells his friends at the golf club. Awarded an open scholarship to Harrow at the age of eleven, and in his final year he won the school’s art prize. After leaving Harrow, he took up a place at the Slade School of Art, but soon realized that although he was one of the brightest students of his year, he was, to quote the principal’s graduation report, “never going to make a living as an artist.” They recommended that he consider a career in teaching. He ignored their advice.’

‘By the time he left the Slade,’ said Lamont, taking over, ‘he’d worked out exactly what role he was going to play in the art world. But he needed to gain some experience before he could branch out on his own. He joined a leading West End gallery as a trainee, where he learned in the art world how much money could be made, especially if you were unscrupulous. He was sacked after a couple of years in circumstances that we’re not altogether sure about, although we do know that no other gallery would employ him. For some time he disappeared off the scene, until a Salvador Dalí went missing from the Courtauld, long before the Art and Antiques squad had been set up.’

‘What makes you think he was involved in that theft?’ asked William.

‘We picked him up on a surveillance camera taking a photograph of the painting a month before it was stolen. A mistake he hasn’t made since,’ said Hawksby.

‘And he must have made a good enough profit from that deal, among others, because once again he disappeared off our radar until the Rembrandt was stolen from the Fitzmolean some seven years ago. But on that occasion Mr. Booth Watson was unable to reach a deal with the insurers, which looks like his only failure to date. Although the manner in which he carried out the theft would have impressed even Thomas Crown.’

William didn’t interrupt.

‘A squad car turned up outside the Fitzmolean on a Saturday afternoon just after the gallery had closed. Two men dressed as policemen entered the museum claiming an alarm had gone off, coshed the door-man, and tied him up. Ten minutes later, they walked out of the front door with the Rembrandt tucked under their arms.’

‘Where were the security guards?’

‘They said they were patrolling the top floor and didn’t report back to the ground floor until half an hour later, at four forty-eight p.m.’

‘Is four forty-eight relevant?’ asked William.

‘He’s sharp,’ said Lamont.

‘Manchester United were playing Liverpool in the FA Cup that afternoon, and the match was being shown live on BBC One. The final whistle went at four forty-six.’

‘Where was the television?’ asked William.

‘In the staff canteen in the basement,’ said Lamont, ‘which I suspect Faulkner was well aware of, because the thieves arrived just after the whistle blew for the start of the second half, and we later discovered that both guards were Manchester United supporters, which I’ve no doubt Faulkner knew only too well.’

‘If the devil’s in the details, he’s the devil,’ added Hawsky.

‘So now you know what we’re up against,’ said DS Roycroft. ‘A highly professional, well-organized criminal, who only has to steal one major painting every few years to live the life of Riley, and can carry out the whole operation in a matter of minutes.’

‘I must have missed something,’ said William. ‘Why didn’t Booth Watson make a deal with the insurers and settle the claim soon after Faulkner had stolen the Rembrandt?’

‘The Fitzmolean were lamentably underinsured. A problem several leading galleries face at the moment. Their paintings and sculptures have soared in value over the years, and they simply can’t afford to insure them for realistic sums.’

‘However,’ chipped in Lamont, ‘the setback will have taught Faulkner one lesson. Don’t steal from galleries that aren’t fully insured or don’t have sufficient resources to offer a reward.’

‘Any questions, Warwick?’ said Hawksby.

‘Yes, sir,’ said William. ‘We now know that the Rembrandt you thought was the original is in fact a copy.’

‘What’s your point?’ said Jackie, still smarting from her mistake.

‘Someone must have painted that copy.’

‘Faulkner perhaps?’ suggested Lamont. ‘After all, he began life as an art student.’

‘Not if the Slade’s opinion of his talent is to be believed. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t know an artist who was capable of doing the job. They might well have been contemporaries at the Slade.’

‘If that’s the case,’ said Lamont, ‘you’re the obvious man to find out who that person is.’

‘Agreed,’ said Commander Hawksby, checking his watch. ‘Do you have any more questions, DC Warwick?’

‘Just one, sir. How did you get hold of the copy?’

‘We were able to convince a local magistrate that we had reason to believe Faulkner might be in possession of an important work of art that had been stolen from the Fitzmolean. He signed a search warrant, and we raided Faulkner’s home later that night. Until you appeared, we thought we’d hit the jackpot.’

‘Did you get a chance to study the rest of his collection while you were in his home?’

‘Yes,’ said Lamont, ‘and not one of them was on our list of missing pictures, and he was also able to produce receipts for all his other paintings.’

‘So he reinvests his ill-gotten gains in artwork, which makes me even more convinced he won’t have destroyed the Rembrandt.’

‘Don’t bet your pensions on it,’ said Hawksby as he closed his file. ‘That brings us up to date, and I don’t need to remind you that this is not the only case we are currently investigating. So don’t neglect the others gathering dust on your desks. I’m finding it difficult enough to justify any further expense to the commissioner, and a few convictions, however minor, would assist our cause. This government seems to be more interested in the numbers game than in catching real criminals. So let’s get back to work.’

Everyone around the table gathered up their files and headed for the door. But before William could leave the room, Hawksby said, ‘I’d like a word, Warwick.’

The commander waited until the door had been closed before he spoke again.

‘William, I know you’re bright, your colleagues also know you’re bright, so you don’t have to continually remind them you turned what they had thought was a triumph into a disaster. If you want to end up in this chair one day, don’t spend any more time pissing off the people you’ll be working with. I suggest you occasionally seek advice, and don’t just dispense it. Perhaps you should spend a little more time in the snooker room, as it didn’t seem to do you any harm in Lambeth.’

William recalled his father’s words. Not a man to be underestimated.

Quietly he left the room, his head bowed. He thought about the commander’s words as he walked slowly down the corridor. He hadn’t yet visited the snooker room at Scotland Yard. When he returned to the office he shared with his colleagues, he found two case files had been dumped on his desk. He was halfway through one labeled CHURCHILL, when DS Roycroft appeared by his side.

‘Which one do you think I should start on, sarge?’ he asked her.

‘Remind me,’ said Jackie.

‘Winston Churchill, or moon dust?’

‘Moon dust should be pretty easy to deal with. The professor is clearly not a criminal, and frankly, Mr. Underwood, the undersecretary at the American Embassy, is overreacting. But we don’t want a diplomatic incident, so make sure you tread carefully.’

‘And Churchill?’

‘Churchill will be more of a challenge, but as the Hawk reminded us, nowadays it’s all about numbers, so make sure you apprehend the culprit and charge him, even though I suspect he’ll only get a six-month suspended sentence. At least it will be one more for the record. More importantly, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that you’re single-handedly going to find the Rembrandt forger in the hope he’ll lead us to Faulkner. One piece of advice, Bill,’ she said pointedly. ‘Don’t even think about going home before the light under the Hawk’s door has been switched off.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said William, as he reopened the moon dust file. After reading all the details of the case, he had to agree with Jackie that the professor may have been naive, even culpable, but he certainly wasn’t a criminal.

When Big Ben struck six times, William decided it was too late to phone the undersecretary at the American Embassy, as Mr. Underwood wouldn’t have to wait until the light in the Hawk’s office had been switched off before he could go home.