Over My Dead Body

Chapter 19

It had never crossed William’s mind how long it would take to pack a valuable work of art, and how many people were involved, even though Beth had tried to warn him.

The key person among the group was Ian Posgate, a senior broker from Lloyd’s of London, who had insured the Caravaggio should it be damaged in transit, and for the full amount of £21 million if it failed to reach its destination. Posgate was delighted the police would be accompanying them on the trip in the guise of his assistants.

William and Ross stood to one side and watched the professionals go about their work. Mr Benmore, the senior fine art handler, could boast a Goya, a Rembrandt and a Velázquez in his catalogue raisonné. However, he’d recently left it to one of his assistants to pack a Warhol for the Tate. Mr Benmore didn’t do modern.

The long process began with four technicians, two of them half-way up ladders, while the other pair had their feet firmly on the ground. Between them, they walked the masterpiece off the wall in a slow, controlled descent, a few links of its chains at a time. William noticed that Lord McLaren appeared to age visibly as he stared up at the dark rectangular space that marked where the pride of his family’s collection had hung for the past two hundred years.

When the bottom of the frame was at waist-height, the four techs lifted it off its chains and lowered it gently onto a set of foam bricks, then rested for a few moments before placing it into a specially prepared travel frame. This unique piece of craftsmanship had been constructed by a carpenter who’d never seen the canvas, but had been supplied with the exact measurements of its ornate gilt frame.

Once the painting had been fitted securely in place, a protective layer of polythene was stretched taut across the surface before the team of technicians, supervised by Mr Benmore, manoeuvred the travel frame into a fortified external crate, constructed by the same carpenter; a delicate undertaking that required skill and strength in equal measure. Mr Benmore’s final responsibility, after checking there could be no internal movement during its long journey to Barcelona, was to securely fasten the crate’s wooden lid with an electric screwdriver. Ross counted all twenty-four screws.

After a thorough inspection, Mr Benmore declared himself satisfied, and allowed his team a tea break.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in action. Two of them lifted the crate a foot off the ground, while the other two positioned a wide skateboard underneath. After the crate had been gently lowered onto the skateboard, it was wheeled slowly out of the dining room and along the corridor towards the front door. Correx sheeting had been laid out along the route to protect the marble floor.

When they reached the entrance hall, William glanced across at the laird, his arm around an elderly woman who he recognized. She was holding back tears for the dear departed.

He noticed that the painting remained upright from the moment it was packed into the crate, until it was strapped into place in a climate-controlled, air-ride suspended truck, to ensure that the Fishers of Men couldn’t fall out of their boat.

They never exceeded thirty miles an hour on the twelve-mile journey to Aberdeen airport.

William and Ross followed behind in an unmarked police car. A private jet awaited them at an airport where private jets are more common than commercial aircraft.

Mr Benmore was the first out of the truck, and once again he supervised the technicians as they painstakingly transferred the painting into the plane’s hold, where it was strapped in — still upright. He and the insurance broker never took their eyes off the wooden crate until the door of the hold was heaved into place. Four passengers climbed aboard a jet bound for Barcelona.

When the plane landed on Spanish soil a couple of hours later, they found Lieutenant Sanchez waiting to greet them on the tarmac.

He was equally well prepared. Under the anxious direction of Mr Benmore, four policemen in overalls unloaded the crate from the hold and strapped it upright into a padded, temperature-controlled van.

Ross sat next to Sanchez in the front, while Mr Benmore, Mr Posgate and William climbed into the back. William tapped the divide, and Sanchez set off at a funereal pace for the final part of the journey.

Booth Watson had flown in on an earlier flight that morning to keep his monthly appointment with his most valued client.

He found Miles in an unusually exuberant mood, as he waited impatiently for his latest acquisition to arrive. The two men sat in the drawing room facing a large empty space on the wall above the fireplace, where Fishers of Men would reside.

‘While we’re waiting,’ said Faulkner, ‘bring me up to date on what’s happening in London.’

‘Some good news, and some not so good,’ said Booth Watson, as he opened his briefcase and extracted the inevitable files. ‘I fear the reports your tart has been passing on to me can no longer be relied on. But then you never consulted me about her in the first place.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Miles, barely hiding his irritation.

‘A couple of weeks ago at Marylebone Old Town Hall, Josephine Colbert married Detective Inspector Ross Hogan, the man you’ve been paying her to seduce so we’d be kept informed about what Warwick’s team were up to. She’s now clearly a fully paid-up member of that team.’

‘Take her off the payroll immediately,’ said Faulkner, his irritation turning to anger.

‘I already have,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do about her?’

‘Nothing you need concern yourself with. In any case I’m more interested to know how you came across this information, as I find it hard to believe you were invited to the wedding.’

‘Lamont has had Hogan under surveillance for some time. I have to warn you that he suspects DS Roycroft is also in Warwick’s pocket, not ours.’

‘Tell Lamont to go on seeing Roycroft, so they don’t realize we’re onto her. Her next report should make interesting reading, now that we know where her true loyalties lie. Make sure you keep Lamont happy.’

‘There’s only one thing that keeps Lamont happy,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and the other side can’t supply that.’

‘That also applies to Christina. We certainly can’t risk her jumping ship.’

‘There’s not much risk of that. She knows if she dumps you in favour of Mrs Warwick there will be no home in the country, no flat in town, no chauffeur to drive her around, no more dress accounts, or ladies who lunch, and certainly no more toy boys. She’d end up having to doss down in the Warwicks’ spare bedroom and be satisfied with the scraps from their table. I don’t think so.’

‘Then why keep her on the payroll?’ demanded Faulkner.

‘While Christina’s still in touch with Warwick’s wife, she remains our best bet when it comes to discovering what her husband is up to, as she also seems to be susceptible to a different kind of bribery...’

‘What are you getting at?’ snapped Faulkner.

‘Christina reported that her latest meeting with Warwick’s wife went well. She was delighted that Christina agreed to loan her Frans Hals to the Fitzmolean for their exhibition next autumn.’

‘My Frans Hals,’ said Miles.

‘You’ll only be without it for a few weeks. Which is a small sacrifice to make when you weigh it up against the possible consequences.’

‘Make sure you get the painting back the day after the exhibition closes. Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ said Booth Watson. ‘The purchase of the Caravaggio has almost wiped out your assets in London.’

‘They’ll be replenished once the takeover of Marcel and Neffe goes through. And don’t forget the cash I still have in Rashidi’s safety deposit boxes.’

Booth Watson was loath to tell his client that particular source of funds was also running low, but for a different reason.

Faulkner checked his watch. ‘If my private jet has landed on time, the painting should be with us in about an hour, so why don’t we go and have some lunch?’

Lieutenant Sanchez switched on the engine, eased the van into first gear, and carried out Mr Benmore’s repeated instructions to remain in the inside lane at all times and not exceed thirty kilometres an hour, even on the motorway.

Ross sat silently by his side, alert to everything around him, as he tried to anticipate the unexpected. He’d already spotted the four unmarked police motorbikes on the motorway. Two in front and two behind, who were trying to look as if they were on traffic duty. Once they’d turned off the motorway onto a country road, he switched on a video camera so he could record every step of their progress.

The lieutenant looked on enviously. ‘Scotland Yard’s standard issue?’ he asked.

‘Hardly. It was a gift from my wife.’

‘The only gift my wife ever gives me is another daughter,’ said Sanchez.

‘How many so far?’

‘Three. But I haven’t given up,’ he said as they reached the edge of the forest and had no choice but to come to a halt.

Ross switched off the video and slipped it into the glove compartment, while Sanchez banged firmly on the divide to let his colleagues in the back know they had arrived.

William glanced across at Mr Benmore, who looked anxious and was perspiring heavily.

Lieutenant Sanchez touched the van’s horn and a few birds scattered from the tops of the tall pine trees. He was about to give a second blast when a golf buggy appeared out of the forest and came to a halt in front of the van.

Two muscle-bound men climbed out of the buggy and circled the van slowly. One of them opened the driver’s door and exchanged a few words with Sanchez, who had a well-prepared script for every one of his questions. The guard gave him a mock salute, before joining his colleague at the back of the van. They examined the large wooden crate, counted the passengers, checked the clipboard and then slammed the door shut, before walking back to the buggy. One of them waved an arm to indicate that Sanchez should follow them.

Ross retrieved his video camera from the glove compartment, pressed a button on the side and began to record their slow, meandering route along an unmarked path until they reached a wooden bridge. He continued filming as they crossed a fast-flowing river before finally emerging into the open to see a palatial mansion dominating the landscape.

Sanchez followed the golf buggy across a finely cut lawn and onto a wide gravel drive that led up to the house. Ross went over Plan A in his mind one more time. If Faulkner appeared when the front door opened, Ross would go to the back of the van to reduce the chances of his former fellow prisoner spotting him, while he looked as if he was supervising the unloading.

As soon as Faulkner began to follow the crate inside, the four armed policemen would grab him and handcuff him. Sanchez would then arrest Faulkner and read him his rights.

If there was even a hint of resistance from the two bodyguards, the police motorcyclists who were impatiently patrolling the motorway would spring into action and be with them moments later.

The front door opened, and a butler appeared. But there was no sign of Faulkner. It was never that easy. Ross moved on to Plan B.

Sanchez and Ross got out of the van, made their way slowly to the back and watched as Mr Benmore oversaw the unloading of the crate. He’d already complained to William about the four amateurs who’d taken the place of his professional technicians, but to no avail. After much grunting and groaning, the crate was finally lifted out of the van, and the four policemen followed Sanchez and the butler into the house, accompanied by Ross and Mr Benmore, while William remained out of sight. Still no sign of Faulkner.

Once the front door had been closed, William pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes, slipped out of the back of the van and took up his position behind the wheel, aware that he couldn’t risk being seen by Faulkner who would have recognized him immediately. He would like to have been the arresting officer, but he assumed that when the front door opened again, a triumphant Sanchez would reappear with the prisoner. Mr Benmore would no doubt become even more distraught when he discovered that the painting would be going straight back to Scotland; an agreement that had been brokered between the commander, the Home Office and the Spanish police.

The four policemen carrying their entry ticket made slow progress across the hall, while Sanchez chatted to the butler. Eventually they reached the drawing room, where a large, empty space on the wall above the fireplace marked the place where Fishers of Men would never hang.

The crate was carefully lowered onto the carpet, and the policemen stood back to allow Mr Benmore to set about his other job, which called on equal expertise. Unpacking.

As he began to extract the screws one by one, Ross slipped behind the open door so that if Faulkner made an entrance he would be ambushed.

Once all twenty-four screws had been removed, and the lid of the crate lifted, Mr Benmore removed the travel frame, followed by the layer of polythene that was stretched across it, protecting the surface of the canvas. After the job had been completed to his satisfaction, he instructed his untrained technicians to lift the painting gently out of its coffin by the four corners of its gilded frame. He must have repeated the word ‘lentamente’ a dozen times. Mr Benmore wasn’t used to repeating himself.

The four men bent down, took a corner of the frame each, and eased the masterpiece out of its travel box. Despite himself, Ross couldn’t resist stepping forward to take a closer look, just as the butler re-entered the room, with his master following close behind.

Ross tried to duck back behind the door, but Faulkner spotted him immediately, and an expression of undisguised shock appeared on his face. He turned and began running back across the hall, followed closely by Ross, with Sanchez only a yard behind.

The butler stepped quickly into the doorway, but a straight arm tackle that would have had Ross sent off a rugby field felled him, though not before he’d gained his master a few vital seconds.

Ross chased Faulkner across the hall and down a long corridor, gaining on him with every stride. When he reached a door at the end of the corridor, Faulkner surprised Ross by stopping to check the time, before opening the door. He leapt inside and slammed the door shut behind him. Ross grabbed the handle a second too late. After one determined charge, he knew a rugby scrum could not have forced the door open.

Faulkner heard the shoulder charge and allowed himself a wry smile as he made his way across the room, coming to a halt in front of the heavy iron door. He entered an eight-digit code on his watch, and the massive door obeyed his command and swung open. He stepped inside, pulled the door closed and waited for the four heavy bolts to slide into place.

Once again, he tapped his watch and waited for the face to light up before he entered a second code, which immediately opened the far door. He stepped out and slammed the heavy metal door shut behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief, before descending the stairs to his other world. The well-rehearsed disappearance had gone to plan, but he knew that he would now have to think more seriously about moving on.

The first thing he did when he reached his study was make a phone call.