Turn a Blind Eye

32

‘What am I bid?’ said William, as he climbed out of bed the following morning and headed for the bathroom.

‘As long as I get the Raphael for less than a million,’ said Beth, ‘I don’t really care, because an old cynic will be taking me to Elena’s tonight to celebrate my triumph.’

‘And if it’s sold to someone else for more than a million, what then?’

‘Humble pie will be served in the kitchen, chief inspector.’

‘I prefer Elena’s,’ said William as he closed the bathroom door. Not for the first time, he reflected that, for Beth, every glass was half full, which was one of the many reasons he adored her. He hoped he would be proved wrong, but he feared this particular glass was half empty.

He turned on the hot water and looked at himself in the mirror. He occasionally missed that time when he’d been working undercover and didn’t have to shave every day. And then he remembered, today he would be undercover.

‘How much do you think Booth Watson will have to bid?’ asked Christina, as they waited in the queue at the departure gate.

‘A million one, a million two, at most,’

‘That’s a lot of money to pay for a fake,’ said Christina.

‘I don’t have much choice,’ responded Miles. ‘If another bidder got hold of the painting and then discovered it was a fake, you’d not only have to hand over the original, but clever Inspector Warwick might just put two and two together, and then we’d both end up in the slammer.’

Miles handed his boarding card and passport to the officer at the desk, who turned to the last page of his passport, checked the photograph and passed it back to him.

‘Have a good flight, Captain Neville,’ she said.

The director listened with great interest to what Beth had to say before he offered an opinion. ‘You say Mrs Faulkner gave you a cheque for a million pounds so you could bid for the Raphael on our behalf?’

Beth handed over the cheque.

Tim read the figure and smiled. He then began tapping his fingers on the desk, always a sign that he was deep in thought. ‘We currently have a million pounds in our acquisition fund,’ he eventually said, ‘so I’m going to give you the authority to bid up to two million, which should be more than enough to acquire the painting.’

‘Do I let Christina know your decision?’

‘Of course, but don’t say anything until I’ve run it past our chairman of trustees and got his approval.’

‘What are you grinning about?’

‘The thought of the gallery owning a Raphael.’

Christina picked up the phone, and when she heard the voice on the other end of the line, she was relieved that Miles was out on his morning run.

She listened carefully to what her friend had to say, but didn’t respond immediately. Beth was beginning to wonder if Christina had put the phone down on her because she’d broken her word by telling Tim about their arrangement, but then the silence was finally broken. ‘I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t bid up to two million,’ said Christina. ‘Good luck.’

She smiled at the thought of Miles having to pay double the amount he’d planned to buy back his own fake. She heard the front door slam, and put down the phone without saying goodbye.

William found it hard to concentrate when he briefed Inspector Cole on his responsibilities as the new head of the anti-corruption unit.

‘I’m not exactly excited by the idea of spying on my colleagues,’ admitted Cole, over a pint of Bass and a pork pie.

‘I’ve found it helps if you think of them as corrupt, rather than as colleagues,’ said William, ‘and every bit as bad as any other criminal.’

Cole went across to the bar and bought a second round of drinks, but when he returned to their table he still didn’t look convinced. ‘So, are you looking forward to leading a murder team, as a Senior Investigating Officer?’

‘Depends how much it goes for,’ said William. Inspector Cole looked puzzled. ‘Sorry,’ said William, snapping back into the present. ‘My mind was somewhere else.’

Booth Watson ordered a glass of Courvoisier VSOP.

He checked his watch: 6.37. The first lot was due to come under the hammer at seven o’clock. He knew exactly how long it would take to walk from the Ritz to Christie’s, and as the Raphael was lot twenty-five, he wasn’t in any hurry.

‘Your cognac, sir.’

Beth began to pace around her office like a caged tiger. At seven o’clock she locked the door to make sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.

Tim Knox had dropped by earlier in the afternoon to confirm that the trustees had agreed she could bid up to two million pounds for the Raphael. However, they hoped she’d get it for less, and their million wouldn’t be required. She checked her watch and poured herself yet another black coffee as she waited for the phone to ring.

The man from Christie’s had rung just before midday to brief her. ‘I’ll call you on this number when the auctioneer reaches lot twenty,’ he’d said. ‘That will give you more than enough time to prepare. Mr Pylkkänen has told me he’ll open the bidding at £500,000. I’ll keep you informed about the progress of the sale, and you can tell me when you want to join in the bidding. But more important, be sure to let me know when you’ve reached your limit. If yours is the closing bid, you’ll have fourteen days to complete the purchase, and after you’ve done so we’ll deliver the painting to the museum.’

‘When should I expect your call?’ asked Beth.

‘A little after seven thirty. It might be wise to put me on speaker phone. I’ve known customers to drop their handset during the bidding, and one accidentally cut himself off and didn’t get back in time to make the closing bid. Good luck,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of a better home than the Fitzmolean for the Madonna di Cesare.’

Beth recalled the last person who had said that.

Booth Watson drained his balloon of vintage brandy, considered ordering a second but thought better of it, and called for the bill. He wrote out a cheque and added a handsome tip on behalf of his client.

He had walked the short distance from the Ritz to Christie’s a few days before — nine minutes — to attend a rare stamp auction, conducted by the same auctioneer who would be on the podium this evening.

He entered the saleroom at 7.42, and took his reserved seat, which he’d selected after some considerable thought. Three rows from the back on the left-hand side. He’d even practised raising his paddle just high enough for the auctioneer to spot him without anyone in front of him having any idea who was bidding.

When the phone on her desk rang, Beth grabbed it as if it were a lifeline.

‘We’ve reached lot twenty, Mrs Warwick,’ said the Christie’s rep. ‘Can you hear me clearly?’

‘Yes,’ said Beth, before pressing the hands-free button and replacing the receiver. She could hear a voice in the background saying, ‘Sold for forty-two thousand pounds,’ followed by the thud of a hammer coming down.

She turned to the next page of her catalogue and was checking lot twenty-one, just as William entered the saleroom.

Not unlike the opening night of a West End show, was William’s first thought. Every seat had been taken long before the curtain went up. He tucked himself in behind a group of chattering dealers, from where he had a clear view of the auctioneer, while remaining inconspicuous. He scanned the room, but failed to spot anyone he recognized. It didn’t help that he was looking at the backs of most of their heads, while he couldn’t see some of those seated on the far side of the room.

‘Lot number twenty-one.’

Booth Watson studied his catalogue. A still life by Pieter Claesz failed to reach its reserve price, and the auctioneer brought his hammer down with a thud and murmured, ‘Pass,’ to confirm there hadn’t been a successful bidder. That was unlikely to be the fate of the Raphael, which the press had dubbed the star attraction of the autumn sales.

‘Lot twenty-two,’ declared the auctioneer, sounding more hopeful. ‘A drawing of Antwerp Cathedral by Peter Paul Rubens. I have an opening bid at the table of twenty thousand pounds. Do I see twenty-two?’ He did, and the drawing eventually sold for £33,000, just below its high estimate.

Beth didn’t need to check her pulse to be aware that every time the hammer came down, it rose another few beats.

‘Lot twenty-three. A self-portrait by Frans Hals, oil on panel. I’ll open the bidding at fifty thousand pounds.’

William continued to concentrate on the bidders. A woman in the third row raised her paddle. Her bid was followed by an anonymous phone bidder whose representative stood behind a long table on a raised platform on the right-hand side of the room. His hand was cupped over the receiver so that only his client could hear what he was saying.

William looked closely at the dozen or so gallery assistants who were waiting on the phones for the lot they had been entrusted with by their anonymous clients. He wondered which of them was on the line to Beth.

‘One hundred and twenty-five thousand,’ said the auctioneer, as another bidder raised his paddle.

‘Sold!’

‘It can’t be too much longer,’ said Christina, as the cat leapt onto her lap and settled down.

‘Booth Watson will phone the moment the painting’s been sold,’ said Miles.

‘You don’t seem at all nervous,’ she said, looking across at a husband she couldn’t afford to divorce.

‘Why should I be? BW will get hold of it whatever the hammer price.’

‘Even if it goes for more than a million?’

‘No reason it should sell for more than the high estimate,’ said Miles, matter-of-factly.

Christina continued to stroke the cat, which began to purr contentedly.

‘The auctioneer has just opened the bidding for lot twenty-four,’ said the voice over the phone. ‘It shouldn’t be long now. Are you ready, madam?’

More than ready, Beth wanted to tell him, but satisfied herself with, ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Sold for ninety thousand pounds,’ she heard in the background. There followed what felt like an interminable pause, before she finally heard the words, ‘Lot number twenty-five, Raphael’s Madonna di Cesare.’

There was an outbreak of excited chattering in the saleroom as the masterpiece was placed on an easel in front of the podium, for all to see. The auctioneer waited until he had complete silence, which made Beth even more nervous.

‘I have an opening bid of five hundred thousand pounds. Do I see six hundred thousand?’

‘Do you wish to bid, madam?’ asked the voice over the phone.

‘Yes,’ replied Beth firmly.

‘I have six hundred thousand on the phone,’ said the auctioneer, turning to his left.

Booth Watson looked across at the line of assistants standing patiently on the right-hand side of the room. Only one of them had a hand cupped over the receiver of his phone, whispering to his client. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.

‘I’m looking for seven hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer. He didn’t have to wait long for Booth Watson to raise his paddle.

‘Seven hundred thousand has been bid by a gentleman seated near the back of the room,’ said the voice over the phone. ‘Will you go to eight hundred thousand, madam?’

‘Yes,’ said Beth without hesitation.

William also knew who was on the other end of the line, but he wasn’t able to see who was bidding against her. He couldn’t risk taking a step forward for fear of being spotted.

£800,000, £900,000, £1 million followed in quick succession.

‘Do I see one million one hundred thousand?’ asked the auctioneer.

Booth Watson raised his paddle.

That’s when William spotted him.

Miles began to pace around the drawing room as he waited impatiently for the phone to ring, while Christina remained on the sofa stroking the cat.

‘Surely they’ve reached lot twenty-five by now,’ said Miles, checking his watch.

‘You would have thought so,’ said Christina. ‘But I feel sure Mr Booth Watson will call the moment the hammer comes down. He’s so reliable,’ she added as she continued to stroke the cat.

They both purred.

‘One million, eight hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer as he continued to switch his attention back and forth between the phone bidder and the gentleman seated near the back who appeared to be the only other person left in the chase. Booth Watson was becoming puzzled by who it could possibly be on the other end of the phone, because it couldn’t be Mrs Warwick. Unless...

He raised his paddle once again.

‘The gentleman at the back of the room has bid one million, nine hundred thousand, madam,’ whispered the go-between. ‘Will you go to two million?’

‘Yes,’ said Beth for the last time. She closed her eyes and prayed that whoever was bidding against her had also reached their limit, and their paddle would fail to rise again.

‘I have a bid of two million on the phone,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Will you offer me two million two hundred thousand, sir?’ he asked hopefully, his gaze fixed on the only other remaining bidder.

After what seemed to Beth to be a lifetime, but was in fact only a few seconds, a paddle was raised.

The auctioneer turned his attention back to the phone bidder. ‘I have two million two hundred thousand,’ he said, smiling benevolently.

‘Will you bid two million four, madam?’ asked a voice that now sounded far away.

‘No,’ said Beth. ‘I’ve reached my limit.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ said the Christie’s representative before putting the phone down. He looked at the auctioneer and shook his head. He didn’t tell his client how grateful he was, because it’s always the under-bidder who decides the hammer price.

‘Are there any more bids?’ The auctioneer’s eyes swept the room, but to no avail. He finally brought the hammer down with a loud thud before declaring, ‘Sold to the gentleman at the back of the room for two million, two hundred thousand pounds.’

A round of applause spontaneously broke out in the room after a new record price had been set for a Raphael. Booth Watson didn’t join in.

William still couldn’t be certain who had made the closing bid, as he’d only seen the back of his head, but he wasn’t going to risk hanging around for fear of being recognized. That moment when the stalker becomes the prey.

He quickly left the saleroom, walked down the wide carpeted staircase and out of the front door. He didn’t look back until he’d crossed the street and reached a narrow alley he’d identified the night before, from where he had a clear view of the entrance to the auction house. William stood shivering in the cold as he waited to confirm his worst fear.

The phone in the drawing room began to ring. Miles grabbed it, and listened in silence for a few moments. The blood drained from his face as he repeated: ‘Two million, two hundred thousand?’

‘That’s right,’ said Booth Watson. ‘I’m about to put down the ten per cent deposit. The balance has to be paid within fourteen days.’

‘Who was the under-bidder?’ demanded Miles.

‘That’s the strange thing. There was only one other serious bidder and they were on the phone. I can only assume it had to be Mrs Warwick bidding on behalf of the Fitzmolean.’

‘How can that be possible when Christina only gave her a cheque for one million?’

‘I have no idea,’ admitted Booth Watson. ‘Perhaps you should ask your wife?’

‘I will,’ said Miles as he slammed down the phone, which caused the cat to leap off Christina’s lap and scurry out of the room.

‘Did you get it?’ Christina asked innocently.

‘I did,’ said Miles, but ended up having to pay two point two million.’ He turned to see the flicker of a smile cross Christina’s face. Could it be possible?

After Beth had phoned Tim Knox to tell him the disappointing news, she put on her coat and unlocked the office door. She’d decided to go straight home and share her grief with the twins. At least they wouldn’t gloat. She would then prepare a dish of humble pie which she’d have to share with her know-all husband. She only wondered what else he knew.

At least they had the trip to New York on the Alden to look forward to, and once they were on board, she would forbid him ever to raise the subject again.

The large gathering that had attended the auction were now flooding out of the building and onto the street. Some were looking for taxis, while others headed for their clubs or fashionable restaurants.

William checked every face, but none caused him to take a second look. He didn’t recognize anyone else. He was even beginning to wonder if the £2.2 million might have come from a genuine bidder, and he’d let his imagination run away with him. But he had no intention of going home until the last light in the building had gone out. He accepted it could be a long wait.

Booth Watson put down the phone in the lobby and turned to find a young assistant waiting for him.

‘Congratulations, sir,’ he said.

The successful bidder didn’t feel congratulations were in order, but he didn’t offer an opinion.

‘As you know, sir, we will require a two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-pound deposit to secure the Raphael, with the balance to be paid within fourteen days.’

Booth Watson took a cheque from an inside pocket that had already been signed and dated, but with the amount left blank. He wrote out £220,000, first in words and then in numbers, before he handed it across to the young man.

‘Thank you, sir. As soon as we’ve received the full amount, you can either collect the painting or we’ll be happy to arrange delivery for you.’

Once again, Booth Watson didn’t comment. He left the gallery assistant standing there, and headed for the main exit.

William was about to accept that he must have been mistaken when a familiar portly figure emerged from the auction house, not looking at all pleased. He hailed a taxi that disappeared in the direction of St James’s.

William began to walk slowly towards the nearest Tube station, but paused when he spotted a red telephone box on the corner of Piccadilly. As William stepped inside, picked up the receiver and dialled a number that wasn’t listed in any telephone directory. When the call was answered by a familiar voice, he pushed a ten-pence piece into the slot.

‘Good evening, sir. I thought you ought to know that Booth Watson was at the auction, and despite my wife bidding two million for the Raphael, hers wasn’t the closing bid.’

‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ said the Hawk. ‘Booth Watson won’t have been bidding on behalf of Mrs Christina Faulkner, as she’s a seller, not a buyer.’

‘Which rather narrows down the field,’ said William. ‘In fact I’m beginning to wonder, if it’s just possible that Miles Faulkner is still alive.’

‘I never thought he was dead,’ said the commander.