Nothing Ventured Read online

  He got out of the car and walked up to the gates to find two buzzers nestled in the wall. One had a brass plaque reading ‘Limpton Hall’, and another below, ‘Tradesmen’. He pressed the top button and immediately regretted his decision, as he might have had a better chance of getting inside the house if he’d pressed Tradesmen. A voice on the intercom demanded, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I have a special delivery for Mr Faulkner.’

  William held his breath, and to his surprise the gates swung open.

  He drove slowly, admiring the centuries-old oaks that lined the long drive as he considered the next part of his plan. Eventually he pulled up in front of a house that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Country Life.

  The front door was opened by a tall slim man dressed in a black tail coat and pinstriped trousers. He looked at William as if he’d come to the wrong entrance. Two younger men came scurrying down the steps and quickly made their way to the back of the van. Time to consider Plan B.

  William opened the back door of the van, and picked up a clipboard, while the two young men lifted the crate carefully out, carried the painting up the steps and propped it against a wall in the hall. The butler was closing the door, when William said in an authoritative voice that he hoped sounded like his father’s, ‘I need a signature before I can release the package.’

  He wouldn’t have been surprised if the door had been slammed in his face. But the butler reluctantly took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Time for plan C.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the release form has to be signed by Mr Faulkner,’ said William, placing a foot inside the door like a door-to-door salesman. If the butler had said take it or leave it, he would have had to take it and leave without another word.

  ‘Will Mrs Faulkner do?’ asked a voice in the background.

  An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a red silk dressing gown that emphasized her graceful figure. Did the rich, as Fred Yates had often suggested, not get up before ten in the morning? However, it was her raven-black hair, tanned skin and air of quiet authority that left him in no doubt she was the mistress of the house.

  She signed the form, and William was about to leave when she said, ‘Thank you, Mr—’

  ‘Warwick, William Warwick,’ he replied, breaking his rule of trying not to sound like a public schoolboy.

  ‘I’m Christina Faulkner. Do you have time to join me for a coffee, Mr Warwick?’

  William didn’t hesitate, although it wasn’t part A, B or C of his plan. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Coffee in the drawing room, Makins,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘And when the painting has been unpacked, I’d like it re-hung.’

  ‘Yes, of course, madam.’

  ‘Miles will be so pleased to see the picture back in place when he eventually returns,’ said Mrs Faulkner, emphasizing the word ‘eventually’, as she led William into the drawing room.

  William couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent paintings that adorned every wall. Miles Faulkner may have been a crook, but he was without question a crook with taste. The Sisley, Sickert, Matisse and Pissarro would have graced any collection, but William’s gaze settled on a small still life of oranges in a bowl, by an artist he hadn’t come across before.

  ‘Fernando Botero,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘A fellow countryman, who, like myself, escaped from Colombia at a young age,’ she added as the butler appeared carrying a tray of coffee and a selection of biscuits.

  William sat down and looked at a large empty space above the mantelpiece where the copy of the Rembrandt must have hung. The butler placed the tray on an antique coffee table William thought he recognized, but was distracted when the two young men entered the room carrying the painting.

  The butler took charge of the hanging, and once the picture was back in place, he gave Mrs Faulkner a slight bow before discreetly leaving.

  ‘Am I right in thinking,’ said Mrs Faulkner as she poured her guest a coffee, ‘that you are a detective, Mr Warwick?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ William replied, without adding, but not a very experienced one.

  ‘Then I wonder if I might seek your advice on a personal matter?’ she said, crossing her legs.

  William stopped staring at The Syndics and turned to face his hostess. ‘Yes, of course,’ he managed.

  ‘But before I do, I need to be sure I can rely on your discretion.’

  ‘Of course,’ he repeated.

  ‘I need the services of a private detective. Someone who’s discreet, professional, and more important, can be trusted.’

  ‘A number of retired Met officers act as private detectives,’ said William, ‘and I’m sure my boss would be happy to recommend one of them. Unofficially,’ he added.

  ‘That’s good to know, Mr Warwick. However, I can’t stress how important it is that my husband doesn’t find out. He’s away at the moment and won’t be back for at least a month.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find the right person for you, Mrs Faulkner, long before your husband returns.’ He stole a final glance at a picture he doubted he would ever see again.

  ‘You really like that painting, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ admitted William without guile.

  ‘It’s also one of Miles’ favourites, which may be the reason we have one just like it in our drawing room in Monte Carlo. In fact I can never tell the difference between the two.’

  William’s hand began shaking so much he spilt some coffee on the carpet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘How clumsy of me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Warwick, it’s not important.’

  If you only knew how important it is, thought William, his mind still racing with the implications of what she’d just revealed.

  ‘Can I tempt you to stay for lunch?’ asked Mrs Faulkner. ‘It would give me a chance to show you the rest of the collection.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but my boss will be wondering where I am. So I ought to be getting back.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps.’

  William nodded nervously, as Mrs Faulkner accompanied him back into the hall, to find the butler standing by the front door.

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Mr Warwick,’ she said as they shook hands.

  ‘You too, Mrs Faulkner,’ said William, aware that the butler was watching him closely.

  William couldn’t wait to get back to the Yard and let the team know that Mrs Faulkner had accidentally let slip that the original of The Syndics was hanging in Faulkner’s villa in Monte Carlo. He could already see Beth jumping up and down with joy when he told her the news. But as the gates closed behind him, he put his head in his hands and shouted, ‘You’re an idiot!’ Why hadn’t he accepted her invitation to lunch? He could have seen the entire collection and possibly identified other paintings that were unaccounted for.

  ‘Idiot!’ he repeated even louder. Perhaps he wouldn’t mention the missed opportunity to Lamont when he wrote his report.

  William reluctantly left Limpton Hall, but not before repeating the word ‘idiot’ several more times before he reached the motorway.

  On his arrival back at the Yard, he parked the van, returned the keys and went straight up to the office. He found Lamont and Jackie poring over a map covered in little red flags, as they put the finishing touches to Operation Blue Period, which he knew was planned for the following evening. They both looked up as he entered the room.

  ‘Did you get past the front gates?’ asked Lamont.

  ‘I not only got past the front gates, I can tell you where the Rembrandt is.’

  The little red flags were abandoned while Lamont and Jackie listened to William’s report. After he had fully briefed them – well, almost fully – all Lamont had to say was, ‘We should inform the commander immediately.’

  As William and Jackie assumed he wasn’t using the royal ‘We’, they followed him out of the room and down the corridor to Hawksby’s office.

  ‘Angela, I need to see