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  ‘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 harbour entrance. He passed them to Hawksby.

  ‘How long do you estimate before they’re with us?’ Hawksby asked the harbour 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 harbour 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 leapt 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. Harbour master, if they were to make a run for it . . .’

  ‘They wouldn’t get as far as the harbour 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 towards 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 harbour master, heading towards 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 re-labelled,’ 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 harbour 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 leapt 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 harbour towards 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. ‘Your husband’s off to Pentonville, and I can’t see him being released for