“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.”