“Officer down, officer down! Urgent assistance required in Luscombe Road!” shouted Fred over his radio, as he leaped on the assailant.
* * *
His eyes opened. He blinked and looked around the unfamiliar room. His parents and sister were standing by the side of the bed, and a senior officer he didn’t recognize was stationed by the door. Three pips on each epaulette indicated that he was a chief inspector.
William gave his family a weak smile as he tried to sit up, but he could only manage a few inches, suddenly aware that his chest was heavily bandaged. He slumped back down.
“How’s Fred?” were his first faltering words.
None of them seemed willing to answer the question. Finally the police officer stepped forward and said, “I’m Chief Inspector Cuthbert, and I’m sorry about this Constable Warwick, but I have to ask you some questions about what happened on Saturday night, because as you well know, we can’t hold a suspect for more than twenty-four hours unless we have enough evidence to charge them.”
“Of course, sir,” said William, once again trying to sit up.
The chief inspector opened a large brown envelope and extracted several black-and-white photos of different men, one of whom William would never forget.
“Is that the man you attempted to arrest on Saturday night?” asked Cuthbert.
William nodded. “But why do you need to ask me, when Fred could identify him in person?”
Chief Inspector Cuthbert remained silent as he placed the photographs back in the envelope.
* * *
The parish church of St. Michael and St. George was rarely full, even for the mayor’s annual carol concert, but on this occasion the pews were packed long before the choir had entered the nave. PC Fred Yates QGM had been granted a full police service funeral, while a uniformed guard of honor lined the approach to the church.
The funeral cortege was escorted by mounted officers, and Fred’s coffin was draped in the blue and silver colors of the Metropolitan Police, along with the Queen’s Gallantry Medal and a silver trophy resting on top. Inside the church, senior officers were seated at the front, while those who couldn’t find a seat had to be satisfied with standing at the back. William, seated in a wheelchair, was pushed down the aisle by his father, and the congregation rose to acknowledge him. A church warden guided them to reserved places in the front row.
He who would valiant be …
William held up well, until the coffin, borne on the shoulders of eight serving officers, made its slow progress down the aisle toward the chancel, when he was unable to hold back the tears. The parish priest looked down from the altar steps and offered prayers for the locals from Fred’s patch, many of whom rarely, if ever, attended a church service. They had come to pay their respects, even though some of them didn’t know Fred’s second name. William looked around and spotted Mrs. Perkins among the mourners.
To be a pilgrim …
When the congregation knelt to pray, William bowed his head and recalled Fred’s words: I like to kid myself that I’ve made a difference. He only wished that Fred could have been there to witness what a difference he’d made.
The hymns were sung lustily by Fred’s colleagues and friends, which William knew Fred would have appreciated, although he would have described the eulogy delivered by the station’s chief superintendent as way over the top. William could hear Fred chuckling away when the super talked about his commendations. What about my suspensions? he could hear him saying.
After the priest had given the final blessing, the congregation stood and the pallbearers resumed their duties, bearing the coffin back down the aisle and out of the church to the burial plot. William tried to stand as it passed by, but he couldn’t quite manage it until the desk sergeant and the super came to his aid.
When they got home that night, his father suggested that it wouldn’t be a disgrace if William felt he had to leave the force. He was sure his colleagues would understand. “You could go to night school, study law, and then join me in chambers, where you could still fight criminals, but in the safety of a courtroom by day, rather than on the streets at night.”
William knew his father was right. But it was Fred who had the last word.
We may have come from opposite sides of the tracks, Choirboy, but we do have one thing in common—we’re both a bit bonkers, but at least we’re doing the job we were destined for.
6
Commander Hawksby sat at the head of the table, as befitted the chairman of the board. The other three directors waited for him to open the meeting.
“I would like to begin by welcoming a new recruit to our team. Although DC Warwick doesn’t have a great deal of experience as a detective—” that’s putting it mildly, thought William—“he has considerable expertise in the field of art, which was his chosen subject at university. In fact he turned down the chance to do a PhD so he could join the Met. So I’m rather hoping that his specialized knowledge will make a difference when it comes to finally nailing Miles Faulkner. Bruce,” he said, turning to the senior officer on the case, “perhaps you can bring us up to date.”
Detective Chief Inspector Lamont had several files in front of him, but he didn’t need to open any of them as most of the contents were indelibly lodged in his mind. He looked directly at Detective Constable Warwick, as he didn’t have anything new to tell his two colleagues.
“For the past seven years we’ve been trying to catch a thief who by any standards is a master criminal, and to date he’s been running rings around us. Miles Faulkner has developed an almost infallible system that allows him to steal major works of art and make a fortune without appearing to break the law.” Several questions had already occurred to William, but he decided not to interrupt his new boss.
“First, you’ll need to realize, Bill—”
“William, sir.”
Lamont frowned. “You’ll need to realize that if you’ve ever seen the film The Thomas Crown Affair, you should dismiss it for what it is. Pure fiction. Entertaining, I accept, but nevertheless, fiction. Miles Faulkner is no Steve McQueen. He doesn’t steal masterpieces for the sheer pleasure of it and then hide them in his basement where he alone can spend hours admiring them. That’s for filmgoers who want to enjoy a couple of hours imagining what it would be like to fool our colleagues in Boston, while sleeping with a beautiful woman who just happens to be the insurance broker working on the case. Although that’s the one person in the film who does bear some similarity to the real world: the insurance broker—except in our case he’s more likely to be a middle-aged, middle-management pen pusher who goes home at six every evening to his wife and two children. And more important, he won’t be in Faulkner’s league.”
“Still with us, Warwick?” asked Hawksby.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’ll be able to tell us what DCI Lamont is going to say next.”
“That Faulkner steals valuable pictures from galleries or collectors with the intention of making a deal with the relevant insurance company, which is willing to settle for considerably less than the sum insured.”
“Usually about half,” said Lamont. “But Faulkner still ends up making a handsome profit.”