Nothing Ventured (Detective William Warwick 1)

‘Left for where?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘What about them,’ said Faulkner placing a finger on the words ‘Bishop’s Move, arrived 8.55 a.m., departed 2.04 p.m.’ ‘Where were they going?’

‘No idea, sir,’ repeated the hapless guard.

Faulkner grabbed the phone, and it took him two calls and a lot of threatening before an area manager reluctantly gave him the information he wanted. He leapt back in the taxi and said ‘Southampton’, without bothering to look at the ticking meter. The cabbie couldn’t believe his luck.

The commander sat alone in the back of the lead car. They were followed by a Black Maria with six constables and a sergeant on board. Bringing up the rear was a Wolseley with DCI Lamont in the driving seat. Mob-handed was how Lamont had described the exercise, but the Hawk wasn’t going to take any risks.

The little convoy kept to the inside lane of the motorway, and although they never once exceeded the speed limit, they still managed to reach the exit for Southampton docks with a couple of hours to spare.

Hawksby immediately reported to the harbour master, who confirmed that the MV Christina was due to dock at quay twenty-nine around seven that evening. The commander then handed the harbour master a special warrant which authorized the removal of one specific crate from the yacht, without interference or inspection by customs and excise.

‘Must be the Crown Jewels,’ said the harbour master, after he’d studied the warra

nt.

‘Not far off,’ said Hawksby. ‘But all I can tell you is that it has to be handled with the utmost care, and its contents mustn’t be exposed to sunlight.’

‘Sounds like Dracula.’

‘No, that’s the present owner,’ said Hawksby.

‘Can I help in any way?’

‘It wouldn’t do any harm to have a couple of your boys hanging around, just in case there’s any trouble.’

‘Brains or brawn?’

‘Two of each, if possible.’

‘Consider it done. They’ll be with you half an hour before the Christina is due to dock. I think I’ll come along myself,’ he said. ‘Sounds as if it might be interesting.’ Hawksby climbed back into his car, and the small convoy made its way across to quay twenty-nine to await the arrival of the six Syndics who were resting peacefully in the hold of the Christina.

Everyone was in place and waiting impatiently when a Bentley appeared on the dockside and parked about fifty yards away.

‘Who the hell—?’ said Lamont.

‘Has to be Mrs Faulkner,’ said Hawksby. ‘Just ignore her. As long as the Rembrandt is handed over, it’s none of our business what she does with the rest of her husband’s art collection, although I hope for her sake she knows he’s back in the country.’

‘Should we inform her?’ asked Lamont.

‘Also none of our business,’ said Hawksby.

‘And what are they doing here?’ asked Lamont as a large Bishop’s Move van proceeded slowly along the dockside and came to a halt behind the Bentley.

‘Not hard to guess what’s inside,’ said Hawksby, as the driver climbed down from his cab and walked across to the Bentley.

Mrs Faulkner wound down her window.

‘What the hell are that lot doin’ here?’ the driver demanded, pointing at the three police vehicles.

‘They’re picking up a crate from my husband’s yacht before returning it to its rightful owner in London. Once it’s been handed over, they’ll be on their way and you can start loading the paintings on board.’

‘What are the cops so interested in?’

‘Six gentlemen from Amsterdam, who left the country several years ago without a visa.’