Nothing Ventured

He pushed open a door that led into a long, brightly lit corridor. He walked slowly, aware that he still had a little time to spare. Better to be a few minutes early than a minute late, according to the gospel of St Julian. Lights were blazing in every room he passed. The fight against crime knew no hours. One door was ajar, and William caught his breath when he spotted a painting that was propped up against the far wall.

Two men and a young woman were examining the picture carefully.

‘Well done, Jackie,’ said the older man, in a distinct Scottish accent. ‘A personal triumph.’

‘Thank you, guv,’ she replied.

‘Let’s hope,’ said the younger man, pointing at the picture, ‘this will put Faulkner behind bars for at least six years. God knows we’ve waited long enough to nail the bastard.’

‘Agreed, DC Hogan,’ said the older man, who turned and spotted William standing in the doorway. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked sharply.

‘No, thank you, sir.’

While you’re still a constable, Fred had warned him, call anything that moves ‘sir’. That way you can’t go far wrong. ‘I was just admiring the painting.’ The older man was about to close the door when William added, ‘I’ve seen the original.’

The three officers turned to take a closer look at the intruder.

‘This is the original,’ said the young woman, sounding irritated.

‘That’s not possible,’ said William.

‘What makes you so sure?’ demanded her colleague.

‘The original used to hang in the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington until it was stolen some years ago. A crime that still hasn’t been solved.’

‘We’ve just solved it,’ said the woman with conviction.

‘I don’t think so,’ responded William. ‘The original was signed by Rembrandt in the bottom right-hand corner with his initials, RvR.’

The three officers peered at the right-hand corner of the canvas, but there was no sign of any initials.

‘Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, will be joining us in a few minutes’ time, laddie,’ said the older man. ‘I think I’ll rely on his judgement rather than yours.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said William.

‘Do you have any idea how much this painting is worth?’ asked the young woman.

William stepped into the room and took a closer look. He thought it best not to remind her of Oscar Wilde’s comment on the difference between value and price.

‘I’m not an expert,’ he said, ‘but I would think somewhere between two and three hundred pounds.’

‘And the original?’ asked the young woman, no longer sounding quite as confident.

‘No idea, but every major gallery on earth would want to add such a masterpiece to its collection, not to mention several leading collectors, for whom money wouldn’t be an object.’

‘So you haven’t got a clue what it’s worth?’ said the younger officer.

‘No, sir. A Rembrandt of this quality is rarely seen on the open market. The last one to come under the hammer was at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York.’

‘We know where Sotheby Parke Bernet is,’ said the older man, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

‘Then you’ll know it went for twenty-three million dollars,’ said William, immediately regretting his words.

‘We are all grateful for your opinion, laddie, but don’t let us hold you up any longer, as I am sure you have more important things to do,’ he said, nodding towards the door.

William tried to retreat gracefully as he stepped back into the corridor only to hear the door close firmly behind him. He checked his watch: 7.57. He hurried on towards the far end of the corridor, not wanting to be late for his appointment.

He knocked on a door that announced in gold lettering, ‘Commander Jack Hawksby OBE’, and walked in to find a secretary seated behind a desk. She stopped typing, looked up and said, ‘PC Warwick?’