Nothing Ventured

Lamont placed a packet of cigarettes on the table, extracted one and handed it to the prisoner. He even lit it for him. The first bribe had been offered and accepted.

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Lamont,’ he said as if they’d never met before, ‘and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Warwick.’ Leigh didn’t even glance at William. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Leigh didn’t respond, other than to exhale a large cloud of grey smoke.

‘We are investigating the theft of a Rembrandt painting from the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington, some seven years ago. We have recently come across a copy which we have reason to believe was painted by you.’

Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but said nothing.

‘Did you paint that picture?’ asked Lamont.

Leigh still made no attempt to respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.

‘If you cooperate with us,’ said Lamont, ‘we might be willing to make a favourable recommendation to the Parole Board when you come up in front of them in a couple of months’ time.’

Still nothing. William began to realize, as he looked into Leigh’s sullen eyes, just how far Miles Faulkner’s tentacles stretched.

‘On the other hand, if you don’t cooperate, we can also report that to the Board. The choice is yours.’

Even this didn’t appear to move Leigh. A few seconds later the door opened and a trusty prisoner entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table before leaving quickly. Leigh grabbed a mug of black coffee, dropped in four sugar lumps and began to stir. Lamont sat back in his chair.

‘Mr Leigh,’ said William, aware that no prison officer would have addressed him as Mr during the past four years, ‘as it’s clear that you have no intention of answering any of our questions, I’d just like to say something before we leave.’ Lamont added another lump of sugar to his coffee. ‘I’m an art nut, a groupie, call it what you will, but more important, I’m a huge admirer of your work.’ Leigh turned to look at William for the first time, as a large piece of ash fell off the end of his cigarette and onto the table. ‘Your Vermeer, Girl at a Virginal, was certainly accomplished, although I wasn’t surprised it didn’t fool the leading Dutch scholars, particularly Mr Ernst van de Wetering. But the copy of The Syndics is unquestionably a work of genius. It’s currently in our office at Scotland Yard, and I’m reluctant to return it to Miles Faulkner, who claims it’s his. It’s just a pity you weren’t born in Amsterdam three hundred years ago, when you could have been a pupil of the master, even a master yourself. If I had a fraction of your talent, I wouldn’t have bothered to join the police force.’

Leigh continued to stare at William, no longer smoking.

‘May I ask you a question that has nothing to do with our inquiry?’

Leigh nodded.

‘I can’t work out how you managed the yellow effect on the Syndics’ sashes.’

It was some time before Leigh said, ‘Egg yolk.’

‘Yes, of course, how stupid of me,’ said William, well aware that Rembrandt had experimented with the yolks of gulls’ eggs when mixing his pigments.

‘But why didn’t you add Rembrandt’s familiar RvR? That was the one thing that made me realize it wasn’t the original.’

Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but this time he didn’t respond, probably fearing he’d already gone too far. William waited for a few more moments, before he accepted that Leigh wasn’t going to answer any more questions.

‘Thank you. I’d just like to say what an honour it’s been to meet you.’

Leigh ignored him, looked at Lamont and said, ‘Can I have another fag?’

‘Keep the packet,’ said Lamont before he turned and nodded to SO Langley, to indicate that the interview was over.

Langley joined them in the glass box. ‘Back to your cell, Leigh, and be sharp about it.’

Leigh rose slowly from his place, put the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, then leant across the table and shook hands with William. Lamont couldn’t hide his surprise. Nobody spoke until Leigh had left the room.

‘There can’t be any doubt he painted the copy,’ said Lamont, ‘which makes me all the more convinced it was Faulkner who was responsible for the theft. Did you notice that Leigh’s hands trembled at just the mention of his name? Congratulations, William.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And Reg, are you still listening in on Leigh’s telephone conversations?’

‘Yes. Every Thursday evening, six o’clock, and always to his wife.’

‘Any further mention of the Picasso?’ asked William.