‘Understandably,’ said William. ‘But how did you find out?’
‘I would never have found out if I hadn’t received a letter from a solicitor in London who represented the late Mrs Isla Buchanan, informing me that she’d died and left everything to me in her will.’
‘Didn’t she have any children of her own?’ asked Beth.
‘That was my first question. But her solicitor assured me there were no other relations who had any claim on the estate.’
‘Then I suspect she was doing no more than carrying out your grandfather’s wishes,’ said William. ‘After all, it was well-known you were his favourite grandson.’
‘So where do I fit into this unlikely triangle?’ asked Beth.
‘The bulk of her estate,’ continued James, ‘consists of a house in Onslow Square, which I’ve already put on the market. However, it turns out that Isla also shared my grandfather’s passion for Scottish art, and they collected works by Sir Henry Raeburn, Samuel Peploe, Allan Ramsay and someone called Charles Rennie Mackintosh.’
‘Never utter those three words to a Scotsman without bowing your head. He’s become part of Glaswegian folklore.’
James lowered his head and said, ‘However, if I’m to comply with my father’s wishes, I must dispose of the entire collection without drawing attention to its provenance.’
‘You don’t want to hold on to any of them?’ asked Beth in disbelief.
‘It’s not a risk my father is willing to take. So I was wondering what you would advise me to do in the circumstances.’
‘I’d live with them for the rest of my life,’ said Beth, with considerable feeling. ‘But if you have to sell them, you certainly can’t risk putting them up for auction. The provenance would be listed in the catalogue for all to see.’
‘So what’s the alternative?’ asked James.
‘You’ll have to sell them privately, and I’m afraid that could take some time.’
‘Would you be willing to visit the house and take a look at the collection for me?’
‘Of course I will. I’ll go tomorrow and start making an inventory of the works and let you know how much I think they’re worth.’
‘I couldn’t ask for more,’ said James. ‘But I fear I must now leave you.’
Beth raised an eyebrow.
‘I have to go and prove to Artemisia that I can read.’
It had taken Christina only one visit to Gerald Sloane with the suggestion that she might be willing to reinstate her annual donation to the Fitzmolean for him to reveal everything she needed to know.
‘Your visit couldn’t have come at a more opportune time,’ he purred.
‘Why?’ asked Christina, innocently.
After she had gleaned all the information she needed to know about the Holbein, she took a leaf out of Beth’s book and thought carefully about what she would say to Mr Rosen when she phoned him. It was some time before her call was answered.
‘Thomas Rosen,’ said a refined voice, with a slight accent.
‘Mr Rosen, my name is Christina Faulkner, and I understand from my good friend, Beth Warwick, that you have a picture for sale that I might be interested in.’
‘Are you calling on behalf of the Fitzmolean, Mrs Faulkner?’
‘Yes, I am. However, they wish the approach to remain confidential for the time being.’
‘I understand,’ said Rosen. ‘Like you, we wouldn’t want the sale to become public knowledge.’
‘You can be assured of my discretion,’ said Christina, who certainly didn’t want Sloane or Miles to find out what she was up to.
‘That being the case, Mrs Faulkner, I would be only too happy for you to visit me in Amsterdam where you could view the painting.’
‘As well as the artist’s handwritten note that’s attached to the back of the panel?’
‘You are well-informed, Mrs Faulkner, which doesn’t surprise me. So if you’d be kind enough to make the journey to Amsterdam at your convenience, I’ll have my chauffeur pick you up in the airport and drive you to my home.’
Chapter 26
No one recognized the officer seated next to the Hawk, but they were all aware of his reputation.
Assistant Commissioner Harry Holbrooke was the officer in charge of Counter Terrorism, and rarely seen in public. If you passed him in the street, you wouldn’t have given him a second look, and would not have considered it plausible that he was the man the IRA most feared.
He couldn’t have been more than five foot eight, weighing around 145 pounds, a featherweight when he entered the boxing ring, a heavyweight when it came to knock-outs.
‘I’d like to begin,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent that he made no attempt to soften for his southern colleagues, ‘by asking Superintendent Warwick to give us a detailed report of his meeting with Miles Faulkner, and his opinion of the source’s credibility.’
They all listened intently to William’s account of what had taken place when he and DS Pankhurst had visited the prisoner in Belmarsh. Rebecca read out the occasional verbatim contribution from her notebook. When William had finished, he waited to hear Holbrooke’s assessment.
‘Let me say from the outset,’ he began, ‘that your principal informant can hardly be described as A1. As a source — which is graded from A, always reliable, to E, untested — Faulkner’s a D at best, unreliable. For reputation — which is ranked from 1, known to be honest without reservation, to 5, suspected to be false — he scrapes in with a 4, cannot be trusted. So, your man is not only a D4 but currently serving a prison sentence for fraud and deception.
‘In normal circumstances,’ continued Holbrooke, ‘information provided by such a source would be handled by a junior officer in SO13, and would be highly unlikely to reach my desk. However, I concede this cannot be described as “normal circumstances”, and Faulkner has two things going for him. One, his undoubted intelligence, and two, what would be in it for him to invent such a cock and bull story? Let me now throw this open for discussion, commander,’ Holbrooke said, looking towards the other end of the table. ‘I’d like you to play devil’s advocate on this occasion while your team try to convince me that I should make this a priority, because at present it sounds like a waste of my time.’ The Hawk nodded. ‘Then let’s begin with you, Superintendent.’
‘I agree with your assessment of the source’s reputation,’ said William. ‘D4 at best. But I still believe we can’t afford to take the threat lightly.’
‘We’ve never had to deal with a suicide bomber in England,’ interjected the Hawk. ‘This would be a first.’
‘True,’ said Holbrooke, ‘but the French faced a similar problem at Orly airport a few years ago, and were caught napping. Never forget it’s our duty to try and be one step ahead of modern criminals, not playing catch-up all the time. Some of us can remember when the public were appalled if they saw a uniformed officer carrying a handgun, which they now take for granted. So, let’s assume the worst and go from there. What’s the security like at the Albert Hall?’
‘Bog standard,’ said Paul, ‘other than for the evening of the Festival of Remembrance in November, which the Queen and other members of the Royal Family always attend. But when it comes to the Proms, they barely check your ticket before you take your seat, they don’t search handbags, and the promenaders are a law unto themselves.’
‘Promenaders?’ queried Holbrooke.
‘During the Proms season,’ chipped in Rebecca, ‘the six hundred seats in the stalls are removed to accommodate eight hundred ticket holders, known as promenaders, who stand throughout the entire performance. The bookings manager describes them as eccentric at best and bonkers at worst. Jeans and scruffy T-shirts are the norm, and more than a few of them come with backpacks, and think nothing of eating a three-course meal while downing several cans of beer during the performance. Some of them have their established places directly in front of the stage, and woe betide anyone who dares to occupy someone else’s long-held territory. Even when the management decided to double the price of a ticket, in the hope of raising the tone, the same people turned up the following year, and carried out the same rituals. They’re fanatics. It seems that nothing will keep them away from their annual obsession.’