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.’
‘Clever as he may be,’ said William, ‘he can’t be carrying out such a complex operation on his own.’
‘No, he isn’t. He has a small, highly professional team working alongside him, but whenever we’ve caught any of his associates, they’ve kept their mouths firmly shut.’
‘On one occasion,’ said Detective Sergeant Roycroft, ‘we even caught two of the thieves red-handed. But Faulkner was in Monte Carlo at the time of the robbery, sleeping peacefully in bed with a wife to confirm his alibi.’
‘And do we think his wife is also one of his most trusted associates?’ asked William.
‘She’s covered for him several times in the past,’ said Hawksby, ‘but we’ve recently discovered that Faulkner has a mistress.’
‘That’s not yet a crime,’ said William.
‘True. But if she were to find out . . .’
‘Weren’t you able to turn either of the gang you arrested, and make a plea bargain?’ was William’s next question.
‘Not a chance,’ said Lamont. ‘Faulkner had an unsigned contract with both of them, with no get-out clause.’
‘They were both sentenced to six years,’ said Hawksby, picking up the thread, ‘and their families on the outside were well looked after, although we’ve never been able to connect the crime to Faulkner. A third villain, who was involved in the Fitzmolean break-in, had his lips sewn together just to remind him what would happen if he decided to turn Queen’s evidence.’
‘But if Faulkner is the fence . . .’
‘Faulkner, according to his tax return,’ said Lamont, ‘is a farmer. He lives in a nine-bedroom mansion in Hampshire surrounded by three hundred acres on which a few cows graze, but never go to market.’
‘But presumably someone has to carry out the negotiations with the insurance companies?’
‘Faulkner leaves that to another of his acolytes,’ said Lamont. ‘Mr Booth Watson QC. A barrister who always acts on behalf of an unnamed client. However hard we press him, he simply reminds us about lawyer–client confidentiality.’
‘But if Booth Watson knows he’s dealing directly with a criminal, isn’t it his professional responsibility to report—’
‘We aren’t dealing with your father in this case, Warwick,’ said Hawksby, ‘but a man who has twice appeared before the Bar Council for conduct unworthy of his profession. On both occasions, he narrowly escaped be
ing disbarred.’
‘But he still practises,’ said William.
‘Yes, but he rarely appears in court nowadays,’ said Hawksby, ‘having discovered a way of charging exorbitant fees without ever having to leave his chambers. Whenever a major work of art is stolen, it’s no coincidence that the first call the insurance company makes is to Mr Booth Watson, who they ask to act as an intermediary. Surprise, surprise, the picture reappears a few days later in perfect condition, and the insurance company settles, often without even bothering to inform us.’
‘I find it hard to believe,’ said William, ‘that Faulkner’s enjoyed a seamless record of success. This sounds as much like the stuff of fiction as The Thomas Crown Affair.’
‘Quite right,’ said Hawksby. ‘At least one of the more established insurance companies has refused to pay the piper, and if the gallery concerned doesn’t have the resources to offer a reward, then Faulkner can find himself stuck with the picture.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said William, ‘the Rembrandt stolen from the Fitzmolean could still be out there.’
‘Unless Faulkner has destroyed it, to make sure the theft can never be traced back to him.’
‘Surely no one would destroy a Rembrandt?’