‘The removal van that came to take away all your pictures.’
Miles slammed the phone down, then immediately picked it back up again.
‘I’m checking out,’ he told the receptionist on the front desk. ‘Get me on the first available flight to London, I don’t care which airline.’
‘But Australia look like winning—’ she began.
‘Fuck Australia.’
Mike Harrison called Mrs Faulkner’s number in Monte Carlo and was also told by the maid, ‘Madame fly home.’ He next tried Limpton Hall, but there was no reply. He finally called the commander, who was at his desk.
‘Faulkner’s booked onto a Qantas flight to Heathrow that lands at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That wasn’t part of his original plan.’
‘That’s all I need,’ said Hawksby. ‘And I have no way of getting in touch with DC Warwick to warn him.’
When Christina Faulkner’s plane touched down at Heathrow, she was picked up by her husband’s chauffeur and driven to Limpton Hall, where she had a light supper before going to bed. After all, she had a busy day ahead of her.
William was sitting in a deckchair sunning himself and enjoying a glass of Pinot Grigio when Faulkner’s plane took off on its twenty-three-hour journey to London. He had a clear view of the entry to the hold, which no one had gone near for the past two days. But then why should they? The sun was shining, the sea was calm, and he didn’t have a care in the world.
At nine o’clock the following morning, a Bishop’s Move removal van drew up outside the front door. The loaders took their time packing the sixty-nine artworks into crates before loading them onto the van. After a long lunch break they set off for Southampton.
‘Do not, under any circumstances, go more than thirty miles an hour,’ Christina instructed the driver. ‘We can’t risk damaging any of the pictures.’
‘Whatever you say, madam,’ he replied, only too pleased to oblige, as it guaranteed that he and his men would clock up more overtime.
Christina enjoyed a leisurely lunch in a dining room surrounded by picture hooks. She set off for Southampton just after three, but then she wasn’t in any hurry as the Christina wasn’t due to dock until later that evening. She did hope Miles was enjoying his cricket match. She had been pleased to read in the Mail that morning how finely balanced the game was.
Miles Faulkner cleared customs at Heathrow just after two o’clock. He had considered calling Limpton Hall from the first-class lounge at Melbourne airport and asking his driver to pick him up, but he decided against the idea as it might alert Christina to his unscheduled return.
He made a taxi driver happy when he asked ‘Where to, guv?’ and received the reply, ‘Limpton in Hampshire. And you can double the fare if you make it in under an hour.’
Mike Harrison had travelled on the same plane as Faulkner, but not in the same class. He didn’t follow his mark out of the terminal, as he considered it was more important to contact Mrs Faulkner and warn her that her husband was on his way to Limpton Hall. But there was no reply.
He then rang Scotland Yard, and asked to be put through to DCI Lamont.
‘DS Roycroft,’ said a voice.
‘Hi, Jackie, it’s Mike Harrison. Can I have a word with Bruce?’
‘He set off for Southampton with Commander Hawksby just over an hour ago, Mike.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harrison. ‘Good to know you’re back, Jackie,’ he added.
‘On probation, more like,’ said Jackie before putting down the phone.
Harrison made another taxi driver happy when he told him ‘Southampton’.
It took well over an hour before Faulkner was dropped off at Limpton Hall, but then he knew the cabbie had no chance of getting there in under an hour.
‘Hang about,’ he said as he jumped out of the cab. ‘I may not be long.’
He ran up the steps and unlocked the front door. When he walked into the hall, he felt sick. No Constable, no Turner. She’d even removed the Henry Moore. He walked slowly around the house, horrified by the extent of her looting, to find only dark rectangles and squares where pictures had once hung, and empty stands where sculptures had proudly been displayed. But the final humiliation came when he entered the drawing room, and saw the one painting she’d left behind. Eddie Leigh’s copy of the Rembrandt was still hanging above the fireplace. If Christina had walked into the room at that moment, he would have happily strangled her. He ran back out of the house and shouted at the driver, ‘The front gates.’
The taxi accelerated down the long drive, coming to a halt by the entrance gates. Faulkner leapt out and ran into the gatehouse.
‘Have you seen Mrs Faulkner today?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, after checking his list of arrivals and departures. ‘She left just over an hour ago.’