Rembrandt. As soon as he described the work, I knew it had to be the one stolen from the Fitzmolean.”
“Why did you make that assumption?” asked the judge.
“It’s almost unknown, My Lord, for a Rembrandt to come on the market. Almost all of his works are owned by national museums or galleries. Very few are still in private hands.”
“So if you knew the painting was stolen,” said Booth Watson, “why did you have anything to do with it?”
“I confess that I couldn’t resist the challenge. However, when I was told I would have to travel to Naples to view the painting, I realized it had to be the Camorra who had stolen it. I should have walked away. But like a footballer who’s convinced he’s about to score the winning goal, I charged on.”
Booth Watson had never cared much for that particular metaphor but ran with it. “And did you score the winning goal?”
“Yes and no,” said Faulkner. “I flew to Naples, where I was met by a smartly dressed young lawyer accompanied by a couple of thugs who never once opened their mouths. I was then driven to a rundown part of town which is a no-go area, even for the police. I’ve never seen such poverty in my life. And the only pictures on the walls of the tenement blocks were either of the Virgin Mary or the pope. I was taken down a long flight of stone steps into a dimly lit basement, where there was a large painting propped up against the wall. I only needed one look, to know it was the real thing.”
“What happened next?”
“The bargaining began, and it quickly became clear they wanted to be rid of the painting, so we settled on a hundred thousand dollars. I knew, and they knew, that it was worth a hundred times that amount, but they weren’t exactly overwhelmed with potential buyers. I told them I would hand over the money the day the painting was returned to the Fitzmolean. They said they’d be in touch, but didn’t even offer to drive me back to the airport. I had to walk some distance before I came across a taxi.”
“And when you got back home, did you tell anyone about your experience?”
“I had to share what I’d been through with someone, so I foolishly told Christina. I never thought she’d take advantage of it, and even lie under oath.”
“And the gentlemen you’d met in Italy didn’t keep to their side of the bargain and return the picture to the Fitzmolean.”
“The Camorra rarely stray beyond their own territory,” said Faulkner. “I heard nothing for over a month, so I assumed the deal must be off.”
The judge made a note.
“But it wasn’t?”
“No. The two thugs who I’d met at the airport turned up at my home in Monte Carlo in the middle of the night with the painting, and demanded their hundred thousand dollars. One of them was brandishing a knife.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“I was. Especially when they told me they would first slit the throats of the six Syndics, one by one, and then mine if I didn’t pay up.”
The judge made another note.
“You had a hundred thousand dollars cash on hand?”
“Most people who want to sell me one of their family heirlooms, Mr. Booth Watson, don’t expect to leave with a check.”
“What did you do next?”
“The following morning I rang the captain of my yacht and told him that a large crate would shortly be arriving at the dockside. He was to take it to Southampton and personally deliver it to the Fitzmolean Museum in London.”
“And, Your Honor,” said Booth Watson, “if the Crown so wishes, I can call Captain Menegatti, who will confirm that those were indeed the instructions Mr. Faulkner gave him.”
“I bet he will,” muttered William, “if he wants to keep his job.”
“You flew to Australia the following day, assuming that your orders would be carried out.”
“Yes. I had hoped my wife would come with me, but she changed her mind at the last moment. It turned out she had an assignation with a younger man.”
William clenched his fists to try and stop himself trembling.
“But then she was well aware I had tickets for the Boxing Day Test in Melbourne,” continued Faulkner, “which meant I wouldn’t be returning to England before the New Year.”
“But you returned to England halfway through the match?”
“Yes, Captain Menegatti called me at my hotel in Melbourne to tell me that my wife had turned up at the yacht,