his right, and said, “So what have you been up to in my absence, Bruce?”
“I’ve had much the same problem as you, sir,” said Lamont. “Just exchange drugs for diamonds. The uncut stones are coming out of Ghana and being shipped to Dubai, before being sent on to Bombay where they’re sold for cash. That way they avoid import and export tax, while at the same time pushing up house prices in Mayfair.”
“Criminals always want to live in a law-abiding country,” said Hawksby. “It makes it easier for them to carry on with their business.”
“And like you, sir,” continued Lamont, “we only catch some minnows, who regard a few years in jail as no more than part of the deal.”
“No wonder crime is currently fifteen percent of the world’s economy, and growing,” commented Hawksby. “Anything else, Bruce?”
“Yes, sir. I think it’s just possible that DC Warwick might have made a breakthrough in the missing Rembrandt case, but I’ll leave him to fill in the details.”
“After further investigation, we—” began William.
“We?” interrupted Hawksby.
“Thanks to the help of a research assistant at the Fitzmolean, we’ve identified an artist who I think may have painted the copy of the Rembrandt.”
“Name?”
“Eddie Leigh,” said Lamont. “He tried to sell a fake Vermeer to a West End gallery. I was in charge of that case, and he’s been banged up in Pentonville for the past two years.”
“What makes you think that Leigh was responsible for the copy of the Rembrandt, DC Warwick?” asked Hawksby.
“I saw an example of his work at the Fake Gallery in Notting Hill, sir. He has a rare talent, but even so, I don’t think he could have produced something of that quality unless he’d seen the original.”
“But he could have bought a print of The Syndics from the Fitzmolean for five pounds,” said Hawksby.
“That’s true, but if he only had a print to work from, he wouldn’t have been able to capture the vivid color, vibrancy, and flair of the original in the way he has, which makes me think it’s just possible the original hasn’t been destroyed.”
“But that’s still damned unlikely,” said Lamont, without the trace of a smile.
“How long does Leigh have left to serve?” asked Hawksby.
“Just over four years, sir,” said Lamont. “And I think he let slip where Faulkner is going to strike next.”
“Enlighten me,” said Hawksby.
“SO Langley called me from Pentonville yesterday to tell me that he’s been regularly listening in on Eddie Leigh’s weekly phone conversations with his wife, but there hasn’t been anything worth reporting until last Friday.”
“You have us on the edge of our seats, Bruce,” said the commander.
Lamont read out the exact words Leigh had said to his wife.
“‘How’s the painting coming along?’ ‘You can tell him I’ve finished Woman on a Beach.’ ‘In the nick of time.’”
“That’s from Picasso’s Blue Period,” said William.
“I don’t give a damn what period it’s from,” said Hawksby. “Who owns the original?”
“A Mr. and Mrs. Brookes,” said Lamont. “It’s currently hanging in their country home in Surrey.”
“Not for much longer, I suspect, and now we know where Faulkner intends to strike next, we need to find out when.”
“I think I might have the answer to that,” said Jackie, looking rather pleased with herself. She allowed herself a moment before continuing. “‘In the nick of time’ is the clue, sir, because the Brookes are going on holiday in two weeks, and although they’ll be away for a fortnight, there is only one evening when the house will be empty.” She allowed herself an even longer pause.
“Get on with it, sergeant,” said Lamont.
“The Brookes have a driver, David Crann, and a cook, Elsie. Both live in, but the cook always goes on holiday when they’re away.”
“And the driver?”
“Crann will be on the premises night and day during that fortnight, except for the evening of Monday the twenty-third when Chelsea are playing Liverpool at home.”
“I’m halfway there,” said Hawksby, “but fill in the details.”
“Crann has a season ticket, and never misses a Chelsea home game. The match kicks off at seven, so he’ll leave the house around five and won’t be back much before midnight.”
“Are the premises fully alarmed?” asked Lamont.
“State of the art, sir. However, the nearest police station is about twenty minutes away, which would give the villains more than enough time to steal the picture and be back on the motorway before the local police could get there.”
“That’s an outstanding piece of policework, sergeant.”