Nothing Ventured Page 15

  ‘I needed to obtain a warrant before I could search his house.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Grace. ‘Because surely you could have arrested Mr Amhurst the moment he’d stepped off the train at Dagenham East, taken him to the local police station, and obtained a Section 18 authority from the senior officer on duty, and then searched his home that same day.’

  William knew she was right, but couldn’t admit he’d made such a basic mistake, so he remained silent.

  ‘Can I presume, constable, that you have read section eighteen of the 1984 Police and Criminal Evidence Act, which grants you the power to search a suspect’s address following an arrest?’

  Several times, William wanted to tell her, but still said nothing.

  ‘As you seem unwilling to answer my question, constable, can I assume that you had no fear that my client might destroy any evidence or absent himself before you returned the following morning?’

  ‘But I was confident he hadn’t seen me,’ said William, trying to fight back.

  ‘Were you indeed, constable? Can you remember what Mr Amhurst said when you and a colleague arrived the following day with a warrant to search his home?’ Grace held on to the lapels of her gown, readjusted her wig and stared at her brother, giving him the same disarming smile, before saying, ‘Would it help if I reminded you?’ She prolonged William’s embarrassment by waiting a little longer, before turning to face the jury. ‘He said, “Would you like a cup of tea?”’

  A few people in the well of the court began to laugh. The judge frowned at them.

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree that doesn’t sound like the response of a guilty man, fearful of being arrested and thrown in jail?’ said Grace.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘If you could stick to answering my questions, constable, and not offering personal opinions, it would be much more helpful.’

  William was stunned by the ferocity of her attack, and certainly wasn’t prepared for her next question.

  ‘Are you an expert in recognizing forged signatures, or did you just take it for granted that my client was guilty?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I had written statements from nine booksellers to whom Mr Amhurst had offered complete signed editions of Churchill’s history of the Second World War.’

  ‘None of whom, sadly, including the manager of Hatchards who made the original complaint, were able to find the time to come to court and give evidence today. Were you by any chance in Hatchards on Saturday morning?’

  ‘No,’ said William, puzzled by the question.

  ‘If you had been, Constable Warwick, you could have obtained a copy of Graham Greene’s latest novel The Tenth Man, because the author signed over a hundred copies before going on to sign even more books at several other bookshops in the West End. Now, as Sir Winston was a politician, I don’t suppose he was shy about signing the odd copy of his works.’

  One or two of the jury nodded.

  ‘But we found several other books,’ spluttered William, still trying to fight back. ‘Don’t forget the first edition of A Christmas Carol, signed by Charles Dickens, for example.’

  ‘I’m glad you raised the subject of the Dickens,’ said Grace, ‘because my client has long treasured that particular family heirloom, left to him by his late father, so he would never have considered selling it. Indeed, the court may be interested to know that my client is in possession of the original receipt for the sale of the book, dated 19 December 1843, price five shillings.’

  Mr Hayes was quickly on his feet. ‘My Lord, I must protest. This document has not been offered in evidence by the defence.’

  ‘There’s a simple explanation for that, Your Honour,’ said Grace. ‘My client has been searching for the receipt since the day he was arrested, but Constable Warwick and his colleague left his home in such a mess that he only came across it this morning.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Hayes, loud enough for the jury to hear. The judge scowled but didn’t rebuke him.

  Once again, the jury took their time studying the receipt.

  ‘I hope, Constable Warwick,’ said Grace after William had looked briefly at the receipt, ‘that you’re not going to suggest my client forged that as well?’

  Several members of the jury began to chat among themselves, while Hayes made a note on his pad.

  Grace smiled up at her brother and said, ‘I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Warwick,’ said the judge. ‘Perhaps this might be a convenient time to adjourn for lunch.’

  ‘We’re not beaten yet,’ said Hayes, enjoying a Caesar salad in the canteen.

  ‘But I didn’t exactly help our cause,’ said William, unable to eat. ‘I should have reminded my sister about the pages of Churchill signatures we found in Amhurst’s house.’

  ‘Fear not,’ said Hayes. ‘Once Amhurst steps into the witness box, I will remind the jury about the fake signatures again and again.’

  ‘And I’m puzzled about that receipt,’ said William. ‘Why didn’t we find it when we searched the house?’

  ‘Because I suspect it wasn’t there. Amhurst probably bought it quite recently to cover himself. A point I shall put to him under oath.’

  William glanced across at his sister, who was having lunch on the other side of the canteen with her instructing solicitor, who he suspected was Clare. But neither of them once looked in his direction.

  When the court reconvened, Mr Justice Gray asked defending counsel if she would like to call her first witness. Ms Warwick rose from her place and said, ‘I shall not be calling any witnesses, Your Honour.’

  A murmur went up around the court. William leant forward and whispered in Hayes’ ear, ‘So if Amhurst isn’t going to testify, won’t that make the jury assume he’s guilty?’

  ‘Possibly. But don’t forget your sister will have the last word. And if I’d been representing Amhurst, I would have given him the same advice.’

  The judge turned his attention to prosecuting counsel.

  ‘Are you ready, Mr Hayes, to sum up on behalf of the Crown?’

  ‘I am indeed, Your Honour,’ said Hayes, who rose and placed his summation on the little stand in front of him. He coughed, adjusted his wig and turned to face the jury. ‘Members of the jury, what a fascinating case this has turned out to be – although perhaps you might feel that you are attending a performance of Hamlet without the prince. Let me begin by asking you, why defending counsel never once in her cross-examination of Detective Constable Warwick mentioned the pages of Winston Churchill signatures that were found in the defendant’s home, written on pages torn from a 49p W.H. Smith lined pad. I think we can assume that they weren’t signed by the great war leader, and not least because he died before decimalization.

  ‘We also know that DC Warwick found a complete set of Churchill’s The Second World War in the defendant’s home, of which three of the six volumes were signed and three unsigned. So I’m bound to ask why the other three weren’t signed.’ Hayes paused. ‘Perhaps they were next on his list?’

  One or two members of the jury rewarded Hayes with a smile.

  ‘And next, you must consider the signed copy of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Defending counsel would have you believe that it is a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. Did you not find that a little too convenient? Isn’t it more likely that Mr Amhurst bought an unsigned copy of A Christmas Carol, along with its original receipt, on one of his many visits to bookshops all over London? You might also ask yourselves why two Scotland Yard detectives, having carried out a comprehensive search of Mr Amhurst’s residence, didn’t come across that receipt.

  ‘I am quite happy for you to decide,’ continued Hayes, his eyes never leaving the jury, ‘if you prefer to believe the more romantic version, as suggested by my learned friend, or the more likely version, as supported by the facts. I feel confident that common sense will prevail.’

  When Hayes resumed his place on the
bench, William wanted to applaud, and felt they were back in with a chance. The judge looked across at defending counsel and asked if she was ready to put the case for the defence.

  ‘More than ready, Your Honour,’ replied Grace, as she rose from her place. She looked directly at the jury for some time before she spoke.

  She began by reminding them that in English law, it was the defendant’s privilege not to enter the witness box, which might have proved quite an ordeal for ‘this frail old gentleman’.

  ‘He’s only sixty-two,’ muttered Hayes, but Grace sailed on, ignoring the ill wind.

  ‘Let us now consider what is undoubtedly the crucial piece of evidence in this case. If Mr Amhurst is guilty as charged, and was in possession of an autographed first edition of A Christmas Carol, why didn’t he offer it for sale, as it would have fetched ten times as much as a signed set of Churchill’s history of the Second World War? I’ll tell you why, because he wasn’t willing to part with a family heirloom, which he will in time pass on to the next generation.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any children,’ William whispered in Hayes’ ear.

  ‘You should have told me that earlier.’

  ‘Last night, members of the jury,’ continued Grace, ‘while I was preparing this case, I spent a little time calculating how much Mr Amhurst would have made had he sold the three volumes of Churchill’s memoirs that Constable Warwick produced in evidence and claimed had been falsely signed. It comes to just over a hundred pounds. So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would suggest this is hardly the crime of the century. Yet for reasons best known to itself, Scotland Yard has chosen to come down on Mr Amhurst with the full force of the law. If you believe beyond reasonable doubt,’ she emphasized, ‘the Crown has proved that Cyril Amhurst is a master forger and an accomplished fraudster, then he should spend his Christmas in prison. If, however, you find, as I believe you will, that the Crown has not proved its case, you will surely release him from this ordeal and allow him, like Tiny Tim’s father, to spend Christmas in the bosom of his family.’

  When Grace sat down, Mr Hayes turned and whispered to William, ‘What a pro. She’s a chip off the old block. Your father would have been proud of her.’

  ‘But not of his son,’ hissed William, who could quite happily have murdered Grace.

  The judge’s summing-up was fair and unbiased. He presented the facts without trying to influence the jury in either direction. He placed considerable emphasis on the unexplained sheets of Churchill signatures, but he also stressed that the Crown had produced no evidence to prove that A Christmas Carol was not a family heirloom. After he had completed his summation, he instructed the jury to retire and consider their verdict.

  Just over two hours later the seven men and five women filed back into the jury box. Once they were settled, the clerk of the court asked the foreman to rise. A stout, steely-looking woman in a smart, tightly fitting check suit rose from her place at the end of the front row.

  ‘Foreman of the jury, have you been able to reach a verdict on which you are all agreed?’

  ‘Yes we have, Your Honour.’

  ‘On the first charge, of forgery, namely of the signature of Sir Winston Churchill on eighteen books, with the intention of deceiving the public and making a profit. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ she replied firmly.

  ‘And on the second charge, of being in possession of a book bearing the forged signature of Charles Dickens with the intention of deceiving the public and making a profit. Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘And on the third charge, of possessing three volumes from Winston Churchill’s The Second World War bearing the forged signature of Sir Winston Churchill, do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  While some in the courtroom gasped, William breathed a sigh of relief. He would be able to return to work the next day, if not in triumph, then at least not having to admit to being a complete failure.

  ‘Will the prisoner please rise,’ said the clerk of the court.

  Amhurst rose, his head slightly bowed.

  ‘Cyril Amhurst, you have been found guilty of a serious crime, for which I sentence you to one year in prison.’

  William tried not to smile.

  ‘However, as you have up until now had an unblemished record, and this is your first offence, the sentence will be suspended for two years, during which time I would recommend you do not visit too many bookshops. You are free to leave the court.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said Amhurst, before stepping down from the dock and giving his counsel a long hug.

  William shook Hayes’ hand, and thanked him for his gallant effort.

  ‘Your sister was quite brilliant,’ admitted Hayes. ‘With almost nothing to play with, she beat us two-one, and in the end she even had the referee coming down in her favour. I won’t make the same mistake if I come across her again.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ said William, before slipping quietly out of the courtroom. He found Grace standing in the corridor, waiting for him.

  She gave him that grin he knew so well. ‘Got time for a drink, bruv?’

  Over dinner that evening, William told Beth exactly what had happened in court. She burst out laughing and said, ‘You’re a complete idiot.’

  ‘I agree. I’m dreading going into work tomorrow. If I’m not back on the beat, I’ll certainly be put in the stocks.’

  ‘The laughing stocks would be my bet,’ said Beth. ‘I only wish I’d been there to see the look on your face when the judge decided to suspend the sentence.’

  ‘Thank God you weren’t. But if I ever come up against my sister again, I’ll make sure I’m better prepared.’

  ‘So will she.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet, because you still haven’t told me how you got on when you visited Eddie Leigh in Pentonville.’

  William put down his knife and fork and described the meeting in great detail. When he came to the end, all Beth said was, ‘Egg yolk. That more than makes up for your feeble effort in the witness box this morning. But do you think Leigh knows where the Rembrandt is?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure he does, because it turns out that he and Faulkner were at the Slade at the same time. But we’re the last people he’s going to tell. In fact I expect he regrets going as far as he did.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll learn more when you take the copy back to Faulkner’s home tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe I won’t get past the front gate.’

  19

  WILLIAM SAT AT his desk nervously awaiting his fate. He was reading about the latest development in the Blue Period Picasso case when Lamont came barging into the room.

  ‘What was the outcome yesterday?’ were the DCI’s first words.

  William took a deep breath. ‘Amhurst was sentenced to a year, but the judge suspended it for two.’

  ‘Couldn’t have worked out better,’ said Lamont, rubbing his hands gleefully.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked William.

  ‘I won the squad sweepstake. One year suspended,’ he said as Jackie walked in.

  ‘Who won the jackpot?’ Jackie asked, even before she’d taken off her coat.

  ‘I did,’ said Lamont.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘And what did you predict?’ William asked her.

  ‘Six months suspended. So not only did I lose, but you also beat me, jammy bastard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The judge threw my first case out of court, and me with it. I left a crucial piece of evidence in my car, so the defendant was released before he even made it to the witness box.’

  William burst out laughing.

  ‘Right,’ said Lamont. ‘Let’s all get back to work. Jackie, I need you to take me through the details for tomorrow night’s operation before I can finally give it the green light.’

&
nbsp; Jackie went quickly across to her desk and grabbed the relevant file.

  ‘And, William, the copy of the Rembrandt has been placed in a locked van that you’ll find in the car park. Collect the keys from reception and be on your way. Not that anyone’s betting on you getting past the front gate.’

  ‘Did Faulkner fly to Monte Carlo yesterday?’ William asked.

  ‘Yes, he landed in Nice around midday, and isn’t expected back for at least another month.’

  Commander Hawksby poked his head round the door. ‘So, what was the verdict?’

  ‘One year suspended,’ said Lamont.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Dare I ask, sir?’ said William.

  ‘Fifty hours community service.’

  ‘Can DS Roycroft and I come and see you, sir, once I’ve finalized the details for “Operation Blue Period”?’ said Lamont.

  ‘Yes, of course, Bruce. And good luck with Mrs Faulkner, William.’

  William reported to reception and collected the keys for the van, before heading down to the underground car park. He checked that the crate containing the painting was safely stored in the back of the van before driving out of the Yard and onto Broadway. During the journey to Limpton, he went over parts A, B and C of his plan, aware that he could be on his way back to the Yard within an hour if he didn’t get past the front door.

  When he left Beth that morning, he’d promised to be back in time for supper.

  ‘With all six Syndics safely in the back of the van,’ she teased.

  Conscious of the painting in the back, William never exceeded the speed limit. He’d been warned by Lamont that if it wasn’t returned in perfect condition, Mr Booth Watson QC would be demanding compensation for his client before the end of the week.

  When he reached the picturesque village of Limpton in Hampshire, it wasn’t difficult to work out where the Faulkners lived. Limpton Hall stood proudly on a hill that dominated the landscape. William followed a sign that took him along a winding country lane for another couple of miles, before he came to a halt outside a pair of iron gates, stone pillars surmounted by crouching lions on either side.