Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(107)

The police car turned on its siren, overtook the Sotheby’s van on the road from London to Southampton and indicated to the driver that he should pull into the nearest layby.

Once the van had come to a halt, two officers stepped out of the police car. The first approached the front of the van, while his colleague made his way to the rear. The second officer took a Swiss army knife from his pocket, opened it and thrust the blade firmly into the back left-hand tyre. Once he heard a hissing sound, he returned to the police car.

The van driver wound down his window and gave the officer a quizzical look. ‘I don’t think I was breaking the speed limit, officer.’

‘No you were not, sir. But I thought you should know you have a puncture in your left-hand rear tyre.’

The driver got out, walked to the back of the van and stared in disbelief at the flat tyre.

‘You know officer, I never felt a thing.’

‘It’s always the same with slow punctures,’ said the officer, as a white Bedford van drove past them. He saluted, said, ‘Happy to have been of assistance, sir,’ then joined his colleague in the patrol car and drove off.

If the Sotheby’s driver had asked to see the policeman’s warrant card, he would have discovered that he was attached to the Metropolitan Police in Rochester Row, and was therefore miles outside his jurisdiction. But then, as Sir Alan had discovered, not many officers who’d served under him in the SAS were currently working for the Hampshire police force, and were also available at short notice on a Sunday morning.



Don Pedro and Diego were driven to Ministro Pistarini international airport. Their six large suitcases went through customs without being checked, and they later boarded a BOAC aircraft bound for London.

‘I always prefer to travel on a British carrier,’ Don Pedro told the purser as they were shown to their seats in first class.

The Boeing Stratocruiser took off at 5.43 p.m., just a few minutes behind schedule.



The driver of the white Bedford van swung on to the dock-side and headed straight for shed No. 40 at the far end of the docks. No one in the van was at all surprised that Colonel Scott-Hopkins knew exactly where he was going. After all, he’d carried out a recce forty-eight hours before. The colonel was a details man; never left anything to chance.

When the van came to a halt, he handed a key to Captain Hartley. His second-in-command got out and unlocked the shed’s double doors. The colonel drove the van into the vast building. In front of them, in the middle of the floor, stood a massive wooden crate.

While the engineer locked the door, the other three went to the back of the van and removed their equipment.

The carpenter placed the ladder up against the crate, climbed up and began to remove the nails that kept the lid in place with a claw hammer. While he went about his work, the colonel walked to the far end of the shed and climbed into the cab of a small crane that had been left there overnight, then drove it across to the crate.

The engineer removed the heavy coil of rope from the back of the van, then made a noose at one end before throwing it over his shoulder. He stood back and waited to perform the hangman’s duties. It took the carpenter eight minutes to remove all the nails from the thick lid on the top of the packing case, and when he’d completed the task he climbed back down the ladder and placed the lid on the floor. The engineer took his place on the ladder, the coil of rope still hanging over his left shoulder. When he reached the top step, he bent down, lowered himself into the box and passed the thick rope securely under each arm of The Thinker. He would have preferred to use a chain, but the colonel had stressed that the sculpture was in no circumstances to be damaged.

Once the engineer was certain that the rope was secure, he tied a double reef knot and held the noose up to indicate that he was ready. The colonel lowered the crane’s steel chain until the hook on its end was inches from the top of the open crate. The engineer grabbed the hook, placed the noose over it and gave a thumbs-up.

The colonel took up the slack before he began to raise the statue inch by inch out of the crate. First, the inclined head appeared, its chin resting on the back of a hand, followed by the torso and then the muscular legs, and finally the large bronze mound on which The Thinker sat, contemplating. The last thing to appear was the wooden base to which the bronze statue was fixed. Once it had cleared the top of the crate, the colonel slowly lowered it until it was suspended a couple of feet above the ground.

The foundry worker lay on his back, slid under the statue and studied the four butterfly screws. He then took a pair of pliers from his tool bag.

‘Hold the damn thing still,’ he said.

The engineer grabbed The Thinker’s knees and the carpenter held on to his backside in an attempt to keep the statue steady. The foundry worker had to strain every sinew in his body before he felt the first screw that held the wooden base in place give just half an inch, and then another half, until it came finally loose. He repeated the exercise three more times, and then suddenly, without warning, the wooden base fell on top of him.

But that wasn’t what grabbed the attention of his three colleagues, because a split second later, millions of pounds in pristine five-pound notes came pouring out of the statue and buried him.

‘Does that mean I can collect my war pension at last?’ asked the carpenter as he stared in disbelief at the mountain of cash.

The colonel allowed himself a wry smile as the foundry worker emerged, grumbling, from under the mountain of money.