Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(108)

‘Afraid not, Crann. My orders couldn’t have been clearer,’ he said as he climbed out of the crane. ‘Every last one of those notes is to be destroyed.’ If an SAS officer had ever been tempted to disobey an order, surely it was then.

The engineer unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and reluctantly splattered a few drops over the coals in the brazier. He struck a match, and stood back as the flames danced into the air. The colonel took the lead and threw the first ￡50,000 on to the brazier. Moments later, the other three reluctantly joined him, hurling thousands upon thousands into the insatiable flames.

Once the last bank note had been burnt to a cinder, the four men remained silent for some time as they stared at the pile of ashes and tried not to think about what they had just done.

The carpenter broke the silence. ‘That’s brought a totally new meaning to the phrase “money to burn”.’

They all laughed except the colonel, who said sharply, ‘Let’s get on with it.’

The foundry worker lay back down on the floor and slid under the statue. Like a weightlifter, he picked up the wooden base and held it in the air, while the engineer and the carpenter guided the little steel rods back through the four holes in the bottom of the statue.

‘Hold firm!’ shouted the foundry worker, as the engineer and carpenter clung on to the sides of the base while he replaced the four butterfly screws, first with his fingers, then with the pliers, until they were all firmly back in place. Once he was satisfied they couldn’t be any tighter, he slid out from under the statue and gave the colonel another thumbs-up.

The colonel pushed the up lever in his cab and slowly raised The Thinker high into the air, until it hovered a few inches above the open packing case. The engineer climbed the ladder as the colonel began gently lowering the statue, while Captain Hartley guided it safely back into the crate. Once the rope had been removed from under The Thinker’s arms, the carpenter replaced the engineer on the top step and nailed the heavy lid back in place.

‘Right, gentlemen, let’s start clearing up while the corporal is going about his work, then we won’t waste time later.’

The three of them set about dousing the fire, sweeping the floor and returning everything that had already served its purpose to the back of the van.

The ladder, the hammer and three spare nails were the last things to end up in the back of the van. The colonel drove the crane back to the exact position in which he’d found it, while the carpenter and the foundry worker climbed into the van. The engineer unlocked the door of the shed and stood aside to allow the colonel to drive out. He kept the engine running while his second-in-command locked the door and then joined him in the front.

The colonel drove slowly along the dock until he reached the customs shed. He stepped out of the van, walked into the office and handed over the shed key to the officer with three silver stripes on his arm.

‘Thank you, Gareth,’ said the colonel. ‘I know Sir Alan will be most grateful, and will no doubt thank you personally when we all meet up at our annual dinner in October.’ The customs officer saluted as Colonel Scott-Hopkins walked out of his office, climbed back behind the wheel of the white Bedford van, switched on the ignition and set off on the journey back to London.



The Sotheby’s van with its newly fitted tyre arrived at the dockside about forty minutes later than scheduled.

When the driver brought the van to a halt outside shed No. 40, he was surprised to see a dozen customs officials surrounding the package he had come to pick up.

He turned to his mate and said, ‘Something’s up, Bert.’

As they stepped out of the van, a forklift truck picked up the massive crate and, with the assistance of several customs officials, far too many in Bert’s opinion, manoeuvred it into the back of the van. A handover that would normally take a couple of hours was completed in twenty minutes, including the paperwork.

‘What can possibly be in that crate?’ said Bert as they drove away.

‘Search me,’ said the driver. ‘But don’t complain, because now we’ll be back in time to hear Henry Hall’s Guest Night on the Home Service.’

Sebastian was also surprised by the speed and efficiency with which the whole operation had been carried out. He could only assume that either the statue must be extremely valuable, or that Don Pedro wielded as much influence in Southampton as he did in Buenos Aires.

After Sebastian had thanked the officer with the three silver stripes, he made his way back to the terminal, where he joined the few remaining passengers waiting at passport control. A first stamp in his first passport made him smile, but that smile turned to tears when he walked into the arrivals hall to be greeted by his parents. He told them how desperately sorry he was, and within moments it was as if he’d never been away. No recriminations and no lectures, which only made him feel more guilty.

On the journey back to Bristol, he had so much to tell them: Tibby, Janice, Bruno, Mr Martinez, Princess Margaret, the ambassador and the customs officer all made their entrances and exits, although he decided not to mention Gabriella – he’d save her for Bruno.

As they drove through the gates of the Manor House, the first thing Sebastian saw was Jessica running towards them.

‘I never thought I’d miss you,’ he said as he stepped out of the car and threw his arms around her.



The Sotheby’s van turned into Bond Street just after seven. The driver was not surprised to see half a dozen porters hanging around on the pavement. Although they were all on overtime, they would still be keen to get home.