Nothing Ventured(45)

“I can’t be sure how long we’ll be, Matt,” said Lamont to the driver, who was taking a paperback out of the glove compartment. “But when we get back, you can let me know if the latest Len Deighton is worth taking on holiday this year.”

“It’s the third in a trilogy, sir, so I recommend you start with the first, Berlin Game.”

As they got out of the car, they were approached by a senior prison officer whose name tag on the pocket of his uniform read “SO Langley.”

“How are you, Bruce?”

“Can’t complain, Reg. This is DC Warwick. Keep your eye on him. He’s after my job.”

“Good morning, sir,” said William, as they shook hands.

“Follow me,” said Langley. “I apologize for the excessive security procedures, but they’re standard in any Cat. B prison.”

They both signed the register at the gatehouse, before being issued with visitors’ passes. William counted five sets of barred gates that were locked and unlocked before they came across their first prisoner.

“Leigh’s waiting for you in the interview room, but let me warn you, Bruce, he’s been particularly uncooperative this morning. As you’ve nicked him on three occasions in the past, I don’t suppose you’re his favorite uncle.”

William noticed as they walked down a long green brick corridor that the cons either turned their backs on them, usually accompanied by an expletive, or simply ignored them. But there was one exception, a middle-aged man who stopped mopping the floor to take a closer look at the man. William thought there was something familiar about him, and wondered if he’d arrested him at some time when he was on the beat in Lambeth.

William couldn’t hide his surprise when they came to a halt outside a large glass cube that looked more like a modern sculpture than an interview room. Inside he could see a prisoner sitting at a table, head bowed, who he assumed must be Eddie Leigh.

“Before you ask,” said Lamont, pointing at the glass cube, “that’s as much for your protection as his. When I was a young sergeant, I was once accused of punching a prisoner during an interrogation. It’s true that I wanted to punch him, but I didn’t,” he paused, “on that occasion.”

“Coffee and biscuits?” said Langley.

“Give us a few minutes with him first, Reg,” said Lamont.

William and Lamont entered the room and sat down opposite Leigh. No suggestion of handcuffs or an officer sanding behind him. A privilege afforded only to those with no record of violence. Leigh must have waived his right to have a solicitor present.

William looked carefully at the prisoner seated on the other side of the table. At first glance, the forty-seven-year-old forger looked like any other con, dressed in the regulation prison garb of blue striped shirt and well-worn jeans. He was unshaven, with dark hair and brown eyes, but what surprised William was his hands. How could a man with bricklayers’ hands produce such delicate brushwork? And then he spoke, revealing that he hailed from the same part of the world as Lamont.

“Can you spare us a fag, guv?” he asked politely.

Lamont placed a packet of cigarettes on the table, extracted one and handed it to the prisoner. He even lit it for him. The first bribe had been offered and accepted.

“My name is Detective Chief Inspector Lamont,” he said as if they’d never met before, “and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Warwick.” Leigh didn’t even glance at William. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Leigh didn’t respond, other than to exhale a large cloud of gray smoke.

“We are investigating the theft of a Rembrandt painting from the Fitzmolean Museum in Kensington, some seven years ago. We have recently come across a copy which we have reason to believe was painted by you.”

Leigh took another drag on his cigarette, but said nothing.

“Did you paint that picture?” asked Lamont.

Leigh still made no attempt to respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“If you cooperate with us,” said Lamont, “we might be willing to make a favorable recommendation to the Parole Board when you come up in front of them in a couple of months’ time.”

Still nothing. William began to realize, as he looked into Leigh’s sullen eyes, just how far Miles Faulkner’s tentacles stretched.

“On the other hand, if you don’t cooperate, we can also report that to the Board. The choice is yours.”

Even this didn’t appear to move Leigh. A few seconds later the door opened and a trusty prisoner entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table before leaving quickly. Leigh grabbed a mug of black coffee, dropped in four sugar lumps, and began to stir. Lamont sat back in his chair.

“Mr. Leigh,” said William, aware that no prison officer would have addressed him as Mr. during the past four years, “as it’s clear that you have no intention of answering any of our questions, I’d just like to say something before we leave.” Lamont added another lump of sugar to his coffee. “I’m an art nut, a groupie, call it what you will, but more important, I’m a huge admirer of your work.” Leigh turned to look at William for the first time, as a large piece of ash fell off the end of his cigarette and onto the table. “Your Vermeer, Girl at a Virginal, was certainly accomplished, although I wasn’t surprised it didn’t fool the leading Dutch scholars, particularly Mr. Ernst van de Wetering. But the copy of The Syndics is unquestionably a work of genius. It’s currently in our office at Scotland Yard, and I’m reluctant to return it to Miles Faulkner, who claims it’s his. It’s just a pity you weren’t born in Amsterdam three hundred years ago, when you could have been a pupil of the master, even a master yourself. If I had a fraction of your talent, I wouldn’t have bothered to join the police force.”