Page 7 of An Eye for an Eye

‘Was it something I said?’ asked William as he got up from the table.

‘No,’ said Beth. ‘I think you’ll find it was something you didn’t say.’

Artemisia closed her atlas with a bang and returned it to the top shelf of the bookcase, while Peter held the door open for his father.

•••

Prisoner number 4602 held a cup of steaming black coffee in one hand and a digestive biscuit in the other. He stared out of the window onto a patch of green grass; had it not been for the sixteen-foot wall topped with razor wire on the far side of the square, he might well have been at his home in Cadogan Place, rather than in the library of a category B prison.

Miles Faulkner placed his coffee cup on the counter before glancing at the calendar on the wall. Eighteen more days of his sentence to complete before he would finally be released, having served three years at Her Majesty’s pleasure for attempting to steal the Crown Jewels, and finally bring William Warwick down. Although the theft had ended in failure, and it was he who had been brought down, Faulkner hadn’t wasted the last three years, and already had plans to continue disrupting the lives of Chief Superintendent William Warwick and his perfect wife. If they imagined, even for one moment, that Miles had learnt his lesson and was a reformed character, they could think again. In his case time wasn’t a healer.

There was a tap on the library door. Miles walked slowly across and opened it, to find Prison Officer Simpson standing out in the cold.

‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner,’ he said, handing over a copy of theFinancial Timesto the chief librarian.

‘Good morning, Bill,’ responded Miles.

‘Is there anything else you need?’ asked the duty officer, whose income was increased whenever he visited the local newsagent on the prisoner’s behalf.

‘Not at the moment, but if anything should arise, Tulip will be in touch,’ said Faulkner as he closed the door.

Faulkner returned to his chair by the window, settled down and began to read the morning paper, while his trusted deputy, Tulip, made him another cup of coffee – black, steaming hot, with one spoonful of sugar.

He turned to the Footsie 100 and checked his shares. During his incarceration they had risen year on year by nine per cent, and his stockbroker had continued trading on his behalf as if he was still calling from his home in Chelsea.

Every prison officer was aware that Miles had a mobilephone hidden somewhere in the library. However, only Tolstoy knew where it was secreted: in a copy ofWar and Peace, on the top shelf of the classics section. Not a book that was regularly taken out.

Miles turned the page, satisfied his fortune remained intact, even though he still had to pay his ex-wife Christina a monthly alimony payment that a judge had decided would allow her to continue living in the style to which she had become accustomed.

He continued to turn the pages of his paper until a headline in the arts section caught his eye. FITZMOLEAN ATTEMPTING TO RAISE A MILLION TO SAVEREMBRANDT DRAWING.Miles read the article slowly, but then he had the time on his hands.

A third reading of an interview with the museum’s director, Dr Beth Warwick, confirmed that Rembrandt’sJacob Wrestling with the Angel, a rare preparatory drawing by the Dutch master, could be acquired by the gallery, if they could raise one million pounds under the government’s new inheritance tax incentive scheme – but only then if the full amount was raised by the end of June. Dr Warwick told theFinancial Timesarts editor that they had so far only managed to raise £241,000, and she was no longer confident they could get the full amount before the deadline. Should they fail to do so, Dr Warwick was in no doubt the masterpiece would sell for a far larger sum when it came on the open market.

An idea began to form in Miles’s mind. He leant back and closed his eyes, not because he was tired, but because he needed to concentrate on how he might be able to take advantage of Dr Warwick’s situation.

Tulip topped up his coffee but wouldn’t have considered interrupting his thoughts. He didn’t want to annoy MrFaulkner while he was still in with a chance of taking his place as chief librarian in eighteen days’ time. He placed the pot of coffee back on its little gas ring and continued to put recently returned books in their correct places on the shelves. Once the job was completed, he would begin his morning rounds and collect overdue books from prisoners who were either very slow readers or couldn’t be bothered to return them.

The morning rounds were nothing more than an excuse for Tulip to visit his fellow inmates and pick up any inside information he could then pass on to Mr Faulkner, so that he remained one step ahead of everyone in the prison, including the Governor.

Tulip pushed his little trolley silently towards the door, making sure he didn’t disturb Mr Faulkner.

Miles opened one eye as Tulip touched the door handle. ‘I need to see Billy the Forger,’ he announced. ‘Tell him to come to the library after breakfast tomorrow morning.’

•••

Mrs Christina Faulkner is delighted to accept Lord and Lady Mulberry’s kind invitation to join them at Royal Ascot for British Champions’ Day.

Christina placed the invitation card on her mantelpiece, and was already thinking about the new outfit she would need and, of course, a hat that mustn’t go unnoticed. She had thought about little else all morning. Once a taxi had dropped her off in Mayfair, she set about her task with a shopaholic’s conviction.

She spent the first hour walking slowly up one side of Bond Street, and even more slowly back down the other, before ending up at Armani – an Italian who understood that forty was just a number. Elegance and style knew no age.

She tried on several outfits, and one in particular that caught her attention. Although it was a little more expensive – Giorgio Armani rather than Emporio Armani – one had to remember this was Royal Ascot. Christina asked the sales assistant to wrap it before handing over her credit card. While she waited, she began to consider which establishments she would grace to complete the ensemble with a hat and a pair of shoes when an assistant interrupted her thoughts.

‘I do apologize, madam,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid your card has been declined.’ A Bond Street word for ‘rejected’.

‘Declined?’ she repeated. ‘That’s just not possible. Try again.’

‘Of course, madam,’ he said, and hurried away, only to return moments later with the same embarrassed look on his face.

---