Page 25

CHAPTER 24

R OSS WAS TORN AS HE wrestled with the moral implications, even before he began to consider the risk factor.

He realized if he went ahead with his plan, he would be breaking the law, which he accepted was an even greater offence if you’re a law officer, and if he was caught he could end up with a long prison sentence. But if he didn’t go ahead, Faulkner would once again get away with it, and heaven knows what else he had up his sleeve for encores.

Ross also accepted that his chances of pulling off the coup had to be less than fifty-fifty, not least because he couldn’t discuss his idea with anyone, even Alice. She would have told him in no uncertain terms her views on the morality of the whole idea, and she certainly wouldn’t have given his chances of getting away with it as any better than ten per cent – though he wasn’t in any doubt she would have understood why he felt he had to do it.

William would have disapproved on principle and made his position clear from the outset, but as Faulkner had been responsible for Avril’s death, he would have understood why Ross had decided he had to travel down that particular road.

The Hawk wouldn’t have been at all surprised by Ross’s strongly held beliefs. He would still have been left with no choice but to accept his resignation with regret, although he might have admitted, when looking in the shaving mirror, ‘If I were twenty years younger, I might well have done the same thing myself.’

Ross’s noncommittal comments over supper the evening after his visit to Lady Hartley had caused Alice to ask, ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘I’ve got a problem at work,’ he admitted, which had the virtue of being half true.

What he didn’t tell her was he’d made up his mind to go ahead with his particular brand of risk-taking and if, as a result, he had to resign – or even worse – so be it.

···

Ross waited until William turned up for work before he rang Artemisia on her mobile. His goddaughter picked up the phone almost immediately.

‘Have you by any chance kept in touch with Robert Hartley?’ he asked, hoping the question sounded casual.

Artemisia didn’t answer immediately. ‘Are you asking me as a policeman, my godfather or a friend?’ she eventually asked.

‘All three,’ said Ross.

‘He’s my boyfriend,’ admitted Artemisia. ‘In fact, I thought it might be him on the line, because hardly a day goes by when we don’t talk to each other. But why do you ask?’

‘He could help me with something I’m working on,’ said Ross.

‘Will it help his father?’ asked Artemisia. ‘Because that’s all I care about.’

‘I feel confident his father would approve – but that’s about as far as I can go at the moment.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Artemisia, sounding so much older than her years.

‘Because I can’t answer your question,’ admitted Ross. ‘However, what I can tell you is it won’t do Robert any harm and, in the long term, his family will be grateful.’

‘In which case, I’ll do anything I can to help.’

‘You can’t ask me how,’ said Ross, ‘but I know that Robert can recite the contents of a letter written by Thomas Jefferson in 1787 to one of his ancestors.’

‘Robert can recite the entire Declaration of Independence, including the two clauses Congress rejected,’ replied Artemisia. ‘I know, because I’ve heard him do it.’

‘One letter will be more than enough for what I have in mind,’ said Ross.

···

Ross slipped out of the office early that afternoon without letting anyone know where he was going.

After a short journey on the tube, he spent a couple of productive hours in the Old Kent Road, searching for what he would require if he hoped to fool the aficionados and collectors alike. He strolled up and down a mile-long market that could supply almost anything a cash customer might need, from a sepia photo of Edward VII at Balmoral to a campaign medal from Mafeking. Ross visited several stalls, none of them interested in the twenty-first century.

He came away with half a dozen sheets of heavy letter paper, three envelopes, two quill pens and a bottle of black ink, all of which you could have purchased in the same market over two hundred years ago.

···

Ross took the following day off. He told Alice he might be home late, as if that was something unusual. He also let William know he wouldn’t be coming in to work that day, which only made him wonder what Ross was up to. He didn’t ask.

Ross left the house that morning before Alice had stirred, looked in on Jojo just before he departed and plonked a kiss on her forehead.

He jumped on a bus to King’s Cross from where he caught a train to Little Hampton in Yorkshire. He used the three-hour journey, one change, to go over his plan again and again.

He had been in touch with the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs and the North Yorkshire constabulary earlier in the week. No more than a routine enquiry, he’d assured them, but he came away with some useful intel. Billy Mumford had been released from prison a few weeks ago and had returned to his home in Little Hampton. Most mornings, he could be found at the Dog and Duck, the local constable told him, while he spent every Tuesday and Thursday evening at a dog track in Pontefract, where he could be relied on to part with his money. Whenever he ran out of cash – a regular occurrence – he got drunk and, after recovering from the hangover, knocked up another masterpiece, which he sold to a dealer in Doncaster. They never put his work on display, but still seemed to have a regular flow of willing customers who wanted to impress their friends.

Mumford was about to have a visit from another willing customer.

If he said ‘no way Chief Inspector’, then Ross would be back at home in time for tea with Jojo. If Mumford showed any interest in the idea, he’d be lucky to make it for supper with Alice.

Ross was the only person who got off the train at Little Hampton. He handed in his ticket at the barrier and made his way into a village that would have been lucky to get a passing mention in any guidebook. One pub (free house), one church (Norman) and a stream that even an over-zealous councillor might have been pushed to describe as a river.

Ross sat down on a bench opposite the church and admired the eleventh-century tower while he waited for Mumford to appear. When he saw him strolling across the green, he looked the other way. Once Mumford had entered the Dog and Duck, Ross only waited a few minutes – time for him to buy a pint – before he joined him.

A bell tinkled above the door as Ross entered the pub. A few locals who were sitting at the bar gave the intruder a fleeting glance before returning to their ale. ‘A southerner,’ one of them remarked, as if there could be no greater insult for a man to bear. Ross looked around the room to see that one table was occupied by a familiar figure studying the back page of the Yorkshire Post .

Mumford looked up and immediately recognized him. His hands began to tremble as the policeman walked towards him.

‘You can’t have travelled all this way, Mr Hogan, just because I failed to turn up for one of my probation meetings,’ he protested as Ross took the seat opposite him.

Ross couldn’t have asked for a better opening.

‘I’m afraid so. It’s just been one too many,’ he threw in, hoping he was on the right track.

‘I swear it’s only been the once, guv,’ said Mumford, unable to hide the desperation in his voice.

‘Not according to your probation officer,’ said Ross, pushing his luck. ‘I’m sorry, Billy, but I’ve got my orders. I’ve been told to arrest you and take you back to the Scrubs so you can complete your sentence – unless of course I think there’s a possibility you might reform your ways, which seems most unlikely.’

‘I don’t want to go back to prison, Mr Hogan,’ said Billy as Ross took an arrest warrant out of an inside pocket, a document Mumford immediately recognized. He turned white.

‘I’m sure you don’t, Billy, but unfortunately I’ve got my orders.’

‘Is there nothing I can do, Mr Hogan, to convince you that it will never happen again?’ pleaded Billy.

Ross remained silent for some time, before reverting to prison lingo: ‘You scratch my back, Billy, and I might just consider scratching yours.’

‘I don’t have any spare cash at the moment, Mr Hogan, but if you’d like a painting, I could knock you up a Picasso, a Monet, even a Rubens – mind you, that would take some time.’

Ross pretended to be considering the proposition, before he let him know what he really wanted, ‘There is something, Billy, that you just might be able to help me with.’

‘Anything, Inspector, anything – just name it.’

Ross placed his briefcase on the table, opened it, and took out a copy of Rosenberg’s prize-winning volume, Monticello , before turning to a well-thumbed page. ‘If I wanted you to produce a letter as if it had been written by this man,’ he said, pointing at the page, ‘could you do it?’

Billy studied the handwriting for some time before he said, ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Hogan.’

‘What about the signature?’ said Ross.

Mumford took a second look. ‘Not exactly Leonardo da Vinci, is it?’

‘And how long would it take you?’ asked Ross, moving on.

‘A couple of days.’

‘I need it by midday on Tuesday, no later.’ Ross’s hand dipped back into the briefcase. ‘Let’s make the challenge a little more interesting,’ he said, producing a sheet of paper with the words Robert Hartley had recited to Artemisia. ‘This is a copy of the letter I want reproduced as if it had been written by Thomas Jefferson.’ He paused. ‘Word for word.’

Mumford only had to read the script once before he said, ‘Consider it done, Mr Hogan.’

Ross finally produced, like a conjuror from a hat, the necessary props to complete the forgery, including two quill pens and a bottle of black ink. ‘I want the letter written on this paper, and the envelope addressed to the Rt Hon. David Hartley MP, Hartley Hall, Bucklebury, England,’ said Ross, handing over the spoils of his trip to the Old Kent Road.

‘I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought, Mr Hogan,’ said Mumford, sounding suspicious for the first time, ‘so I have to ask, what’s in it for me?’

Ross took the only remaining document out of his briefcase, held it up long enough for Billy to see it was an arrest warrant with his name printed in capital letters on the dotted line. He began to tear it up before Billy had the chance to see it hadn’t been countersigned by a local magistrate.

‘Thank you, Mr Hogan,’ said Billy, sounding genuinely relieved as he watched the little pieces drop like confetti back into the briefcase. Only one thing remained in the briefcase which Billy couldn’t take his eyes off: a pair of handcuffs.

‘There are conditions I’ll expect you to keep to if you don’t want to go back inside,’ said Ross, ‘so listen carefully.’

The look of apprehension reappeared on Billy’s face.

‘I’ll be back next Tuesday at twelve o’clock with another warrant, and if the letter isn’t up to scratch, your feet won’t touch the ground until you’re safely back in your old cell at Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘I can promise you, Mr Hogan, you’ll get your letter, and even Mr Jefferson will think he wrote it.’

‘And one more thing, Billy, before I leave,’ said Ross. ‘If you’re stupid enough to get in touch with Mr Booth Watson, the deal is off, and I’ll personally deliver you to the Scrubs on the same day. And let me also warn you that should it cross your mind to scarper, I’ve instructed the local police to keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven, and when they catch up with you – and you can be sure they will – it won’t be twelve months you’ll be looking at.’ Billy began to tremble again. ‘Think about it,’ said Ross as he closed his briefcase, and delivered his parting words, ‘See you midday on Tuesday, Billy. Make sure you’re on time.’

‘I’ll be here waiting for you, Mr Hogan. You can rely on me.’

‘Let’s hope so, for your sake,’ said Ross as he got up and left the pub without another word.

As he began to walk back to the station, Ross checked his watch. With a bit of luck, he’d be home in time for tea with Jojo.