Hurriedly Law shook his head.
‘Mustn’t frighten the rabbit,’ he said.
‘What then?’ asked Hardiman. It was almost impossible to guess which way the superintendent’s mind would jump, he thought, annoyed.
‘Let’s try to find out a bit more about him first,’ suggested Law. He paused and the sergeant waited, knowing he hadn’t finished.
‘Remember what he said that first night, when we went to his house?’ prompted Law.
Hardiman looked doubtful.
‘Made some remark about being a financier, even though his passport described him as a clerk.’
‘Why should that be odd?’ asked Hardiman.
‘I don’t know, laddie. I don’t know,’ said the superintendent, patronisingly. ‘Why don’t we check the passport office, to discover if it is?’
Why did Law have to conduct everything like it was a sodding quiz game? wondered Hardiman, walking towards his own office. Sometimes the man really pissed him off.
Involvement had been thrust upon Willoughby and Charlie had anticipated the reluctance that was becoming obvious. He hadn’t expected the underwriter’s argument against the stupidity of vindictiveness. That had surprised him.
To Willoughby, of course, the two were so interlinked as to be practically the same. But to Charlie, they were quite separate. To beat them, as he knew he now had, as well as surviving, had more than justified any risk. And there hadn’t been any; not much, anyway. Almost like rigged roulette, again. Now it was over. And he’d got away with it.
Momentarily he looked away from his search for the turning off Wimbledon Hill Road that Willoughby had named during their argumentative conversation, checking the time. Almost midnight; everything would have happened by this time tomorrow, he thought.
He’d been very fortunate, Charlie thought. The confidence bubbled up. But he’d been clever enough to seize that good fortune and utilise it. Christ, how he’d utilised it.
Despite the force of a Lloyd’s insurers behind it, he had still been surprised at the speed with which Willoughby had obtained John Packer’s address from the car registration. The house was at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, a horseshoe indentation between two major roads. Charlie didn’t stop, driving out on to the avenue that backed on to Packer’s property, counting along until he isolated the house between him and the one he was seeking. He parked the car, entered through a tree-lined drive, skirted the darkened building and then smiled, with growing awareness, at the lowness of the fence between it and Packer’s home. The separation between the other adjoining property, from which it would be possible to reach the alternative main road, would be similarly low, he guessed.
Charlie realised almost immediately that he would not be able easily to enter the house. Inside each of the lower windows there was actually a reinforced mesh clamped into a separate frame to form a positive barrier, in addition to the special window locks and the small steel bolts that had been fitted in each corner. With such precautions, it was pointless trying the doors, Charlie decided.
‘Pity a few other people hadn’t been as cautious as you, Mr Packer,’ muttered Charlie.
At first Charlie thought the shed might have been built over an old coal-chute, by which he might still have been able to get in, through the cellar. Obedient to his training, he remained unmoving immediately inside the door, first feeling out for any obstruction and then, careful to avoid the reflection showing through the side windows, probing with the pencil-beam torch.
It wasn’t until he’d shifted the sodium chlorate aside, thinking first of its gardening use, and discovered what lay behind that he appreciated its proper significance, squatting before it and all the other explosives, then moving up to the shelves to feel through the detonators and fuses and finally examining the box containing the timing and pressure devices. There were even clocks, to activate them.
‘A regular little bomb factory,’ mused Charlie. ‘So you’re the professional, Mr Packer? The one who’s necessary to make it look right.’
It was the confirmation of the impression that had come to him climbing over the garden fence; the house was ideally positioned, with three easy escape routes against arrest.
Charlie extinguished the torch, re-locked the outhouse and left the garden by the route he had entered. The man had been manipulated enough, he decided.
TWENTY-FIVE
The arrests on the day that George Wilberforce was later to regard as the worst in his life should have been perfectly coordinated, but inevitably there was a mistake.
The information had identified the Kent house and the assumption of the Flying Squad and the Regional Crime Squad was that Wilberforce would be there as well. But it was a week-day and so he was staying in the Eaton Square apartment.
The superintendent who had liaised between the two forces and organised the raid went with just two cars to London, leaving the main police contingent at Tenterden, with instructions to the women police officers that the woman bordering on hysteria should in no circumstances be allowed near a telephone.
During the drive through the early morning traffic they heard by radio that the seizure of Brian Snare had gone perfectly. The man had answered the door in his dressing gown, eyes widening in surprise at the number of police cars effectively sealing the Pimlico square, and was still spluttering his protests when they had found some jewelled eggs and the orb from the Fabergé collection hidden in the spare bedroom of the house.
Wilberforce was dressed when the squad arrived and his reaction was more controlled than they had expected. They refused his demand to use a telephone and when he had tried to insist upon his legal rights, an inspector said ‘Bollocks’ and the superintendent nodded in agreement.
They had left London before Wilberforce spoke again.
‘This is a very big mistake,’ he said.
The superintendent sighed. ‘I’d like ten pounds for every time I’ve been told that as I’ve got my hand on a collar,’ he said. He spoke across Wilberforce, as though the man were quite unimportant.
‘Me too,’ said the inspector.
‘I’ll want your names,’ blustered Wilberforce.
‘Here we go,’ said the inspector. ‘Bet he knows the commander.’
‘I do,’ insisted Wilberforce.
‘The names,’ said the superintendent, bored with the familiar charade, ‘are Superintendent Hebson and Inspector Burt. We do have warrant cards, if you’d care to see them.’
‘I shall hold you personally responsible if the men you’ve left behind at my flat cause any damage,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Of course,’ agreed the superintendent. He was staring through the window, appearing more interested in the countryside.
‘I’m still waiting for a satisfactory explanation,’ said Wilberforce.
The superintendent remained gazing out of the window, so Inspector Burt turned, smiling over the back of the seat.
‘We have reason to believe that you might have information to help us in our enquiries into the theft of the Fabergé collection which was on show at the Tate,’ he said, formally.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Wilberforce.
Hebson turned back into the car at the remark.
‘And it’s still a big mistake, is it?’ he said sarcastically.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me.’
The Director shook his head.
‘You can’t know,’ he said, his voice still clouded. ‘Oh, my God!’
The two policemen exchanged looks.
‘We’re going to, eventually,’ Hebson assured him.
Again Wilberforce shook his head, but this time he turned to the policeman, struggling to compose himself.
‘There must be no announcement about the recovery,’ he said urgently. He gestured to the front of the car. ‘Get on to the radio and say you want a complete publicity blackout.’