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 Faberge 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 Faberge 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.’
‘There’s to be no announcement, until we’re sure we’ve got everything nicely stitched up,’ guaranteed the superintendent, intrigued by the man’s demeanour.
‘Repeat it,’ urged Wilberforce, reaching out and seizing the man’s arm in his anxiety. ‘I insist that you do.’
‘At the moment,’ Hebson reminded him, ‘you’re not in a position to insist upon anything, Mr Wilberforce.’
The policeman had allowed Wilberforce’s wife to dress but she hadn’t applied any make-up. She giggled when she saw her husband enter between the two officers, looking at him hopefully.
‘What is it, George?’ she demanded, shrilly. ‘Where did all that jewellery come from?’
Hebson looked enquiringly at the inspector he had left in charge of the Tenterden house.
‘In the cellar, sir,’ reported the inspector. He nodded towards Wilberforce’s wife. ‘Says she knows nothing about it.’
‘Where?’ asked Wilberforce, dully.
He had expected the inspector to answer, but instead his wife replied, giggling as if inviting him to be as amused as she was.
‘I’d even forgotten we had it,’ she said. ‘Do you remember that rather cheap Piesporter Goldtropfchen we got … must be years ago. It was behind there.’
‘Shall we see?’ invited Hebson.
Wilberforce led the way, shoulders sagged at the complete acceptance of what had happened. At the bottom of the cellar steps he stopped, uncertainly, so it was his wife who guided the party the last few yards towards an archway at the rear of the dank-smelling basement.
‘There!’she announced. In her bewilderment she sounded proud.
The collection had been taken out of the plastic containers and laid out, almost for inspection. In the dull light from the unshaded bulbs, the diamonds, rubies and pearls glittered up, like the bright eyes of limp, unmoving animals.
The woman sniggered.
‘Look,’ she said, to her husband. ‘Look at the way the long coach of that train has been arranged between those two Easter eggs …’
The laughter became more nervous.
‘… it looks like … well, it’s positively rude …’
Hebson looked painfully to the back of the group, to a policewoman.
‘I think we’re going to need a doctor soon,’ he warned. He came back to Wilberforce. ‘Well sir?’ he said.
Wilberforce turned abruptly, trying to regain some command. He pointed to Hebson and Burt.
‘My study,’ he said.
He walked hurriedly back to the cellar steps, leaving his wife to the care of the policewoman.
