Page 91 of An Eye for an Eye
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 theYorkshire 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 toproduce 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.