The Sotheby’s van with its newly fitted tyre arrived at the dockside about forty minutes later than scheduled.
When the driver brought the van to a halt outside shed No. 40, he was surprised to see a dozen customs officials surrounding the package he had come to pick up.
He turned to his mate and said, ‘Something’s up, Bert.’
As they stepped out of the van, a forklift truck picked up the massive crate and, with the assistance of several customs officials, far too many in Bert’s opinion, manoeuvred it into the back of the van. A handover that would normally take a couple of hours was completed in twenty minutes, including the paperwork.
‘What can possibly be in that crate?’ said Bert as they drove away.
‘Search me,’ said the driver. ‘But don’t complain, because now we’ll be back in time to hear Henry Hall’s Guest Night on the Home Service.’
Sebastian was also surprised by the speed and efficiency with which the whole operation had been carried out. He could only assume that either the statue must be extremely valuable, or that Don Pedro wielded as much influence in Southampton as he did in Buenos Aires.
After Sebastian had thanked the officer with the three silver stripes, he made his way back to the terminal, where he joined the few remaining passengers waiting at passport control. A first stamp in his first passport made him smile, but that smile turned to tears when he walked into the arrivals hall to be greeted by his parents. He told them how desperately sorry he was, and within moments it was as if he’d never been away. No recriminations and no lectures, which only made him feel more guilty.
On the journey back to Bristol, he had so much to tell them: Tibby, Janice, Bruno, Mr Martinez, Princess Margaret, the ambassador and the customs officer all made their entrances and exits, although he decided not to mention Gabriella – he’d save her for Bruno.
As they drove through the gates of the Manor House, the first thing Sebastian saw was Jessica running towards them.
‘I never thought I’d miss you,’ he said as he stepped out of the car and threw his arms around her.
The Sotheby’s van turned into Bond Street just after seven. The driver was not surprised to see half a dozen porters hanging around on the pavement. Although they were all on overtime, they would still be keen to get home.
Mr Dickens, the head of the Impressionist Department, supervised transferring the crate from the roadside to the storeroom in the auction house. He waited patiently for the wooden slats to be stripped and the shavings swept away, so he could check that the number in the catalogue matched the number on the sculpture. He bent down to see ‘6’ etched into the bronze below the signature of Auguste Rodin. He smiled, and placed a tick on the manifest.
‘Many thanks, chaps,’ he said. ‘You can all go home now. I’ll deal with the paperwork in the morning.’
As Mr Dickens was the last to leave the building that night, he locked up before walking off in the direction of Green Park station. He didn’t notice a man standing in the entrance of an antique shop on the opposite side of the street.
Once Mr Dickens was out of sight, the man emerged from the shadows and walked to the nearest telephone box on Curzon Street. He had four pennies ready, but then he never left anything to chance. He dialled a number he knew by heart. When he heard a voice on the other end of the line, he pressed button A, and said, ‘An empty thinker is spending the night in Bond Street, sir.’
‘Thank you, colonel,’ said Sir Alan, ‘and there’s another matter I need you to handle. I’ll be in touch.’ The line went dead.
After BOAC flight number 714 from Buenos Aires touched down at London Airport the following morning, Don Pedro wasn’t at all surprised that every one of his and Diego’s suitcases was opened, checked and double checked by several over-zealous customs officials. When they had finally placed a chalk cross on the side of the last case, Martinez sensed a little frisson of disappointment among the customs officers, as he and his son walked out of the airport.
Once they were seated in the back of the Rolls-Royce and on their way to Eaton Square, Don Pedro turned to Diego and said, ‘All you have to remember about the British is that they lack imagination.’