DS Jerry Summers boarded the train at Barbican, pleased to find the rear carriage was almost unoccupied. But then, the hour had been chosen carefully, and couldn’t have been described as ‘rush’.
It hadn’t taken Summers long to find out why Lamont had opted for early retirement, despite the success of Operation Trojan Horse. The phrase hand in the till was one being bandied about in the police canteen, and it had only taken him a little longer to confirm Lamont’s gambling habit. A few casual enquiries over an after-work drink had made it possible for him to join up the dots and as Lamont had returned all the money in exchange for the commander turning a blind eye, he realized he shouldn’t be difficult to turn.
When the Tube train drew into Aldgate, Summers was joined by his former station officer, who had been waiting at the end of the platform. Lamont stepped on board and took the seat next to him, but they didn’t acknowledge each other. Out of habit, Lamont scanned the carriage, but the only other passenger to have got on at his stop was a young woman who had taken a seat at the far end of the carriage and immediately began reading a paperback. Although she was well out of earshot, they still spoke in hushed tones.
‘Good to catch up with you again, Jerry,’ said Lamont. ‘And congratulations on your well-deserved promotion.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Bruce, please. Don’t forget I’m no longer a serving officer.’
‘Thanks to the Choirboy,’ said Summers.
‘Remind me how you know the bastard?’
‘We were at Hendon together. He came out top in everything except booze and birds, so we were never going to be natural friends.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Lamont.
‘So, if you felt he needed to be taken down a peg or two, I just might be able to help.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I wondered if you would be available for a little well-paid part-time work?’ Summers emphasized the words ‘well-paid’. ‘But perhaps you’ve already found another job.’
‘Truth is, there are too many retired police officers out there, describing themselves as consultants, all chasing after the same jobs. I thought about opening a pub, even found the ideal location in Blackheath, but unfortunately I couldn’t stump up down payment.’
‘How much were they asking?’
‘Twenty grand. I could just about scrape together ten, but with two ex-wives and a mortgage, I couldn’t make up the difference.’
‘I know someone who might be willing to help you with that problem,’ said Summers.
‘What would they expect in return?’
‘Nothing too demanding. And I can’t think of anyone better placed to carry out the job than you.’
‘I’m listening.’
Summers took his time spelling out exactly what his contact would expect in return for ten grand in cash.
‘I’ll need to give it some thought,’ said Lamont, once DS Summers had passed on his message.
‘Of course, Bruce. But you’ll be well aware of the deadline.’
The train came to a halt, and when the doors opened DS Summers got out without even checking which station it was. Lamont travelled on to Victoria, where he switched to the District line.
The young woman reading the paperback didn’t follow him. But then, DC Pankhurst knew exactly where ex-Superintendent Lamont was heading.
‘I’d like to see the body,’ said William.
‘Are you a member of the family?’ asked the elderly priest politely.
‘No, father, but I have a warrant for Mr Faulkner’s arrest,’ William replied, well aware that his authority didn’t stretch beyond the cliffs of Dover.
The priest studied the warrant but was unmoved. ‘I fear he can now only be judged by a higher authority, my son.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, father, but I still need to see the body before I can return to London.’
‘I’m sorry, inspector, but as I said, only members of the family can—’
‘I’m a member of the family,’ said Christina, stepping forward. She opened her handbag and produced her passport, which was still in the name of Mrs Christina Faulkner.
The priest studied the document, then bowed his head.
‘Allow me to offer my sincere condolences on your loss, Mrs Faulkner. Please follow me.’
‘May I accompany Mrs Faulkner?’ asked William.
‘No, inspector,’ said the priest firmly.
William and Jackie had no choice but to remain behind as the priest led Christina towards a side door of the little chapel marked NO ENTRY. He stood aside to allow her to enter.
‘I would have preferred to see the body myself,’ said William.
‘Me too,’ said Jackie. ‘But if there’s one person who’ll be even more pleased to see him dead than either of us, it has to be the grieving widow.’
William nodded. They didn’t have to wait long before the door opened again and Christina reappeared, an inappropriate smile on her face. She walked across to join them, with the priest hovering a pace behind.
‘It’s Miles, all right. I even recovered his favourite watch,’ she said, holding up a Cartier Tank with the initials ‘M.H.F.’ etched on the back. She dropped it into her bag. ‘Let’s go and watch him burn in hell,’ she whispered.
‘If you’ll come with me, Mrs Faulkner, I’ll take you to the pew reserved for the family.’ He led the three of them to the front of the chapel, and once they were seated, left to prepare for the service.
‘Have you noticed who’s just walked in?’ whispered Jackie. ‘He’s taken a seat near the back.’
William turned around to see the unmistakable figure of Mr Booth Watson QC, head bowed as if he were deep in prayer.
‘Now I’m convinced Faulkner’s dead,’ said William, ‘because Booth Watson’s the only person I know who would charge for attending a funeral and then bill the estate. Who’s the man sitting behind him, a couple of rows back?’
‘No idea,’ said Jackie. ‘Looks like a Swiss gnome. Probably one of Faulkner’s bankers.’
‘Do you think Booth Watson knows where my paintings are?’ asked Christina.
‘Of course he does,’ said William. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s going to let you in on the secret.’
‘But if he’s the executor of Faulkner’s estate,’ said Jackie, ‘he doesn’t have a lot of choice.’
‘He’s well capable of finding a way around that little problem,’ said William.
‘Choirboy, what’s come over you?’ said Christina.
‘Shall we begin by saying the Lord’s Prayer,’ intoned the priest, looking down on his sparse congregation. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven...’
‘Somewhere Miles won’t be going,’ said Christina under her breath.
The priest continued to conduct the ceremony, delivering several inappropriate prayers to mourners who weren’t on their knees.
‘Before the cremation takes place,’ he said, ‘I know there is one among us who wishes to say a few words in memory of his dear departed friend.’
William couldn’t hide his disbelief as Booth Watson made his way slowly to the front of the chapel and turned to face the congregation.
‘I had the privilege of knowing Miles for over twenty years,’ he began, ‘both as his legal adviser and a close friend.’
‘As long as he paid your fees,’ whispered Christina.
‘He was a man given to great acts of generosity and kindness, always putting the interests of his fellow men before his own.’
‘Are we thinking about the same man?’ Christina muttered.
‘He gave unheralded service to his local community, while sharing his wealth in the national interest. He will be sadly missed by his many friends.’
‘I don’t see too many of them here today,’ said Christina, looking around.