‘Behave yourself,’ mocked William, as Booth Watson continued to extol the virtues of his dear departed client, while failing to acknowledge the fact that two police officers from Scotland Yard made up half the congregation. He ended his eulogy with the words, ‘I cannot express how much I will miss him.’
‘Not to mention his fees and retainers,’ whispered Christina, as Booth Watson turned to face the coffin, and gave a slight bow before returning to his seat.
William watched closely as the priest pressed a button and the coffin began to move slowly along a platform of electronic rollers. Two small doors opened, and it disappeared from view, drawing a curtain on Miles Faulkner’s life.
After a few moments of silence, the priest returned to the chapel steps to deliver the final blessing. This was followed by a piped recording of the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus that Handel wouldn’t have approved of.
After the service was over, Christina made her way outside to the garden of remembrance, accompanied by William and Jackie. Booth Watson was standing in the middle of the narrow path, clearly waiting for them.
‘I wonder if I might have a private word, Mrs Faulkner?’ said Booth Watson solicitously.
‘Anything you have to say to me, Mr Booth Watson, can be witnessed by my friend, Detective Inspector Warwick,’ said the widow, standing her ground.
‘As you wish, Mrs Faulkner. You will be aware that under the divorce settlement drawn up by Sir Julian Warwick, you are entitled to half of my late client’s considerable art collection.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘It’s presently stored in the vaults of a private bank here in Geneva,’ said Booth Watson. ‘You are free to claim the works at any time you wish.’
‘How about today?’ said Christina defiantly.
‘However,’ continued Booth Watson, ignoring the question, ‘what you will not be aware of—’
‘Now for the small print,’ said Christina.
‘—is that your late husband died intestate. As your divorce had not yet been declared absolute by a court of law, and Miles had no surviving blood relations, you are therefore his legal next of kin and the sole inheritor of his estate.’
‘I get everything?’ said Christina in disbelief.
‘Everything, madam,’ said Booth Watson, giving her a slight bow.
‘Now I really do believe he’s dead,’ said William as the priest approached them, head bowed. ‘Because the only way you’d get your hands on that man’s art collection, would be over his dead body...’
‘I’ll arrange for the ashes to be sent to you, Mrs Faulkner,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to scatter them somewhere appropriate.’
‘In hell?’ suggested Christina.
Three letters landed on the mat that morning, two of them in brown envelopes. One was his Ladbroke’s credit statement, reminding their client of the names of several horses which didn’t have the same confidence in themselves that he had shown in them. The second was a tax demand from the Inland Revenue, with a reminder that interest would be added if the full amount wasn’t paid by the end of the month.
The third envelope, the white one, was from a solicitor whose signature he couldn’t make out, reminding him that his second wife’s alimony payment was a month overdue and threatening legal proceedings... That was when he made the decision.
Lamont left his flat in Hammersmith at ten minutes to ten, and instead of turning right and heading for the nearest Tube station, as he’d done every weekday morning for the past eight years, he turned left. After about a hundred yards he turned left again, and continued walking until he reached a telephone box at the end of the road. Looking around to check that no one was following him, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.
He paused for a moment, still uncertain if he should make the call, but when he heard a nearby church bell toll ten, he picked up the receiver and dialled a number he knew by heart, as he couldn’t afford to leave it lying about for his wife to come across.
He dialled the seven numbers slowly, aware that Summers would be waiting in another phone box on the other side of town. His call was answered after only one ring.
‘Hello?’ No names, no pack drill.
‘I accept your offer. But not your terms. I need an advance.’
‘That’s not what we agreed.’
‘Then you’ll have to find someone else to do your dirty work.’
A long silence followed before he heard the words, ‘How much?’
‘Two grand, and the rest when I deliver.’
‘When and where?’
‘This evening, same time, same place.’ Lamont put down the phone and began to walk home. For a moment he had an uneasy feeling that the young woman waiting at the bus stop near his home looked familiar.
As a No. 211 pulled up, DC Pankhurst climbed on board, wondering if he’d spotted her. If Rebecca had looked back, she would have known the answer.
6
‘We have a full agenda today,’ said the commander, taking his place at the head of the table, ‘so don’t let’s waste any time. Can we begin by closing the file on the Miles Faulkner case? DI Warwick.’
‘DS Roycroft and I,’ began William, ‘travelled to Geneva last Thursday to attend Faulkner’s funeral. And while he may not roast in hell, at least we saw him burn on earth. The merry widow returned to England a few days later with far more than her ex-husband’s ashes, which she scattered over her land at Limpton, so we can indeed close the file on the late Miles Faulkner.’
‘You look disappointed, inspector,’ said the Hawk, raising an eyebrow.
‘I am, sir. I’m reminded of the words of Hilaire Belloc on learning of the death of his Member of Parliament. “Here richly, with ridiculous display, the politician’s corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.” ’
The team burst out laughing and banged the table with the palms of their hands.
‘And what are Mrs Faulkner’s plans for the future?’
‘She will remain in England until the paintings have all been sold, and then she’ll join her sister in Florida.’
‘I won’t miss either of them,’ admitted the commander as he closed one file and opened another. ‘Let’s move on to DS Summers. Are we any nearer to proving he’s worth investigating? He seems to have a record second to none as a thief catcher.’
‘And second to none for letting other villains off the hook,’ said Paul. ‘Which might explain why he’s so successful.’
‘Speculation and proof are two different things, DS Adaja,’ the Hawk reminded him.
‘I agree, sir,’ said Paul, ‘but both DC Pankhurst and PC Bailey have come up with some interesting facts.’
William looked across the table at Paul, who over the past couple of years had become a close friend on and off the field of battle. He wasn’t a clock watcher when it came to fighting crime and, like the Hawk, considered bent coppers even worse than professional criminals.
‘For the past month,’ continued Paul, ‘DC Pankhurst has been shadowing Lamont, while PC Bailey has joined the Romford division as a WPC. Her remit over and above her normal duties is to keep a close eye on Summers and find out if he’s quite as pure as he would have us all believe.’
William turned his attention to the two young constables who had recently joined the unit, and smiled at the thought that they couldn’t have been more different.
DC Pankhurst had proudly announced at her interview that she was a descendant of Emmeline Pankhurst, who had been arrested on numerous occasions as the leader of the suffragettes, and had spent a great deal of her time in prison on hunger strike. William had happily signed up this bright, tenacious young woman to his team. He quickly discovered that he and Paul had to stay wide awake just to keep up with her. She didn’t hesitate to correct them without ever appearing to be insubordinate.