Nothing Ventured(77)

“No, he was with a young lady who works as a cocktail waitress in the hospitality suite. I have a photograph and a name.”

“Thank you, Mike.”

Harrison then called DCI Lamont at the Yard and repeated the same message before going to bed.



* * *



Booth Watson returned to his chambers just after ten o’clock on the morning of the 28th, pleased that Christmas was over and he could get back to work. He read the divorce petition a second time, aware that the grounds were a real concern. Faulkner’s wife had clearly been preparing the petition for some time, as several women were named. He decided to call his client and let him know the news of his impending divorce, although he suspected it would not come as much of a surprise.

He first phoned Limpton Hall, but there was no reply, so he assumed Makins must still be on holiday. If he’d made the call an hour later, Mrs. Faulkner would have answered. He next called the Faulkners’ home in Monte Carlo, and a maid picked up the phone. Clearly English wasn’t her first language.

“May I speak to Monsieur Faulkner?” he asked.

“No here.”

“Do you know where he is?” asked Booth Watson, enunciating each word slowly.

“No. Young man say Australia.”

Booth Watson wrote on his pad: Australia/young man.

“And is Mrs. Faulkner there?” he asked just as slowly.

“No, Madame fly home.”

“Home?”

“Angleterre.”

“Thank you,” said Booth Watson. “Most helpful.”

He wondered what Miles could possibly be doing in Australia, and in which city he might be. Reg Bates, the chambers’ head clerk, came to his rescue.

“Has to be Melbourne, sir. He’ll be watching the second Test.”

Booth Watson had no interest in cricket, and simply instructed the head clerk to find his client.

Bates spent the rest of the morning calling all the leading hotels in Melbourne, and by the time Booth Watson had returned from lunch he found a yellow Post-it on his desk with the details. He immediately called the Sofitel and asked to be put through to Miles Faulkner’s suite.

“Before I do, sir,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “are you aware it’s one thirty in the morning?”

“No, I wasn’t,” admitted Booth Watson. “I’ll call back later.”

After he’d hung up, he did some calculations, and decided he would try again when he got home that evening.



* * *



Miles Faulkner was shaving when the phone rang in his suite, but he abandoned his razor when he heard Booth Watson’s resonant tones. Whenever BW called it was rarely good news. Faulkner sat on the end of the bed and listened to what his lawyer had to say.

“Is there any reason I should hurry back, BW?” he asked after Booth Watson had informed him about the writ. “The Test match is finely balanced. I’d planned on flying up to Sydney to celebrate the New Year, so wouldn’t be home before the third at the earliest.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got fourteen days to acknowledge receipt of the petition, so we can deal with it when you get back.”

“Good. Then I’ll call you in a couple of weeks’ time. Anything else?”

“Yes, there was something. It seems your wife spent Christmas in Monte Carlo with a young man. By the time you return, I’ll have his name and all the details. It might prove helpful when it comes to making a settlement in claim.”

“Put a private detective onto it straight away,” said Faulkner.

“I already have,” said Booth Watson, “and you should assume your wife’s done the same thing.”

“Any good news?” asked Miles.

“I’ve handed over the Renoir to Standard Life, and they’ve transferred half a million to your account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Half a million Christina won’t be able to get her hands on.”

“Enjoy the Test match, and call me the moment you’re back.”

Miles put the phone down and finished shaving. After the cocktail waitress—whose name he couldn’t remember—had left, he decided to find out if his wife was still in Monte Carlo.

The maid was able to go into far greater detail with her boss than she had with Booth Watson, but then Faulkner spoke fluent French. He asked when Madame had left for England, and she replied, “I’m not sure, sir. All I know is she followed the van down to the yacht.”

“What van?” demanded Faulkner.

“The removal van that came to take away all your pictures.”

Miles slammed the phone down, then immediately picked it back up again.

“I’m checking out,” he told the receptionist on the front desk. “Get me on the first available flight to London, I don’t care which airline.”

“But Australia look like winning—” she began.

“Fuck Australia.”



* * *



Mike Harrison called Mrs. Faulkner’s number in Monte Carlo and was also told by the maid, “Madame fly home.” He next tried Limpton Hall, but there was no reply. He finally called the commander, who was at his desk.

“Faulkner’s booked onto a Qantas flight to Heathrow that lands at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That wasn’t part of his original plan.”