Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(24)

Everyone seated around the table knew exactly which cases the commander was referring to: Ron Abbott and Terry Roach. Two hardmen from rival East End gangs, who were conducting an ongoing dispute about who controlled the gambling, protection rackets, prostitution and distribution of drugs on their patch.

‘I know you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve saved those two particularly unsavoury characters for DI Hogan to deal with when he joins the unit next week as DCI Warwick’s second-in-command.’

Paul looked disappointed.

‘However,’ continued The Hawk, ‘don’t imagine even for one moment that you’re off the hook, because I expect detailed reports, including course of action, to be on my desk before we meet again in a week’s time.’ Biros didn’t stop scribbling. ‘And if you want to hear the bad news, I’ve just had a call from DCI Warwick, whose plane touched down at Heathrow about an hour ago.’

‘I thought he wasn’t due back for another week,’ said DS Adaja.

‘He wasn’t. But he intends to be the officer who arrests Miles Faulkner in person.’

‘That might prove a little difficult,’ said Jackie, ‘as we both attended Faulkner’s funeral in Geneva and witnessed his cremation.’

‘Attended is the key word,’ said The Hawk. ‘But whose ashes were in the urn when the priest handed them over to Mrs Faulkner remains a mystery.’

‘What makes you think they weren’t Faulkner’s?’ asked Jackie defensively.

‘A Raphael which we know Faulkner considered the star of his collection recently came up for auction at Christie’s, and was sold for ￡2.2 million.’

‘That doesn’t prove he’s still alive,’ said Paul, playing devil’s advocate.

‘I would agree with you, DS Adaja, if DCI Warwick hadn’t seen the painting hanging in Faulkner’s home in Monte Carlo not so long ago. Which suggests that the one sold at the auction was a copy, and because the seller had the authentic paperwork to prove its provenance, even the experts were fooled.’

‘Who would pay ￡2.2 million for a fake?’ asked Jackie.

‘Someone who doesn’t want us to know he’s still alive.’

‘That’s hardly beyond reasonable doubt—’

‘Until you consider,’ interrupted The Hawk, ‘that it was none other than our old friend Mr Booth Watson QC who purchased the painting,’ he paused, ‘on behalf of a client.’

‘Who might have been Mrs Faulkner,’ countered Paul.

‘Unlikely,’ said The Hawk. ‘Christina Faulkner has never shown any interest in buying paintings, only selling them.’

‘I’d need a little more proof than that if I were sitting on a jury,’ said Paul, as the door swung open and William marched in.

‘Talk of the devil,’ said The Hawk. ‘I was just about to explain to DS Adaja and DS Roycroft why you’re now convinced Miles Faulkner is still alive.’

‘Ee by gum, I am,’ said William, taking the only empty seat at the table. ‘So if you lot have any plans for next Saturday morning, cancel them, because you’ll be attending the wedding of Captain Ralph Neville, RN Rtd, and Mrs Christina Faulkner, widow of the said parish, despite the fact that they’re both already married.’ He paused. ‘To each other.’





CHAPTER 8


SIXTEEN OFFICERS, UNDER THE COMMAND of DI Hogan, surrounded the Norman parish church of Limpton-in-the-Marsh that Saturday morning. None of them were in uniform. Several of the CROP officers were armed.

The banns had been announced in the parish magazine and proclaimed from the pulpit for the past three Sundays by the local vicar. He declared that the service would take place at two o’clock on Saturday August fifteenth. Several uninvited guests turned up for the betrothal unannounced between seven and eight that morning, but none of them entered the church.

The first official guest to make an appearance was Mr Booth Watson QC, a friend of the groom – in fact the only friend of the groom. He entered the west door of the church just after one, but then he charged by the hour.

Christina was the next to arrive, just before two. Unusual for the bride to turn up before the groom, but then this was an unusual wedding. She was dressed in a smart turquoise suit, silk scarf and matching long coat, more of a ‘going-away’ outfit than a bridal dress. Not that she was planning to go anywhere with her husband.

Miles was running a few minutes late, despite his chauffeur keeping the needle nearer eighty than seventy mph while they were on the motorway. He took exit 13 and headed for Limpton.

‘Don’t look back, boss, but I think we’re being followed.’

‘What makes you say that, Eddie?’

‘A taxi I spotted on the motorway came off at the same exit as us, and I don’t think he’s one of your guests.’

‘Is there another route you can take to the church?’

‘Yes, but it will take far longer, especially if we get held up at the railway crossing.’

‘Take it. That way we’ll find out if he’s following us.’

At the next crossroads, Eddie turned right, and a few moments later the taxi once again appeared in his rear-view mirror.

‘He’s still with us. What do you want me to do?’