Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(38)

A silent man drove the gentleman from London along an unmarked track through the forest before crossing a narrow bridge that spanned a fast-flowing river. It wasn’t until they reached the other side that Booth Watson saw the house – although mansion, even chateau, would have been a more accurate description. It made Limpton Hall look like a suburban semi-detached.

Collins was standing by an open door waiting to welcome him. Oh good and faithful servant, he thought, as the butler gave a slight bow, saying, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as if he were a regular visitor, although this would be the first time he had seen Miles for several weeks.

‘Mr Faulkner awaits you in the drawing room, sir.’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Miles, as he came striding across the hall towards his guest. He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Welcome to my country cottage.’

‘More like a palace,’ said Booth Watson.

Miles led the way down a long corridor, passing several familiar paintings Booth Watson had admired over the years. Finally, they entered a drawing room whose large bay windows overlooked a hundred acres of forested countryside on one side, and the calm blue of the Mediterranean on the other. ‘Heaven on earth,’ he said.

Miles sank into a comfortable armchair as a maid appeared carrying a large tray of coffee and biscuits. It was as if they were still in England and nothing had changed.

Miles waited for her to leave, before he said, ‘Let’s get down to business before I give you a tour of the house. What’s Christina been up to?’

‘She’s still playing her part, but has absolutely no idea where you are at the moment, although she never stops asking.’

‘And what do you tell her?’

‘I let slip that you were last seen in Buenos Aires and had no plans to return to England in the near future.’

‘Do you think she fell for it?’

‘I can’t be certain, but Lamont assures me that’s what she tells anyone who enquires. And no doubt will continue to do so if she doesn’t want her monthly allowance to dry up.’

‘But surely Warwick and Hawksby must have worked out by now that I wasn’t burnt at the stake in Geneva.’

‘Indeed they have,’ said Booth Watson. ‘But Lamont informs me that you’ve fallen off their radar.’

‘How can you be sure of that, when he’s no longer on their mailing list?’

‘Don’t forget he still has someone who is, and she keeps the ex-Superintendent well-informed of everything Warwick is up to. It doesn’t come cheap, but at least it guarantees you a no claims bonus on your life policy. Lamont tells me your file, MF/CR/76748/88, is gathering dust in the Met’s general registry office at Hayes in Middlesex, where dead cases go to be buried, and are rarely exhumed.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Miles, ‘because I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life locked up here, although I won’t come out of hiding until you give me the all-clear.’

‘Lamont’s most useful function is to keep confirming that you’re past history. However, it might be wise to lie low for a little longer.’

‘But not for too much longer,’ said Miles. ‘Even heaven on earth becomes a prison after a while. And what’s the point of a private jet, a yacht, a Swiss bank account and a pile of cash stashed in a vault in Mayfair if I’m trapped here?’

‘Don’t forget that Mayfair takes care of Christina, Lamont and his associate, as well as any other incidental expenses.’

‘Including you.’

Booth Watson shrugged his shoulders.

‘Perhaps the time has come to cut down on those expenses by removing Christina from the payroll,’ suggested Miles.

‘I wouldn’t recommend that,’ said Booth Watson firmly. ‘She’d go straight to her friend Mrs Warwick and tell her you’re very much alive, which would give her husband the chance to blow the dust off your file.’

‘And we wouldn’t want that,’ said Miles. ‘Not that they’d ever find me, even if they did discover I’d flown to Barcelona that night.’

‘It may be the case that you’re isolated and well-hidden,’ said Booth Watson, leaning forward, finally unable to resist a chocolate biscuit. ‘But if they were to find out that Ricardo Rossi isn’t a dress designer, but a criminal on the run, this palace would become a bunker, surrounded by an army, making it impossible for you to escape.’

‘They still wouldn’t catch up with me,’ boasted Miles. ‘Let me show you why.’ He stood up and marched out of the drawing room, assuming that Booth Watson would be a pace behind. When he reached the end of the corridor, he unlocked a door and entered what was clearly his study. He sat down at a large partners desk while Booth Watson stared up at a life-size portrait hanging on the wall behind him.

‘General Franco,’ said Miles. ‘He built this hideaway in 1937, at the height of the civil war. Even his closest confidants didn’t know it existed. I’ve had to make some modifications,’ he added. ‘Which will prove my point. When you were picked up by the golf buggy, how long did it take you to reach the house?’

Booth Watson thought for a moment, before saying, ‘Six or seven minutes. But a police motorbike would be a lot quicker.’

‘Agreed. And how long did it take us to walk from the drawing room to this study?’