Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(50)

It was some time before the laughter died down.

‘When does the trial begin?’ asked William.

‘It should have been tomorrow at ten o’clock in the forenoon,’ said Sir Julian, ‘had Booth Watson not requested a postponement, which I reluctantly agreed to. It seems my unworthy opponent has a pressing engagement in Scotland, though he wouldn’t say with whom.’

‘He didn’t say where, by any chance?’ asked William.

‘No, as always BW gave as little away as possible.’

Beth and William looked at each other, but didn’t speak.

‘Dad, could I make a phone call?’

‘Yes, of course, my boy. Use the phone in my study.’

‘Thank you,’ said William, who stood up and quickly left the room.

‘Was it something I said?’ asked Sir Julian.

‘No. Something Booth Watson didn’t say,’ said Beth.

‘How intriguing.’

‘I can even tell you who he’s on the phone to.’

‘The commander, no doubt,’ said Sir Julian. ‘And I can guess what he’ll say when he returns.’

‘“Sorry Mother, but we have to leave immediately,”’ suggested Beth. ‘“Something unexpected has come up.”’

The door opened and William came charging back into the room.

‘I’m so sorry, Mother, but we have to go …’

‘Something’s come up that you have to deal with immediately?’ suggested Sir Julian.

‘How did you know that?’ asked William.

‘I didn’t. But I could hardly help noticing that no sooner had I uttered the words Booth Watson and Scotland, than you suddenly needed to make an urgent phone call.’

William didn’t rise to the bait. He kissed his mother on both cheeks and said, ‘I’m only sorry that we can’t stay for lunch.’

‘Booth Watson isn’t a man one should keep waiting,’ said Sir Julian. ‘When it’s in his client’s interests, he can move very quickly.’

‘I look forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks,’ said William, ignoring his father’s remonstration.

‘Only if you bring the twins with you next time,’ said Marjorie.

‘You can leave Artemisia at home,’ said Sir Julian ruefully. ‘She clearly has designs on another man.’

‘I suspect she has designs on both of you,’ said Beth, as Marjorie and Sir Julian accompanied them to the front door.

Once they’d said their farewells, William didn’t speak again until they’d reached the road back to London. ‘Do you think Faulkner will risk going to see the Caravaggio?’ he asked.

‘Collectors are passionate people,’ said Beth. ‘They don’t usually allow representatives to make decisions on their behalf, especially when it’s likely to cost them twenty million pounds.’

‘Then let’s hope Booth Watson will be accompanied by a dress designer by the name of Ricardo Rossi.’

‘But if Booth Watson’s doing no more than representing a client, and Faulkner doesn’t make an appearance,’ said Beth, ‘it will be another wasted journey.’

‘Not necessarily,’ responded William, ‘because when Booth Watson delivers the painting, he might just lead us straight to the front door of an obsessed collector who’s standing on his front step waiting to welcome Christ with open arms and ends up with me.’

? ? ?

When Josephine woke the following morning, she found Ross sitting up at the dressing table writing a letter.

‘A Dear John letter?’ she teased as she stretched her arms.

Ross put down his pen. ‘No. I’ve decided to resign from the Met,’ he said, sounding unusually serious.

‘But you’ve only just been promoted.’

‘It’s not the same since I stopped being a UCO,’ said Ross. ‘I can’t just sit behind a desk shuffling paper clips around while two East End thugs go on running rings around us.’

‘But if The Hawk won’t let you go back undercover, what’s the alternative?’

‘I was in the SAS before I joined the Met, and my commanding officer was a Major Cormac Kinsella, a mad Irishman who used to eat cockroaches on toast for breakfast.’

‘Fried or boiled?’ asked Jo, trying to make light of it.

‘They were still alive, which he said made it more of a challenge. His second-in-command, Captain Gareth Evans, thought the dragon was too soft a creature to represent the Welsh. They both retired from the SAS before the age of forty and set up a travel company, “Nightmare Holidays”, that doesn’t specialise in trips to Monte Carlo or St Tropez.’

‘Where else is there?’ asked Jo, with a sigh.

‘Nightmare Holidays’ slogan is “Survive a fortnight with us, and nothing will seem impossible”. They offer their customers three different types of experience: “Uncomfortable”, “Unpleasant” and, by far their most popular, “Unbearable”.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Jo, ‘do tell me more.’

‘“Uncomfortable” is when they drop off a group of eight above the Arctic Circle and expect them to fend for themselves for a fortnight. They’re supplied with one tent and enough food to last for a week. And each customer is allowed to take a thousand pounds in cash with them.’