Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(66)

Ross appeared by his side a moment later. When he saw who it was, he was violently sick.

Inspector Preston was surprised that two such experienced officers had reacted as if it were their first murder case.

‘Do you know who she is?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Yes,’ he replied, cradling his wife gently in his arms. ‘And I’ll kill him.’





CHAPTER 22


WILLIAM HAD ALWAYS WANTED TO take Beth to Paris for a long weekend. They’d talked so often of visiting the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, and of course the Musée Rodin. They would window-shop on the Rue de Rivoli, perhaps buy an oil from a pavement artist in Montmartre, recalling the story of the American woman who bought a painting from Picasso for a few francs because she liked it.

They would take a boat down the Seine, drink a little too much wine, and enjoy a coq au vin while sampling a cheese board they would never experience anywhere else in the world, before finally returning to their little pension on the Left Bank. They would resist climbing the Eiffel Tower, but in the end join dozens of other tourists in a crowded lift to witness the spectacular panoramic views of the most romantic city on earth. But not this weekend.

After stepping off the train at the Gare du Nord, William went in search of a taxi. He handed the driver an address in the outskirts of Paris, and twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up outside the church of St Mary the Virgin. After paying the driver fifty francs, William joined a trickle of mourners as they made their way up a path to the open door at the east end of the church.

The front three rows were occupied by a dozen or more of the most elegantly dressed women William had ever seen. He walked slowly down the aisle and took a seat in the pew behind his friend, whose head was bent in prayer.

When the hour struck on the clock tower above them, the priest made his entrance, coming to a halt on the steps in front of the altar. He conducted the funeral service with an air of quiet dignity, and although William could not understand every word, his schoolboy French allowed him to follow the proceedings, even the moving tribute given by an older gentleman, who William assumed must be a relation or long-standing family friend.

After the service was over, they all gathered in the churchyard. As the coffin was being lowered into the ground, William was glad that none of those standing around the graveside had seen her lying on the pavement moments after she had died, and would remember her only as a beautiful woman. The one saving grace was that her prematurely delivered daughter had somehow survived. She wouldn’t have, if Roach had known that Ross Hogan’s wife was pregnant.

The priest made the sign of the cross and blessed the mourners, after which the girls lined up and kissed Ross gently on both cheeks, leaving him in no doubt about the affection they shared with him for the only woman he’d ever loved.

William was among the last to pay his respects and found it difficult to express his true feelings. The hardened, cynical policeman broke down when William put his arms around him and simply said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You won’t be seeing me for a few days,’ said Ross. ‘I have some scores to settle. I’ll be back once I’ve dealt with them.’

William thought about those words in the taxi back to the station, on the train to the airport and during the flight to Heathrow. He feared that Ross would be going back undercover and wouldn’t be sharing the details with him, or the commander.

? ? ?

Ross had intended to take the first available flight back to London, as he didn’t have a moment to spare before he carried out the first part of his plan. He would have done so, had he not been stopped by the elderly gentleman who’d delivered the eulogy, not a word of which he’d understood.

‘Excuse me, Mr Hogan. My name is Pierre Monderan,’ the old man said, with only the suggestion of an accent. ‘I was your late wife’s financial adviser.’ He handed Ross an embossed card. ‘Perhaps we could sit down, as what I have to tell you might take a few moments.’

‘I wish I’d been able to follow your kind words about Jo,’ said Ross, as he took a seat on the bench next to Monsieur Monderan. ‘They were so clearly appreciated by her friends.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ said Monderan, taking an envelope out of his overcoat pocket and handing it to Ross. ‘I’ve translated my eulogy. I admired your wife greatly, and thought you might like to read it at your convenience. Your wife’s untimely death has left me with one last duty to carry out. For some time, I took care of Josephine’s personal finances, as I do for all the other girls in the syndicate.’

‘The syndicate?’

‘The joint holdings of their company were registered under the name of The Vestal Virgins. Twelve of them in all, each of whom invested ten thousand francs a month in a joint enterprise, which I administered on their behalf. Quite successfully, I think you will find. The object was that when the time came for them to retire, they would have sufficient financial reserves not to have to be concerned about their future. Sadly, in Josephine’s case, she will not benefit from what I believe you would call her nest egg. As her next of kin, that now passes to you.’

He took a second slim white envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Ross.

‘But what about her family, or close friends? Shouldn’t they take precedence over me?’