Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(92)

‘Tell him you’re calling your lawyer. They can’t stop you doing that,’ said Booth Watson as he slammed down the phone and clambered out of bed.

‘I can get him out of there,’ said Ross, looking at the door, ‘but I need Collins out of the way,’ he added without explanation, as the butler came back into the room and headed straight for Faulkner’s desk.

Sanchez immediately stepped into his path. ‘You’re under arrest, Mr Collins.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Preventing the police from carrying out their duties,’ said Sanchez, as two uniformed officers stepped forward and grabbed Collins by the arms. ‘Take him to the station and lock him up. Make sure he doesn’t speak to anyone before I get there.’

‘I’m entitled to phone my lawyer,’ protested Collins. ‘That’s the law.’

‘You already have,’ said Juan as the two officers bustled Collins out of the room.

William waited for the study door to close before saying, ‘So tell me Ross, how do you propose to open that door?’

‘All in good time,’ said Ross as he flicked through the telephone book on Faulkner’s desk. He found the name he was looking for and dialled a number.

‘Who is this?’ asked a sleepy voice.

‘I’m Mr Faulkner’s private secretary. He asked me to let you know there’s been a change of plan. He’s been taken ill, nothing serious, but he wants to get back to London as quickly as possible so he can see his own doctor. How soon can you have his plane ready for take-off?’

‘A couple of hours, three at the most,’ said a voice no longer asleep. ‘I’ll alert the crew immediately, but our departure time will depend on when we can get a landing slot in London.’

‘Tell them it’s an emergency,’ said Ross. ‘We’ll meet you at the airport.’

‘Understood,’ said the pilot, who was already out of bed before Ross had put the phone down.

‘It’s the watch, isn’t it?’ said William, remembering the anonymous black dial that had taken the place of Jo’s Rolex.

Ross smiled. ‘Now Collins is out of the way, I’ll get Faulkner out and we can take him to the airport and fly him back to London on his own plane.’

‘That’s kidnapping,’ said William, ‘which, in case you’ve forgotten, is against the law, in both countries.’

‘You’ve obviously forgotten, Chief Inspector,’ said Ross, ‘that Faulkner demanded to see his doctor. I distinctly remember him mentioning the words Harley Street.’

‘The Spanish authorities certainly wouldn’t be applying for an extradition order to bring him back,’ said Juan, matter-of-factly.

‘We can have him safely locked back up in Pentonville by the time Booth Watson lands in Barcelona,’ added Ross.

‘I’m still not sure—’

‘Of course you’re not, choirboy, but as you recently reminded me, we’re not in Battersea, but Barcelona, so it’s not your decision to make.’

They both turned to face the lieutenant. Juan nodded, but didn’t speak.

Ross raised his left arm, pulled up his sleeve and tapped 04 11 09 88 on the face of the watch.

? ? ?

Booth Watson’s mind was working overtime even before he’d turned on the shower. He didn’t wait for the jets of water to warm up before he began to formulate a plan. Should he go to his office first, and call Isobel Martinez before he went on to the airport? Not that he was even sure he had her home number in chambers. He decided he would have to trust Collins to track her down and carry out his instructions, while he went directly to Heathrow and caught the first available flight to Barcelona.

Once he dried himself, he put on a clean shirt and yesterday’s suit and tie, while his thoughts turned to Warwick and how the damn man never gave up. Once dressed, Booth Watson went down to his study, picked up his briefcase and put on an overcoat. He opened the front door to be greeted by a cold crisp morning. He double-locked the door then stood on the pavement and waited for some time before he spotted the words ‘Taxi’ glowing in the distance.

? ? ?

An unmarked police car came to a halt outside a private entrance to the airport. When a guard appeared, Lieutenant Sanchez produced his warrant card. The guard saluted, barely giving the three men in the back a second look, before pointing the driver in the right direction.

The car headed towards a long line of private aircraft, one of which was being refuelled and had its steps down waiting for its owner.

William and Ross helped Faulkner out of the back of the car. He was still unsteady, not having fully recovered from spending three hours locked in a safe. They guided him towards the aircraft’s steps. The pilot was waiting in the plane’s doorway, and couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw his boss being accompanied by three men all dressed in black, who he’d never seen before.

Juan took him to one side and explained that Mr Faulkner had insisted on being flown back to England immediately, as he wanted to see his own doctor.

‘But look at the state of him,’ said the pilot. ‘Shouldn’t you have taken him to a local hospital?’ he demanded, as Faulkner was almost carried up the steps and into the aircraft.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Juan. ‘If you want to tell him, be my guest.’