Over My Dead Body

Chapter 12

Booth Watson quickly cleared customs. He was carrying only a briefcase, as he planned on returning to London on the evening flight. Outside the airport he joined the short queue for a taxi and, when he reached the front, handed the driver an address.

As they approached the motorway, the driver turned left instead of joining the stream of heavy traffic flowing into Barcelona. Twenty minutes later, he drove onto a single-lane road which became a pot-holed path after a few miles.

Booth Watson glanced over his shoulder to check they weren’t being followed, as the instructions he’d received couldn’t have been clearer: ‘If you think someone might be following you, turn around, go back to the airport and take the next plane to Heathrow.’

He had assumed that after his client had disappeared a second time, the Met might well have a detail tailing him, but had quickly concluded even their budget wouldn’t stretch to that. Nevertheless, as Booth Watson was a man who left nothing to chance, he made an official complaint to the Home Office falsely claiming he had reason to believe his phone was being tapped, and that he was being followed. He had received a polite reply assuring him that neither was true, although he suspected it had been written only after Commander Hawksby had confirmed that ‘the dogs had been called off’.

The car continued down a narrowing path before coming to a halt at the edge of a dense forest. Booth Watson got out and, as instructed, waited for the bemused driver to turn around and head back to the airport. Once the car was out of sight, an electric golf buggy appeared from out of the trees and drew up by his side.

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?’

‘A minute, a minute and a half at most.’

‘I can assure you, BW, that anyone who sets foot on my land uninvited — and don’t forget that this house is surrounded by a thick forest — would immediately set off an alarm. Even if they turned up in the middle of the night and I was fast asleep in my bedroom on the first floor, it would still take me less than three minutes to disappear into thin air.’

‘Even if you had your helicopter waiting for you on the roof, I don’t think they’d hesitate to shoot it down.’

‘I wouldn’t be heading for the roof,’ said Miles. ‘The helicopter is there simply to distract them.’

Twelve o’clock struck and a shrill alarm drowned out their conversation.

‘Rehearsal time!’ shouted Miles, as he got up from behind his desk and walked over to a vast iron door embedded in the wall. It had no handle, no lock and, as far as Booth Watson could see, no way of opening it. Miles tapped the face of his watch and waited for it to light up before entering an eight-digit code. Booth Watson watched, mesmerized, as the door swung open to reveal a large, empty space.

Miles stepped inside and beckoned Booth Watson to follow, while the deafening sound of the alarm continued. Booth Watson reluctantly obeyed, and Miles pulled the door shut, leaving them in complete darkness. He tapped his watch again and entered another eight-digit code. A moment later a second door on the far side of the safe swung open to reveal a well-lit staircase.

Miles stood aside to allow Booth Watson to step out. Miles then joined him at the top of the staircase and slammed the heavy metal door behind them.

‘As you can see, BW,’ he said, ‘even if Chief Inspector Warwick and his plodders made it as far as my study, it would take them at least seven minutes, and they would still need my watch and the eight-digit code before they could open even the first door, let alone the second.’

Miles led his guest down the stairs into the basement.

When they reached the study, Booth Watson couldn’t miss that the room was identical to the one on the ground floor above it, except that Franco had been replaced by a full-length portrait of Miles. The other half of Miles’s art collection was also displayed on the walls — Christina’s half.

‘I have enough provisions down here to last me a month,’ said Miles. ‘I even have my own swimming pool.’

A green light began to flash on his desk, even before Booth Watson could reply. ‘Daily rehearsal over. We can now return to civilization and have some lunch.’

‘But your staff...’ began Booth Watson.

‘Only Collins is ever allowed to enter my study,’ said Miles, as they walked back up the stairs, ‘and even he doesn’t know the security code.’ He entered the safe’s code which opened the first of the two heavy iron doors. When it swung open, he stepped back inside and waited for Booth Watson to join him, before he pulled the door shut. Once again they were plunged into darkness. Miles tapped his watch, entered eight new numbers, and the door that led back into his study swung open. Miles smiled when he saw the butler waiting for them, with two glasses of champagne on a silver tray.

‘Luncheon is served, sir.’

Lamont didn’t even attempt to shadow DI Ross Hogan, as he knew he would be noticed within moments by the sharpest undercover officer in the business. He satisfied himself with finding a spot where he wouldn’t be seen, while he waited patiently for his quarry to appear.

As usual, Ross left Josephine Colbert’s flat at around seven thirty. He was wearing a freshly ironed shirt and a silk tie, so Lamont knew he wasn’t going home, but straight to the Yard.

Josephine Colbert appeared a few minutes after ten. She was dressed in a designer tracksuit and set off on her morning jog. She returned about thirty minutes later, and didn’t appear again before lunch.

Her afternoon consisted of shopping, the florist, the grocer, the hairdresser, and the occasional visit with a girlfriend to a French cinema in Chelsea. Lamont had never once seen her with another man, other than when she attended her weekly meeting with Mr Booth Watson at No. 5 Fetter Chambers.

His final task was to hang about inside the entrance of the Army and Navy Stores on Victoria Street until Hogan left the Yard at the end of the day. If he turned right, he was taking the tube home; left, and he would be hopping on a bus bound for Chelsea. The trips to Chelsea had become more and more frequent.

Tonight, he turned right, so Lamont assumed he must be going home. However, to his surprise, Hogan walked straight past the entrance to the tube station and continued on walking. Aware that he couldn’t risk following him, Lamont decided to head home, but changed his mind when he saw Hogan enter a shop. He took a closer look at the sign above the door — H. Samuel and Company, Jewellers. He stepped back into the shadow of a doorway until Ross reappeared twenty minutes later carrying a small bag, and headed back to St. James’s station, where he disappeared underground.

Lamont walked quickly across to the jeweller’s shop. He marched in to find a young man taking some necklaces out of the window in preparation for closing for the night. Lamont showed him his old warrant card, a thumb covering the expiry date.

‘How can I help you, Superintendent?’ asked the assistant nervously.

‘A man came in here a little while ago, fortyish, six foot one, wearing a dark grey suit and a red tie.’

‘Yes, sir. He left a few minutes ago.’

‘Did he buy anything?’

‘Yes, sir. An engagement ring.’

It had been the happiest month of his life. Ross couldn’t believe how lucky he had been following that chance meeting. The very idea of falling in love had always been anathema to him. He was a hunter-gatherer, and always the one who decided to cast the latest conquest aside and move on. He considered it a compliment to be accused of playing the field.

That was until he met Josephine, and she didn’t need to explain to him what the words head over heels meant. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, and far brighter than him; she was the first woman he had ever been fearful of losing. He couldn’t understand why she had ever given him a second look, let alone a third. For the first time in his life, he was not always the first to arrive at work in the morning and the last to leave at night. Everyone else noticed. The loner was no longer alone. They didn’t sleep with each other for a couple of weeks, another first. After that, he would have robbed a bank for her.

Jo had already told him about her unhappy marriage that had lasted for only a couple of years. The divorce settlement had meant she could live comfortably without having to work and, like him, she thought she could never fall in love.

Tonight, he was going to take her out to dinner and propose. He’d spent more than he could afford on the ring. Jo had once told him she would never marry again, but that was before she’d called Madame Blanche to tell her this was her last job.

When he got home that night, even earlier than usual, he found her sitting in the front room crying. He tried to comfort her, but nothing he said seemed to make any difference. She looked up, and he couldn’t help thinking how enchanting she appeared even with tears streaming down her face. She tried to smile. ‘I love you,’ she said. The first time she’d admitted it.

‘And I love you, too,’ he replied. Another first. Unable to express how he truly felt in words, he decided he wouldn’t wait any longer to prove just how much he loved her. He dropped to one knee, and fumbled in his pocket before extracting a small leather box. He opened it and said, ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?’

He waited for her reply, but none was forthcoming. She finally looked up, but still said nothing. He leant forward and gently took her left hand and tried to place the ring on the third finger, but she pulled her hand away.

‘Don’t you want to marry me?’ asked Ross, sounding desperate.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said quietly. ‘But after I’ve told you the truth, you won’t want to marry me.’