Over My Dead Body

Chapter 14

‘Right, who’s going to kick off?’ asked the commander. A hand shot up, and The Hawk nodded.

‘I had another meeting with Lamont on Friday evening,’ said Jackie.

‘Where?’ asked William.

‘A little pub behind King’s Cross station that neither the police nor any self-respecting criminal would consider frequenting.’

‘Do you think he suspects which side you’re on?’

‘I don’t think so. I ended up getting pissed and he had to drive me home.’

The rest of the team laughed.

‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘I’d discreetly emptied most of my double gins into a flowerpot behind me. I’m only surprised the poor plant survived the evening.’

‘By which time,’ said William, ‘I assume you’d casually let slip what we’ve been up to.’

‘No more than you wanted him to know. I told him about the five cold cases we’re working on, but left enough spaces for him to fill in before he made his next report to Booth Watson.’

‘Who will in turn pass the information on to his esteemed former clients, which will give them something to think about while they also hand over hefty fees for his services,’ said William.

‘Don’t underestimate Lamont,’ The Hawk chipped in. ‘If he thought for one moment that you’re setting him up, he’d not only report back to Booth Watson but turn it to his advantage. Who’s next?’

‘I’ve begun in-depth investigations into both the Roach and Abbott families,’ said Ross, ‘and what a right bunch of villains they turn out to be. Every family member has a specific role within the organization. Terry Roach and Ron Abbott are responsible for eliminating anyone who gets in their way. If Abbott was ever found guilty of murder, he could ask the judge to take at least five other cases into consideration. He’s quite simply a professional hitman, and because his family is so feared in the East End, no witnesses are ever willing to come forward while they think they could be next in line.’

‘That bad?’ said William.

‘Roach is even worse,’ continued Ross. ‘Abbott kills his victims with a single shot from a long-range rifle. But Roach’s weapon of choice is a serrated kitchen knife. He’s known as “the butcher”, and considers death by a thousand cuts would be letting his victim off lightly. It’s his calling card just in case anyone else should consider crossing the Roach family. He’s been in and out of jail several times, but, thanks to Booth Watson, the longest sentence he’s ever served is two years for GBH. So, while we don’t have a budget stretched to a dozen highly trained officers watching him around the clock, he’ll continue to get away with it. I have one or two ideas I’m working on, but it’s too early to share them with you.’

‘Understood,’ said William. ‘But if you could nail even one of them, Ross, it would be a feather in your cap.’

‘Do you know where that saying originates?’ interrupted Paul.

‘Yes, I do,’ said William. ‘But this isn’t the time to be discussing an ancient English custom that when a warrior had slain a foe in battle, he was allowed to wear a feather in his cap, which was later superseded by the award of medals. There are no awards for sprained ankles, DS Adaja, so may I suggest you get on with your report?’

‘My loan shark, Max Sleeman,’ said a chastened Paul, ‘is still lending large sums of money to desperate people and resorting to violent measures if they fall behind with their payments. As you know, three of his customers have disappeared off the face of the earth after failing to cover their debts, which he later claimed from their estates. Another painful reminder to any other customers of what would happen to them should they fail to honour their unwritten contracts. But I think I may have come up with a way of not only sending Sleeman down, but bankrupting him at the same time. It’s known as the Capone solution.’

‘Tax avoidance?’ said William.

‘I think I can prove he’s been avoiding paying any tax for years. A recent case in the high court resulted in a six-year sentence, but even more important, under the Tax Avoidance Act of 1986, the judge can award a fine of up to five times the amount the Revenue should have received. So not only would Sleeman end up in jail, but he’d be penniless, because the court could strip him of all his assets. A punishment to fit the crime, don’t you think?’ said Paul, looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Possibly,’ said the commander, ‘but I’d still rather he ended up with a life sentence for the three murders he was responsible for. If that proves unrealistic, we may have to consider the tax route. But let me warn you Paul, that has its own problems. Tax trials can last for months, and juries never fully understand the details, while a half-decent lawyer can run rings around even an expert witness. So be warned, you’ll have your work cut out, not least because it will be you who’s standing in the witness box giving evidence for days on end.’

Paul no longer looked quite so pleased with himself.

‘Jackie, what have you been up to when you’re not getting pissed with our ex-Superintendent?’

‘I’ve been continuing to investigate Clive Pugh, the insurance scam man who murdered his wife. I suspect he’s now planning to become a widower for a second time.’

‘But surely no insurance company would go anywhere near him,’ said Paul, ‘after he fleeced one of them for a quarter of a million.’

‘He won’t be bothering with insurance companies this time,’ said Jackie. ‘His sights are on a far larger prize than a quarter of a million.’

‘So what’s his new scam?’ asked William.

‘He’s been escorting an older woman, whose main attraction seems to be that she’s inherited a fortune from her late father.’

‘But surely she must have worked out he’s just another gold digger?’ said William.

‘Pugh’s far too clever for that,’ said Jackie. ‘He’s been putting his ill-gotten gains to good use. They eat at the finest restaurants, and when they go on holidays together they stay at five-star hotels and he always picks up the bill. I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposes to her soon, as it can’t be much longer before his cash runs out.’

‘What makes you think he’ll murder her?’ asked The Hawk. ‘Why wouldn’t he be satisfied just to live off her for the rest of his life?’

‘She may be ten years older than him, sir, but her father lived to a hundred and one. And, perhaps more important, Pugh’s mistress, who I’m convinced was his accomplice for the first murder, is still hanging around. So don’t be surprised if you open your morning paper one day to see “Wealthy heiress meets tragic death”.’

‘Surely he can’t hope to get away with it a second time,’ said Ross.

‘He’s far too bright not to have thought of a way around that.’ Once again, Jackie had their attention. ‘I’ve discovered he’s already booked their next holiday, to South Africa.’

‘Where only one murder in ten ends in a conviction,’ said William.

‘But we can always apply for an extradition order under section nine of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861,’ said Paul, which silenced them all except The Hawk.

‘Not an Act the South Africans are all that familiar with,’ he said. ‘Especially when even the judges can be bought.’

‘Maybe he’ll think again, once Booth Watson tells him we’ve reopened the file on his wife’s murder,’ suggested Paul.

‘I doubt it,’ said The Hawk. ‘Pugh’s a gambler. He’ll weigh up the amount of money he stands to gain against his chances of being caught, and back himself against the South African police.’

‘It’s too bad we can’t afford to send you to the Cape for Christmas, Jackie,’ said William, ‘so you could brief us on what he’s up to at our next meeting.’

‘Where’s DC Pankhurst?’ asked the commander, pushing Jackie’s file to one side. ‘I was looking forward to finding out how she’s been getting on with her nightclub bouncer.’

‘She’s on leave, sir,’ said William.

‘With the bouncer?’ asked the commander.

‘No, sir. A certain Captain Archibald Harcourt-Byrne.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s an officer in the Grenadier Guards,’ chipped in Jackie. ‘She doesn’t talk about him much, so I suspect it’s quite serious.’

‘I hope we’re not going to lose her,’ said The Hawk, his tone changing. ‘She’s a damn fine officer, with a promising career ahead of her.’

‘I agree,’ said William, ‘but DC Pankhurst is every bit as independent as her suffragette ancestor, and I’m sure she’s well capable of handling a Guards Officer while she continues to lock up miscreants on the side. So let’s allow her to enjoy a well-earned holiday while we all get back to work.’

‘Hurry up, old thing, or we might miss our flight,’ said Archie.

‘Relax. We’ve got more than enough time,’ said Rebecca calmly.

‘You’re right,’ said Archie, taking her hand. ‘What’s our gate number?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘Why is my plane always parked at the other end of the airport?’ grumbled Archie.

‘And whenever I get back home,’ chipped in Rebecca, ‘I’m always stuck behind four hundred passengers who’ve just got off a jumbo jet. But I don’t care. I’ve been looking forward to this holiday. It will be my first real break in heaven knows how long.’

As they passed the departure lounge for Gate 49, she spotted him seated in the far corner reading The Times. Rebecca took a second look to confirm she wasn’t mistaken.

‘I have to go to the loo,’ she said, letting go of Archie’s hand. ‘You go ahead. I’ll join you in a few minutes.’

As soon as Archie was out of sight she headed for the nearest phone. Would he still be at the commander’s meeting, or back at his desk?

‘DCI Warwick,’ said his voice, just when she’d almost given up hope.

‘Good morning, sir. It’s Rebecca.’

‘I thought you were meant to be on holiday.’

‘I am, but I thought you’d want to know that I’ve just spotted Booth Watson waiting to board a plane.’

‘He’s allowed to take a holiday too.’

‘Dressed in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase?’

‘Where’s he going?’

‘Barcelona.’

‘Then so are you, constable. Call me the moment you land. By then I’ll have worked out what your next move should be.’

‘Can I remind you, sir, that I’m on holiday?’

‘Were on holiday, DC Pankhurst. You’re about to discover where Miles Faulkner is holed up.’

‘But I...’

‘No buts, constable. We may not get another opportunity like this.’

William put down the phone and dialled the commander’s office, while Rebecca poured forth a stream of invective her mother would not have approved of. She walked quickly back to Gate 49, to see that the first-class passengers were already boarding the plane. She checked her watch; not enough time to return to the BA desk and exchange her ticket. She slipped into WHSmiths and waited until Booth Watson had presented his boarding pass and disappeared down the corridor that led to the waiting aircraft. She was hoping that Archie would come back looking for her, so she could explain what had happened. He didn’t. She waited until the last few passengers were being cleared for boarding before she approached the check-in desk, where she took out her warrant card and showed it to the flight attendant.

‘We’ve been expecting you, Detective Constable,’ he said, once he’d checked her passport. ‘We’ve just had a call from Scotland Yard warning us that you’d be wanting to travel on this flight. I’ve put you in the back row of economy. There’s a rear door, so you can be the last on and the first off the plane.’

He handed her a ticket and said, ‘Have a good flight, Ms Pankhurst.’

‘Do I have time to go and tell my boyfriend why I won’t be joining him?’

‘I’m afraid not. The gate is about to close.’

Rebecca reluctantly headed down the long empty corridor, and was the last passenger to board the plane. She didn’t relax during the entire flight. Her mind continually switched between Archie, wondering if he’d ever speak to her again; DCI Warwick, who she would happily have strangled; and Booth Watson, the root cause of her problems, who she assumed was seated up front in business class.

She began to consider her alternatives once the plane had landed in Barcelona. Was Booth Watson being picked up? Would he take a taxi, a bus or a train into the city? Had he already booked himself into a hotel? If so, was that where he would meet up with Faulkner? Or would he be driven straight to his new bolthole? And if that were to happen, what was she expected to do?

She’d gone over a dozen scenarios before the plane touched down, and was back in detective mode by the time it parked at the gate.

When the rear door was opened by a stewardess, Rebecca was first out of the blocks, not a moment to waste. She walked quickly down the steps and into the terminal, where she joined the throng of passengers heading for customs. Someone moving even more quickly caught up with her.

‘Slow down and link your arm in mine, Detective Constable,’ said a voice clearly used to giving orders. She glanced at the man by her side and carried out his instruction.

‘Don’t look back. Just keep walking, and leave the rest to me.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she found herself saying.

‘I’m Lieutenant Sanchez of the Spanish National Police Corps,’ he said without even glancing in her direction. ‘My commanding officer had a call from a Commander Hawksby, who didn’t leave us in any doubt how important your visit is.’ He didn’t speak again until they’d reached customs, where the desk officer didn’t ask to see her passport, just saluted. Him, not her. The lieutenant chose a spot with a clear view of all eight customs posts and said, ‘Just point him out the moment you see him.’

Rebecca kept her eyes on the stream of passengers joining the long queues to present their passports to a customs official. It was some time before she said, ‘That’s him, waiting in line at the sixth box. He’s the only person who doesn’t look as if he’s going on holiday.’

‘Three-piece suit, around fifty, slightly balding, carrying a leather briefcase.’

‘You’ve got him.’

The lieutenant nodded to someone Rebecca didn’t see. Once Booth Watson had cleared customs they followed him through baggage control — he had nothing to collect — and on into the arrivals hall. He hurried out of the airport and joined the taxi queue.

Rebecca noticed a young man slip into line behind him. When Booth Watson eventually reached the front of the queue and climbed into the back of a taxi, the young man made a note of the number plate, but didn’t jump into the next cab.

‘Isn’t he going to follow him?’ she asked, trying not to sound desperate.

‘Can’t risk it,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Your chief made it clear that if the man you’re after thinks he’s being tailed, he’ll head straight back to the airport, and your journey will have been wasted. But don’t worry, we have the details of the taxi driver, and we’ll interview him later and report back to Scotland Yard to let him know where he dropped off your man.’

‘What if he switches taxis?’

‘He’ll find the next available one is one of ours,’ he said, looking across the road and nodding.

‘So, I’m nothing more than a messenger,’ said Rebecca.

‘A very attractive messenger, if I may say so, señorita.’

‘You wouldn’t get away with that in PC England,’ said Rebecca, smiling.

‘Ah, but you are now in Barcelona, not England.’

‘What am I expected to do now?’

‘You have been booked on the next flight to Florence, where your boyfriend will be waiting for you in arrivals.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘I think your boss felt guilty about interrupting your holiday,’ the lieutenant said, as he handed her a first-class ticket to Florence. ‘I hope you have an enjoyable time in Italy, Señorita Pankhurst. My grandmother was a great admirer of your ancestor, although it took my countrymen several more years before they finally gave women the vote.’ He saluted, and had departed before she could say, ‘In 1931.’