Over My Dead Body

Chapter 17

‘That brings us to the end of the tour,’ said the guide. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’ A warm round of applause followed. ‘If you would like some mementoes of your visit, the shop on the ground floor is open, as is the café, should you require any refreshments. Do feel free to roam around the grounds, but please remember the gates will close at one p.m. today. Thank you.’

William and Ross followed the crowd out of the room, ignoring the shop and the café as they headed for the front door.

‘Keep moving,’ said William, as they strolled across a broad stretch of unmowed lawn towards a large clump of trees that overlooked the castle. ‘Observations?’ he asked, once they were safely out of earshot of any other visitors.

‘The Caravaggio’s still hanging above the fireplace in the dining room for all to see.’

‘What else did you notice about that room?’

‘A table had been laid for four. So they are clearly expecting Booth Watson for lunch,’ suggested Ross. ‘With or without his client.’

‘Security?’ said William, moving on.

‘Virtually non-existent. The smaller paintings are all screwed to the wall, and there’s only a rope barrier to prevent anyone getting too close to the pictures.’

‘Alarm system?’

‘Penfold, but years out of date.’

‘And what didn’t you see?’

‘Any security guards, which you’d find in every room if it were a public gallery and not a private house.’

‘Conclusion?’

‘His Lordship can only afford to employ the bare minimum of staff, which you can be sure Faulkner will clock,’ said Ross. ‘That’s assuming he turns up.’

‘That’s assuming he hasn’t already,’ said William. ‘Don’t forget the local police could only spare one constable to keep a lookout, 24/7.’

Ross didn’t comment.

‘However,’ continued William, ‘back to the dining room. What else did you notice?’

‘A minstrels’ gallery runs right around the upper level of the room.’

‘Access?’

‘A narrow spiral staircase leads up to it. The only security is a rope and a “No Entry” sign on the bottom step.’

‘Any other observations?’

‘There’s a large window directly opposite the Caravaggio that looks out onto the courtyard. You can probably see the front gate from up there.’

‘What else?’

Ross thought for a moment, but didn’t respond.

‘There’s a small Hamburg organ on the left-hand side of the minstrels’ gallery,’ said William. ‘Anyone hiding in the gallery wouldn’t be spotted from the dining room below.’

‘Is there room for both of us?’

‘No. Only a choirboy,’ said William, grinning. ‘In any case, if both of us went missing, it’s possible the guide would notice and come looking for us.’

‘He didn’t count us before he began the tour.’

‘Well spotted,’ said William, touching his forehead in mock salute. ‘Nevertheless, when the tour ends, I want you to come back here and brief our boys, who will be waiting in squad cars ready to move at a moment’s notice should Faulkner appear. Anything else the guide said that was particularly revealing?’

‘The gates of the grounds will be closed at one o’clock.’

‘Which suggests there’ll only be one more tour today. So let’s get moving, because we can’t afford to miss it.’

They walked swiftly back down the slope towards the castle. Once they were inside, William purchased two more tickets from an elderly lady seated at the reception desk. They then joined a dozen or so people who were assembled in the hall waiting for the tour to begin.

Without a word, Ross made his way to the front of the group, while William remained near the back. Once the guide had given his introductory remarks, the tour began. William couldn’t resist stopping to admire several of the collection’s gems as they moved from room to room. He looked forward to telling Beth about a Farquharson, a Raeburn and a Peploe when he returned home that evening. He didn’t revert to being a detective until they were back in the dining room.

Ross remained at the front of the group while the guide told them how the first Lord McLaren had acquired Fishers of Men over two hundred years ago.

William pretended to be looking at a portrait by one of Caravaggio’s less familiar contemporaries as he drifted casually towards the spiral staircase that led up to the minstrels’ gallery. The guide concluded his remarks on the centrepiece of the collection, and began to walk towards the next room. A few worshippers couldn’t resist one last look at the masterpiece before they rejoined the rest of the group.

Once William was certain he was alone, he stepped nimbly over the rope and made his way up the spiral staircase to the gallery. One or two creaks caused him to look back and make sure no one had spotted him. On reaching the gallery, he moved swiftly around the dogleg, then tucked himself up against the far side of the organ.

Although he had a clear view out of the large bay window, he couldn’t see the dining room table below, or the Caravaggio. He settled back to do what he’d done so many times in the past: sit, wait, be patient and whatever you do, don’t lose your concentration.

When the guide came to the end of the tour, Ross was among the first to break away from the group and quickly leave the castle. He noted that, although the guide mentioned the shop and the café, this time he didn’t suggest that they should feel free to roam around the grounds. However, he did remind them that the gates would be closing at one o’clock.

Ross made his way back to the copse, from which he had a clear view of both the castle’s front door and the gates that led out onto the road. He pulled his radio out of an inside pocket and pressed the green button.

‘DCI Warwick is still in the house. I’m outside stationed in the grounds about seventy yards from the front door. If Faulkner appears, I’ll let you know immediately.’

‘Understood,’ said a voice that came crackling down the line. ‘If we see a car approaching the castle, you’ll be the first to hear.’

‘All received,’ said Ross, and placed the radio back in his pocket.

William peered through the large window and watched the remaining members of the tour group as they drifted towards the visitors’ car park. When he heard footsteps in the dining room below he edged even further into the gap between the organ and the wall, tucking his knees up under his chin.

Two waitresses were chatting as they added the final touches to the place settings. They stopped talking when somebody else entered the room and a voice boomed, ‘I don’t have to remind you both how important his Lordship considers this meeting. We must all be on our toes. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ piped up two voices in unison.

Ross watched as the gates closed the moment the last tourist had departed. Well, not quite the last. He glanced up at the large window on the first floor and wondered how William was getting on. If a car didn’t appear in the next few minutes, how long would they have to hang about before he accepted it had been another wasted journey? Although he had no idea how William planned to get out of the castle, one thing was certain: the boss would have worked that out.

Ross’s radio crackled into life, and he heard a broad Glaswegian accent on the other end of the line. ‘A chauffeur-driven car is heading towards the castle, two passengers sitting in the back. They should be with you in about three minutes.’

‘Message received.’

William stared out of the window to see the front gate edge slowly open. A moment later a BMW entered the grounds and headed towards the castle. He lost sight of the car long before it reached the front door, but Ross still had a clear view as the BMW came to a halt in the driveway. The chauffeur leapt out and opened the back door. Two figures appeared: a smartly dressed woman who headed straight for the door, followed by a man wearing a long black overcoat and carrying a briefcase.

They were greeted on the steps by his Lordship, who was dressed in a lovat green jacket, a kilt of the McLaren family tartan, heavy brown woollen socks and what his mother would have called sensible shoes. Standing by his side was an older woman who Ross thought he recognized. The front door closed and they all disappeared inside.

William was already stiff and needed to stretch, but he didn’t dare move for fear of making the slightest sound. A few moments later a gong echoed in the distance, and shortly afterwards he heard a small group of people entering the dining room, chatting amicably.

‘This is where Fishers of Men has hung for the past two hundred years,’ said an aristocratic voice that could only have been Lord McLaren’s.

Purrs of ‘Magnificent’, ‘Superb’, ‘A masterpiece’ followed.

‘Why don’t we take our seats for lunch,’ William heard Lord McLaren suggest. ‘I thought you would like to sit facing the painting, so you have a better view of it,’ he said, addressing one of his guests, who didn’t comment.

William heard chairs being pulled back while the waitresses scurried in and out of the room. Two of the diners’ voices were quite clear, but one, who must have had his back to him, was almost indecipherable. Then a woman spoke, and William recognized her voice immediately. It certainly wasn’t Lady McLaren.

Ross remained hidden in the copse, trying to imagine what they might be having for lunch on the other side of the castle’s impenetrable walls. Smoked salmon and grouse from the estate, he guessed, considering the time of year. He licked his lips and resigned himself to a long wait before an unlikely minstrel would appear at the window. If William gave him a thumbs-up sign, he was to radio the waiting officers, who would immediately head for the castle, flashing lights not on, sirens not blaring. By the time they reached the front door William would have arrested Faulkner. A thumbs-down sign would mean Faulkner wasn’t among the guests, and he would attempt to make a discreet exit.

William listened carefully to the conversation around the dining room table. He couldn’t make out every word, and one member of the group hadn’t yet spoken.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ said Lord McLaren once the main course had been cleared away.

‘What figure did you have in mind?’ said a voice, having dispensed with platitudes.

‘I consider thirty million pounds would be a fair price.’

‘Twenty million would be nearer the mark, in my opinion.’

‘It’s worth far more than that,’ said McLaren.

‘I’d agree with you, if it wasn’t a fire sale.’

William would have liked to have seen the expression on his Lordship’s face.

‘While you have an inheritance problem, it’s a buyer’s market.’ The voice paused. ‘However, I would be willing to offer you twenty-two million, with an added incentive,’ said the same voice.

‘And what might that be?’ asked McLaren, sounding flustered.

‘My offer will remain on the table for one week. In the second week it will fall to twenty-one million, and twenty in the third.’

William realized that Faulkner knew the exact figure Lord McLaren needed to clear his death duties, and presumably also the date on which the full amount was due, after which he’d have to start paying interest to Her Majesty’s collector of taxes.

‘I’ll need to think about it,’ said McLaren, trying to sound relaxed and still in control.

‘The clock is ticking,’ said the same voice. The words of Faulkner, but delivered by his messenger.

‘Let’s adjourn to the drawing room for coffee,’ said McLaren, ignoring the veiled threat. William heard chairs being pushed back from the table, and the lunch party making their way out of the room.

He now knew that the laboured, heavy steps belonged to Miles Faulkner’s representative on earth.

William didn’t move until the table had been cleared, the waitresses had departed and the door closed. Once there were no longer any voices to be heard, he crawled across to the window and gave a thumbs-down sign, just as the door opened again. He fell flat on his stomach and didn’t move.

Ross cursed several times before he radioed the squad cars and delivered the simple message, ‘Stand down. Mission aborted.’

‘Sorry about that, laddie,’ said a voice, before the radio went silent.

It must have been another hour before William and Ross both saw the gates open once again and the BMW disappear out of sight.

William didn’t move until he was certain there wasn’t anyone in the room below. He peeped over the gallery railing — no one to be seen — then tiptoed down the spiral staircase and headed across the dining room, unable to resist taking one last look at the Caravaggio. He opened the door just enough to peek through the crack, before stepping out into the deserted corridor, ready to slip into the café or gift shop should anyone appear. He walked cautiously towards the front door, growing more confident with each step he took. He was just about to turn the handle when a voice behind him said, ‘Can I help you, young man?’

William swung nervously around to see the old lady behind the reception desk checking the morning’s takings.

‘Hello. Yes, I’d like a ticket for the afternoon tour,’ he said, not missing a beat, while taking out his wallet and extracting a pound note.

‘I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.’

‘Oh, that’s disappointing. I was looking forward to seeing the Caravaggio.’

‘Didn’t I see you earlier this morning?’ she said, taking a closer look at him.

‘Yes. I’m going back to London tomorrow, and I was hoping to see the picture one more time.’

‘You’ll have to come back first thing in the morning, young man, because that may well be your last chance to see it.’

William risked, ‘I don’t understand. The guide told us it had been in the family for over two hundred years and was the pride of Lord McLaren’s collection.’

‘Indeed it was, but I’m afraid my son has no choice but to sell it,’ said the Dowager Countess, as she came out from behind the counter, walked across the hall and opened the front door. ‘Death duties, you know,’ she added with a sigh, before closing the door behind him.

William now knew who the fourth person at lunch had been.

‘Was Christina also at the lunch?’ asked Beth, as William climbed into bed later that night.

‘Yes, and she was posing as the interested buyer for the painting,’ said William, ‘although Booth Watson did most of the talking.’

‘So, once again I’ve fallen for her lies. I promise you, I won’t let her get away with it ever again.’

‘Then you’ll have to kill her, and just hope I’m the investigating officer in charge of the case.’

‘I won’t need you,’ said Beth, ‘because I know how to kill both of them without a drop of blood being spilled.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked William.

‘If Tim Knox were to advise HMG to refuse Lord McLaren’s request for an export licence on the grounds that Fishers of Men is a painting of national importance, it could be years before Faulkner would get his hands on it. And he’d have only one person to blame. Christina.’

‘That’s the last thing I want,’ said William firmly. ‘The commander has just sanctioned Operation Masterpiece, so I’ll need you to find out who’s been given the job of transporting the painting to its new owner.’

‘That will only take me a couple of phone calls,’ said Beth. ‘But what do I get in return?’

‘I’ll bring Faulkner back in handcuffs, along with the painting.’

‘If you pull that off,’ said Beth, ‘I’ll ask Tim Knox to recommend that the Chancellor waives his Lordship’s death duties, in exchange for gifting the Caravaggio to the nation.’

‘What do you mean by “the nation”?’ asked William innocently.

‘The Fitzmolean, of course.’

‘I can’t make up my mind who is more conniving and unscrupulous. You or Christina.’

Beth turned out the light.