Over My Dead Body

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?’

‘She never spoke of any family and, let me assure you, her friends are well taken care of.’

‘Then a favourite charity, perhaps,’ said Ross, not wanting to open the envelope.

‘That is not for me to decide, sir,’ said Monsieur Monderan. ‘However, if you were my client, I would politely remind you you have a daughter who might benefit from her mother’s prudence.’ Without another word, Monsieur Monderan rose from his place, gave Ross a slight bow and departed, having carried out his fiduciary duties.

Ross looked down at the unopened envelope and felt guilty that he had not considered his daughter’s future. It was some time before he finally tore open the envelope and extracted a cheque made out to Mr Ross Hogan QGM. He smiled at the thought of how Jo had pressed him on several occasions to tell her what he had done to be awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. He had always managed to subtly change the subject.

He stared at the cheque and had to look at the noughts a third time before he realized that, for the first time in his life, he was a rich man. Though in truth, he felt like a poor man, and would have torn the cheque up without a second thought if it would have brought Jo back.

Beth didn’t have to ask William which foreign city he’d spent the day in when he returned home that night, because she already knew. She had wanted to accompany him to Paris, and would have done so if Artemisia hadn’t caught chicken pox, which meant that Peter almost certainly would follow her, as he always did. But Josephine had been in her thoughts all day.

She was just about to read the twins their bedtime story when she heard the front door close. She ran downstairs to find William hanging up his coat. They clung to each other for some time before William managed, ‘How’s Artemisia?’

‘Recovering. But now Peter’s gone down with it, as expected. They’re hoping you’ll read them their bedtime story.’

‘Of course I will, and then over supper I’ll tell you about everything that happened in Paris.’ Although he still hadn’t decided just how much he would tell her.

William walked wearily upstairs, but his spirits were lifted the moment he entered the children’s room and the twins scampered out of bed and clung onto a leg each. His thoughts turned once again to Ross and the joy he knew his daughter would bring him. Those thoughts were rudely interrupted when Artemisia reminded him, ‘We’ve reached Chapter Three, and we want to find out what’s going to happen to PC Plod.’

He smiled at her, pleased to see her spots had nearly disappeared; but the smile turned to a frown when he saw that Peter’s were just appearing.

‘Don’t forget,’ said William, ‘that PC Plod always tells his children not to pick their spots.’

Peter nodded as William opened the book. ‘Where did we get to?’

‘PC Plod has just been told to go to the manor house,’ said Artemisia. ‘Immediately!’

‘Do you remember what was missing from the house?’

‘A pearl necklace belonging to Lady Doubtful.’

‘And what’s the name of PC Plod’s wife?’

‘Beryl!’ said Artemisia. ‘She thinks he ought to be an Inspector.’

William nodded, and began to read.

‘When PC Plod arrived at the manor house, he propped his bicycle up against the shed and joined the other policemen, who were searching the grounds for clues. He doubted they’d find any, as he was sure it was an inside job.’

‘What’s an inside job?’ asked Peter.

‘PC Plod thinks someone who lives or works in the house must have stolen the pearls.’

‘Who?’ demanded Artemisia.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said William, stifling a yawn as he turned the page.

‘But you’re a detective, Daddy, so you must know,’ said Artemisia, with the unquestionable logic of a child.

‘PC Plod noticed the front door of the manor house open,’ continued William, ignoring her, ‘and saw a scullery maid who’d served the Doubtfuls for years being led out of the house by Inspector Watchit, who looked rather pleased with himself. Plod frowned. He knew that Elsie wouldn’t have stolen a chocolate biscuit from a tea trolley, let alone a pearl necklace. He would have to go back to the station and put Watchit straight, before he charged the poor girl with a crime she hadn’t committed. He left the lads to get on with their job, and walked back to his bike. He was about to put on his safety helmet when he spotted a fishmonger’s van coming up the drive to deliver the catch of the day. Plod was surprised to see Mr Nettles the fishmonger park his van right outside the front door and not at the back of the house by the kitchen entrance. Nettles got out of the van and strolled up the steps to the front door which was opened by Lady Doubtful even before he had a chance to press the bell. Her Ladyship handed the fishmonger a large cardboard box, then quickly disappeared back inside.

‘Why hadn’t Nettles gone to the tradesman’s entrance and delivered the fish to the cook as he did every Friday, wondered PC Plod. It didn’t make any sense, so he decided to investigate. Plod plodded across to the van, where Mr Nettles had left the cardboard box on the passenger seat and was now sitting behind the wheel about to leave.

‘Plod tapped on the window and said, “What are you up to, my lad?” Nettles turned as red as a traffic light. He quickly switched on the engine, crunched the gear lever into third, and shot off towards the front gate. Plod dashed up the steps to the house and banged on the front door. When the butler opened it a few moments later, he told him to quickly close the electric gates. The butler touched the switch just in time to prevent Nettles from getting clean away.

‘I think that’s enough for tonight,’ said William.

‘No, Daddy!’ screamed Artemisia and Peter in unison. ‘More!’

‘All right, just a couple of pages,’ said William, with an exaggerated sigh. ‘The other three policemen quickly surrounded the van while PC Plod opened the passenger door and took out the cardboard box. He opened it to find it was full of oyster shells, and when he prised one open, he found a pearl in it. Plod knew that pearls were normally found at the bottom of the ocean and not in cardboard boxes.’

The phone in the corridor began to ring. William put down the book and said, ‘Can you take that, Beth, Mr Plod is about to arrest the real criminal?’ He looked back at the children and continued, ‘He immediately arrested Mr Nettles and told two of the constables to escort him back to the local police station, along with the evidence. “What shall I say when Inspector Watchit asks me what you’re up to?” asked one of the constables. “Tell him I will be paying a visit to the manor house and arresting the real culprit,” said Plod. “And he may be surprised who...”’ William was about to continue when Beth poked her head around the door.

‘It’s James on the phone,’ she said.

‘James?’

‘James Buchanan, he’s calling from New York.’

‘Mum will carry on reading,’ said William, ‘while I take the call.’

‘But then you won’t discover who Mr Plod arrests,’ said Artemisia.

‘I feel sure Mum will tell me later,’ William replied, as he climbed off the bed, left the room and exchanged a book for a telephone. ‘What a pleasant surprise,’ he said, before James had been given the chance to speak.

‘You may not feel so, when I tell you the reason I’m calling,’ said James, ‘because I need to seek your advice on an embarrassing situation.’

‘I’m at your disposal,’ said William calmly.

‘I’ve recently discovered that my closest friend at Choate got someone else to sit his entrance exam papers for Harvard.’

‘Proof?’ said William.

‘He asked me first, and I refused. However, when the names of the successful candidates were announced, to my surprise my friend was among the top half a dozen on the list.’

‘In which case, someone else must have failed, someone who everyone else in your class would have expected to be offered a place.’

‘You’re right, and I can even tell you his name. He’s a scholarship boy from a one-parent family, who’s always short of money.’

‘And you want to know,’ said William, ‘whether you should pass on your suspicions to a higher authority.’

‘Yes. I was curious to find out what you would do, if you faced the same dilemma.’

William remained silent for so long that James eventually said, ‘Are you still there, sir?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said William. ‘I confess that I faced almost the same problem when I was at school. I caught a friend, not my best friend, stealing from the school tuck shop once too often.’

‘Did you report him to your headmaster?’

‘Yes, I finally did,’ said William, ‘but not a day goes by when I wonder if I should have turned a blind eye.’

‘But why,’ asked James, ‘when you were obviously doing the right thing?’

‘He was moved to another school the following term, and was expelled a year later for taking drugs.’

‘Were there any repercussions for you?’

‘It didn’t exactly endear me to my classmates, who labelled me a sneak and a traitor, and not always behind my back.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ said James.

‘It happened again more recently,’ said William thoughtfully, ‘when I had to investigate a fellow officer, who I’d been at police college with. We had reason to believe he was accepting backhanders from a local drug baron on his patch. In his case stones were involved.’

‘Were you able to come up with enough evidence to arrest the subject?’

‘More than enough. He’s now serving a long prison sentence, which once again hasn’t endeared me to my colleagues, but if you’re still thinking about doing this job, you can’t make one rule for your friends and another for those you don’t know or, worse, don’t like.’

‘I’ll make an appointment to see my headmaster first thing in the morning,’ said James, ‘and tell him my misgivings.’

‘Misgivings aren’t proof,’ William reminded him, ‘but it will certainly test his moral compass, especially in this case.’

‘Why especially in this case?’ enquired James.

‘The future of two boys is involved, and their whole lives will be affected by your headmaster’s decision. However, do let me know how it turns out.’

‘I will, sir, but for now I’ll let you get back to Mr Plod, because Beth tells me he was about to arrest the real criminal.’

‘Yes, and that also has a surprise ending. But one more question before you go, James: should I assume you’ve also been offered a place at Harvard?’

‘Yes, sir. I won the John Quincy Adams open scholarship.’

‘Now there’s a man who wouldn’t have turned a blind eye.’

‘Anything I should know following your trip to Paris?’ asked The Hawk.

‘Ross somehow managed to get through the funeral, but I’m a bit concerned about something he said to me after the service.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘I wrote down his exact words while I was in the taxi back to the Gare du Nord.’ He opened his notebook. ‘“You won’t be seeing me for a few days. I have some scores to settle. I’ll be back once I’ve dealt with them.”’

‘Scores to settle can only be Faulkner,’ said The Hawk. ‘Any ideas about what he’s got planned for the next few days?’

‘I think he intends to kill Roach.’

‘And who can blame him?’ mumbled the commander under his breath.

‘But that won’t be easy, even for someone with Ross’s particular expertise,’ said William, ignoring The Hawk’s comment.

‘Don’t forget he spent four years in the SAS, four years with the murder squad, and has been undercover for the past three. There can’t be many people better qualified to kill someone.’

‘I think I should pull him in,’ said William, ‘and spell out the consequences.’

‘Agreed,’ said The Hawk. ‘But if you’re going to stop him doing something he’ll later regret, you’ll have to find him first. And if he does manage to kill Roach, we’ll have an even bigger problem on our hands.’

‘Namely?’

‘He’ll come back to work in a few days’ time and tell you he’s been in mourning or looking after his daughter, but now he wants to get on with the job of putting Faulkner back behind bars. But all he’ll really have on his mind is how he’s going to kill him.’