Over My Dead Body

Chapter 26

‘Would you be kind enough to sign the visitors’ book, sir?’ said the receptionist, swivelling round a large, leatherbound volume just as the phone on the desk began to ring. She picked it up and announced, ‘Good morning, the Mount Nelson Hotel. How may I assist you?’

Ross began to flick back through the pages of the visitors’ book in search of Mr and Mrs Clive Pugh, who he knew had planned to check in earlier that week.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist as she put the phone down and caught him looking closely at a particular page of the log.

‘Yes,’ said Ross, not missing a beat. ‘I was just checking to see if a friend of mine, Larry T. Holbrooke the Third, had booked in.’

‘We have no one under that name staying with us,’ said the receptionist. Ross looked suitably disappointed, as she handed him a large metal key. ‘You’re in room thirty-three on the third floor. A porter will take your bag up. I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.’

Pleasant wasn’t what Ross had in mind. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before following the porter across the hall to the lift. On the way they passed a photograph of Winston Churchill sitting on the veranda of the hotel smoking a cigar and clasping a large brandy.

When the lift reached the third floor, Ross followed the porter down a wide, thickly carpeted corridor, the walls cluttered with sepia photographs of the Queen Mother, Jan Smuts and Cecil Rhodes, reminding the hotel’s guests of a bygone era it seemed reluctant to let go. The porter unlocked the door to room 33 and placed Ross’s suitcase on a stand at the end of the bed. Ross thanked him and handed him a tip.

Ross walked across to the bay window and was stunned by the breathtaking panoramic view of Table Mountain, with the clouds resting above it like a fluffy eiderdown. He turned back to see the king-sized double bed and once again thought about Jo, before slipping off his jacket and lying down just to find out how comfortable it was. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

‘It’s for you, chief,’ said Paul, handing over the phone. ‘A Lieutenant Sanchez calling from Barcelona.’

‘Hi Juan,’ said William as he grabbed the phone. ‘Any progress?’

‘Yes. My wife’s pregnant again, and this time we’re hoping for a boy.’

‘Congratulations,’ said William, laughing, ‘but that isn’t what I had in mind.’

‘On that particular front, I also have some good news,’ said Sanchez. ‘Following Commander Hawksby’s call to my boss, he’s given the next stage of Operation Masterpiece his blessing, but with several caveats.’

‘Do we have a date?’ asked William.

‘Yes, next Sunday. I don’t think you can afford to wait much longer. We’ll need to get together before then to go over the details. I could fly to London on Wednesday afternoon, if that’s convenient for you.’

‘That’s fine,’ said William, turning a page of his diary. ‘Where do you plan on staying?’

‘I was hoping you could recommend a cheap hotel near Scotland Yard.’

‘London’s not known for its cheap hotels,’ said William. ‘Why don’t you stay at my place? It will give you a chance to meet Beth and the twins.’

‘Thank you,’ said Juan, ‘but wouldn’t that be...’

‘Then that’s settled. Just call up from reception when you get here.’ William put down the phone, looked across at Jackie and said, ‘Find Inspector Hogan. I need him back here for a full briefing with Lieutenant Sanchez by nine o’clock on Thursday morning, otherwise we’re all wasting our time.’

‘Where will he be, sir?’ asked Jackie. ‘Because I know he’s not at home.’

‘At the same hotel as Mr and Mrs Pugh in Cape Town.’

‘Do you know the name of the hotel?’

‘No, DS Roycroft, I don’t. I thought I’d leave you something to do.’

Ross woke from a vivid dream to find he was still fully dressed, and for a moment he wondered where he was. He glanced at his watch, 6.18 p.m., and moved into first gear. He climbed off the bed, stripped off his clothes and threw them over a chair before going into the bathroom and taking a long shower.

Jets of cold water quickly brought him back to life, and helped him to move into second gear as he went over a tentative plan in his mind. By the time he’d stepped out of the shower and dried himself, he was in third gear, but still no nearer to working out how he could arrange to bump into Mrs Amy Pugh without her husband realizing what he was up to.

If he did manage to spend even a few minutes with her, his story was well prepared. He was an insurance broker, and felt he should warn her that her husband had taken out a policy on her life for one million pounds. He would then ask her if she was aware of the circumstances of his first wife’s death. He had his next question ready if she replied yes, and a short well-prepared speech if she said no.

He put on a clean white shirt, a golf club tie and a suit that made him look like someone who was at home in a five-star hotel rather than a deserted back alley. He picked up his room key and moved into top gear as he left for the dining room.

The hotel might well have had a folksy charm about it, what Jo would have described as quaint, but when he entered the Nelson Room it only took one look at the maître d’ for Ross to know he was dealing with a pro.

‘May I ask for your room number, sir?’ enquired the tall, thin man dressed in a long morning coat and pinstriped trousers.

‘Thirty-three,’ said Ross. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a couple seated in a small alcove on the far side of the restaurant. He noticed that, although the banquette on their left was occupied, the one on the right was empty.

The maître d’ interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are you dining alone this evening, sir, or will someone be joining you?’

‘I’ll be on my own for the next two days. I wonder if I could have that alcove seat by the window.’

The maître d’ checked his table list. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s already booked for this evening.’

Ross took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-rand note and placed it on top of the reservation list.

‘Please follow me, sir,’ said the maître d’, giving Ross a warm smile. Nothing folksy or quaint about the maître d’, thought Ross, as he watched him pocket the note like Jimmy the dip.

Ross picked up a copy of the New York Times from a side table as he followed the head waiter across the room to his alcove seat. He sat down with his back to the Pughs, opened the newspaper and began to read. If they were even to glance in his direction, they would assume he was an American. He leant slightly back, and although he could catch only the occasional word from Mrs Pugh, he could hear almost everything her husband was saying.

A wine waiter appeared. ‘Can I get you something to drink, sir, while you’re deciding what to order?’

Ross studied the long wine list. He remembered that Jo had once told him the South African vineyards were now producing wines that were second only to the French, not that the French would ever admit it. The list confirmed another of Jo’s nuggets, that the local wines would be far cheaper than the French imports. He selected a half bottle of Malbec from the Western Cape, and after the wine waiter had left he took a cigarette case out of an inside pocket and placed it on the table.

Ross glanced at the headline in his newspaper: Peace talks to begin in Geneva between Iraq and Iran. He would have read the article if he hadn’t been trying to concentrate on the conversation taking place behind him.

‘Have you decided what you’ll have, sir?’ asked his table waiter, notepad open, pen poised.

‘The vegetable soup, followed by a rump steak, medium rare.’ He looked across at the empty seat on the other side of the table, but no one was sitting there.

He waited for the waiter to leave before opening the cigarette case and adjusting the mirror inside to an angle that allowed him a perfect view of Pugh, although he could see only the back of his wife’s head. NP had been happy to supply the silver cigarette case, originally commissioned by a customer for a sum of money that would have impressed Cartier.

It was clear that Pugh was taking pains to appear solicitous towards his new spouse, while giving the impression he was listening attentively to a story he must have heard several times before, keeping a fixed smile on his face the whole time.

The wine waiter returned, and Ross flicked the cigarette case shut, but continued to listen to what was being said on the next table as the sommelier uncorked the half bottle of Malbec and poured him a small amount to sample.

‘Excellent,’ Ross said, and the wine waiter filled his glass.

Ross reached the sports pages to discover that the Yankees had beaten the Oakland Athletics. He looked into the mirror to see the Pughs had finished their meal. The only important piece of information he’d picked up was that Clive Pugh would be visiting his bank in the morning, having suggested to his wife they should open a joint account. It was clear from her body language that she wasn’t at all enthusiastic about the idea. Ross recalled that at the last team meeting he’d attended, Jackie had told them Pugh must be fast running out of money if several unpaid bills were anything to go by.

Pugh told his wife to expect him back around twelve, reminding her that they would be taking the cable car to the top of Table Mountain to have lunch at a café, more famous for its view than its cuisine.

Ross would have to decide whether to take advantage of Pugh’s absence while he was visiting the bank and attempt to set up a meeting with his wife, or to follow him to the bank in the hope of finding out just how bad his financial situation was.

As the Pughs rose from their table, Ross pocketed the cigarette case, but continued to read his paper as they left the restaurant. He waited for a few minutes before he left. As he passed the maître d’ he slipped him another fifty-rand note, not for services rendered, but for services he might require at some time in the future.

‘He’s in Cape Town,’ said William.

‘What’s he doing there?’ asked the commander.

‘Keeping a close eye on Mr and Mrs Pugh would be my bet. He probably intends to warn the blushing bride about her husband’s long-term plans for her before it’s too late. But I’m confident he’ll be back in time for Thursday morning’s meeting with Sanchez.’

‘Why?’ asked the commander.

‘He has an appointment on the first of September that he can’t afford to miss.’

‘Who with?’

‘Max Sleeman’s debt collector, Leonid Verenich, who Paul assures me always starts his rounds with new customers on the first day of the month.’

‘So Ross will be waiting for him. But what do you think he has in mind, because whispering death isn’t a man you’d go looking for if you could possibly avoid it.’

‘I’ve no idea, sir, but I intend to put a stop to Ross’s plans before I end up having to arrest him.’

‘He’ll see you coming.’

‘I’m hoping he’ll be so preoccupied with Verenich that I can take him by surprise.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ said The Hawk. ‘Since his wife’s death, he’s been like a man possessed. First Abbott and Roach, now Pugh, next Sleeman, and he’s probably also got Darren Carter in his sights. Where will it all end?’

‘With Miles Faulkner would be my bet, sir.’