Over My Dead Body

Chapter 27

Ross woke at five the next morning on London time to find it was already seven o’clock in Cape Town. Not long before he would have to make a decision.

He was among the first to come down for breakfast, but he chose to sit on the other side of the dining room to reduce the chances of Mr and Mrs Pugh remembering him.

Like Jimmy the dip, Ross began the day with a hearty breakfast, starting with a bowl of porridge, followed by a pair of lightly grilled kippers that would have passed muster in a Highlands hostelry.

While he waited for the Pughs to appear, he read the previous day’s London Times.

He took his time reading a long article on page three below a photograph of the choirboy. ‘The officer who brought the two most feared gangs in the East End of London, the Abbotts and the Roaches, to their knees,’ the crime correspondent informed his readers. Ross was relieved to find no mention in the article of a mysterious tramp who’d been seen pushing a pram through the middle of the battlefield, and the crime correspondent concluded that ‘this was an internal feud between the two rival East End gangs and no one else was involved’. Ross doubted that William had come to the same conclusion when delivering his report to The Hawk.

He was beginning to wonder if the honeymoon couple were having breakfast in their room, when Clive Pugh strolled in and went straight to their usual table. He also ordered kippers before turning his attention to the Financial Times, but there was still no sign of his wife by the time he’d reached the latest stock market prices. If she didn’t make an appearance, the choice of which one of them Ross should pursue would be academic.

Pugh eventually rose from his place, left the dining room and, after a short chat to the receptionist on the front desk, walked out of the hotel. Ross was not far behind. He was never happier than when working undercover, and keeping an eye on this particular target was not difficult. Pugh was wearing a dark blue blazer, open-neck cream shirt and neatly pressed grey flannels, but it was the white panama hat that made him hard to miss. Jo had once told him you could tell the quality of a panama hat by how small the weave was, and that way she’d know if the client could afford her. I don’t have a hat, he had told her. Now, dressed in a non-branded grey T-shirt, jeans and a pair of trainers, Ross melted into the crowd on the busy streets of the bustling city centre.

He took care not to get too close to Pugh. He might have been shadowing an amateur, but he couldn’t risk being spotted, especially as he was still planning to sit behind him at dinner again that night.

The first stop Pugh made was at a chemist’s, but he came back out moments later. He covered another block before making his second stop, at an upmarket department store. Ross followed him inside, and hovered in the background pretending to be interested in a silk scarf while Pugh was shown a box of Montecristo cigars by an assistant at the tobacconist’s counter.

‘I’ll take a couple of boxes,’ said Pugh, passing over his credit card. After a few minutes, the embarrassed assistant handed him back his card and whispered a few words Ross couldn’t hear.

‘There must be some mistake,’ said Pugh angrily. ‘Why don’t you ring the bank.’

The assistant obliged, but when he put the phone down he looked even more embarrassed, and placed the cigars back on the shelf.

Pugh, red in the face, turned and strode towards the nearest exit. Ross followed.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a young woman chasing after him, ‘will you be purchasing that scarf?’

An equally embarrassed Ross handed back the scarf. Fortunately, Pugh had already left the store.

Out on the pavement, Ross quickly spotted the white panama bobbing up and down on the far side of the road. He’d nearly caught up with Pugh by the time he entered the Cape Bank, where Pugh headed straight for the nearest teller.

‘I want to speak to the manager,’ he demanded in a loud voice. ‘Immediately.’

Ross hovered behind a desk on the far side of the banking hall, picked up a Biro and began filling in a form to open a savings account while they both waited for the manager to arrive.

A tall, smartly dressed man appeared a few moments later. It wasn’t difficult for him to work out which was the irate customer who had demanded to see him.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ he asked politely.

‘Are you the manager?’ said Pugh, unable to hide his surprise.

‘I am, sir. Mr Joubert,’ he said, offering his hand. Pugh ignored it.

‘My name is Clive Pugh and your bank has just caused me some considerable embarrassment.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said the manager. ‘Perhaps you would like to discuss this matter in the privacy of my office?’

‘I don’t need to be patronized by you, Joubert. All I want to know is why my credit card was rejected.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to come to my office and talk about the problem?’

‘There isn’t a problem,’ said Pugh, almost shouting. ‘An explanation and an apology is the least I expect if you want to keep your job.’

Ross noticed that he was no longer the only person in the banking hall who was taking an interest in the encounter between the two men.

‘I’m afraid,’ said the manager, almost whispering, although everyone could hear his words, ‘your account is well over its limit, so I was left with no choice.’

‘Then I am also left with no choice,’ said Pugh, ‘other than to transfer my account to another bank. I expect you to have all the necessary paperwork ready when I return tomorrow.’

‘As you wish, sir. May I ask when that might be convenient?’

‘It will be convenient when it suits me,’ said Pugh. ‘It’s clear to me that you boys aren’t yet ready to do a man’s job.’

Ross was about to break another golden rule and knock out the person he was meant to be shadowing, and might have done so if Pugh hadn’t turned on his heel and marched out of the bank.

Ross followed him onto the street, but lost him when it became clear he was returning to the hotel. He couldn’t wait to hear his version of events over dinner that evening.

‘If Ross isn’t back in time for our meeting tomorrow,’ said Juan, as the three of them sat around the kitchen table after dinner, enjoying a second bottle of wine, ‘I’m going to have to call the whole operation off. We won’t even reach Faulkner’s front door without him.’

‘He’ll be back in time,’ said William, sounding more confident than he felt.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Juan, ‘because my boss won’t allow me to hang around on the off-chance he’ll turn up. We’ve got enough of our own criminals to deal with, I can hear him reminding me.’

‘Sounds just like The Hawk,’ said Beth.

‘Cut from the same cloth,’ said Juan, ‘if that’s the correct English expression.’

‘How come your English is so good, Juan?’ Beth asked.

‘My mother married a Welshman, and he lost the toss. However, he still thinks the only saint is David, the only flower a daffodil, and the only game rugby.’

Beth smiled, and asked innocently, ‘If Ross does turn up in time for your meeting in the morning, does that mean William will be going back to Barcelona?’

‘What makes you think I’ve ever been to Barcelona?’ said William, grinning.

‘A plane ticket was the first clue, even more pesetas were the second, and Juan coming to stay with us finally clinched it.’

‘Ignore her,’ said William in a stage whisper.

‘If you don’t feel able to answer my question,’ said Beth, pouring her guest another glass of wine, ‘perhaps I can ask you, Juan, if you’ve actually seen Fishers of Men.’

‘A planted question,’ interrupted William. ‘Trying to draw you in without admitting how little she actually knows. Just ignore her, and she’ll eventually give up.’

‘Yes, I have seen it,’ admitted Juan. ‘But, sadly, I was distracted, and didn’t have much time to appreciate it.’

‘Distracted by its would-be owner, perhaps?’ asked Beth, still fishing.

Both men were silenced for a moment, until William said, ‘Let’s just say that Faulkner had even less chance to appreciate it than Juan. And, sadly, I doubt if any of us will ever set eyes on it again.’

‘Unless, of course, you two resourceful gentlemen manage to arrest Faulkner and put him back behind bars where he belongs. In which case, with the help of my close friend Christina, the Fitzmolean may yet get its hands on the masterpiece, and you’ll be able to return and admire it without fear of being interrupted.’ Neither Juan nor William responded, but Beth didn’t give up. ‘Which would at least make up for you two preventing the museum from being able to borrow Frans Hals’ The Flute Player, which I suspect was in the same house.’

‘Clever woman, your wife,’ was Juan’s only comment.

‘You don’t know the half,’ said William. ‘Just wait until breakfast tomorrow, when you’ll meet Artemisia.’

Just as William was heading upstairs to bed, the phone rang. He picked it up to hear James Buchanan’s unmistakable Boston accent on the other end of the line.

‘I took your advice, sir,’ he said, not wasting a word, ‘and reported my findings to the headmaster, who promised me he would look into the matter.’

‘And did he?’ asked William.

‘He can’t have done,’ said James, ‘because my friend has a study on the same corridor as me, at Harvard.’

‘You will, no doubt, have come up with a convincing explanation for why he ignored your findings.’

‘Yes, but it’s only circumstantial, and wouldn’t stand up in court.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said William.

‘One of my class, who should have sailed into Harvard, failed spectacularly.’

‘That’s not proof, unless he’ll admit his involvement to the headmaster, with at least two witnesses present.’

‘My friend’s father was chairman of Choate’s fundraising committee, and they had a record year.’

‘Still not proof, but adds to motive.’

‘He was also at Choate and Harvard at the same time as the headmaster.’

‘So were several other people, I suspect,’ said William, dismissively.

‘You’re sounding like my headmaster,’ said James, ‘who, when I finally asked him what decision he’d made simply said, “There was absolutely no solid evidence to back up your accusations, Buchanan.”’

‘And he’s right,’ said William wryly, ‘though I’ll be fascinated to know where your friend ends up.’

‘In prison along with your friend probably,’ said James.

‘While you’ve learnt the importance of gathering irrefutable evidence before you even consider presenting your case. A lesson that will stand you in good stead if you still want to be the Director of the FBI rather than chairman of the Pilgrim Line.’

‘My father’s now chairman of the company,’ said James, who paused before adding, ‘but he’s not my grandfather.’

After William had put the phone down, he thought about that sentence for some time.

Ross was already seated in his place, head buried in the New York Times, when Mr and Mrs Pugh entered the dining room and were shown to their usual table by an attentive maître d’. Pugh was still spluttering angrily to his wife about what had taken place at the bank that morning while she appeared to listen sympathetically. Ross couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t mention the fact that his credit card had been rejected when he tried to buy two boxes of Montecristo cigars.

Pugh tried once again to persuade her that they should open a joint bank account, but Ross needed to catch only the occasional word drifting his way from the next table to realize that she still wasn’t convinced. When he told her he would be returning to the bank in the morning to close his account so the same bank could take care of both of their affairs in future, she nodded, but didn’t comment.

Ross had already decided he wouldn’t be following Pugh to the bank in the morning, but would remain at the hotel in the hope of detaining his wife for a few minutes in order to, in the commander’s words, enlighten her.

The conversation at the next table turned to a proposed visit to the theatre the following evening. Pugh confirmed that the hotel had managed to get them front-row seats in the dress circle for a performance of Les Misérables. Mrs Pugh seemed delighted by the news, and although Ross could catch only the occasional word coming his way, the laughter and clinking of glasses suggested that the atmosphere between the newlyweds had changed. After they had given the waiter their orders, Pugh leant across the table and said something in a stage whisper that took Ross by surprise.

‘Your wig has gone a bit skew-whiff, my love.’

Mrs Pugh rose slowly from her place and said, ‘I’ll only be a few moments, my darling,’ and left without another word.

Ross readjusted the mirror in his cigarette case, and watched as Pugh took a cigar holder out of an inside pocket, which struck Ross as strange, as the Pughs hadn’t yet been served with their main course.

Pugh unscrewed the holder, removed a cigar and placed it on the table in front of him. He looked cautiously around the crowded room, before tipping the tube upside down and emptying some white powder into his wine glass. He stirred the wine with the handle of his fork, before placing the cigar back in its holder and returning it to his pocket. Pugh glanced around the room once again, before he switched wine glasses with his wife’s. The whole deception had taken under a minute.

Ross caught the eye of the maître d’, who was showing some guests to their table. He scribbled a few words on the back of his menu and put a finger to his lips as the maître d’ approached him. He read the message before moving casually to the next table, where Mr Pugh was staring intently towards the entrance of the restaurant.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ said the maître d’, ‘but you have an overseas call. If you could go to reception, the caller is holding on.’

‘Did they give you a name?’ demanded Pugh.

‘No, sir. It was a lady. She said it was urgent.’

Pugh quickly got up and scurried out of the restaurant. As soon as he’d left the room, Ross dropped his copy of the New York Times on the floor. He bent down to retrieve the newspaper and, as he stood up, he switched back the Pughs’ wine glasses with a sleight of hand that would have impressed Jimmy the dip.

Ross was walking towards the bar when an angry Pugh stormed past him. He had only just sat down when his wife reappeared.

Ross climbed onto a stool at the far end of the bar, ordered a coffee and continued to read his newspaper. He looked up to see Pugh raising his glass in a toast, to which his wife happily responded. He drained his glass, and she took a sip from hers, as their main courses were placed in front of them.

No sooner had Pugh picked up his knife and fork than his face turned ashen. He began to shake and fell forward onto the table, foaming at the mouth.

‘Fetch a doctor!’ shouted Mrs Pugh hysterically. A man seated a few tables away jumped up and hurried across, but after only a cursory examination it was clear to everyone watching that there was nothing he could do to help.

Ross watched as events unfolded in front of him. A few moments later two waiters appeared carrying a stretcher, accompanied by the maître d’. Some of the guests turned away, while others looked on with morbid fascination as the lifeless body was lowered onto the stretcher and carried out of the room, followed by the distraught widow.

Ross took advantage of the commotion and quietly left the restaurant. As he passed the maître d’, he slipped him a hundred-rand note which he acknowledged with a slight bow. From the foyer Ross watched discreetly as the stretcher was carried out to a waiting ambulance, where two redundant paramedics took over. Mrs Pugh burst into tears as one of them checked her late husband’s pulse, closed his eyes and gently pulled a sheet over his head.

Ross had come across many grieving widows over the years, and he wasn’t in any doubt that Mrs Pugh’s tears were genuine, which took him by surprise. Was it possible she really had loved that odious creature? Perhaps she would have felt differently had she known it should have been her, not him, being whisked off to the morgue. As the ambulance drove off, he strolled across to the reception desk to pick up his key.

‘You have a message,’ said the receptionist.

He unfolded the little slip of paper, and after reading it he said under his breath, ‘You’re good, choirboy. Very good.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the receptionist.

‘Can you tell me the time of the next flight to London?’

‘The first flight in the morning is at nine o’clock,’ she said, before glancing at her watch. ‘But if you were to hurry, sir, you might just catch the red-eye which leaves in a couple of hours.’

‘Please have my bill ready, and book me one business-class seat on that flight. I’ll also need a taxi to take me to the airport.’

Ross bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where he quickly opened his door and began throwing all his possessions into his suitcase, before he ran back down to reception and paid his bill. A porter put his bag into the boot of a waiting taxi, its engine turning over. The promise of a hundred-rand tip if he made it to the airport in time ensured that the driver ignored every speed limit. Ross was the last person to board the plane that night.

‘Will you be wanting dinner tonight, sir?’ asked the steward, once they’d taken off.

‘No, thank you,’ said Ross. ‘Just a pair of eyeshades.’

‘Of course, sir.’

As there wasn’t a Larry T. Holbrooke the Third seated next to him, Ross looked forward to a good night’s sleep. He should be back in time to have breakfast with Jimmy the dip at the Putney Bridge Café, before reporting to Chief Inspector Warwick at the Yard. He could only wonder how much the choirboy already knew.