Over My Dead Body

Chapter 7

The loud banging on the door persisted. At first William wondered if it was just part of his dream, but he woke to find it hadn’t stopped. Someone was disturbing the first decent night’s sleep he’d had in days.

He reluctantly got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and opened the door to find James standing in the corridor.

‘Come quickly,’ he said, ‘you’re the only person who can stop it.’

‘Stop what?’ asked William, but James was already on the move. He closed the cabin door quietly, but heard Beth groan as she turned over. Still half asleep, he followed James along the corridor and down a flight of steps to deck one, where he held open the door and waited for his mentor.

William walked out onto the lower deck, where he found the commodore in full dress uniform solemnly addressing a small gathering.

‘Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep...’

William was horrified to see the Buchanan family, heads bowed, surrounding a coffin that rested on a small raised platform.

‘...in the certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ...’

‘Can’t you do something?’ whispered James hopelessly.

‘Nothing,’ William replied, shaking his head, all too aware that the commodore’s authority prevailed over everyone on board his ship.

‘...at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up their dead...’

William remained on the edge of the gathering, a spectator of the game being played out in front of him.

‘...and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed and made like unto his glorious body...’

He took a closer look at the burial party to see Mrs Buchanan was weeping quietly, while her son Angus tried to comfort her. Flora Buchanan stood a pace back, calm and dignified, the mantle of power now resting on her shoulders. Hamish Buchanan, tight-lipped, stood next to Dr Lockhart, whose expression gave nothing away.

‘...according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.’

The commodore closed his prayer book, stood rigidly to attention and saluted. Two young officers stepped forward and raised one end of the platform on which the coffin was resting. The funeral party watched as it slid slowly down its determined path into the sea, before sinking to a salty grave below the waves.

Chief Inspector William Warwick might have been able to convince a coroner to exhume a body that had been buried a few feet below the earth in a graveyard, but not one that rested on the bottom of the ocean. The Buchanan family had buried not only their dead, but the one piece of evidence that would have condemned his murderers.

A minute’s silence followed, after which the commodore saluted once again before issuing a command. Moments later, the propellers began to slowly rotate, allowing the ship to continue on its journey to New York.

William stood aside as the family departed: Mrs Buchanan on Angus’s arm, silent and resolute; Hamish and the doctor a pace behind, chatting, making a mockery of mourning. They were followed by the rest of the family, with Flora Buchanan and the commodore bringing up the rear. When the new chairman saw William, she broke away and approached him.

‘I feel I owe you an explanation,’ she said calmly. William couldn’t think of an appropriate response and he felt slightly embarrassed by the fact that he was wearing a dressing gown and slippers while the others were all dressed somewhat formally. ‘At our board meeting yesterday,’ she continued, ‘the directors made the decision to carry out Fraser’s last request — as specified in his will — to be buried at sea.’

‘Even though you must have suspected it was one of those directors who was responsible for his untimely death,’ said William pointedly.

‘We considered that possibility,’ said Flora. ‘But as Fraser’s personal physician had already signed the death certificate confirming he had died of a heart attack, the family, and Mrs Buchanan in particular, decided we should carry out his final wishes rather than face a long investigation by the police. One that would have given the press enough ammunition to cause irreparable damage to the company’s reputation — the last thing Fraser would have wanted.’

‘I would suggest the last thing he would have wanted was to see his son punished for the crime he had committed.’

‘I can understand how you must feel, Chief Inspector,’ said Flora. ‘So you may be interested to know that among the other decisions the board took was to sack Hamish as a director and cut him adrift.’

‘To somehow survive on a vast inheritance,’ said William bitterly.

‘Unfortunately not,’ said the chairman. ‘The only thing his father left him, as he will discover when the will is read later today, is a compass, a metaphor I’m sure you will appreciate.’

‘And the good doctor?’

‘Resigned before he could be sacked. I will also personally make sure he won’t be employed by anyone who asks us for a reference.’

As Flora turned to leave, William asked quietly, ‘When did you discover the truth?’

‘Young James is a great admirer of yours, Chief Inspector, as I’m sure you’re aware. However, after a little coaxing he couldn’t resist letting me know how you were able to prove that my brother didn’t die of a heart attack.’

William should have realized that, in the end, blood is always thicker than water. In this case, sea water.

‘Don’t blame the boy,’ said Flora. ‘We’ve all learnt a great deal about ourselves on this journey.’

‘What did you learn?’

‘That given time, James will make an outstanding chairman of the Pilgrim Line. Which is exactly what his grandfather, may he rest in peace, would have wanted.’

William returned to his cabin and crept back into bed, relieved to find Beth fast asleep. He was woken a few hours later by a light tap on the door.

Beth, who was already dressed, opened the door to be greeted by a young ensign. He saluted and said, ‘Good morning, ma’am. The commodore wondered if you and Chief Inspector Warwick would care to join him on the bridge at around ten o’clock, when we will be sailing into New York harbour.’

‘You bet,’ said Beth, unable to hide her excitement. ‘How kind of him.’

William sat up in bed, and was about to protest when he saw the look on Beth’s face.

‘You’re a shameless hussy,’ said William, as he came out of the bathroom to see his wife looking at herself in the mirror.

‘I know,’ said Beth, ‘but I couldn’t resist it.’

‘How much?’ asked William, who despite himself couldn’t help admiring the necklace he’d last seen displayed in the gift shop window.

‘Nine hundred and ninety-five pounds,’ said Beth without any suggestion of shame.

‘And what did I get with the five pounds left over? A Rolex Submariner perhaps, or an eighteen-carat-gold eternity ring?’

‘I’m afraid not. All they could manage was a pair of plastic collar stiffeners, top of the range, the sales assistant assured me. I considered the necklace a small compensation for a woman whose husband had deserted her during the day and then disappeared in the middle of the night,’ Beth said as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘That doesn’t stop you being a shameless hussy.’

‘And where did you go in the middle of the night?’

‘To witness Fraser Buchanan’s burial at sea.’

‘But I thought—’

‘So did I.’

‘How clever of them,’ said Beth, as William pushed a collar stiffener into his shirt. ‘That way there’ll be no autopsy, no trial and no adverse publicity.’

‘And no justice,’ said William.

There was a knock on the door, and Beth opened it to find the young ensign had returned. ‘The commodore asked me to accompany you and your husband to the bridge, ma’am.’

‘Thank you,’ said Beth, as she linked arms with the ensign, leaving William to grab his jacket and close the door before catching up with them.

‘If I may say so, Mrs Warwick, what an exquisite necklace you’re wearing.’

‘A gift from my husband,’ said Beth, which at least caused William to smile.

William might have only reluctantly accepted the commodore’s invitation to join him, but the moment he stepped onto the bridge he changed his mind. He was mesmerized by the sheer size of the control panels that stretched from one side of the deck to the other, allowing the commodore a panoramic view of everything going on around him, including a bank of flashing signals that the alert young officers were studying intently. William listened to the quiet and efficient orders being given by the officer of the watch to the engine room below.

He also noticed that everyone on deck was wearing a black armband.

‘Everything’s electronic nowadays,’ said the ensign, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Though we still have two serving officers, including the commodore, who began their maritime careers with a steamship company.’

‘Who’s in charge?’ he whispered to the ensign.

‘Captain Maitland, the officer of the watch.’

‘Not the commodore?’ asked William, who had noticed he was standing a few paces back, passive, eyes never still, arms behind his back.

‘Certainly not. He would only take over if there was an emergency.’

‘Like what?’ asked Beth.

‘A gale force storm, or if the officer of the watch was drunk, or a member of the royal family were present. I’ve never seen him take over command during my four years on the Alden.’

‘When will you become the officer of the watch?’ she asked.

‘Not for some time yet, ma’am. Occasionally I get to replace the second officer in the middle of the night, but only if we’re a long way off shore, the sea is calm and there’s no sign of another ship. The Titanic still serves to remind every sailor that the sea must be treated with respect, so when I’m left in charge even the navigator keeps a watchful eye on me. That reminds me, Chief Inspector: the senior navigator, who’s at the wheel this morning, was keen to meet you, as it seems you have a friend in common.’

‘I wonder who that can be,’ said Beth, as the ensign accompanied them across to the wheel and introduced them to Able Seaman Ned Turnbull.

The senior navigator took one hand off the wheel, shook hands with William and said, ‘Welcome to the bridge, sir.’

‘I understand we have a mutual friend,’ said William.

‘Yes, we do. I think you know Ee by gum,’ said the navigator, which only brought a puzzled look to William’s face, which caused the navigator to add, ‘Captain Ralph Neville, who I was looking forward to seeing again. We served together on the Illustrious, during the Falklands crisis. Mind you, he was only an able seaman back in those days.’

‘Ee by gum?’ repeated Beth, none the wiser.

‘That was his nickname below deck, on account of his broad Yorkshire accent, and the belief that Sir Leonard Hutton was without question the greatest living Englishman. We lost touch after he married an Australian girl and went to live in Perth. Be sure to pass on my best wishes should you come across him again.’

‘I most certainly will,’ said William.

‘You mustn’t miss the Statue of Liberty,’ the ensign said, as he guided Beth and William across to the starboard side of the ship.

They both stared in the direction of the iconic statue, but they weren’t looking at her.

‘I’ve made such a fool of myself,’ whispered Beth. ‘I should have listened to you in the first place.’

‘You’ve always been a trusting soul,’ said William. ‘It’s one of the many reasons I adore you. And to be fair, Christina must have been lying through her teeth for the past year.’

‘I’m missing something, aren’t I?’ said Beth. ‘What’s Ralph Neville got on Christina to make her fall into line so conveniently?’

‘Wrong question.’

‘Then what’s the right question?’

‘Why was Christina so willing to part with her tickets for this voyage?’

‘And the answer?’

‘Ralph couldn’t afford to be seen on board by someone who’d served with the real Captain Neville.’

‘But Christina told me they were getting married.’

‘She is, but to whom?’

Beth stared at William for some time before she said, ‘How long have you known?’

William checked his watch. ‘Ee by gum. I’ve only been certain for about ten minutes.’

Beth wanted to fly straight back to England so she could confront Christina before the wedding took place, but William talked her out of the idea. He knew it would only give Faulkner another opportunity to escape, and if he did, it would be the only thing anyone remembered about his short and undistinguished career. It helped that Catherine had stepped in and insisted Beth stay with them while she was in New York.

‘The Met, the Frick and the MoMA with our own personal tour guide?’ said Catherine. ‘What more could a girl ask for?’

Mr Justice Whittaker nodded sagely, but didn’t comment when his wife said she would be only too happy to accompany Beth to Carnegie Hall and take William’s seat for the Ella Fitzgerald concert. The judge didn’t complain, but then he’d never heard of Ella Fitzgerald. He couldn’t wait to return to England and preside once again over the trial of Miles Faulkner, and had already decided on the length of his sentence.

‘What about Christina?’ Beth asked him.

‘Assisting an offender,’ pronounced the judge, ‘although Mr Booth Watson wouldn’t find it difficult to get her off that charge, as long as she doesn’t visit Captain Ralph Neville in prison.’

William couldn’t wait to get back to England.

‘How many murders were there in London last year?’ asked Commander Hawksby, as he took his place at the head of the table for the first meeting of the newly formed Unsolved Murders Unit.

‘One hundred and eighty-one, sir,’ replied Detective Sergeant Adaja.

‘How many of those were domestic?’ asked The Hawk, switching his attention to the other side of the table. Although the room was large compared with the rabbit warren the rest of the team worked in, the table in the centre could just about seat six. A photograph of the Queen hung on the wall behind The Hawk’s desk, and a silver cup on the bookshelf reminded them that he’d once been the Met’s middleweight boxing champion.

‘Thirty-four,’ said Jackie.

‘And how many of those ended up with a conviction?’

‘Twenty-nine. Most of them were waiting for us to turn up, while the remainder were arrested within twenty-four hours.’

‘That’s the secret. Most domestic murders are solved in the first twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most,’ said The Hawk. ‘After that, they begin to think they’ve got away with it, and become more and more confident as each day passes.’

‘Which is certainly true in the case of Mr Clive Pugh,’ said Jackie, opening her case file. ‘He murdered his wife a couple of months after taking out a million-pound insurance policy on her life, and was handsomely rewarded for his trouble.’

‘Why wasn’t he convicted?’ demanded The Hawk.

‘We didn’t have enough evidence to charge him, so he literally got away with murder.’

‘Then find the necessary evidence, DS Roycroft,’ said The Hawk. ‘Because if there’s one thing that makes a potential murderer think twice, it’s the thought that he won’t get away with it. That still leaves us with a hundred and forty-seven murders that can’t be described as domestic. DC Pankhurst, how many of those resulted in arrests?’

Rebecca didn’t need to open the file in front of her to answer the commander’s question. ‘One hundred and forty-three, sir.’

‘How many of those ended up in prison?’

‘One hundred and thirty-nine, and, of the other four, we know who the murderers are, but we didn’t have enough solid evidence to convince the Crown Prosecution Service they should be put on trial.’

‘Details?’ demanded The Hawk.

‘One of them, a Max Sleeman, is a particularly nasty piece of work,’ said DS Adaja, opening his case file. ‘He’s a loan shark, and if you don’t pay up on time, you end up with a broken arm or leg. And if you still fail to deliver, he rents a hearse, but doesn’t cover the funeral costs.’

‘I want Sleeman arrested,’ said The Hawk, ‘and preferably before the next poor sod is eliminated.’

‘Already on it,’ said Paul.

‘Three to go,’ said The Hawk. ‘DC Pankhurst, what can you tell me about a certain Darren Carter?’

‘He’s a bouncer at the Eve Club in Soho,’ said Rebecca. ‘Pleaded guilty to manslaughter and got off with a two-year sentence. Though I’ve no doubt it was a premeditated murder that he carried out on behalf of the club’s owner.’

‘Then I want him back in jail. Double jeopardy doesn’t apply if fresh evidence can be produced,’ The Hawk reminded her. ‘And, DC Pankhurst, I also want the club shut down and to make sure that the owner never gets another licence. That should keep you occupied for the time being. Which leaves the final two cases that have been gathering dust for far too long.’

Everyone seated around the table knew exactly which cases the commander was referring to: Ron Abbott and Terry Roach. Two hardmen from rival East End gangs, who were conducting an ongoing dispute about who controlled the gambling, protection rackets, prostitution and distribution of drugs on their patch.

‘I know you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve saved those two particularly unsavoury characters for DI Hogan to deal with when he joins the unit next week as DCI Warwick’s second-in-command.’

Paul looked disappointed.

‘However,’ continued The Hawk, ‘don’t imagine even for one moment that you’re off the hook, because I expect detailed reports, including course of action, to be on my desk before we meet again in a week’s time.’ Biros didn’t stop scribbling. ‘And if you want to hear the bad news, I’ve just had a call from DCI Warwick, whose plane touched down at Heathrow about an hour ago.’

‘I thought he wasn’t due back for another week,’ said DS Adaja.

‘He wasn’t. But he intends to be the officer who arrests Miles Faulkner in person.’

‘That might prove a little difficult,’ said Jackie, ‘as we both attended Faulkner’s funeral in Geneva and witnessed his cremation.’

‘Attended is the key word,’ said The Hawk. ‘But whose ashes were in the urn when the priest handed them over to Mrs Faulkner remains a mystery.’

‘What makes you think they weren’t Faulkner’s?’ asked Jackie defensively.

‘A Raphael which we know Faulkner considered the star of his collection recently came up for auction at Christie’s, and was sold for £2.2 million.’

‘That doesn’t prove he’s still alive,’ said Paul, playing devil’s advocate.

‘I would agree with you, DS Adaja, if DCI Warwick hadn’t seen the painting hanging in Faulkner’s home in Monte Carlo not so long ago. Which suggests that the one sold at the auction was a copy, and because the seller had the authentic paperwork to prove its provenance, even the experts were fooled.’

‘Who would pay £2.2 million for a fake?’ asked Jackie.

‘Someone who doesn’t want us to know he’s still alive.’

‘That’s hardly beyond reasonable doubt—’

‘Until you consider,’ interrupted The Hawk, ‘that it was none other than our old friend Mr Booth Watson QC who purchased the painting,’ he paused, ‘on behalf of a client.’

‘Who might have been Mrs Faulkner,’ countered Paul.

‘Unlikely,’ said The Hawk. ‘Christina Faulkner has never shown any interest in buying paintings, only selling them.’

‘I’d need a little more proof than that if I were sitting on a jury,’ said Paul, as the door swung open and William marched in.

‘Talk of the devil,’ said The Hawk. ‘I was just about to explain to DS Adaja and DS Roycroft why you’re now convinced Miles Faulkner is still alive.’

‘Ee by gum, I am,’ said William, taking the only empty seat at the table. ‘So if you lot have any plans for next Saturday morning, cancel them, because you’ll be attending the wedding of Captain Ralph Neville, RN Rtd, and Mrs Christina Faulkner, widow of the said parish, despite the fact that they’re both already married.’ He paused. ‘To each other.’