Over My Dead Body

Chapter 8

Sixteen officers, under the command of DI Hogan, surrounded the Norman parish church of Limpton-in-the-Marsh that Saturday morning. None of them were in uniform. Several of the CROP officers were armed.

The banns had been announced in the parish magazine and proclaimed from the pulpit for the past three Sundays by the local vicar. He declared that the service would take place at two o’clock on Saturday August fifteenth. Several uninvited guests turned up for the betrothal unannounced between seven and eight that morning, but none of them entered the church.

The first official guest to make an appearance was Mr Booth Watson QC, a friend of the groom — in fact the only friend of the groom. He entered the west door of the church just after one, but then he charged by the hour.

Christina was the next to arrive, just before two. Unusual for the bride to turn up before the groom, but then this was an unusual wedding. She was dressed in a smart turquoise suit, silk scarf and matching long coat, more of a ‘going-away’ outfit than a bridal dress. Not that she was planning to go anywhere with her husband.

Miles was running a few minutes late, despite his chauffeur keeping the needle nearer eighty than seventy mph while they were on the motorway. He took exit 13 and headed for Limpton.

‘Don’t look back, boss, but I think we’re being followed.’

‘What makes you say that, Eddie?’

‘A taxi I spotted on the motorway came off at the same exit as us, and I don’t think he’s one of your guests.’

‘Is there another route you can take to the church?’

‘Yes, but it will take far longer, especially if we get held up at the railway crossing.’

‘Take it. That way we’ll find out if he’s following us.’

At the next crossroads, Eddie turned right, and a few moments later the taxi once again appeared in his rear-view mirror.

‘He’s still with us. What do you want me to do?’

‘Keep going for a while, I think,’ said Miles. The lorry in front of them slowed down as the barriers were lowered at the railway crossing.

‘We got our timing wrong, boss,’ said Eddie.

‘I think we may have got our timing just right. What I want you to do...’

‘Do you think they’ve spotted us?’ said William as the taxi joined a short queue waiting for the train to leave the station and the barrier to rise.

‘Possible, sir,’ said Danny. ‘A taxi’s always a bit conspicuous on a motorway and having to do eighty didn’t help.’

‘Perhaps we should have used an unmarked squad car for this particular job, and not a taxi.’

‘Why don’t we arrest him while he can’t get away?’

‘No, we’ll stick to the plan, while he’s still driving straight into a trap.’

‘He’s on the move!’ shouted Danny as the passenger door of the Mercedes shot open. ‘He’s heading for the station.’

‘Dump the car, then follow me,’ said William, as he threw open the back door, jumped out and ran towards the station. By the time Danny had manoeuvred the taxi onto the grass verge his boss was already charging across the pedestrian bridge. William raced down the steps on the far side of the track and leapt through the only door of the train that was still open just as it began to move off.

He yanked down the window and shouted to Danny, who had just reached the platform, ‘I want a dozen officers waiting for me at the next station. And call DI Hogan to let him know the groom won’t be turning up.’

‘He’s going to be late for his own wedding,’ said Christina, checking her watch once again.

‘And I have another ceremony at three o’clock,’ the vicar gently reminded her.

‘Something must have gone wrong,’ said Booth Watson.

All three of them continued to stare at the entrance to the church, but there was still no sign of the groom.

William walked slowly down each carriage, double-checking the first-class compartments, in search of Captain Ralph Neville, although he intended to arrest Miles Faulkner. By the time he had reached the back of the train, he assumed Faulkner must have locked himself in one of the lavatories. However, as there were no windows in the toilets, he couldn’t hope to escape.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Faulkner,’ said the vicar. ‘But some of the guests for my next wedding are already waiting outside. I can’t put them off for much longer.’

‘This particular groom won’t be getting to the church on time, vicar,’ said Booth Watson, ‘so I think we should call it a day. Especially as some of those people waiting impatiently outside are not guests for this or any other wedding.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ asked Christina.

‘They’re all over six foot, dressed in the same trademark suits, and not one of them is wearing a carnation.’

‘I’ve got a dozen officers in place, Chief Inspector,’ said a voice William didn’t recognize.

‘Which station?’

‘Tunbridge Wells, where you’re due to arrive in about fifteen minutes.’

‘How many platforms are there?’

‘Just two.’

‘Be sure to cover them both, because if there’s a way to escape Faulkner will find it. I’ll be the first person to get off, and tell the guard the train doesn’t leave until I say so.’

‘Understood, sir.’ The line went dead.

William began the slow journey back down the corridor, double-checking each carriage even more carefully a second time. He thought one man who was studiously looking out of the window at the passing countryside looked familiar, but he’d arrested so many people over the years he couldn’t immediately place him.

Five of the eleven toilets were engaged. However, by the time the train pulled into the next station, he suspected only one would still be occupied. The train wouldn’t depart until its door opened.

‘We won’t waste any more of your time, vicar,’ said Booth Watson, checking his watch, ‘because I can assure you, the groom will not be turning up.’

‘So what am I meant to do?’ snapped Christina.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Booth Watson, ‘just remember you’ve already signed a binding contract, and there’s no get-out clause.’

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Faulkner,’ said the vicar. ‘You must be so disappointed.’

‘Relieved, actually,’ admitted Christina.

‘No doubt there’s a simple explanation,’ said the vicar, still trying to comfort her.

‘The one thing it won’t be is simple,’ said Christina, as she headed back down the aisle, unaccompanied.

As Booth Watson left the church, he noticed that one of the tense-looking young men he’d spotted earlier was wearing a Metropolitan Police tie.

Christina walked out of the church a few moments later. Several women who were waiting to take their places for the next ceremony admired her going-away outfit, even if she didn’t seem to know where she was going.

The 14.43 pulled into Tunbridge Wells on time, and William was the first person off the train. He joined the little posse awaiting him. An Inspector Thomas stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘I’ve got every exit covered,’ he assured him.

‘Put three or four of your men on board the train, and make sure they check the lavatories. If one of them is occupied, that’s where he’ll be hiding. You’ll also need some officers on the far platform, just in case.’

‘They’re already there, sir.’

‘Good. The moment I spot Faulkner, move in and detain him, but leave me to arrest and caution him.’

‘Understood sir,’ said the Inspector, who barked out some orders while William took up a position by the exit, carefully checking every passenger as they left the station.

Ten minutes later, William and the Inspector were the only people left standing on the platform. William reluctantly allowed the guard to blow his whistle.

As the train departed, William switched on his radio. ‘Put out an all-points alert for a dark blue Mercedes, registration number MF1. The driver will be wearing a chauffeur’s hat.’

That was when William remembered where he’d seen him.

Miles smiled as he watched the train move out of the station.

When the barrier finally went up — the longest four minutes of his life — he checked his rear-view mirror and was relieved to see the taxi was still parked on the grass verge and there was no sign of its driver. He drove slowly across the tracks, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the train arrived at the next station, by which time he would need to have ditched the car and the chauffeur’s hat. He stuck to quiet country lanes until he spotted an old lady standing at a bus stop looking as if she knew when the next bus was due to arrive.

He parked the car in a layby and tossed the chauffeur’s hat over a hedge, before hurrying across to the bus stop, a briefcase his only luggage.

‘Run out of petrol, have we?’ asked the old lady as a bus came into sight. He didn’t bother to reply.

Once he’d climbed on board, he realized he had no idea where the bus was going. He only hoped it wasn’t back to Limpton.

‘Where to, luv?’ asked the ticket collector.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Sevenoaks,’ she said, a puzzled look on her face.

‘Then it’s Sevenoaks,’ he replied.

‘That’ll be sixty pence,’ she said as she printed out a ticket.

He handed her a five-pound note.

‘Do you have anything smaller, luv?’

‘No. You can keep the change.’

‘Thank you!’ said the ticket collector, as if she had won the pools.

Miles looked cautiously out of the window, in case he had to move quickly. A police car sped past on the other side of the road.

When Eddie got off the train at Tunbridge Wells, he spotted Chief Inspector Warwick deep in conversation with a uniformed officer, while his eyes double-checked every passenger. He walked straight past them and crossed the bridge to the other platform, where there were far more policemen than passengers. The next train to Charing Cross was due in twelve minutes. When it pulled out of the station, he was tempted to wave and smile at Chief Inspector Warwick, but only tempted.

Miles got off the bus at Sevenoaks. The final stop was opposite the train station, and there was a cab rank in front of it. Time was against him, so he would have to take a risk. He crossed the road and got into the back of the first taxi.

‘Where to, guv?’

‘Luton airport.’

The cabbie looked surprised and delighted.

‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Miles, ‘but don’t break the speed limit.’

‘Start by checking out the airports, train terminals and bus stations within thirty miles,’ said William. ‘We can’t afford to let him escape a second time.’

‘We just don’t have that many coppers available,’ said Ross. ‘It’s a Saturday afternoon and most of them are already out policing football matches.’

‘You can be sure he’ll have taken that into account,’ said William, ‘and built it into his escape plan.’

The taxi came to a halt outside Luton airport just as the crowds were streaming out of football grounds all over the country.

Miles handed the cabbie two twenty-pound notes and didn’t wait for the change. The first thing he did as he walked into the concourse was check the departure board. He was interested only in flights departing in the next hour. There were just three: one to Newcastle at 5.40, another to Moscow at 8.30 and the final one to Brussels at 6.10. He opened his briefcase, checked the three passports and selected the Canadian one: Jeff Steiner, Company Director. He walked across to the check-in desk, booked a ticket and paid in cash. Mr Steiner didn’t have a credit card, only cash and a passport.

He boarded the plane thirty minutes later. After taking his seat, he considered the worst possible scenarios as he waited for the stewardess to pull the exit door closed. At last, the engines began to turn and the aircraft taxied towards the runway. Another interminable wait before it finally took off. As the plane rose high into the sky, he looked out of the tiny window at a green and pleasant land, and wondered when he’d see England again.

He sat back and began to go over the next part of his plan.

Once the plane had touched down in Brussels, he ditched his Canadian passport in favour of a French one, in the name of Thierry Amodio, architect. During the two-hour stopover, he visited an airport barber, who was surprised by his request.

Thirty minutes later, a bald-headed man made a phone call before he joined a small queue of passengers waiting to board the flight for Barcelona. This time he presented a Dutch passport to the immigration official. Ricardo Rossi, dress designer. Once Rossi had fastened his seatbelt, he skipped the plastic meal, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

The plane landed in the Catalonian capital just after midnight. The start of another day. Miles was pleased to see his Spanish driver waiting for him by the exit barrier.

‘Good evening, señor,’ he said. ‘I hope you had a pleasant flight.’

‘Several,’ Miles said, as he climbed into the back of an anonymous black Volvo.

Another forty minutes passed while he was driven deep into the Spanish countryside, until they reached a recently acquired property that even Booth Watson didn’t know about. A smartly dressed butler had opened the front door before he reached the top step. ‘Good evening, Mr Faulkner,’ he said.

‘Good evening, Collins,’ he replied. ‘Some things never change.’