Turn a Blind Eye

5

‘When and where is the funeral?’ demanded the commander even before William had sat down.

‘Geneva, sir. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘How did he die?’

‘The local police report says he suffered a heart attack during the night.’ William opened his notebook. ‘A maid discovered the body early the following morning. A line of cocaine and a credit card were found on his bedside table.’

‘A pity. I’d hoped for a slower death,’ said the Hawk. ‘But why Geneva?’

‘I expect he had a numbered Swiss bank account with no name attached.’

‘And a banker who didn’t ask too many embarrassing questions about his last known address,’ said the Hawk. He paused for a moment. ‘Right, I want you to fly to Geneva and make sure we aren’t being led down another blind alley. I won’t believe Faulkner’s dead until you’ve seen the body being lowered into the ground and the priest has given the final blessing. And don’t leave before the gravediggers have completed their job.’

‘I think he’s going to be cremated, sir.’

‘Then be sure to bring back his ashes so we can display them in the Black Museum along with all the other notorious criminals who’ve made it to the Met’s chamber of horrors.’

‘Should I take anyone with me as backup?’

‘Yes, take DS Roycroft. If you both tell me Faulkner’s dead, I just might believe it.’

They had agreed to meet on the Circle line between 9.00 and 9.15 that evening. They would board the Tube at different stations and meet up in the rear carriage. The meeting would last no more than five stops; they didn’t want to risk being seen together for any longer than was necessary. Once their business had been completed, they would get off at different stations and go their separate ways.

DS Jerry Summers boarded the train at Barbican, pleased to find the rear carriage was almost unoccupied. But then, the hour had been chosen carefully, and couldn’t have been described as ‘rush’.

It hadn’t taken Summers long to find out why Lamont had opted for early retirement, despite the success of Operation Trojan Horse. The phrase hand in the till was one being bandied about in the police canteen, and it had only taken him a little longer to confirm Lamont’s gambling habit. A few casual enquiries over an after-work drink had made it possible for him to join up the dots and as Lamont had returned all the money in exchange for the commander turning a blind eye, he realized he shouldn’t be difficult to turn.

When the Tube train drew into Aldgate, Summers was joined by his former station officer, who had been waiting at the end of the platform. Lamont stepped on board and took the seat next to him, but they didn’t acknowledge each other. Out of habit, Lamont scanned the carriage, but the only other passenger to have got on at his stop was a young woman who had taken a seat at the far end of the carriage and immediately began reading a paperback. Although she was well out of earshot, they still spoke in hushed tones.

‘Good to catch up with you again, Jerry,’ said Lamont. ‘And congratulations on your well-deserved promotion.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Bruce, please. Don’t forget I’m no longer a serving officer.’

‘Thanks to the Choirboy,’ said Summers.

‘Remind me how you know the bastard?’

‘We were at Hendon together. He came out top in everything except booze and birds, so we were never going to be natural friends.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Lamont.

‘So, if you felt he needed to be taken down a peg or two, I just might be able to help.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘I wondered if you would be available for a little well-paid part-time work?’ Summers emphasized the words ‘well-paid’. ‘But perhaps you’ve already found another job.’

‘Truth is, there are too many retired police officers out there, describing themselves as consultants, all chasing after the same jobs. I thought about opening a pub, even found the ideal location in Blackheath, but unfortunately I couldn’t stump up down payment.’

‘How much were they asking?’

‘Twenty grand. I could just about scrape together ten, but with two ex-wives and a mortgage, I couldn’t make up the difference.’

‘I know someone who might be willing to help you with that problem,’ said Summers.

‘What would they expect in return?’

‘Nothing too demanding. And I can’t think of anyone better placed to carry out the job than you.’

‘I’m listening.’

Summers took his time spelling out exactly what his contact would expect in return for ten grand in cash.

‘I’ll need to give it some thought,’ said Lamont, once DS Summers had passed on his message.

‘Of course, Bruce. But you’ll be well aware of the deadline.’

The train came to a halt, and when the doors opened DS Summers got out without even checking which station it was. Lamont travelled on to Victoria, where he switched to the District line.

The young woman reading the paperback didn’t follow him. But then, DC Pankhurst knew exactly where ex-Superintendent Lamont was heading.

‘I’d like to see the body,’ said William.

‘Are you a member of the family?’ asked the elderly priest politely.

‘No, father, but I have a warrant for Mr Faulkner’s arrest,’ William replied, well aware that his authority didn’t stretch beyond the cliffs of Dover.

The priest studied the warrant but was unmoved. ‘I fear he can now only be judged by a higher authority, my son.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, father, but I still need to see the body before I can return to London.’

‘I’m sorry, inspector, but as I said, only members of the family can—’

‘I’m a member of the family,’ said Christina, stepping forward. She opened her handbag and produced her passport, which was still in the name of Mrs Christina Faulkner.

The priest studied the document, then bowed his head.

‘Allow me to offer my sincere condolences on your loss, Mrs Faulkner. Please follow me.’

‘May I accompany Mrs Faulkner?’ asked William.

‘No, inspector,’ said the priest firmly.

William and Jackie had no choice but to remain behind as the priest led Christina towards a side door of the little chapel marked NO ENTRY. He stood aside to allow her to enter.

‘I would have preferred to see the body myself,’ said William.

‘Me too,’ said Jackie. ‘But if there’s one person who’ll be even more pleased to see him dead than either of us, it has to be the grieving widow.’

William nodded. They didn’t have to wait long before the door opened again and Christina reappeared, an inappropriate smile on her face. She walked across to join them, with the priest hovering a pace behind.

‘It’s Miles, all right. I even recovered his favourite watch,’ she said, holding up a Cartier Tank with the initials ‘M.H.F.’ etched on the back. She dropped it into her bag. ‘Let’s go and watch him burn in hell,’ she whispered.

‘If you’ll come with me, Mrs Faulkner, I’ll take you to the pew reserved for the family.’ He led the three of them to the front of the chapel, and once they were seated, left to prepare for the service.

‘Have you noticed who’s just walked in?’ whispered Jackie. ‘He’s taken a seat near the back.’

William turned around to see the unmistakable figure of Mr Booth Watson QC, head bowed as if he were deep in prayer.

‘Now I’m convinced Faulkner’s dead,’ said William, ‘because Booth Watson’s the only person I know who would charge for attending a funeral and then bill the estate. Who’s the man sitting behind him, a couple of rows back?’

‘No idea,’ said Jackie. ‘Looks like a Swiss gnome. Probably one of Faulkner’s bankers.’

‘Do you think Booth Watson knows where my paintings are?’ asked Christina.

‘Of course he does,’ said William. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s going to let you in on the secret.’

‘But if he’s the executor of Faulkner’s estate,’ said Jackie, ‘he doesn’t have a lot of choice.’

‘He’s well capable of finding a way around that little problem,’ said William.

‘Choirboy, what’s come over you?’ said Christina.

‘Shall we begin by saying the Lord’s Prayer,’ intoned the priest, looking down on his sparse congregation. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven...’

‘Somewhere Miles won’t be going,’ said Christina under her breath.

The priest continued to conduct the ceremony, delivering several inappropriate prayers to mourners who weren’t on their knees.

‘Before the cremation takes place,’ he said, ‘I know there is one among us who wishes to say a few words in memory of his dear departed friend.’

William couldn’t hide his disbelief as Booth Watson made his way slowly to the front of the chapel and turned to face the congregation.

‘I had the privilege of knowing Miles for over twenty years,’ he began, ‘both as his legal adviser and a close friend.’

‘As long as he paid your fees,’ whispered Christina.

‘He was a man given to great acts of generosity and kindness, always putting the interests of his fellow men before his own.’

‘Are we thinking about the same man?’ Christina muttered.

‘He gave unheralded service to his local community, while sharing his wealth in the national interest. He will be sadly missed by his many friends.’

‘I don’t see too many of them here today,’ said Christina, looking around.

‘Behave yourself,’ mocked William, as Booth Watson continued to extol the virtues of his dear departed client, while failing to acknowledge the fact that two police officers from Scotland Yard made up half the congregation. He ended his eulogy with the words, ‘I cannot express how much I will miss him.’

‘Not to mention his fees and retainers,’ whispered Christina, as Booth Watson turned to face the coffin, and gave a slight bow before returning to his seat.

William watched closely as the priest pressed a button and the coffin began to move slowly along a platform of electronic rollers. Two small doors opened, and it disappeared from view, drawing a curtain on Miles Faulkner’s life.

After a few moments of silence, the priest returned to the chapel steps to deliver the final blessing. This was followed by a piped recording of the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus that Handel wouldn’t have approved of.

After the service was over, Christina made her way outside to the garden of remembrance, accompanied by William and Jackie. Booth Watson was standing in the middle of the narrow path, clearly waiting for them.

‘I wonder if I might have a private word, Mrs Faulkner?’ said Booth Watson solicitously.

‘Anything you have to say to me, Mr Booth Watson, can be witnessed by my friend, Detective Inspector Warwick,’ said the widow, standing her ground.

‘As you wish, Mrs Faulkner. You will be aware that under the divorce settlement drawn up by Sir Julian Warwick, you are entitled to half of my late client’s considerable art collection.’

‘You know where it is?’

‘It’s presently stored in the vaults of a private bank here in Geneva,’ said Booth Watson. ‘You are free to claim the works at any time you wish.’

‘How about today?’ said Christina defiantly.

‘However,’ continued Booth Watson, ignoring the question, ‘what you will not be aware of—’

‘Now for the small print,’ said Christina.

‘—is that your late husband died intestate. As your divorce had not yet been declared absolute by a court of law, and Miles had no surviving blood relations, you are therefore his legal next of kin and the sole inheritor of his estate.’

‘I get everything?’ said Christina in disbelief.

‘Everything, madam,’ said Booth Watson, giving her a slight bow.

‘Now I really do believe he’s dead,’ said William as the priest approached them, head bowed. ‘Because the only way you’d get your hands on that man’s art collection, would be over his dead body...’

‘I’ll arrange for the ashes to be sent to you, Mrs Faulkner,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to scatter them somewhere appropriate.’

‘In hell?’ suggested Christina.

Three letters landed on the mat that morning, two of them in brown envelopes. One was his Ladbroke’s credit statement, reminding their client of the names of several horses which didn’t have the same confidence in themselves that he had shown in them. The second was a tax demand from the Inland Revenue, with a reminder that interest would be added if the full amount wasn’t paid by the end of the month.

The third envelope, the white one, was from a solicitor whose signature he couldn’t make out, reminding him that his second wife’s alimony payment was a month overdue and threatening legal proceedings... That was when he made the decision.

Lamont left his flat in Hammersmith at ten minutes to ten, and instead of turning right and heading for the nearest Tube station, as he’d done every weekday morning for the past eight years, he turned left. After about a hundred yards he turned left again, and continued walking until he reached a telephone box at the end of the road. Looking around to check that no one was following him, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

He paused for a moment, still uncertain if he should make the call, but when he heard a nearby church bell toll ten, he picked up the receiver and dialled a number he knew by heart, as he couldn’t afford to leave it lying about for his wife to come across.

He dialled the seven numbers slowly, aware that Summers would be waiting in another phone box on the other side of town. His call was answered after only one ring.

‘Hello?’ No names, no pack drill.

‘I accept your offer. But not your terms. I need an advance.’

‘That’s not what we agreed.’

‘Then you’ll have to find someone else to do your dirty work.’

A long silence followed before he heard the words, ‘How much?’

‘Two grand, and the rest when I deliver.’

‘When and where?’

‘This evening, same time, same place.’ Lamont put down the phone and began to walk home. For a moment he had an uneasy feeling that the young woman waiting at the bus stop near his home looked familiar.

As a No. 211 pulled up, DC Pankhurst climbed on board, wondering if he’d spotted her. If Rebecca had looked back, she would have known the answer.