Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(3)

‘How tall am I?’

‘You’re an inch shorter than me, but you’ll end up an inch taller. You weigh around a hundred and forty pounds, and you’ve only just started to shave.’

‘How many people have passed us while your eyes have been closed?’

‘A mother with two children, one a little boy called Bobby, both American, and a moment later one of the ship’s officers.’

‘How do you know he was an officer?’

‘A deckhand passing the other way called him sir. There was also an elderly gentleman.’

‘How could you tell he was old?’

‘He was using a walking stick, and it was some time before the sound of tapping faded.’

‘I’m half blind,’ said James, as William opened his eyes.

‘Far from it,’ said William. ‘Now it’s my turn to ask the suspect some questions.’ James sat bolt upright, a look of concentration on his face. ‘A good detective should always rely on facts and never take anything for granted, so first I have to find out if Fraser Buchanan, the chairman of the Pilgrim Line, is your grandfather?’

‘Yes, he is. And my father, Angus, is deputy chairman.’

‘Fraser, Angus and James. Rather suggests a Scottish heritage.’ James nodded.

‘No doubt they both assume that in the fullness of time you’ll become chairman.’

‘I’ve already made it clear that’s not going to happen,’ said James without hesitation.

‘From everything I’ve read or heard about your grandfather, he’s used to getting his own way.’

‘True,’ James replied. ‘But sometimes he forgets we come from the same stock,’ he added with a smirk.

‘I had the same problem with my father,’ admitted William. ‘He’s a criminal barrister, a QC, and he always assumed I’d follow him in chambers and later join him at the bar, despite my telling him from an early age that I wanted to lock up criminals, not be paid extortionate fees to keep them out of jail.’

‘George Bernard Shaw was right,’ declared James. ‘We are separated by a common language. For you, the bar means courts and lawyers. For an American it means high stools and drinks.’

‘A sharp criminal will always try to change the subject,’ said William. ‘But a thorough detective won’t allow himself to lose the thread. You didn’t answer my question about your grandfather’s feelings about you not wanting to be chairman of the company.’

‘My grandfather, I suspect, is worse than your father,’ said James. ‘He’s already threatening to cut me out of his will if I don’t join the company after leaving Harvard. But he’ll never be allowed to do that as long as my grandmother’s alive.’

William chuckled.

‘Would it be too much of an imposition, sir, to ask if I might be allowed to spend an hour or so a day with you during the voyage?’ James asked, without displaying his previous confidence.

‘I’d enjoy that. Around this time of the morning would suit me, because that’s when my wife will be at her yoga class. But there’s one proviso: should you ever meet her, you won’t tell her what we’ve been talking about.’

‘And what have you been talking about?’ asked Beth, as she appeared by their side.

James leapt up. ‘The price of gold, Mrs Warwick,’ he said, looking earnest.

‘Then you will have quickly discovered it’s a subject about which my husband knows very little,’ said Beth, giving the young man a warm smile.

‘I was about to tell you, James,’ said William, ‘that my wife is far brighter than I am, which is why she’s the keeper of pictures at the Fitzmolean Museum and I’m a mere Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘The youngest in the Met’s history,’ said Beth.

‘Although should you ever mention the Met to my wife, she’ll assume you’re talking about one of the finest museums on earth, rather than London’s police force.’

‘I was so glad you managed to get the Vermeer back,’ said James, turning to Mrs Warwick.

It was Beth’s turn to look surprised. ‘Yes,’ she eventually managed, ‘and fortunately it can’t be stolen again because the thief is dead.’

‘Miles Faulkner,’ said James, ‘who died in Switzerland, after suffering a heart attack.’

William and Beth looked at each other but said nothing.

‘You even attended the funeral, Chief Inspector, presumably to convince yourself he was dead.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ said William, once again on the back foot.

‘I read The Spectator and the New Statesman every week, which keeps me up to date on what’s happening in Britain, and then try to form my own opinion.’

‘Of course you do,’ said William.

‘I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, sir,’ said James, ‘when I’ll be interested to find out if you think it’s possible Miles Faulkner is still alive.’





CHAPTER 2


MILES FAULKNER STROLLED ACROSS THE dining room of the Savoy just after eight o’clock the following morning, to see his lawyer already seated at his usual place. No one gave him a second look as he weaved in and out of the tables.