CHAPTER 12
BOOTH WATSON QUICKLY CLEARED CUSTOMS. He was carrying only a briefcase, as he planned on returning to London on the evening flight. Outside the airport he joined the short queue for a taxi and, when he reached the front, handed the driver an address.
As they approached the motorway, the driver turned left instead of joining the stream of heavy traffic flowing into Barcelona. Twenty minutes later, he drove onto a single-lane road which became a pot-holed path after a few miles.
Booth Watson glanced over his shoulder to check they weren’t being followed, as the instructions he’d received couldn’t have been clearer: ‘If you think someone might be following you, turn around, go back to the airport and take the next plane to Heathrow.’
He had assumed that after his client had disappeared a second time, the Met might well have a detail tailing him, but had quickly concluded even their budget wouldn’t stretch to that. Nevertheless, as Booth Watson was a man who left nothing to chance, he made an official complaint to the Home Office falsely claiming he had reason to believe his phone was being tapped, and that he was being followed. He had received a polite reply assuring him that neither was true, although he suspected it had been written only after Commander Hawksby had confirmed that ‘the dogs had been called off’。
The car continued down a narrowing path before coming to a halt at the edge of a dense forest. Booth Watson got out and, as instructed, waited for the bemused driver to turn around and head back to the airport. Once the car was out of sight, an electric golf buggy appeared from out of the trees and drew up by his side.
A silent man drove the gentleman from London along an unmarked track through the forest before crossing a narrow bridge that spanned a fast-flowing river. It wasn’t until they reached the other side that Booth Watson saw the house – although mansion, even chateau, would have been a more accurate description. It made Limpton Hall look like a suburban semi-detached.
Collins was standing by an open door waiting to welcome him. Oh good and faithful servant, he thought, as the butler gave a slight bow, saying, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as if he were a regular visitor, although this would be the first time he had seen Miles for several weeks.
‘Mr Faulkner awaits you in the drawing room, sir.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Miles, as he came striding across the hall towards his guest. He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Welcome to my country cottage.’
‘More like a palace,’ said Booth Watson.
Miles led the way down a long corridor, passing several familiar paintings Booth Watson had admired over the years. Finally, they entered a drawing room whose large bay windows overlooked a hundred acres of forested countryside on one side, and the calm blue of the Mediterranean on the other. ‘Heaven on earth,’ he said.
Miles sank into a comfortable armchair as a maid appeared carrying a large tray of coffee and biscuits. It was as if they were still in England and nothing had changed.
Miles waited for her to leave, before he said, ‘Let’s get down to business before I give you a tour of the house. What’s Christina been up to?’
‘She’s still playing her part, but has absolutely no idea where you are at the moment, although she never stops asking.’
‘And what do you tell her?’
‘I let slip that you were last seen in Buenos Aires and had no plans to return to England in the near future.’
‘Do you think she fell for it?’
‘I can’t be certain, but Lamont assures me that’s what she tells anyone who enquires. And no doubt will continue to do so if she doesn’t want her monthly allowance to dry up.’
‘But surely Warwick and Hawksby must have worked out by now that I wasn’t burnt at the stake in Geneva.’
‘Indeed they have,’ said Booth Watson. ‘But Lamont informs me that you’ve fallen off their radar.’
‘How can you be sure of that, when he’s no longer on their mailing list?’
‘Don’t forget he still has someone who is, and she keeps the ex-Superintendent well-informed of everything Warwick is up to. It doesn’t come cheap, but at least it guarantees you a no claims bonus on your life policy. Lamont tells me your file, MF/CR/76748/88, is gathering dust in the Met’s general registry office at Hayes in Middlesex, where dead cases go to be buried, and are rarely exhumed.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Miles, ‘because I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life locked up here, although I won’t come out of hiding until you give me the all-clear.’