Pugh told his wife to expect him back around twelve, reminding her that they would be taking the cable car to the top of Table Mountain to have lunch at a café, more famous for its view than its cuisine.
Ross would have to decide whether to take advantage of Pugh’s absence while he was visiting the bank and attempt to set up a meeting with his wife, or to follow him to the bank in the hope of finding out just how bad his financial situation was.
As the Pughs rose from their table, Ross pocketed the cigarette case, but continued to read his paper as they left the restaurant. He waited for a few minutes before he left. As he passed the ma?tre d’ he slipped him another fifty-rand note, not for services rendered, but for services he might require at some time in the future.
? ? ?
‘He’s in Cape Town,’ said William.
‘What’s he doing there?’ asked the commander.
‘Keeping a close eye on Mr and Mrs Pugh would be my bet. He probably intends to warn the blushing bride about her husband’s long-term plans for her before it’s too late. But I’m confident he’ll be back in time for Thursday morning’s meeting with Sanchez.’
‘Why?’ asked the commander.
‘He has an appointment on the first of September that he can’t afford to miss.’
‘Who with?’
‘Max Sleeman’s debt collector, Leonid Verenich, who Paul assures me always starts his rounds with new customers on the first day of the month.’
‘So Ross will be waiting for him. But what do you think he has in mind, because whispering death isn’t a man you’d go looking for if you could possibly avoid it.’
‘I’ve no idea, sir, but I intend to put a stop to Ross’s plans before I end up having to arrest him.’
‘He’ll see you coming.’
‘I’m hoping he’ll be so preoccupied with Verenich that I can take him by surprise.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said The Hawk. ‘Since his wife’s death, he’s been like a man possessed. First Abbott and Roach, now Pugh, next Sleeman, and he’s probably also got Darren Carter in his sights. Where will it all end?’
‘With Miles Faulkner would be my bet, sir.’
CHAPTER 27
ROSS WOKE AT FIVE THE next morning on London time to find it was already seven o’clock in Cape Town. Not long before he would have to make a decision.
He was among the first to come down for breakfast, but he chose to sit on the other side of the dining room to reduce the chances of Mr and Mrs Pugh remembering him.
Like Jimmy the dip, Ross began the day with a hearty breakfast, starting with a bowl of porridge, followed by a pair of lightly grilled kippers that would have passed muster in a Highlands hostelry.
While he waited for the Pughs to appear, he read the previous day’s London Times.
He took his time reading a long article on page three below a photograph of the choirboy. ‘The officer who brought the two most feared gangs in the East End of London, the Abbotts and the Roaches, to their knees,’ the crime correspondent informed his readers. Ross was relieved to find no mention in the article of a mysterious tramp who’d been seen pushing a pram through the middle of the battlefield, and the crime correspondent concluded that ‘this was an internal feud between the two rival East End gangs and no one else was involved’。 Ross doubted that William had come to the same conclusion when delivering his report to The Hawk.
He was beginning to wonder if the honeymoon couple were having breakfast in their room, when Clive Pugh strolled in and went straight to their usual table. He also ordered kippers before turning his attention to the Financial Times, but there was still no sign of his wife by the time he’d reached the latest stock market prices. If she didn’t make an appearance, the choice of which one of them Ross should pursue would be academic.
Pugh eventually rose from his place, left the dining room and, after a short chat to the receptionist on the front desk, walked out of the hotel. Ross was not far behind. He was never happier than when working undercover, and keeping an eye on this particular target was not difficult. Pugh was wearing a dark blue blazer, open-neck cream shirt and neatly pressed grey flannels, but it was the white panama hat that made him hard to miss. Jo had once told him you could tell the quality of a panama hat by how small the weave was, and that way she’d know if the client could afford her. I don’t have a hat, he had told her. Now, dressed in a non-branded grey T-shirt, jeans and a pair of trainers, Ross melted into the crowd on the busy streets of the bustling city centre.