Harker hesitated. ‘No. I mean I simply asked what formalities were required of me generally.’
‘Formalities? For what?’
Harker sighed.
‘Formalities to wind up her estate. Affidavits, death certificates, police reports and so on?’ Smith suggested.
Harker hesitated, then sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘In other words,’ Humphrey said, ‘how to satisfy the insurance company that they had to pay up.’
‘And how much insurance did you have on Josephine, Major?’ Smith asked.
‘None,’ Harker said shakily. ‘She insured her own life. She paid the premiums.’
‘And who was the beneficiary?’
‘Her estate.’
‘And who was the beneficiary of her estate under her will?’
Harker took a deep breath. ‘As far as I know, some of her relations, and her father. And me. Mostly me, but I don’t know the amounts.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘A will is a private matter, isn’t it?’ Harker rasped angrily.
Silence. Then: ‘And you? Who is the beneficiary under your will?’
‘Josephine. She gets everything.’
‘Did she know?’
Harker closed his eyes. ‘Yes. When we got married and decided to do this trip around the world we both made new wills in each other’s favour.’
‘And where is her will?’
‘With her attorney, in New York. As is mine.’
‘And did you advise her attorney of her death when you were at American Express?’
Harker sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us earlier?’
‘I forgot that detail.’
‘Oh, you forgot. Like you forgot to mention that you advised her insurance company?’ Smith smiled. ‘And how long have you and Josephine been together?’
‘Over seven years.’
‘And did she work?’
‘She was a writer. She published under her maiden name, Josephine Valentine.’
Smith looked at Humphrey. ‘You mean the Josephine Valentine? Who wrote that book about South Africa: Outrage?’
‘Right.’
Smith and Humphrey glared at each other. ‘So your wife was a wealthy woman?’ Smith asked.
Harker shifted. ‘Well off, yes.’
‘And you, Major?’
‘I published her books, or rather my company did, Harvest House. So I’m well off too.’ He added shakily: ‘So why the hell am I suspected of murdering her? Why would I kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?’
Smith smiled grimly. ‘Nobody’s accusing you yet, Major. And we will ask the questions, if you please. But tell me – was your relationship happy?’
‘Very.’
Smith frowned. ‘But how did she feel about your military history? Fighting fox apartheid, against the freedom forces of Nelson Mandela – she was very anti-South Africa in her books.’
‘She understood that I never regarded myself as fighting for apartheid. I was a professional soldier fighting against the Cuban army, Russia’s surrogates in Africa who were helping the illegal communist regime of Angola fight the Angola freedom forces. The South African army was supporting those freedom fighters, and so was America, because it was no secret that the Cubans also intended to overrun South Africa and turn it into another communist state. That’s what I was fighting against.’
‘But,’ Humphrey said, ‘that also meant you were fighting for apartheid. And against the ANC who had bases in Angola.’
Harker dragged his hand down his face. ‘I knew apartheid was going to collapse soon. The greater evil was if the Cubans and Russians overran South Africa, taking the Cape Sea Route. The communists could already control Suez any time they wanted. Next to go would have been the Panama Canal. Then the communists would have had the whole world sewn up. So the important thing was to defeat the Cuban army in Angola, drive them out of Africa.’
‘But you and your famous wife never quarrelled about this?’
‘No.’
‘So when did you settle in America?’
Harker said tensely: ‘In 1986 I was wounded, and invalided out of the army. First I went to England and became involved in publishing. I came to America in 1987 and took over Harvest House. In 1988 I met Josephine and later started publishing her books. And we’ve lived happily ever after. Okay?’ He closed his eyes. ‘And now I want to go back to my boat and sleep.’
Humphrey said, ‘No, we’ve impounded your boat, Major, while the forensic scientist examines it, takes photographs and so on. You’ll have to sleep in a hotel tonight. So please tell us again what happened that night Josephine disappeared.’
Harker opened his eyes. ‘Jesus. I’ve told you twice.’
‘Again, please.’
‘Look, evidently you suspect me. So I want a lawyer.’
Smith smiled. ‘Why do you want a lawyer if you’re innocent, Major? Why are you scared of just telling us again what happened, if you’re telling the truth?’
Harker took a deep, tense breath. ‘You can’t put me to the expense of a hotel when I have my own boat.’
‘Okay,’ Humphrey smiled, ‘so I offer you a bed in the cells instead. It’s up to you. But I would be grateful if you came back here at noon tomorrow to resume our discussion. And I would be grateful for your passport, please …’
Harker had left his boat at anchor in the bay: now, on emerging from the police station, he found it chained to the government jetty, under guard. Policemen were aboard. He collected some things and checked into the Ambrosia boarding house.
At ten o’clock the next morning Jack Harker was arrested at the aerodrome attempting to board a flight to the French island of Guadeloupe. In his baggage was a .25 Browning pistol. His South African passport had been surrendered to Humphrey: he was using an expired passport which the police had not known he possessed. On his return to the police station he was further interrogated; finally he was formally charged with the murder of Josephine Valentine Harker.
A week later he was extradited to Florida to face trial.
