Presumed Dead (11 page)

Batard greeted him courteously and shook
his hand. ‘Now, Monsieur Dulac, what can I do for you.’

‘I’ve come about the woman you found on the
Charpoua Glacier today,’ Philippe said eagerly.

‘What about her?’ Batard asked.

‘I think it was my wife, Louisa.’

‘No Monsieur, it was not your wife. The
woman we found today was the wife of Monsieur Webley, an American woman who
went missing on Monday.’

‘How do you know?’ Philippe asked
belligerently.

‘Because she has been identified by her
husband,’ Batard said, as if explaining something to a particularly dense
child.

‘How do you know he wasn’t lying?’ Philippe
asked.

Batard looked at him with disbelief. ‘Look
Monsieur, I was there when he made the identification. The man nearly fainted.
He was so badly shocked that he puked. I’ve been to lots of these
identifications and I can tell you, that was his wife he saw, no doubt about
it.’

Philippe though for a few moments then
asked, ‘Would it be possible for me to see the body?’

‘No Monsieur, it would not,’ Batard said
firmly. ‘The cause of death has been established by the doctor, the body has
been identified, the death certificate has been issued and now the case is
closed.’

Philippe changed his tack and said
reasonably, ‘Look, her husband really might have made an honest mistake. What
about if I give you a photograph of my wife and a fuller description of what
she was wearing, right down to the make of her boots and the color and size of
her underwear, would you at least double check?’

Batard sighed, ‘I really do not have time
for this Monsieur, I’m sorry about your wife, I know how you feel, but the
woman we found today was not her. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lot of
work to do before I can go home. Goodnight.’

‘But surely it wouldn’t hurt to just call
the hospital and…’

Batard cut him off firmly, ‘I said
goodnight Monsieur. Now, are you going to leave, or do I have to call my
sergeant?’

Philippe sighed then got to his feet. ‘Tell
me just one thing before I go,’ he said wearily. ‘Who found her?’

‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to
tell you since it is common knowledge anyway,’ Batard said, ‘Christian Lochet.’

‘Where could I find him?’ Philippe asked.

‘Probably in one of the bars drinking his
reward money,’ Batard replied, ‘but he won’t be able to tell you anything new.’

‘We’ll see,’ Philippe said, walking out of
the office without saying goodbye.

Batard watched him go, then shook his head.
‘Poor bastard,’ he said to himself, ‘I hope he finds her one day, or he’s going
to end up going crazy.’

Back outside, the rain that had been
falling persistently for two days had finally stopped, but the thick, low cloud
still hung in the valley ready to provide another soaking. Philippe drove down
into the center of town and parked in the pay-and-display near the community
center. He gave Alice a quick call to let her know how he’d got on with Batard,
then set off to comb the bars of Chamonix for Monsieur Christian Lochet. Every
bar in town was buzzing with the story of the rescue, and it didn’t take him
long to find out that Lochet had come down off the mountain, gone straight to
the bank to claim his reward, then set out on a bender.

Philippe tracked him down fairly quickly to
a crowded bar in a back street off the Rue des Moulins, a favorite haunt for
the mountain guides. The bar was typical of those all over France, with a
wooden counter along one wall, small round tables dotted here and there and
loud music blaring from a jukebox. Philippe walked in, elbowed his way to the
counter, and attracted the attention of the barman with a wave. Shouting to be
heard over the music, Philippe asked, ‘Christian Lochet, is he in here?’

The barman indicated to the rear corner of
the bar with a jerk of his head.

‘I’ll have two beers,’ Philippe said,
sliding a ten Euro note onto the bar.

The barman grunted and pulled two
half-litre pots. Philippe took his change, picked up the glass tankards then
headed towards the back of the bar where a man was sprawled asleep across a
table. Philippe shook him by the shoulder until he raised his head, looking up
with bleary, unfocused eyes.

‘Are you Lochet?’ Philippe asked.

‘I was,’ the man slurred, ‘but I’m not sure
now.’

‘I’ve bought you a drink,’ Philippe said,
putting the pot of beer down in front of him and taking the seat opposite.

Lochet was a small, deeply tanned, wiry man
of about thirty, typical of the tough Chamonix mountain guide breed. He grabbed
the tankard and drank deeply from it before banging it back down on the table.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, wiping the froth from his top lip with the
back of his hand.

‘I hear it was you who found the body
today,’ Philippe said conversationally.

‘No,’ Lochet said with his eyes half
closed. ‘It was Miel.’

‘But I was told…’ Philippe started but was
cut off.

‘The best mountain dog in the whole of
France,’ Lochet said, bending down and reaching under the table.

Philippe looked under the table and saw a
big yellow Labrador asleep with his head between his paws, lying across his
master’s feet. Lochet was gently fondling his ears.

‘This dog,’ Lochet said proudly, sitting up
again, ‘earned me ten thousand Euros today. You tell me Monsieur, have you ever
heard of a dog like that before… eh?’

Philippe had to admit that he hadn’t. ‘He
is a very fine dog,’ Philippe said. ‘Tell me, where did he find the body?’

Lochet recognized in Philippe someone who
hadn’t heard his story, so launched into it with relish. ‘We were at about
three thousand meters altitude, above the Charpoua hut on the glacier when Miel
started to dig like this.’ He gave an impression of a dog digging by scratching
on the table with his fingers. ‘There had been an avalanche and he was digging
in the snow that had come down from higher up. Well, I got my pole and soon
found there was something under there, so I dug with my hands and voilà, there
she was.’

‘What was she wearing?’ Philippe asked.

Lochet frowned then said slowly, ‘A white
short sleeved shirt, tight turquoise leggings that came just below her knees
and small, lightweight turquoise climbing boots. We wrapped her up in a blanket
as soon as we found her.’

Philippe closed his eyes as he remembered
Louisa wearing exactly those things the last time he’d seen her. After a moment
he asked, ‘And what color hair did she have?’

‘Brown, light brown, just like in the
photograph we were given,’ Lochet replied.

‘What about her face?’ Philippe asked. ‘Did
her face look like the woman in the photograph?’

Lochet’s eyes were rolling around but he
eventually managed to focus and looked directly at Philippe. ‘Look Monsieur, if
you really want to know, half her face was smashed in. She could have been my
own mother and I wouldn’t have recognized her.’

Philippe felt a wave of nausea pass over
him and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Lochet was
asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms. Philippe looked down at
him and started to think. Batard knew that Alice had been described as wearing
shorts and walking boots, so he obviously hadn’t seen the lower half of the
body when it was brought off the mountain. After that, it had been stripped and
cleaned up at the hospital, therefore he probably hadn’t seen the leggings and
climbing boots at all! That must be it! If he could just get Lochet to describe
exactly what she’d been wearing to Batard, then surely Batard must question the
identification. It was his only chance.

Philippe decided he needed to get Lochet
sobered up, so he reached down under the table, stroked the dog, then swiveled
his collar around until he could read the address off the identity tag. Once he
had it memorized, he shook Lochet awake, dragged him to his feet, and
supporting him under one arm said, ‘Come on, I’m taking you home.’

By eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Ross
had checked out of the Jardin du Mont Blanc Hotel, taking his own luggage with
him, but leaving instructions with the manager to have Madame’s things packed
and held until they were sent for. He couldn’t be bothered to struggle with the
extra luggage as he had a busy day ahead of him.

By eight-fifteen, he was at the hospital
arranging the release and transportation of his ‘dear wife’s’ body. The
hospital administrator was very sympathetic and obliging, and in no time, his
staff had her packed into a sealed body bag, placed on a stretcher and loaded
into a private Blue Cross ambulance ready for the trip to Geneva airport. Ross
signed the release papers, collected the death certificate and settled the
hospital bill before leaving with her personal effects in a black plastic bag.

By nine, the ambulance, which was in fact a
converted estate car with the rear windows blacked out and a blue light on the
roof, pulled out of the hospital’s basement car park. Ross was waiting at the
top of the ramp in his hire car and they set off in convoy down the Autoroute
Blanche in the pouring rain towards Geneva airport. He reckoned they would be
airborne by eleven at the latest.

.

Philippe slept soundly on Christian
Lochet’s sofa until being woken up just after nine by Miel the Labrador, who
obviously decided that he needed a wash, so was licking his face. At first,
Philippe didn’t know where he was or what was happening, but then, looking
around, he remembered. He pushed the dog away and sat up, rubbing the slobber
off his face.

The previous evening had been a nightmare.
He’d managed to get Lochet out of the bar without much trouble, but as soon as
the fresh air had hit him, he’d passed out and Philippe had ended up having to
carry him back to his apartment over his shoulder. As soon as they had got
through the front door though, Lochet had miraculously come to, and had
insisted on playing the genial host, plying Philippe with cheap red wine,
refusing to take no for an answer. He’d finally passed out again at around
midnight and Philippe had managed to get him onto his bed before collapsing exhausted
onto the sofa.

Now there were deep, rasping snores coming
from the direction of Lochet’s bedroom. Philippe looked into the room and found
him just as he’d left him, fully clothed, lying on his back, arms and legs
spread out as though he’d just fallen through the ceiling. Shaking his head,
Philippe went through to the kitchen, made two cup of strong coffee, then went
back to wake his host up.

‘Lochet… LOCHET,’ Philippe shouted, kicking
the leg of the bed. ‘Come on, it’s time to get up.’

Lochet stirred and brought a hand up to rub
his face. After a moment, he opened one eye, stared at Philippe and asked, ‘Who
the hell are you?’

‘Philippe Dulac, don’t you remember? We met
last night at the bar.’

‘No I don’t remember,’ he said irritably.
‘What are you doing here?’

‘You passed out, I brought you home,’
Philippe explained.

‘Then you decided to stay the night, eh?’

‘I need to talk to you.’

Lochet swung his legs off the bed and sat
up. ‘Is that coffee you’ve got there?’ he asked.

Philippe handed him a cup, then shifting
some clothes to one side, sat down on an old horsehair armchair, which Lochet
obviously used as a wardrobe. ‘Don’t you remember anything we spoke about last
night?’ Philippe asked.

‘No, can’t say I do,’ Lochet said, rubbing
the stubble on his chin then sipping his coffee. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘To cut a long story short, I believe the
woman you found up on the glacier yesterday was my wife, who went missing in
the summer, not the American woman who was lost on Monday. I want you to come
to the Platoon headquarters and help me prove it.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Lochet said disparagingly,
‘It was the American woman.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ Philippe
challenged.

‘Because I’ve got ten thousand Euros in my
bank account that say it was the American woman,’ Lochet said aggressively,
‘and I’m not about to do or say anything to change that.’

‘But surely you must have been suspicious
when you found her. You were all told she was wearing shorts and heavy walking
boots, yet the woman you found was wearing leggings and lightweight climbing
boots.’

‘Who told you that?’ Lochet asked
aggressively.

‘You did… last night.’

‘I was drunk last night,’ Lochet said
defensively, ’I didn’t know what I was saying.’

‘You’re not drunk now, and it’s your duty
to come with me to clear this up,’ Philippe insisted.

‘Nothing doing,’ Lochet snapped. ‘I did my
duty up on that mountain yesterday and the day before. I found the missing
woman and I got the reward. That’s the end of it.’

‘That’s not the end of it though,’ Philippe
said. ‘Don’t you see? They’ve got my wife down there in the hospital and
they’re going to let that stinking Englishman take her away from me.’

Lochet softened a little and said, ‘Look,
I’m sorry about your wife, but you must understand my position. ten thousand
Euros is more money than I’ve ever had in my life. I can’t risk losing it.’

Philippe thought for a moment then had an
idea. ‘What if I guaranteed the money for you?’ he asked. ‘Would you come with
me if I promised to give you ten thousand myself if it does turn out to be my
wife and not the American woman?’

‘Twenty thousand,’ Lochet said flatly.

‘What?’

‘I’ll come with you if you guarantee me
twenty thousand.’

‘Done!’ Philippe said, jumping up and
shaking his hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘What… now?’ Lochet protested.

‘Yes now… come on.’ Philippe virtually
dragged him out of the apartment and across town to the Platoon headquarters.
After a brief difference of opinion with the sergeant, they were shown into
Batard’s office.

Batard looked up from what he was doing at
the two men, both unshaven and disheveled, then closed his eyes and shook his
head. After a few moments he addressed Philippe in a weary voice asking, ‘What
is it now Monsieur Dulac?’

‘There is something about the woman they
found yesterday that you should know,’ Philippe said eagerly. ‘I have brought
Monsieur Lochet along to tell you about it.’

Batard stood up. ‘Now look, I told you last
night that the case was closed. You are wasting your time…’

‘But if you’ll just listen…’ Philippe cut
in, but he was immediately cut off again.

‘No, you listen,’ Batard said, pointing his
finger and raising his voice. ‘The woman’s body was positively identified by
her husband. I was there and I was satisfied with his identification. This
morning the body was released, and by now, it will be out of the country. Watch
my lips and try to understand what I am saying to you. The…case…is…closed!’

Philippe stood in shocked silence for a
moment, not quite able to believe what he’d heard. ‘She’s gone?’ he asked
eventually in a weak voice.

‘Yes Monsieur,’ Batard said, a little more
gently. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been upset, but she’s gone, and that’s the end of it.
The case is closed.’

Philippe turned and wandered absently out
of Batard’s office then out of the Platoon headquarters, followed by Lochet.

‘Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t help,’ Lochet
said, putting his hand on Philippe’s shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes… I’m okay,’ Philippe said wearily.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Lochet
asked.

‘Go home I suppose,’ Philippe said,
flipping the collar of his jacket up against the cold wind and setting off down
the hill towards the town center.

‘Take it easy,’ Lochet called after him.

When Philippe got back to his car, he
shrugged his coat off, started the engine, then called Alice. When she answered,
he said simply, ‘Alice, I have failed.’

‘Oh Philippe, I’m so sorry,’ she said with
real compassion. ‘What happened?’

‘They wouldn’t listen to me,’ he said
wearily. ‘They let him take her back to England this morning.’

‘Come home,’ Alice said. ‘Come home to me.
We’ll find a way to get her back.’

Philippe smiled. ‘I am on my way.’

‘I’ll be waiting, take care.’

Philippe hung up, slipped the car into
gear, then set off for home as the rain started again, beating a tattoo on the
roof. He thought about the drive ahead of him and knew, the closer he got to
Alice and home, the warmer it would become.

.

About the same time in England, the weather
was bright and fine as David Wiseman sat on the train heading for
Hertfordshire. Following his driving debacle of the previous day, the first
thing he’d done after breakfast was to call Avis and have them collect the car
from his hotel. He’d decided to give up trying to drive on the crowded, badly
signposted roads of England and to stick to trains and taxis for the rest of
his visit. He’d almost regretted that decision when he arrived at Kings Cross
railway station and tried to figure out where he had to go to catch the train
for Leeds. The man in the ticket office assured him that the Leeds train passed
through the village of Minster at Stone, which was where he wanted to go, but
didn’t tell him how to find the Leeds train. After asking a number of surly
railway employees, he was finally directed to the right platform and was now on
his way.

David always read the New York Times at
home and had taken to reading the London Times since he’d been in England. He’d
picked up a copy in the station, and as the train passed out of the grimy
suburbs of north London and into the countryside, he unfolded the paper and
scanned the front page. A headline on the bottom right hand section immediately
caught his attention. LADY WEBLEY FOUND DEAD ON GLACIER. Folding the paper in
half, he read on. The body of Alice Webley, wife of Sir Ross Webley, was found
yesterday afternoon on the Charpoua Glacier in the French Alps. Lady Webley had
been reported missing late on Monday after she failed to return from a day’s
walking in the mountains. Alice Webley, whose maiden name was Sanderson, had
recently inherited the three-hundred-million-dollar Sanderson Corporation from
her father, who died earlier in the year. Sir Ross is now expected to take over
responsibility for the company.

David put the paper down slowly and stared
sightlessly out of the window. It’s all working out pretty well for Webley, he
thought. His wife’s father dies leaving her a fortune, then, a few months
later, she dies in what looks like an accident and Webley inherits the whole
works. He was getting the same feeling that he’d had on the ferry when he first
read the report about Lady Webley going missing. He just knew there was more to
it than a simple accident, there had to be. As far as he was concerned, the
whole thing stank to high heaven.

He sat staring out at the countryside, his
mind a torrent of speculation, as the train rolled north at a leisurely pace
through Cuffley, Bayford, and numerous other small villages before eventually
starting to slow for Minster at Stone. As they approached the village, David
saw the imposing presence of the minster or church, for which it was named,
standing proudly on the banks of the River Rib beside a ruined abbey,
dominating the village and surrounding lowlands. The train came to a halt at
the deserted station where David stepped off and headed for the exit. He’d just
walked through into the empty ticket hall when his two tails jumped from the
slowly accelerating train and ducked into the waiting room. Finding no one to
hand his ticket to, David left the station and headed towards the center of the
village on foot along a pleasant leafy lane, which curved gently away from the
railway and joined what turned out to be the High Street.

There were very few people about, and in
the warm September sunshine, the village had a peaceful, sleepy air that he
liked. It was another one of those places where he instinctively felt safe and
well, a bit like Weggis, but nothing like as pretty. He walked on down the High
Street past a small newsagent’s, a butcher’s shop, a general store and a public
house called The King’s Head, before finally coming, at the far end, to the old
wooden gates of the church. There was a wooden canopy built over the gates,
which sheltered a notice board giving the times for services during the week
and a small cubbyhole containing free leaflets about the church. There was also
a sign inviting visitors to call at the vicarage with any queries relating to
the church or the services.

David took a leaflet then pushed his way
through the gates, looking up in awe at the magnificent double transepts, which
had obviously been conceived on the scale of a cathedral. Referring to the
leaflet, he discovered that following a fire in 1188 and the collapse of the
central tower in 1213, the church had been rebuilt, starting around 1220, in
the Romanesque style. He looked around him, shaking his head in wonder. It blew
his mind to think that this place had been standing for over two hundred years
before Columbus had discovered America.

From what he could see, the entire church
was surrounded by a large graveyard. Some of the stones were old and weathered,
some were bright and new. There were all kinds of memorials to the dead, from
tiny flower urns to huge Victorian edifices featuring angels elaborately carved
in white marble. He followed a gravel path, which meandered among the graves,
and started looking for the Webley family vault. After half an hour he’d
managed to cover just a fraction of the cemetery, so decided that maybe the
best course of action would be to seek help from the vicar. He retraced his
steps to the entrance then following the directions given on the sign by the
gate, crossed the road to the vicarage.