Presumed Dead (15 page)

Hubbard was seated behind his desk but
stood up and held his hand out as soon as David walked in. He was a big, hard
looking man of about fifty, with short blond hair and the crisp manner of a
Marine Corps officer. David had met his type many times before in the FBI, and
forgetting his preconceptions, felt immediately confident about getting some
action from this man.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Wiseman,’ Hubbard said,
shaking his hand. ‘So sorry to keep you waiting. Please have a seat.’

‘It was very nice of you to see me at such
short notice,’ David replied, sitting in a chair directly in front of the desk.

Hubbard sat down and picked his pen up,
ready to make notes. ‘Now, I believe you’re with the FBI, is that right?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m an analyst, but my visit
here is strictly personal.’

‘I see,’ Hubbard said, making a note.
‘Something about a suspicious death, isn’t it?’

David pulled his notebook out and spent the
next half-hour giving Hubbard a detailed and professional account of all he’d
learnt about his aunt’s death. Hubbard took copious notes during the narrative
and occasionally stopped David to ask a question or to confirm the spelling of
a name.

When he’d finally finished, Hubbard sat
back in his chair and said, ‘It’s a very interesting story Mr Wiseman, but
there is very little in the way of proof.’

‘What about the death certificate?’ David
asked. ‘What possible reason could Webley have had for changing it if he wasn’t
trying to hide something?’

‘We don’t have any proof that the death
certificate was altered, do we?’ Hubbard pointed out. ‘The only evidence is the
memory of an old woman who claims to remember exactly what was written in a
foreign language on a certificate she saw only briefly, twenty-five years ago.’

‘I believe her,’ David said obstinately,
‘and if Vogler und Zimmer still have their records from that time, it should be
easy enough to prove.’

‘Maybe so, but assuming we did find a
discrepancy in the death certificate, what do you expect us to do about it?’

‘Exhume her body of course, and check for
poison.’

‘We can’t go around digging people up on
that kind of evidence!’ Hubbard exclaimed. ‘Webley is a knight of the realm, a
respectable citizen who has never been in any trouble to the best of my
knowledge. He’d cause one hell of a stink if we opened up his family vault and
started poking around at his deceased wife!’

‘There must be something you can do,’ David
said. ‘I’m convinced Webley murdered my aunt and stole all her money by forging
her will.’

‘Look, I respect your instinct,’ Hubbard
said firmly, ‘but all I can do to start off with is to ask Vogler und Zimmer if
they still have the copy of her death certificate in their archives. If they
have, I’ll get them to fax it to me then I’ll get a copy of the original from
the Family Records Office here in London and compare them. If I then think
there was a deliberate attempt to mislead the Baroness’s lawyer, I’ll get one
of my men to discreetly investigate her will. If that turns out to look
suspicious, then we may have grounds to proceed further.’

‘That’s a hell of a lot of ifs,’ Davis said
angrily. ‘How soon will you be able to get started?’

‘I’ll have someone phone Vogler und Zimmer
this afternoon,’ Hubbard promised, standing up to signal the end of the
meeting. ‘If you care to leave your number, I’ll let you know how we get on.’

David was very disappointed by the
reception Hubbard had given his story. He gave Hubbard his cell phone number
then said, ‘There was one other thing I wanted to discuss with you, if you have
a few more minutes.’

Hubbard sighed, then sat back down in his
chair signaling David to carry on.

‘Have you seen the stories in the papers
over the past couple of days about Lady Webley?’ David asked.

‘Yes, killed in a climbing accident in the
Alps, wasn’t she?’

‘Walking, I think it was. Anyhow, don’t you
think it’s kind of convenient for her husband that she has a fatal accident so
soon after inheriting a corporation worth five hundred million dollars?’

‘Are you trying to imply that Webley
murdered her too?’ Hubbard asked with amazement. ‘You really have got it in for
him, haven’t you?’

David ignored his remark and carried on. ‘I
don’t think he killed her personally, he’s much too smart for that, besides,
he’s got a watertight alibi. I do think he arranged it though. How else could
he have told them exactly where to look for her body? Don’t you think it would
be worth just asking to see a copy of the French police report, bearing in mind
what I’ve told you about my aunt?’

‘Mr Wiseman,’ Hubbard said slowly, ‘I
cannot go around persecuting innocent people and wasting police time on the
sort of evidence you have given me. If there were any suspicious circumstances
surrounding the death of Lady Webley, I’m sure the French police would have
brought it to our attention. Now, if you don’t mind, I am extremely busy.’

David got up slowly from his chair. ‘I know
I’m right,’ he said, looking Hubbard directly in the eye. ‘He can’t be allowed
to get away with murder just because he has a title.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Hubbard
said, standing. ‘Believe me, if there’s a case to answer, I’ll make sure it’s
properly dealt with.’

They shook hands then Hubbard had him shown
down to the entrance lobby, where he wandered dejectedly out through the doors
and onto the street to look for a taxi.

Back in his office, Hubbard assigned a
young female detective constable to telephone Vogler und Zimmer in Lucerne. The
news was good. With typical Swiss efficiency, they had all the records going
back to the beginning of the original Herr Vogler’s practice and would fax the
death certificate over within the hour. Hubbard then dispatched the same DC
across London to the Family Records Center in Myddelton Street, with a priority
request for a copy of the original death certificate as filed by Doctor Mason.

By six in the evening, Hubbard had the two
death certificates lying side by side on his desk. After studying them for a
few minutes, he picked up the telephone and dialed the number David Wiseman had
given him. When David answered, he said, ‘Mr. Wiseman? Hubbard here.’

‘Hello, Chief Inspector,’ David said. ‘I
didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.’

‘We’ve managed to get copies of your aunt’s
death certificate from both the Swiss lawyer and the Family Records Center.’

‘So soon? That’s fantastic!’ David blurted.
‘Was I right about the differences?’

‘Yes, it seems that what you told me
earlier was correct. There is definitely a discrepancy between the two
documents in the
cause of death
box. Part of the entry has been
obliterated on the Swiss copy.’

‘Then we’ve got a case?’ David asked
eagerly.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Hubbard said flatly.
‘We must consider all the options first.’

‘What options?’ Davis asked. ‘The guy
changed the death certificate, that’s all there is to it!’

‘Maybe he changed the certificate, or maybe
it was a faulty copy. Photocopier machines weren’t as good back then as they
are now.’

‘Aw come on, who are you trying to kid?’
David scoffed. ‘We both know how that copy got changed, and it wasn’t by a
faulty photocopier! Now, what are you going to do about it?’

Hubbard thought for a moment then said,
‘First thing in the morning, I’m going to take your story and the two
certificates to my immediate superior, Commander Mycroft, with a recommendation
that we exhume the body and carry out a forensic post-mortem.’

David let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Thank
you, Chief Inspector. That’s all I wanted to hear.’

.

Much later, back in France, by the time
Philippe and Alice had finished typing and proofreading the statement and had
inserted all the photographs, it was cold and dark. They had been so engrossed
in what they were doing that neither of them had noticed the time. As the final
version was printing, after being scanned to make it look like a photocopy,
Alice rubbed her bare upper arms with her hands and shivered.

‘You are cold,’ Philippe said with concern.
‘Would you like me to light the fire?’

There was a large, stone fireplace at one
end of the living room with a pile of logs stacked up next to it. ‘That would
be lovely,’ Alice said. ‘I think I’m still a bit chilled from being on that
mountain.’

Philippe slipped down the hall into his
bedroom, then came back a few moments later carrying one of his own fleece
jackets. ‘Here, put this on,’ he said, holding it up so she could slip her arms
into it easily.

It felt good. Soft and masculine scented as
she turned the collar up and snuggled into it. ‘Thank you,’ she said with a
smile. ‘You’re so kind.’

Philippe got down on his hands and knees in
front of the grate and set about lighting the fire. ‘While you’re doing that,’
Alice said, ‘I’ll find us something to eat if you like. How hungry are you?’

‘After that lunch,’ he replied, ‘not very.’

‘How about some bread and cheese and a
bottle of wine? We could eat it in front of the fire.’

‘That sounds perfect,’ he said as the
kindling caught alight and an orange tongue of flame started licking around the
logs.

By the time Alice came back into the living
room with the food and wine on a tray, the fire had caught hold nicely and the
room was lit by the dancing orange glow of the flames. Philippe had moved the
big leather sofa around so that it was facing the fire and was sitting with his
eyes closed, slouched in one corner, stretching his long legs out towards the
flames. Alice pulled a coffee table over in front of the sofa, put the tray
down, then sat and poured them each a glass of wine.

‘This is nice,’ she said, spreading some
Camembert onto a chunk of baguette.

Philippe opened his eyes and sat up,
reaching for his wine. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I haven’t felt this relaxed for
years.’

‘You look tired,’ she said.

‘I feel tired,’ he admitted, ‘and drained.
It has been a difficult couple of days, but somehow I feel I have turned a
corner.’ He helped himself to some bread and cheese then laid back into the
soft leather of the sofa as he munched contentedly.

They ate, sipped their wine and chatted for
a while, then Alice took the tray back to the kitchen, tidied up and put what
was left of the cheese away in the fridge. When she came back into the living
room, Philippe had swung his legs up and was sound asleep with his head resting
on one of the arms. She leaned over the back of the sofa and looked at his
face, peaceful now, softly lit by the flickering orange firelight. After a few
minutes lost in thought, she walked through into her bedroom and came back with
a blanket, which she gently tucked around him, letting her fingers rest lightly
against his cheek for a moment.

After that, she cleared away their
wineglasses and the empty bottle, put the guard in front of the fire, then took
herself off to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long and difficult day.

Alice slept very badly. Although she wasn’t
afraid of him, even after what he’d done to her, she was worried about facing
her husband down. Maybe it was because he was so much older than her, or maybe
it was his air of seedy grandeur, but whenever they had confrontations he
always managed to make her feel like a little girl. Not this time though, Alice
told herself over and over again. This time I’m in the right and I’m going to
stand up to him. She kept repeating it to herself like a creed until she was
convinced that that was how it was going to be.

The other thing preying on her mind was
leaving Philippe and this house. The plan was that he would take her to see
Ross and would hang around outside until she gave him a sign to let him know
she was safe, then he would return home, leaving her in England to sort out her
life. He’d been kinder and more considerate to her than anyone had ever been in
her adult life, and in the short time she’d known him, she’d become very fond
of him indeed. She tried to analyze her feelings, just in case she was
misinterpreting her gratefulness towards him, but decided no, she didn’t feel
the way she did just because he’d saved her life, it was much, much deeper than
that.

She smiled as she lay in bed thinking of
him. Although he had a successful business and was reasonably wealthy, he led
an extremely simple life. He wasn’t one of those men who live for their work
and spend every waking hour at the office. On the contrary, he’d built his
business up to a point where it ran smoothly without the need for his continual
involvement, so he was free to live out of town in this simple old hunting
lodge and spend time in the mountains whenever he wanted. She kept imagining
herself living here, married to Philippe, loving him, being his constant
companion, giving him the children he so desperately wanted, and that thought
gave her strength. If she was ever going to have a decent, normal life, she was
going to have to face up to Ross and demand the divorce on her terms.

By six a.m., when the alarm on her watch
went off, Alice had firmly resolved in her own mind what she wanted for the
future and what she had to do in order to get it. With a steely determination
she got out of bed ready to face what she thought was going to be one of the
most difficult days of her life. She slipped into her bathrobe and went through
the living room into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Philippe was still sound
asleep on the sofa so she left him until the coffee was ready, then took a cup
through and woke him gently.

Philippe blinked and looked up at her with
a lopsided grin. ‘Hello,’ he said sleepily, ‘what time is it?’

‘A little after six, we’ve got plenty of
time. Here, I’ve made you some coffee.’

He swung his legs around and sat up, taking
the coffee mug from Alice, who sat down beside him. ‘Thank you, ‘ he said
gratefully, taking a sip. ‘Sorry about falling asleep like that last night, you
must think me a very poor host.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘you were very
tired.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Not very,’ she admitted, ‘I couldn’t stop
thinking about facing Ross.’

‘Do you still want to go through with it
today?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather wait until after the weekend?’

‘I want to do it today,‘ Alice said with
determination. ‘I want that divorce so much I can hardly see straight.’

Philippe patted her leg through her
bathrobe. ‘That’s my girl… the sooner we get this over with, the better for
both of us. And don’t forget your promise. As soon as the divorce comes
through, you and Charles are coming back here for a holiday.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, slipping her hand
over his, ‘I won’t forget, that’s one thing you can rely on.’

They looked into each other’s eyes for a
few moments, then Philippe retrieved his hand from under Alice’s and said, ‘We
had better start getting ready, we are due out at the airport by
seven-fifteen.’

By seven-thirty, they were boarding the
twin engine Piper Seneca air taxi at Nîmes-Courbessac aerodrome for the
three-hour flight to Biggin Hill airport, south of London. The pilot had chosen
Biggin Hill because it was the nearest small airport to Central London with
customs and immigration facilities. Alice was certain they would find Ross at
the London house.

They strapped themselves in and got
comfortable while the pilot stowed their bags in the luggage compartment. Alice
had borrowed a small suitcase from Philippe and had packed all her things,
including her still unwashed walking kit and all the new clothes and cosmetics
he’d bought her in Nîmes. Philippe took just an overnight bag. He’d decided
that as soon as the mix-up over Louisa’s body had been sorted out, which should
only take a day or two, he would accompany it home to Nîmes by scheduled
airline.

Once the luggage was loaded, the pilot did
his checks and in a very short space of time they were airborne and heading
north towards England in beautiful, clear weather. As they climbed, with the
Alps clearly visible to the east still shrouded by angry looking clouds,
Philippe watched Alice closely as she stared out of the window at the
mountains. ‘How do you feel to be flying again?’ he asked gently.

She turned and smiled, then took his hand
and said, ‘Not too bad. At least I know you’re not going to throw me out.’

.

At around the same time, Vic Hubbard was
sitting up to the kitchen table at his home in Pinner, scanning through the
morning paper while his wife bustled around, tidying their breakfast things.
This was a routine he followed every day before his lift to New Scotland Yard
arrived in the form of Detective Sergeant Paul Butcher.

He was on his second cup of tea when his
eye was caught by a small item buried deep in the Daily Mail. Someone at Biggin
Hill had tipped off a local reporter who had dug around a little then sold the
tidbit to the Mail, but the editor had obviously not thought it very newsworthy
and had relegated the item to the bowels of the paper. To DCI Vic Hubbard
however, the story was of major significance. ‘That’s interesting,’ he murmured
as he started reading.

‘What’s that dear?’ his wife asked
absently.

‘Listen to this. Body of Baronet’s Wife
Returned… The body of Lady Webley, killed earlier this week in a climbing
accident in the Alps, was flown back to Biggin Hill yesterday (Thursday) and
taken directly to Stanley Brown & Sons Undertakers in Greenford. A private
service is due to take place this afternoon at Northolt Crematorium.’

‘Isn’t she the wife of Sir Ross Webley,’
she asked, ‘the man you were telling me about last night, the one that American
has accused of murder?’

‘Yes she is,’ Hubbard said vaguely, reading
the article over again. When he’d finished, he frowned and asked, ‘Now why
would he be having her cremated when he’s got a perfectly good family vault?
And why at Northolt… that’s miles away from the family home? And why so soon?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know. I expect he’s got
his reasons.’

‘I’m sure he has, but it doesn’t smell
right to me,’ Hubbard mused. ‘His wife is reported missing on Tuesday, they
find her body on Wednesday, he has it flown home on Thursday and cremated on
Friday. Those look to me very much like the actions of a man who is trying to
hide something. Maybe Wiseman was right after all.’

Just then, a car horn tooted outside.
Hubbard got up, folded his paper, and slipped his thin overcoat on. The day had
dawned dull and drizzly and the weather forecast had predicted heavier rain
later. He kissed his wife goodbye, then headed out of the front door and
climbed into the passenger seat of the unmarked police Peugeot.

‘Morning, boss,’ DS Butcher said as he
slipped the car into gear and pulled smoothly away from the curb.

‘Morning, Paul, I want to make a little
detour this morning. Do you know Greenford at all?’

‘Know it like the back of my hand,’ Butcher
said. ‘My mum lives there.’

‘Do you know an undertaker’s called Stanley
Brown & Sons?’

‘It’s in King’s Avenue, just off the
Greenford Road… what’s up?’

‘I want to drop in on them to discuss a
body that’s due to be cremated later on today. It’s just a hunch, but I think
something fishy is going on.’

The eight-mile journey across west London
took them over thirty minutes in the rush hour traffic, and by the time they
got to Greenford, the undertaker’s was open for business. A young woman, who
introduced herself as Angela Brown, a partner in the firm, greeted them as they
arrived and showed them through to a tastefully decorated lounge area, which
was obviously designed for dealing with grieving relatives. Hubbard and Butcher
sat at either end of a sofa while Angela Brown took an armchair opposite them.

‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ she said
confidently, ‘what can I do for you?’

Hubbard came straight to the point. ‘I
understand you received the body of Lady Webley yesterday, is that correct?’

‘Quite correct, we are taking her to
Northolt at about quarter-to-one this afternoon.’

‘Tell me, is it usual for you to turn a
body around so quickly?’

‘Not usual, but not unheard of where there
are special circumstances.’

‘And are there special circumstances in
this case?’ Hubbard asked, taking his notebook and pen out of his pocket.

‘Yes, I understand the deceased’s husband
is leaving the country tomorrow for an indefinite period.’

‘Is he now?’ Hubbard said thoughtfully.
‘And I suppose he wanted the cremation to take place before he went.’

‘That’s right, the whole thing has been a
rush job.’

‘And how did you come to be involved?’

‘We were recommended to Mr Crawford by the
crematorium at Northolt.’

‘Mr Crawford?’ Hubbard asked, noting down
the name. ‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s the Webley’s private secretary. He’s
the one who has done all the organization for the funeral.’

‘Why did he choose Northolt Crematorium,
any idea?’

‘Apparently,’ Angela Brown explained, ‘he’d
been phoning all over London trying to find somewhere that could do the job
before the weekend, and Northolt just happened to have a vacant slot at one
o’clock today.’

‘So he grabbed it and then had to find a
local undertaker,’ Hubbard finished.

‘That’s right. He telephoned yesterday
morning to ask if we could collect a body from Biggin Hill that same day and
have it ready for cremation by one o’clock today. It was a terrible rush but we
never like to turn business away.’

‘What about the Authority to Cremate form?’
Hubbard asked. ‘Has that all been completed properly?’

‘There was a bit of a complication with
that,’ Angela Brown admitted. ‘Because she died in France, the death
certificate and doctor’s report from the hospital were all in French and the
medical representative from the crematorium wouldn’t accept them unless they
were translated into English. Mr Crawford had certified translations made
yesterday afternoon, then we had one of the doctors from the practice across
the road fill in the second part of the form.’

‘Would it be possible to see the
translation of the French report?’

‘The original is back with the crematorium
now but I have a copy.’ She left the room and was back within thirty seconds
with the report, which she handed to Hubbard.

Hubbard scanned the translation and copied
the name of the doctor and the hospital’s details into his notebook before
handing it back. ‘What about the local doctor?’ he asked. ‘Can we see him?’

‘I don’t see why not, his surgery is just
across the road.’

‘I think I’d rather see him here, if you
don’t mind,’ Hubbard said firmly. ‘Could you phone him and ask him to come over
please.’

‘Look, what’s all this about Chief
Inspector?’ Angela Brown asked indignantly. ‘I really am very busy.’

Hubbard looked directly at her and said in
a level voice, ‘I am not at all satisfied that the cause of death recorded on
this form is accurate, and I want to speak to the doctor who examined her
here.’

Angela Brown caved in and went to make the
call. While she was gone Hubbard turned to Butcher and asked, ‘What do you make
of it, Paul?’

‘If you ask me, it stinks,’ Butcher
replied. ‘She was the wife of a baronet. You don’t normally get that type
stuffed in a black sack and tossed over the nearest wall, which is effectively
what’s happening here.’

‘Exactly, it’s all far too rushed for my
liking,’ Hubbard said.

Angela Brown came back a few moments later
and said, ‘Doctor Sharif will be over in a minute, he’s just got to finish with
a patient.’

‘Thank you,’ Hubbard said. They waited in
awkward silence for a few minutes, then the front door bell sounded and Angela
Brown went off and returned with the doctor. Hubbard introduced himself and
Butcher, then as soon as the doctor was seated got down to business saying, ‘I
understand you signed the second part of the cremation form for the body of
Lady Webley yesterday afternoon.’

‘That is correct,’ Sharif replied slightly
indignantly. ‘Is there anything wrong?’