Presumed Dead (16 page)

‘Nothing wrong, I’d just like to ask you
this. Were you satisfied that the cause of death as stated by the French doctor
was accurate?’

‘As far as I could tell. It is very
difficult to ascertain the cause of death just by looking at a body. In many
cases you have to take it on trust that the doctor who has been dealing with
the patient has got it right.’

‘And you felt the French doctor had got it
right?’

‘I could not see any other obvious causes.
There were no knife wounds or bullet holes if that is what you are asking,’
Sharif said.

‘One last question,’ Hubbard said. ‘Weren’t
you surprised that there had been no post-mortem carried out?’

‘Not really,’ Sharif said, shaking his
head. ‘The French doctor seemed satisfied that she died as a result of injuries
sustained in a fall. Judging by his report, he sees it quite often.’

Hubbard got up and put his notebook away.
‘I think that just about wraps it up. Thank you for coming over Doctor, and
thank you Mrs. Brown. You’ve both been very helpful.’

Angela Brown showed them to the door, but
just as they were leaving, Hubbard stopped and said, ‘Just one more thing, Mrs
Brown. If you speak to Mr Crawford again, don’t mention we’ve been here asking
questions.’

‘Of course not, Chief Inspector,’ she
replied, closing the door behind them.

As soon as they were back in the car,
Butcher asked, ‘Northolt Crematorium?’

‘No. Back to the Yard.’ Hubbard said. ‘I
want to do some phoning around and find out what kind of man this Webley really
is.’

.

Later in the morning, at precisely
eleven-thirty, down in north Kent, the French air taxi popped out of the bottom
of the clouds at eight hundred feet, perfectly aligned with the approach lights
for the active runway at Biggin Hill. The weather had grown progressively worse
during the trip north and the last half-hour had been bumpy and uncomfortable
as they had flown through solid cloud.

Alice breathed a sigh of relief as she felt
the jolt and rumble of the wheels hitting the runway. She’d been on the verge
of reaching for a sick bag for the past fifteen minutes. As they taxied towards
the terminal beneath a gloomy sky, she looked out of the window at the rain
beating down on the asphalt and wished she’d dressed in something a little
warmer.

The morning had been so clear and bright
back in Nîmes that she had decided to wear a thin, short sleeved, knee length
cotton dress with open-toe sandals. Fortunately, she’d also brought along a
blazer style jacket that went nicely with the outfit, but she was hardly
dressed for this weather. Philippe, on the other hand, wearing Chino’s, a
lightweight cotton shirt and sports jacket would be just comfortable. He’d also
had the foresight to bring along a folding umbrella each, saying that he never
set foot on English soil without one.

The pilot parked the Seneca on the apron
directly outside the executive terminal. A marshal came out to the aircraft
carrying a large golf umbrella, and after helping Alice and Philippe down from
the rear passenger door, sheltered them as he showed them into the building,
where they waited just inside the door while the pilot retrieved their luggage.
While they were waiting, Philippe noticed that Alice was shaking, so he put his
arm around her shoulders and asked in French, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m not sure if it’s the cold or my
nerves,’ she replied, snuggling into him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any
trouble. We’ll be through in a couple of minutes.’

The luggage was soon brought in, and the
marshal then led them through a door marked International Arrivals. As they
went through into the small customs area, a uniformed official came out from a
back room and gave their passports a cursory glance before waving them on
without any questions. They thanked him then Philippe carried their luggage as
they went on through the far door, which led into the main part of the terminal
where there was a seating area with round wooden tables, a bar and an
information desk.

Alice took herself off to the toilets to
freshen up while Philippe went to the information desk to collect the keys for
the hire car he’d asked the air taxi firm to book for him in advance. By the
time Alice joined him, he’d signed all the forms and was ready to go. They had
agreed that it would be best if Alice surprised her husband by just walking in
on him. That way, they figured, she would have the best chance of catching him
off his guard and getting him to agree to her demands. Alice was almost certain
he would be in London, but in order to be completely sure before driving all
that way they had planned that Philippe would telephone the London house, ask
for Ross, then hang up before he came on the line. If he were told Ross wasn’t
there, then he could at least find out when he would be back.

They walked over to the telephone kiosks at
the side of the terminal building. Philippe picked up the receiver and slipped
his credit card into the slot while Alice dialed the number. After a few
moments he winked at her and said, ‘It’s ringing.’

A few seconds later, Philippe started to
speak. ‘Hello, is it possible to speak with Sir Ross Webley please?’ he asked
pleasantly. Alice watched perplexed as his face grew worried. ‘I see…’ he was
saying, ‘where is that? Yes… of course. I’m sorry I bothered you… later this
afternoon? All right… thank you… good bye.’ He hung the receiver up slowly and
turned to Alice.

‘What?’ she said anxiously. ‘Who was it…
what did they say?’

‘It was a woman,’ Philippe said slowly.
‘She said Sir Ross wasn’t taking any calls this morning because it was the day
of his wife’s funeral.’

‘Today?’ Alice asked incredulously. ‘Up at
Minster at Stone?’

‘No,’ Philippe said, still dazed. ‘She said
the ceremony was to be held at Northolt Crematorium in west London at one
o’clock. She said if I wanted to, I would be able to contact Sir Ross later
this afternoon at his country house, but after today, he would be away in
America for some time.’

‘A crematorium?’ Alice asked aghast, ‘then
America?’ ‘We’ve got to stop him!’ She looked at the large clock hanging in the
terminal building, which read eleven forty-five. ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing
his arm and propelling him out of the telephone kiosk. ‘We can easily make it
to Northolt by one o’clock, it’s not that far from here.’ They hurried out of
the terminal building and quickly found their hire car in the car park outside.
Alice decided that since she knew her way around London and was used to driving
on the left, that she would drive.

Philippe tossed their luggage into the car
while Alice quickly checked the courtesy map that had been supplied with the
car. As soon as they were both strapped in she accelerated out of the airport
area and joined the A233 heading towards Central London. Once they were on
their way and Alice had had time to think, she said, ‘I wonder what his game
is? Why a cremation, why not the family vault?’

‘That’s easy,’ Philippe replied, still
sounding a little dazed. ‘He wants to burn Louisa’s body in order to get rid of
the evidence. Once she is burned, he can go to America and claim your company
in safety, without the possibility of someone saying he got the wrong body.’

Suddenly the implication of what was
happening hit Alice. This was Philippe’s wife they were talking about. That
bastard husband of hers had just dealt him another devastating blow. Philippe
had planned to bring her body back to France and lay her to rest in the small
churchyard near their home. If Ross got away with cremating her, that would
never happen.

She thought about stopping at a telephone
box and phoning the crematorium to have the service delayed, but decided that
it was highly unlikely they would take any action on the strength of a phone
call. No, I’ve got to get to the crematorium in person, she thought. I’ve got
to make sure they don’t destroy her body… for Philippe’s sake. He’s suffered
enough already. With that thought, she floored the gas pedal and overtook a
long line of cars that were slowing them down. Once she was back on clear road,
she glanced across at Philippe and saw he was staring blankly into space, as if
mesmerized by the windscreen wipers flipping back and forth in front of his
eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly, ‘we’ll get there in time.’

Alice decided to follow the route she knew
well into Central London, then turned west onto the A40, which led straight to
Northolt. The combination of bad weather and heavy traffic made the trip
particularly slow and tedious, and by the time they got to the Northolt turnoff
on the A40, it was already one-fifteen.

Throughout the ninety-minute trip, Philippe
had been quiet and withdrawn, saying only a few words in reply to Alice’s
attempts at conversation and reassurance. She’d driven like a demon: speeding,
overtaking whenever possible, cutting-up other drivers and jumping traffic
lights, but it hadn’t helped much. She’d become more and more frustrated as the
time ticked away and had cursed herself for not taking the longer but probably
quicker route around the M25.

Finally they were off the A40 and with
Philippe craning forward to help with the navigation, they followed the local
signs for the crematorium. The rain was still beating down ten minutes later as
they finally swung in through the crematorium gates and followed the curving,
tree-lined driveway up to a modern stone building, just in time to see a small
group of mourners, dressed in black, huddling under umbrellas, emerge from the
chapel. Behind them, above the building, a fine skein of gray smoke curled
upward from a tall redbrick chimney and disappeared into the murky sky. Alice
took the whole scene in at once and her heart sank.

She stood on the brake pedal, abruptly
pulled the car into the side of the driveway, and turned the engine off. ‘We’re
too late,’ she said flatly, looking down at her hands. ‘I’m sorry Philippe,
I’ve failed you.’

Philippe stared out through the
rain-splattered windscreen towards the group of people, then swung his gaze up
to the chimney, reaching the same conclusion as Alice. ‘You know those people?’
he asked softly.

‘My husband, my son, Alex Crawford and Mrs
Holland our housekeeper… Oh Philippe,’ she choked, bursting into tears and
burying her face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry… it’s all my fault.’

Philippe slipped his arm around her
shoulders and pulled her face close into his chest. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he
said softly as she sobbed against him. ‘You are not to blame.’

‘But it does matter,’ Alice insisted
through her tears. ‘That was Louisa… your wife… I know how much you wanted her
to be buried at home.’

‘Look,’ he whispered, lifting her wet face
and putting his cheek against hers, ‘the living are more important than the
dead. It is not your fault, you did your best. When all this trouble is sorted
out, I will be able to at least have her ashes.’

Alice brought her arms up around his neck
and clung to him in silence for a few moments until her tears subsided, then
slid back into her own seat, gratefully taking the handkerchief he offered.
They sat and watched as the group of mourners walked slowly to the car park,
where Ross and Charles got into Ross’s Jaguar, while Alex Crawford helped Mrs
Holland into his Toyota Corolla. Alice’s heart went out to young Charles. She
could see he was being incredibly brave and grown up, and she wanted to jump
out of the car and gather him up in her arms and comfort him, but that would
have to wait until she’d sorted his father out. As she thought about Ross, her
sorrow gave way to anger and she was gripped by a powerful desire to strangle
him.

The two-car motorcade with the Jaguar in
the lead, turned out of the car park and headed down the drive to where Alice
and Philippe were parked. Alice hid her face with the handkerchief as they
passed, then started the car and swung around in a U-turn to follow. ‘Where are
we going now?’ Philippe asked.

‘You said that Ross was going to be at the
country house later this afternoon? Well, that’s where we’re going. I’m going
to tell him exactly what I think of him and the games he’s been playing.’

‘Do you think he will go there with your
son?’

‘No, he plans to go away tomorrow and
Charles was wearing his school uniform, so it’s my bet that Ross will drop him
at Eton then carry on down to the farm alone. Alex will probably go straight
back to London with Mrs Holland.’

They followed the two cars back towards the
A312 and sure enough, Alex turned north towards the A40 and London while Ross
turned south towards the M4 and Windsor. Alice followed the Jaguar at a
discreet distance until suddenly, just before they were due to turn onto the
M4, Ross indicated and turned left into the car park of a pub-restaurant. ‘Ross
must be buying Charles lunch before he takes him back,’ Alice said, cruising on
past the restaurant. ‘That’s very big of him. We might as well carry on down and
wait for him.’

‘Don’t you want to stop somewhere for some
lunch?’ Philippe asked.

‘Not right now. I don’t think I could
swallow anything at the moment.’

‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Being angry won’t
help. You need to be calm and thinking clearly when you see him later.’