Presumed Dead (17 page)

‘I know,’ she replied, gritting her teeth,
‘but when I think about what he’s done to you over the past few days, it makes
me so mad I could kill him.’

.

Eighty miles and one-and-a-half hours
later, just after three o’clock, Alice and Philippe were on the A27 passing
south of the town of Lewes in East Sussex, with under ten miles to go to Moor
End Farm. Access to the property was via a B road that ran from the A27,
through a small village, then on to a dead end track that led to the farm. A
footpath also led from the edge of the village, over some fields to the back of
the property. During the journey down from Northolt, Alice had told Philippe
all about the place.

Just after they’d been married, she’d had
the old farmhouse completely gutted and re-fitted to her exact specification.
She’d had a large gravel drive laid at the front, and out the back, on the
south facing side, she’d had a ranch style patio and kidney shaped swimming
pool installed. The pool was heated and had underwater floodlights. When she
swam at night, usually alone, it was like being in a beautifully warm,
exquisite blue lagoon.

Inside the house, she’d had polished wood
block flooring laid in all the ground floor rooms, which she’d complemented
with brightly colored scatter rugs. The old square staircase had been ripped
out and replaced with a new one featuring a sweeping curved handrail of
polished oak with delicately carved spindles and newel posts. The hall at the
bottom of the stairs led all the way from the front to the back of the house,
where it opened onto the patio with a series of folding glass doors.

The grounds weren’t big enough to have any
shooting, but Ross kept a pair or Purdey shotguns, which had belonged to his
father, and was sometimes invited to neighboring farms to go after pheasant or
duck. Alice had been worried about young Charles getting his hands on them, so
she’d had a concealed gun safe installed behind a panel in her husband’s
oak-lined study, where they were kept locked away. Although she knew the combination
to the safe and sometimes kept pieces of jewelry in it, she never touched the
guns. Her father had taught her to shoot at an early age, but she hadn’t
enjoyed it. She didn’t like the noise and she hated the thought of killing
animals for sport.

Upstairs, she’d spared no expense either.
Knocking two of the original six bedrooms into one, she’d created an enormous
master bedroom. The king-size bed sat on a raised, carpeted plinth with
delicate oriental fabrics hanging from an iron ring fixed to the ceiling, to
form a medieval style canopy. Unfortunately, it had never turned into the love
nest she had intended.

By the time they reached the turn-off,
Alice had decided that she couldn’t bear to wait at the farm for Ross to
arrive, so suggested that they carry on down into Newhaven for a late lunch.
She would have suggested Lewes, but she often shopped and ate there and was
known at most of the restaurants. Newhaven, on the other hand, was safe because
she very rarely went there.

They managed to find a small restaurant
that served food all afternoon, ordered a meal, then settled down to wait. They
reckoned that Ross would be about two hours behind them, allowing for lunch and
the diversion through Windsor to Eton. That would make his arrival time at the
farm about five o’clock. They decided to give him until six, just to make sure.

Back in London, the telephone rang on
Detective Chief Inspector Vic Hubbard’s desk. He snatched the receiver up,
‘Hubbard.’

‘Hello Vic? Simon here. We’ve got her, and
I’m about to make a start if you want to sit in.’

‘Right. I’ll be around straight away. See
you in a minute.’ Hubbard hung up the phone, quickly tidied his desk, locked
the files he’d been working on in one of his drawers, then slipped his coat on
and set off for Westminster Hospital on foot.

As soon as he’d got back to his office
earlier in the day, he’d kept his promise to David Wiseman and gone straight up
to see his boss, Commander Alan Mycroft. He’d briefed Mycroft on the whole
Webley affair, and had been given the green light for a forensic post-mortem.
He’d then made arrangements to recover the body, and requested Dr Simon
Reynolds, a highly respected forensic pathologist, to do the job.

Hubbard had been present at dozens of
post-mortem examinations. When he was a young copper, it was considered part of
the training to be thrown in at the deep end with a PM. It had never bothered
him. Nowadays though, the youngsters were treated more gently and attendance
was voluntary. A standard post-mortem, carried out in order to find a cause of
death, usually took about ninety minutes, but a forensic post-mortem was a far
more detailed affair and could last up to five hours.

The hospital was about half a mile from New
Scotland Yard, and Hubbard covered the distance in just under fifteen minutes.
He went in through the main entrance in Dean Ryle Street, then made his way
down into the basement, where the mortuary was located.

Before entering the post-mortem room, he
knew he would have to put on a surgical gown, hat, mask and white Wellington
boots. He went into the anteroom and had just removed his coat and jacket ready
to get changed when Simon Reynolds came through from the PM room.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Reynolds said, pulling
his surgical mask down from around his nose and mouth. ‘I was just coming out
to give you another ring.’

‘What’s up?’ Hubbard asked, immediately
alert.

‘I don’t know what’s going on, but the body
that was delivered just now isn’t Lady Webley.’

‘What?’ Hubbard blurted angrily. ‘Don’t
tell me those idiots up there have sent us the wrong one.’

‘No, it’s the right body. All the paperwork
the French doctor filled in ties up: description of the body, description of
the injuries, cause of death… it’s just not Alice Webley.’

‘How do you know?’ Hubbard asked
incredulously.

‘Because I know Dr Charles Fawcett, the
Webley family’s private doctor. He practices in Harley Street and has been
looking after the Webleys for years. When you told me the name of the deceased
earlier on, I gave Charles a call to find out if she had any pre-existing
medical conditions. I thought it would make the PM a bit easier if I had a
little medical background. Anyway, he told me that apart from an appendectomy
five years ago, Lady Webley enjoyed excellent health. He’d last seen her in
February for her annual check-up.’

Hubbard’s mind was already in overdrive as
he said, ‘And the body in there doesn’t have an appendectomy scar, right?’

‘Come and have a look for yourself,’
Reynolds said, turning towards the door. ‘No need to change, I haven’t opened
her up yet.’

Hubbard followed him through the double
swing doors into the main post-mortem room, where the naked body of a woman
with terrible head injuries lay on a stainless steel autopsy tray in the middle
of the harshly lit room. Reynolds pointed towards the lower abdomen on the
right side and said, ‘This is where I would expect to see a scar from an
appendectomy.’

Hubbard looked closely, but there was
clearly no scar.

‘Anyway,’ Reynolds continued, ‘after I’d
made that discovery, I got back on the phone to Charles for a more detailed
description of Lady Webley.’ He picked an aluminum clipboard up from the side
and read, ‘Age: thirty-six. Height: five foot six. Weight: one hundred and
thirty pounds. Hair: natural blond. Eyes: green.’

As he read the items from the list, Hubbard
looked down at the body and mentally checked the details.

‘And this lady,’ Reynolds was saying, ‘is
about the right age but is five foot nine, weighs one hundred and twenty
pounds, has light brown hair and brown eyes.’

Hubbard carried on looking at the dead
woman and his mind whirled. No wonder Webley had wanted a quick cremation, he
thought, and more to the point, what has he done with the real Lady Webley?
‘Any clue as to who this might be?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think she’s English,’ Reynolds
replied. ‘Maybe French or Italian.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Mainly her coloring, she’s got a definite
Mediterranean look about her.’

Hubbard thought for a moment, then asked,
‘What about the cause of death?’

‘From the brief examination I’ve given her
so far, I’m reasonably confident she’s a genuine accident case. The injuries
are consistent with a fall onto rocks from height and the amount of bleeding
and bruising around the head wound and the fractures in the left arm and leg are
consistent with death occurring within seconds of the injury.’

Hubbard said nothing. He was staring at the
body again, his mind racing.

‘Do you still want a full PM carried out?’
Reynolds asked.

Hubbard looked up and said thoughtfully,
‘No. I think you’re right in what you say about her being a genuine accident
case. When we eventually find out who she is, we don’t want to send her home in
little pieces, do we?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Reynolds said.

‘Can you keep her on ice for me while I
launch an investigation?’ Hubbard asked.

‘Anything to oblige the Metropolitan
Police.’

‘Thanks,’ Hubbard said as they walked back
through to the anteroom. As Reynolds was changing, Hubbard asked, ‘This doctor
friend of yours, Charles Fawcett, is he likely to say anything to Webley about
your questions?’

‘No, I swore him to secrecy, and besides,
he can’t stand him.’

‘Really, why is that I wonder?’ Hubbard
mused.

‘Charles thinks he’s an upper class twit
and a lay-about who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life,’ Reynolds
confided, ‘and, judging by some of the complaints he’s had to treat, he
suspects him of being a bit of a sexual deviant. Apparently, he was forced to
resign his commission in the Guards in order to save himself being cashiered,
after he’d thrashed a naked recruit nearly to death with a riding crop during a
sadistic initiation ritual.’

‘Was he now? Well that all ties up with
what I’ve heard from a couple of other people. What about Lady Webley, does
Fawcett like her?’

‘He thinks she’s a doll, much too good for
her husband, and certainly not involved in any of his funny bedroom business.
He was very upset by the news of her death.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Hubbard said. ‘I
haven’t come across one single person yet who’s had a good word to say about
Sir Ross Webley.’

‘Maybe you should try talking to his
bookmaker,’ Reynolds said with a grin.

Hubbard got back to New Scotland Yard at
four-thirty, and went straight up to see his boss. Knocking on Mycroft’s office
door, he walked in and took a seat in front of the Commander’s desk.

‘You look excited,’ Mycroft said, glancing
up over half-moon glasses from a report he was reading, ‘What have you got?’

‘I’ve just come back from the Westminster,’
Hubbard said. ‘The body Webley submitted for cremation is not that of his
wife.’

Hubbard suddenly had Mycroft’s full
attention. ‘What?’ Mycroft exclaimed, taking his glasses off and laying then on
his desk. ‘How did you work that out?’

‘Simon Reynolds knows the Webley’s GP. He
got a description of Lady Webley that is nothing like the body we picked up
from Northolt.’

‘And you’re sure there hasn’t been a
cock-up at the undertakers or the crematorium?’ Mycroft asked.

‘Absolutely certain. Now, the question is,
what has Webley done with his wife?’

‘What indeed?’ Mycroft asked. ‘You’d better
bring him in, I think. There are a few things he needs to explain.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Apparently he’s
leaving the country tomorrow, so I want to pull him straight away, if that’s
all right with you.’

‘Fine, fine. And when you’ve got him, you had
better lift his passport until we get to the bottom of this. We don’t want him
doing a Lord Lucan on us, do we?’

Hubbard smiled. ‘There is something else I
think we ought to get underway, now we’ve got an excuse.’

‘The exhumation of his first wife?’ Mycroft
asked.

‘Exactly.’

Mycroft thought for a few moments then
said, ‘Now we’ve got reason to believe that he’s responsible for the
disappearance of his second wife, I think we’re justified in pursuing the
suspicions we have concerning the death of his first. Leave it with me. I’ll
speak to the head of Hertfordshire CID and the regional coroner, get it
underway as soon as possible.’

Satisfied, Hubbard thanked him then went
back to his own office, phoned his wife to let her know he would be home late
again, then called DS Butcher and told him to meet him downstairs with the car
in five minutes.

Fifteen minutes after setting off, they
were standing on the steps of the Webley residence, waiting for the door to be
answered.

‘Compact but bijou,’ Butcher commented
wryly, looking up at the splendid Victorian façade, soaring above their heads.

Hubbard smiled, then instantly straightened
his face and whipped his warrant card out as a short, fat woman who had
obviously been crying, opened the door.

‘We are police officers. DCI Hubbard, DS
Butcher,’ he said, holding up his card and indicating towards his colleague.
‘We’d like to have a word with Sir Ross Webley if we may.’

 ‘I’m sorry sir,’ she said, ‘the master’s
gone down to the farm, then he’s off to America in the morning.’

‘Are you expecting him back tonight?’
Hubbard asked.

‘I don’t think so sir, he took all his
luggage with him and said goodbye before he left. Mr Alex would know, you could
ask him.’

‘Mr Alex?’

‘Mr Alex Crawford, Sir Ross’s secretary.’

‘Is he in?’ Hubbard asked impatiently,
looking past her into the house.

‘No sir, he brought me back after Her
Ladyship’s funeral, collected some bits and pieces, then said he had some
things to do and went out.’

‘And when was that?’

Mrs Holland frowned then answered, ‘About
half past two I think. He said he’d be back later on.’

‘But he didn’t say when?’

‘No sir.’

Hubbard thought for a moment then got his
notebook out and said, ‘Could you give me the address of the Webley’s farm
please.’

Back in the car, Hubbard said, ‘Fancy a
drive to the seaside?’

Butcher smiled and slipped the car into
gear. ‘I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out we’re on to him.’

‘How long do you reckon?’ Hubbard asked.

Butcher thought for a moment then said, ‘If
we push it and use the blues and twos ‘till we’re out of the smoke, hour and a
half tops. Should be there by half six.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Hubbard said, hitting the
switch to activate the blue lights and sirens.

As they pulled away from the house on
Regent’s Park, Alex Crawford was already down at the farm and had just finished
preparing things for Ross, whom he expected at any moment.

.

Philippe and Alice enjoyed their late
lunch, which was excellent. The restaurant was virtually deserted so no one had
minded them staying on, sitting at a corner table. A waitress appeared
occasionally to top up their coffee cups, but apart from that they were left
alone.

Another half hour passed then Alice looked
at her watch and said, ‘Five thirty, we’d better get moving.’

Philippe called the waitress over and paid
the bill, then they made their way outside and hurried to the car. It was still
raining. Thick, iron-gray clouds poured in from the English Channel blocking
out most of the evening light, bringing with them a false dusk. Alice started
the car and they drove the eight miles north to the farm in silence. They
passed through the local village, but stopped short of the farm track, parking
the car in a lay-by where a stile marked the beginning of the footpath that led
to the rear of her property. The cinder path was well maintained and used
regularly by staff who worked at the farm.

Philippe had insisted on being close by
when Alice tackled her husband, but though it best, for her sake, if Ross
didn’t actually see him. For that reason, they had decided not to drive up to
the front of the house. Instead, they intended to park in the lay-by and
approach the house from the rear, by walking along the cinder track. That way,
Philippe could wait just outside the back door and would be available if
needed. They locked the car, climbed the stile, then set off along the track
towards Moor End Farm, grateful for Philippe’s umbrellas.