Presumed Dead (20 page)

She took the glass gratefully and drained
it.

‘I think you had better have mine too,’
Philippe said, refilling her glass.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I think I need it.’

After she’d drunk the brandy, Alice managed
a little of her dinner, then they finished the bottle of wine between them. By
the time they arrived in Paris at eleven-twenty local time, she was just a tiny
bit tipsy, but glad to be that way because it softened the anguish she felt in
her heart.

They found a taxi outside the Gare Paris
Nord railway station and had it take them across the Seine to the Gare Paris
Austerlitz, where Philippe bought tickets on the midnight train to Nîmes,
managing to get them a couchette or berth each, albeit in separate, single sex
compartments. They boarded the train and Philippe carried Alice’s case into her
compartment for her, where three other women were already making themselves
comfortable for the eight-hour journey.

After claiming her berth, they stepped
outside into the corridor. ‘Sleep well,’ Philippe said, putting his arms around
her and kissing her on the cheek.

Alice clung to him and whispered, ‘Thank
you for looking after me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

They held each other a few moments longer,
then Alice stepped into her compartment while Philippe set off towards the next
carriage to find his.

As the train pulled out of the station dead
on midnight, it was still only eleven p.m. in Pinner, where Butcher had just
dropped Hubbard outside his house. Before they had left the farm at
nine-thirty, the forensic team had managed to make a positive identification of
the victim when they had found his photo-card driver’s license in his wallet
upstairs. Hubbard had also asked Potter if he could get his fingerprint expert
to e-mail the prints he lifted from the gun-safe and the handle of the whip
directly to the lab at New Scotland Yard so he could look for a match as soon
as Webley was picked up.

Halfway home, Hubbard had received the call
he’d been waiting for. The team that had been phoning around the airlines had
come up trumps. Webley was booked to fly British Airways to New York at ten in
the morning, but Hubbard was going to make it his business to see he missed his
flight.

As he got out of the car, he said, ‘See you
in the morning, Paul, eight o’clock sharp.’

‘I’ll be here,’ Butcher replied, ‘handcuffs
polished.’

As he pulled away, Hubbard trotted up the
path and his wife opened the front door. The delicious aroma of cooking greeted
him and he knew his dinner would be waiting. After what he’d seen this evening,
he was very glad to be returning to his haven of normality.

The sun was shining at the start of a
beautifully warm day as the train pulled into Nîmes, a few minutes after eight
a.m. local time. Philippe carried Alice’s case as they walked out through the glass
doors of the station onto Boulevard Sergent Triaireinto, looking for a taxi.
The journey had been smooth and comfortable, but Alice had had difficulty
sleeping. The few times that she had managed to doze off, she’d woken again
almost immediately with visions of Alex’s tattered body in her mind.

They managed to find a cab and within ten
minutes were at the aerodrome, where they transferred into Philippe’s car.
After stopping at the boulangerie in the village for hot croissants and bread,
they finally arrived at the hunting lodge where Alice brewed fresh coffee while
Philippe made a phone call, then they settled down to a traditional French
breakfast.

‘It’s good to be back here,’ Alice said,
dunking a piece of croissant into her bowl of coffee. ‘It’s so warm and
relaxing… seems like a million miles away from England.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Philippe replied,
lifting his bowl with both hands and taking a sip of coffee, ‘but don’t get too
relaxed. As soon as we have finished this, we must pack and get on our way.’

‘Where are we going?’ Alice asked with
surprise.

‘Back to Chamonix, back up on the
mountain.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Why on
earth do you want to go back there?’

‘So that you can be found… officially this
time.’ Philippe explained, ‘I spent most of the night thinking about this, and
I have come up with a plan that will give you a perfect alibi for yesterday,
one that could never be broken.’

‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘How does it
work?’

‘There’s an old refuge called the Couvercle
Hut about three kilometers to the south of the Charpoua Hut where we first met.
It is in the next valley. The Couvercle is built underneath a huge granite
slab, so it is barely visible from the air. It is positioned up on one of the
high-mountain skiing routes, so it is only ever used in the winter. I know the
rescue teams did not go that far up when they were searching for you, Lochet
told me. There is a path that leads up to it from the Mer de Glace, but it is
steep, and will be very dangerous after all the snow that has fallen in the
past week.

‘If you had been thrown out of the aircraft
just five hundred meters further south than you actually were, you would have
fallen onto the other side of the peaks and ended up on the Glacier de Talèfre,
just above the Couvercle Hut. Now my plan is this: We drive up to Chamonix this
afternoon and climb up to the Couvercle Hut. I just checked and the weather is
still bad in the area, so we should be able to get up there without being seen.
When we get there, I’ll take all the climbing equipment and go back to the
Charpoua Hut. Then we wait.’

‘What for?’ Alice asked.

‘For the weather to clear. As soon as the
weather improves, which they say should be by tomorrow, the PGHM helicopter
will start making regular patrols again and that is when they will find you.’

‘You think they’ll believe I’ve been in
that hut for a whole week?’ she asked.

‘They will have no choice but to believe
you. How could you have got all the way up there without any climbing
equipment? There is always plenty of food and water stored in the huts for
emergencies, and the Couvercle even has an oil heater, so you will be quite
comfortable.’

‘And after they find me, how do I explain
how I got up there?’

‘You tell them the truth… then swear out a
complaint against your husband for attempted murder with the evidence from the
PGHM to back you up… then you file for divorce.’

Alice thought for a few moments, then
smiled. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘It solves all my problems at once!’

‘All our problems,’ Philippe replied. ‘Now
eat up, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.’

.

Back in London, Butcher and Hubbard were
just about to arrive at Heathrow’s Terminal Five. Hubbard had spoken with the
head of the Airport Police the previous evening, and had told him he intended
to make an arrest as the flight boarded. He’d also arranged for the Airport
Police to provide some uniformed backup and for them to be on full alert for
Webley from early this morning.

After parking in the short-term car park,
they made their way up to the departure gate where there was already a strong
police presence in the form of a male and female uniformed officer, each armed
with light machineguns, and a senior, unarmed officer. Hubbard approached the
senior man, introduced himself, then asked, ‘Any sign of him yet?’

‘No sir, but he’s checked in. He’s due here
any moment now.’

‘Right, I don’t want to scare him off. Get
your people out of sight, will you, but make sure they’re covering the exit in
case he tries to leg it.’

The uniformed officer briefed his two staff
while Hubbard and Butcher made their way to the desk where passengers were
expected to show their boarding passes. Two young women in British Airways
uniforms staffed the desk while a male supervisor wearing an airline
captain-type uniform, complete with peaked cap, paced back and forth in the
background. Hubbard approached the desk and signaled to the supervisor. As the
man approached, Hubbard flashed his warrant card and said, ‘I take it you’ve
been briefed about our operation this morning?’

‘Yes sir,’ the supervisor replied crisply.
’How do you want to play it?’

‘Probably the best way is if we sit nearby,
then as soon as he tries to board, you give us a nod and we’ll make the arrest
as quietly as possible.’

‘Right-oh, if you sit just over there, I’ll
signal you as soon as he comes through.’

Hubbard and Butcher found a place to sit
where they could see the desk, then waited patiently as passengers started to
board, mostly couples and the occasional single man or woman, but no one
remotely resembling the description they had of Webley. Then, at exactly
nine-thirty, a tall, dark haired man, impeccably dressed in a hand-made
business suit, approached the desk. As he stood speaking to one of the
receptionists with his back to the two Scotland Yard men, the supervisor looked
directly at Hubbard and gave an imperceptible nod.

‘We’re on,’ Hubbard said, getting up out of
his seat and walking over to stand behind Ross.

‘Ross Frederic Arthur Webley?’ Hubbard
asked.

‘That’s Sir Ross if you don’t mind,’ Ross said
belligerently, spinning around to face the two policemen. ‘Who the hell are
you?’

‘Police officers,’ Hubbard said, holding
his warrant card up in front of Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector
Hubbard, this is Detective Sergeant Butcher. You are under arrest. You have the
right to remain silent…’

‘What?’ Ross exploded, his face turning
scarlet, ‘On what charge?’

‘Suspicion of murder,’ Hubbard said simply.

‘That’s nonsense,’ Ross scoffed. ‘It was an
accident, everybody knows that.’

Hubbard and Butcher exchanged a glance.
‘What was an accident?’ Hubbard asked.

‘My wife’s death, you fool. Now leave me
alone before I have both your badges. I’ve got a flight to catch!’ Ross spat,
turning his back on Hubbard and starting towards the gate.

Hubbard and Butcher reacted in unison,
grabbing one of Ross’s arms each, pulling them up behind his back and quickly
slapping handcuffs on, sending his briefcase and boarding card flying. On
hearing the fracas, the armed officers rushed in and took up position either side
of the prisoner.

Ross was outraged. ‘What the bloody hell do
you thing you’re doing?’ he roared, struggling against the handcuffs.

‘I told you,’ Hubbard said calmly, ‘I am
placing you under arrest.’

‘And I told you, my wife’s death was an
accident.’

‘It’s interesting you should say that, but
this has nothing to do with your wife. You are being arrested in connection
with the murder of Alex James Crawford. Now listen carefully while I read you
your rights.’

Ross stood in shocked silence, visibly
deflated as Hubbard advised him of his rights. ‘Do you have anything to say?’
Hubbard asked as Butcher took his notebook out.

‘Alex?’ he asked incredulously, ‘Alex is
dead? How did it happen?’

‘We were rather hoping you would be able to
tell us that,’ Hubbard said, grasping his upper arm and leading him towards the
exit. ‘Come on, we’ve got a car outside.’

All the fight had gone out of Ross as he
was led from the gate in a daze, flanked by Hubbard and the two armed officers.
Butcher brought up the rear with Ross’s briefcase.

Just outside, the resident Heathrow
freelance reporter and photographer were hanging about like vultures, hoping to
hassle someone famous, who they had heard was due to board the flight to New
York. As soon as they spotted the armed police and the handcuffs on Ross, they
were all over the small party like a rash.

The reporter trotted along beside Hubbard
firing questions, all of which were answered with a crisp, ‘No comment.’ The
photographer, who was obviously an expert at running backwards, fired off shot
after shot with his digital camera until they reached the exit and Ross was
bundled into the back of a police van.

As the van pulled away and the police
officers dispersed, Hubbard and Butcher to the car park and the two uniformed
officers back to normal duties, the reporter and photographer headed back up to
the departure gate.

‘Who do you reckon he was then?’ the
photographer asked.

‘Don’t ask me,’ the reporter replied, ‘but
it should be easy enough to find out. Wait here.’

The resident reporter had been working
Heathrow for three years and had cultivated a large number of useful friends
and contacts, especially among the female members of staff, due to his roguish
good looks and native cockney charm. He walked back to the departure gate and
found just the two girls behind the desk, the supervisor was nowhere to be
seen. Both receptionists looked up and beamed as he approached them.

‘Hello, girls,’ he said with a huge grin.’

‘Might have known you’d be somewhere close
by,’ one of them said cheekily.

‘You know me, I can smell a story a mile
off. Speaking of which, who was that bloke they just carted off?’

‘Bloke? What bloke, we didn’t see any
bloke, did we Elaine?’ one of the girls said, turning to her friend.

‘Come on girls, don’t hold out on me. You
know I’ll see you all right.’

‘Same arrangement as before?’

‘If you like.’

‘Okay, quickly then, before his nibs comes
back. His name is…’

.

Less than half an hour later, the story,
complete with photographs, was being sent to one of the news wire services by
e-mail from the reporter’s laptop. He’d extracted Ross’s home address and
telephone number from the girls on the British Airways desk and had interviewed
Mrs Holland, the housekeeper, over the phone. She’d inadvertently given him
rather more information than she’d meant to, and by the end of the call he had
details of Ross, Alex Crawford, Young Charles, Lady Webley’s recent accident
and the address of the farm. Combining this with what he’d learnt from the
receptionists, he’d produced a lively and suggestive story which was bound to
be snapped up by the editors of all the Sunday rags.

.

Back at Scotland yard, Hubbard was up in
his office calling off the general alert for Webley, while Butcher supervised
the booking-in procedure where the suspect was fingerprinted, photographed and
allowed to make one phone call. After that, he was escorted to an interview
room where he was left alone, sitting at a plain wooden table while an officer
in the adjoining room kept him under video surveillance. Hubbard was in no
particular rush to get the interview started. He knew it would be pointless to
even try before the lawyer arrived anyway, Webley was far too sharp to start
talking without his brief present.

As soon as the fingerprints had been taken,
they were rushed to the lab and compared with those that had been sent up from
the East Sussex Police. Hubbard was advised of the results as soon as the
comparisons had been made, and was not surprised that they were a perfect
match. The other interesting piece of information the lab had for him concerned
the shoe prints. East Sussex Police had send photographs and measurements and
the boys in the lab had identified the shoe type by its distinctive, wood-louse
shaped tread pattern as a Hush Puppy, size ten.

Ross’s lawyer, Jeffery Barnes, finally
arrived after having been dragged from the golf course, at about eleven
o’clock. After spending a short time in private with his client he indicated
that they was ready to start the interview. Hubbard and Butcher made their way
down to the interview room and introduced themselves to Barnes, who immediately
launched an attack. ‘Now look here, Chief Inspector, my client demands to know
why…’

Hubbard put his hand up, cutting Barnes off
short. ‘Please wait until the recording machine had been started,’ he said
firmly.