Presumed Dead (21 page)

They all sat down at the table, Barnes and
his client on one side, Hubbard and Butcher on the other as Butcher inserted a
freshly labeled CD into the recording machine, pressed the record button and
clearly enunciated, ‘Saturday the fourteenth of September. Ross Frederic Arthur
Webley interview number one. I am Detective Sergeant Butcher, also present are
Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard and Mr Jeffery Barnes of Barnes, Ashcroft and
Peterson Lawyers.’

The official oral labeling of the interview
CD over, Barnes said, ‘Well, Chief Inspector? What is the meaning of this
arrest?’

‘Last night, the body of one Alex James
Crawford was found by myself and Sergeant Butcher at Moor End Farm, your
client’s country residence. He’d been shot.’

Ross was staring at Hubbard incredulously.
‘Shot?’ he asked, ‘by whom?’

‘That’s what we intend to find out,’
Hubbard said menacingly.

‘You don’t think I did it, surely?’ Ross
gushed, ‘I loved him! I would never have harmed a hair on his head!’

Barnes laid his hand on his client’s
forearm. ‘Best not to say too much, old man,’ he advised. ‘Just answer their
questions, then we’ll get you out of here.’

Hubbard continued, ‘Can you describe your
movements from, let’s say, the time you left your wife’s funeral?’

‘I took my son to lunch, then dropped him
back at Eton and drove down to my farm.’

‘Had you arranged to meet Mr Crawford
there?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what reason?’ Hubbard asked.

Ross hesitated for a few moments, then
said, ‘We were lovers, as I’m sure you know by now. We met in order to make
love.’

Barnes was taken aback by this revelation
and scribbled furiously on his yellow legal pad, trying not to look at his
client.

‘When did you leave the farm?’ Hubbard
asked.

‘About quarter past six, I think.’

‘And what about Mr Crawford? Was he alive
when you left him?’

‘Of course he was,’ Ross shouted, then
settling down slightly he added, ‘He was going to tidy up then go back to
London.’

‘Which door did you leave the farmhouse
by?’

‘The front, of course. My car was parked
directly outside.’

‘Where did you go after leaving the farm?’

‘I had arranged to stay with friends who
live in Sunbury, near Heathrow. Reggie and Janet Fortesque. They always have me
to stay when I’m flying out of Heathrow. I leave my car in their garages and
Reggie drives me up to the airport. Makes the journey much easier.’

‘What time did you arrive there?’ Hubbard
asked.

‘About quarter to eight. I was just in time
for dinner.’

‘Did you go straight there from the farm?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?’

‘Just for petrol.’

‘Where was that and what time?’

‘The BP station on the A27, just past
Lewes. It could only have been five minutes after I left the farm. If you let
me have my wallet back, I’ll show you the credit card chit.’

‘We’ll look at that later.’ Hubbard made
some notes then changed his tack. ‘Who knows the combination to your gun-safe?’

‘My gun-safe? Don’t tell me he was shot
with one of the Purdeys!’

‘Answer the question please,’ Hubbard said
firmly.

Ross hesitated then said slowly, ‘Just
myself and my late wife.’

‘Are you certain about that?’

‘Absolutely, my wife and I were extremely
careful about keeping it a secret. She was terrified that our son would find a
way into it and get his hands on the guns.’

Hubbard changed tack again. ‘Do you own a
pair of Hush Puppy shoes?’

‘Certainly not,’ Ross scoffed. ‘I have all
my footwear handmade by a little chap in London.’

Hubbard made more notes then said,’ I’d
like to leave it there while we check the things you’ve just told us. We’ll
start again in half an hour.’

Butcher switched the recorder off and
followed Hubbard out of the room. As soon as the door was shut he asked, ‘What
do you reckon, Boss?’

‘I’ve interviewed a lot of villains in my
time,’ Hubbard said thoughtfully, ‘and although I hate to say it, I think he
may be telling us the truth.’

Butcher thought for a moment. ‘I suppose
it’s possible someone could have broken in while they were upstairs, cracked
the safe thinking it held the family jewels, then been disturbed by Crawford
after Webley had gone.’

‘It’s possible, that might explain the Hush
Puppies and why he went out the back door,’ Hubbard mused. ‘The other thing is,
I can’t see that Webley had a motive. Let’s check up on his story anyway, then
have another go at him.’

Half an hour later, they were back in the
interview room with the CD recorder running. A search of Ross’s London home had
revealed nothing incriminating and no shop bought shoes. The Fortesques had
confirmed his story, also saying he’d seemed perfectly normal when he’d
arrived. The credit card receipt they found in his wallet showed a time of
18:23, also confirming what he’d told them.

The lab had been over his clothes and the
contents of his suitcases and had found no trace of blood and no Hush Puppies.
Hubbard’s well-developed instinct was starting to tell him they had the wrong
man, for this crime anyway. But there was still the question of his wife’s
body. Why had he automatically assumed he was being arrested for his wife’s
death, and why had he been so insistent that it was an accident?

‘Tell me,’ Hubbard started, ‘why did you
have your wife’s remains cremated so quickly after your return from France?’

Ross was ready for this question, had been
for days. ‘I had urgent business in the United States that would keep me there
for some months,’ he said confidently. ‘It was a simple choice of having the
ceremony immediately, or waiting until I returned. For my son’s sake, I thought
it best to get it over with.’

It seemed reasonable enough, but Hubbard
pressed on. ‘Who identified your wife’s body after the accident?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ Ross answered, confident that no
one could now contradict him.

‘And you are certain that the body you
identified was in fact that of your wife, Lady Webley?’

‘Absolutely certain. After all, a man
should know his own wife, what?’

‘You would have thought so,’ Hubbard said.
‘What if I were to tell you that I have reason to believed that the body you
put forward for cremation was not, in fact, your wife?’

‘I would say that you would have a hard job
proving it now,’ Ross said with a smile.

Hubbard paused for a moment then said, ‘On
the contrary. You saw an empty coffin cremated. The body we had removed from it
before the cremation is now lying in the mortuary of a nearby hospital, and I,
for one, am confident that it is not your wife. What have you got to say to
that?’

Ross’s mirth changed instantly to shock,
which he expertly covered, then delivered his pre-made excuse with a confidence
borne out of years of lying. ‘I suppose I could have made a mistake,’ he
admitted humbly, ‘she was pretty badly smashed up you know, and I’d had a few
before going up to the hospital.’

For the second time, Hubbard was half
inclined to believe what he was being told. He was also beginning to wonder if
having the first wife exhumed was going to be a mistake, but there wasn’t much
he could do to stop that now, the procedure was due to go ahead in a few hours’
time. Anyway, he was only about fifty percent certain about Webley. Either he
was an innocent man, or he was the best liar he’d ever come across in thirty
years on the force. Time to start again.

Hubbard went right back to the beginning
and asked all the same questions again in a slightly different way, but after
three solid hours, he’d still not managed to get Ross to make a single mistake
or change his story on either subject one iota. Finally, by two thirty, Hubbard
decided he was wasting his time, so after confiscating his passport, he
released Ross pending further investigation. He also intended to speak to the
police in Chamonix to find out more about the disappearance of Lady Webley, but
that could wait until Monday.

Right now, all he wanted to do was to get
home, spend a little time with his wife, then have his dinner before heading up
to Minster at Stone for the exhumation, which was scheduled, like most
exhumations, to take place in the dead of the night.

Alice woke abruptly as Philippe stopped to
pay the toll at the beginning of the Autoroute Blanche, just south of Geneva on
the last leg of their drive to Chamonix. She’d been so tired after her
sleepless night on the train that she’d nodded off almost immediately they had
left the house.

They’d had a busy morning. Directly after
they’d finished their breakfast, Philippe had announced that they must get rid
of all the clothes they had been wearing the previous day, just in case they
were ever linked to the farm. They had both gone and changed then he’d put
every single item, including jackets and shoes, into the washing machine on a
boil wash. While they were waiting for that to finish, he’d burned the bogus
lawyer’s report and deleted the file from his hard disk. Once the washing
machine had finished, he’d bagged the clothes and shoes up with his household
rubbish and had driven it to the local tip, where he’d thrown it into the
compacting machine personally.

While he’d been gone, Alice had treated
herself to a long, hot bath, then had got dressed into her dirty, blood stained
walking gear and the spare trousers which they had borrowed from the Charpoua
Hut. She’d also looked out the hooded jacket, gloves and crampons they had
borrowed, ready to take with her. After that, she’d carefully packed all her
new clothes away into a suitcase, which Philippe had hidden in his own bedroom.
Philippe had then changed into his climbing gear, packed an overnight bag, and
by midday they had been ready to roll.

Just before they had left, Philippe had
logged onto BBC Online on the Internet, looking for any news of the shooting.
The BBC hadn’t, by that time, picked the story up, so there was no mention of
it. Alice had told him he was wasting his time and explained that while they
were away, their housekeeper only went in once a week, on a Wednesday, to do
the dusting, so it was unlikely the body would be discovered until then.
Philippe hadn’t told her about the car that had pulled up while he’d still been
in the house. He hadn’t wanted her to feel pursued on top of all her other
emotions.

Now, as they cruised smoothly up the
Autoroute with the massive, snow capped peaks gradually enfolding them,
Philippe told Alice the next stage of his plan.

‘Just before we get into Chamonix I’m going
to drop you off,’ he told her. ‘Then I’m going up to see Batard, the head of
the Platoon of High Mountain Police.’

Alice looked shocked. ‘What on earth do you
want to see him for?’ she asked.

‘To let him know where I am,’ he explained.
‘When they find you, they are going to realize the mistake they made with
Louisa’s body and will want to contact me. I just want to make it easy for
them.’

‘I see,’ Alice said. ‘What do you want me
to do?’

‘I’ll drop you off at a lay-by just past
the entrance to the Mont Blanc Tunnel, that’s about a twenty minute walk from
the Montenvers rack railway station in Chamonix. You walk along to the station
and buy a return ticket to the Mer de Glace. You should be able to catch the
four thirty.’

‘Will you meet me there?’ Alice asked.

‘I’ll catch the same train, but we must not
be seen together. If you see me, ignore me. When you get to the top, walk down
the path towards the glacier, the one we came up, and wait for me.’

‘Okay, anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Philippe said, looking at her and
smiling, ‘try not to look so beautiful. Remember, it was only a few days ago
your picture was being shown to hundreds of rescuers, we can’t take the risk of
someone recognizing you.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Alice said
bitterly, ‘remember, I’m the classic stereotype. I look exactly like a thousand
other women. No one sees past the hair and sunglasses.’

‘I do,’ he replied.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said, squeezing
his hand. Then looking forward and up, through the windscreen, she said,
‘Anyway, judging by the weather up ahead, I’m going to have to have that jacket
on with the hood up.’

‘That reminds me, I want to try to get the
weather forecast from CHUT FM as soon as we are within range. We should be able
to pick them up from here.’

Philippe switched the car radio on and
punched the key he had permanently pre-programmed for the local Chamonix
station. They were just in time for the four o’clock news and the French
newsreader’s resonant voice filled the car. ‘The top story this afternoon is
from England. Sir Ross Webley, the man who funded the massive search and rescue
bid for his wife in Chamonix earlier this week, has been arrested for the
murder of his secretary, who was found shot dead last night at the Englishman’s
country house just hours after the cremation of his wife. Police from Scotland
Yard arrested Webley this morning as he attempted to leave the country. Now for
some local news…’

Alice let out a little cry. ‘They’ve
arrested Ross!’

‘What did you expect?’ Philippe asked
calmly.

‘I don’t know… I guess I hadn’t thought
about it,’ Alice admitted.

‘I had,’ he said, ‘when you look at the
evidence that was left all over the place, there is only one conclusion that
the police could possibly come to.’

She thought for a moment then asked, ‘Do
you think there’s enough evidence for them to convict him?’

‘I would have thought so,’ Philippe
answered. ‘I think it is called poetic justice in English.’

‘Yes,’ Alice said, her lips contorting into
a grim smile, ‘and it’s exactly what he deserves.’

‘By the time you have had him prosecuted
for attempted murder, on top of what he is already facing, he will be away for
a very long time.’

‘The longer the better as far as I’m
concerned,’ Alice spat.

.

Back in London, Ross and his lawyer, Barnes
were standing on the sidewalk just outside New Scotland Yard, trying to find a
taxi. The rain that had been plaguing the country for the past few days had
finally gone leaving the afternoon warm and bright. A black cab swooped into
the curb and both men climbed into the back. They had decided to share a cab so
that they could have a brief chat.

‘Thanks for getting me out of there,’ Ross
said with relief, as soon as they were under way.

Barnes looked at him with puzzlement. The
revelations about Ross’s homosexuality had been a shock, and he suddenly
realized that although they had been friends for years, he didn’t know the man
at all. ‘I’m worried about you Ross,’ he said. ‘Normally you’d be bellowing
with righteous indignation in this situation. I say, there isn’t anything to
these accusations is there?’

‘Of course not,’ Ross replied confidently.
‘I told you, Alex was alive and well when I left him, all I can think is that
someone broke in after I left and shot him. I’m just a bit shocked by it all,
to be honest.’

‘What about this business with your wife’s
body? Do you think you may have made a mistake with the identification?’

‘It’s always possible, I suppose. I was in
a hell of a state that night.’

‘Yes, I can quite imagine,’ Barnes replied
sympathetically, thinking of his own wife.

‘What’s going to happen next?’ Ross asked.

‘They’ll probably want you back for more
questioning on Monday, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure they don’t hold you,’
Barnes reassured him. ‘As far as I can see they’ve got nothing but
circumstantial evidence.’

‘Plenty of people have gone to prison on
circumstantial evidence,’ Ross observed.

Just then, the taxi pulled over to the side
of the road and Barnes jumped up saying, ‘Ah, here’s where I get out.’ Turning
to Ross, he said, ‘If you need me over the weekend, just call. Goodbye.’

The taxi pulled away and headed for Regents
Park, where it deposited Ross outside his house. Ross had just paid the driver
when the front door of the house flew open and Mrs Holland launched herself
down the steps.

‘Oh Sir, thank goodness you’re home. We’ve
had the police here searching everything and those awful newspaper reporters
keep ringing up and knocking on the door. They say Mr Alex’s been shot! It’s
not true, is it?’

‘I’m afraid it is true, Mrs Holland,’ he
said remorsefully.

Mrs Holland burst into tears. ‘First Her
Ladyship and now Mr Alex,’ she sobbed from behind her handkerchief as she
followed Ross into the house.

She was beginning to grate on his already
frayed nerves so he said, ‘Look Mrs Holland, I can see you’re upset. Why don’t
you take some time off, eh? Get away for a little holiday somewhere.’

‘I couldn’t sir,’ she sobbed. ‘Who’d look
after you?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after
myself, Mrs Holland, besides, I’ll probably go and stay with friends until this
blows over.’

‘That’s very wise sir… well, if you’re
sure, I had planned to stay with my sister for a few days while you were away.’

‘You get on your way then,’ he said, going
into his study and shutting the door behind him. Suddenly, ensconced in privacy
and away from the hostility of the police, the full horror of what had happened
hit him. He slumped down in an armchair, buried his face in his hands and wept.
Alex, dear Alex, what happened to you? His mind went back to the passion and
newfound sense of freedom they had shared the previous afternoon. It had been
difficult at times over the past five years, living in the same house as the
person he adored and not being able to show that love, or even hint at it most
of the time.

He got up, poured himself a large brandy,
took the phone off the hook then slumped back down in his chair, thinking back
to the first time he’d ever seen Alex, seven years ago on stage at the Chez
Nous on Marburgerstrasse in Berlin. The Chez Nous was an outrageous drag club
that was based on Isherwood’s seedy Berlin of the early 1930’s. Alex had been
billed as Die Engländerin Rose, The English Rose, and it had certainly been an
apt description.

Ross remembered how he’d been sitting in
the dark, smoky club in among the fat German businessmen and their high-class
whores, when the lights had gone out. A few seconds later a single spotlight
had illuminated a figure on the stage, which had made him sit up and take
notice. That had been his first glimpse of Alex. He’d been dressed in an
incredible costume that was split right down the middle. One half was male and
the other half female. On the male side of his body he’d been wearing a dinner
suit and had short dark hair and a moustache. On the female side, he’d been
wearing a beautiful blue, full-length satin evening dress with a slit up the
side, which hugged his hip and revealed the occasional glimpse of a long, silky
leg. The hair on that side was long and blond.

Ross remembered how he had been absolutely
captivated by this vision of what, for him, was the ultimate erotic fantasy.
He’d watched spellbound as Alex had performed a slow, seductive song in a
husky, Marlene Dietrich style voice, and had become more and more aroused as
he’d swung from side to side apparently changing sex with every turn. After the
performance, barely able to contain his excitement, he’d bribed a waiter to
take him backstage to meet Die Engländerin Rose.

Ross smiled as he remembered how they had
hit it off immediately. After Alex’s final performance that night, through
which Ross had sat absolutely riveted and extremely aroused, they had gone out
for supper, then had gone back to Alex’s flat where they discovered that they
shared similar and compatible sexual preferences.

It hadn’t been long before Ross had
convinced him to leave the club and to come back to London, where they would be
able to see much more of each other. Ross had fixed him up in an elegant flat
and came to visit several times a week, mostly in the afternoons. Alex had soon
found work in a drag club in Soho and their relationship had settled down into
a comfortable and regular routine, with each falling more and more in love with
the other.

After two years though, they had found that
they simply couldn’t bear to be apart for more than a few hours at a time, and
Alex had started insisting that Ross should make a choice between himself and
Alice. As far as Ross had been concerned, there was no question which of them
he preferred from a personal and sexual viewpoint, but there was the question
of Alice’s money. If he’d left her and gone to live with Alex full time, he
would have effectively been throwing away any chance of getting a share of her inheritance
when her old man finally died.

He’d explained the situation to Alex, and
after thinking about it, they had hit upon the idea of Alex moving in with him,
under the guise of a personal secretary, and to make it perfect, Ross had told
Alice that he’d done it for her. He smiled again as he remembered how grateful
she’d been and how he and Alex had laughed about it behind her back.

After that, he recalled, things had been
almost perfect. Alex had given up performing at the club and they had had the pleasure
of seeing each other every day, but also the frustration of having to hide
their feelings when other people were around. Initially, he’d kept the flat on
so that they had somewhere to go where they could be assured of complete
privacy, but then he’d planted the idea in his wife’s mind that she might like
to spend more time in the States with her father. When she’d gone, the
arrangement was finally perfect, and that’s how things had been up until
earlier in the year when Alice had inherited.