Presumed Dead (23 page)

.

Back in London, Ross was still drowning his
sorrows in brandy. He’d got past mourning Alex and was now feeling thoroughly
sorry for himself. All my plans, he thought dolefully, head in hands. The
Learjet, the yacht, the place in Monaco, all put on hold for God knows how long
until they either find Alice’s body or I can have her declared legally dead. It
could be years! How the hell did the police find out that body wasn’t Alice?
Suddenly he had another thought. Maybe they suspect me of killing her… and what
about Alex? They obviously think I did that! If they tie the two together they
might even convince a jury I’m guilty!

All at once, the prospect of going to jail
seemed very real. With rising panic he jumped up out of his chair and started
pacing the floor. They can’t do it, he told himself, can they? Even if they
don’t get a conviction my reputation will be shot to pieces! The newspapers
will have a field day, in fact they’ve probably already started digging! I’ll
never be invited to another party again! Never be able to go anywhere without
people pointing at me behind my back and saying, ‘There goes Sir Ross, they say
he shot his male lover you know… yes my dear, that’s what I said,
male
lover!’

Ross had always sworn that if he ever had
to give up the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to he would kill himself. Now
that thought crept into his mind again. Walking slowly to his antique writing
desk, he pulled the central drawer all the way out then reached into the
opening and pressed a concealed lever. A secret draw, directly above, popped
open, and there, wrapped in a piece of white linen was his service revolver, which
he’d kept illegally ever since leaving the Guards.

He unwrapped the heavy pistol and fondled
it affectionately. He couldn’t remember the number of times he’d wanted to use
it on Alice over the past few months, as a quick route to her money, but that
would have been messy and difficult to explain. Far better to plan things
carefully and commit the perfect crime, he’d told himself. Suddenly he laughed
aloud at the irony of it all. The perfect crime? Is that what it’s been? I
can’t even bloody well prove she’s dead!

He looked down at the weapon in his hand
then his face hardened. If I can’t prove she’s dead, he reasoned, the police
can’t possibly prove I killed her either… and as for Alex, I know I’m innocent!
Now he was getting angry. If they’re going to try to pin that on me, he thought
viscously, they’re going to have a hell of a fight on their hands! ‘Just let
‘em try!’ he shouted aloud.

Having convinced himself that everything
was going to be all right, he quickly wrapped the gun up, stuffed it back into the
drawer then went to the telephone to call Jeff Barnes, but he wasn’t in. He’d
just replaced the receiver after leaving a message for Barnes to call him back
when the phone started to ring. Fearing it might be a reporter, he answering it
cautiously saying, ‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, Ross?’ a familiar voice
asked.

‘Yes, It’s me,’ he replied a little
woozily, ‘who’s that?’

‘It’s me, Ricky, calling you from the sunny
Riviera. I was sorry to hear about Alice. Are you all right, you sound
terrible?’

‘Quite all right thanks,’ Ross lied, ‘just
tired.’

‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news at a
time like this, but you remember that little American we were talking about
last week, Wiseman? Well, I think it’s you he’s after, not me.’

Ross suddenly started to pay more attention
and tried to pull himself together. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.

‘After you tipped me off I put a couple of
my men on his tail, and they’ve just come back to me with their report.’

‘And?’ Ross asked impatiently.

‘I won’t bore you by reading the whole
thing out, but the gist of it is this. After leaving Monaco, he drove to
Switzerland and stayed in a little town called Weggis, where he had a meeting
with a couple named Schutz. After leaving them, he visited a lakeside chateau,
then carried on and drove straight to Calais. He crossed to England, booked
into a hotel in London then went by train to a village called Minster at
Stone.’

Ross recognized the name Schutz, and
listened with growing concern as his friend described Wiseman’s movements. ‘What
did he do up there?’ he asked.

‘According to my men, he went to see the
vicar then spent half an hour tidying one of the vaults in the churchyard… your
family vault.’

‘That’s only natural,’ Ross said with
relief, ‘his aunt is buried there after all. I expect he was just paying his
respects.’

‘Maybe,’ Bonatti continued, ‘but you should
hear the next part. Directly after leaving the churchyard he went to the local
pub and had a heated discussion with a guy called Doctor Mason, then he went
straight back to London. In the afternoon he went to Scotland Yard.’

‘Scotland Yard?’ Ross asked incredulously.
‘What was he doing there?’

‘I’m afraid my men couldn’t find out.’

Ross broke out in a cold sweat, then after
a few moments asked, ‘When was this?’

‘Thursday afternoon,’ Bonatti replied.

‘And where is he now?’

‘Back in the States. He spent Friday going
around the tourist attractions in London then flew back to New York early this
morning.’

Ross’s mind was spinning. Surely Wiseman
couldn’t have worked out what had happened to his aunt? And even if he had, the
police wouldn’t listen to him… would they?

Bonatti was speaking again. ‘Ross… Ross,
you still there?’

‘Sorry Ricky,’ Ross said, suddenly
realizing he was still connected. ‘Just thinking. Thanks for the gen, but I
don’t think it’s anything to worry about.’

‘I hope not. Anyway, see you later.
Goodbye.’

Ross hung up then stood thinking for a
moment. I must get up to Minster at Stone, he thought, and find out what that
idiot Mason told him. Deciding to leave immediately, he slipped his jacket on
and felt for his car keys. ‘Damn,’ he shouted aloud as he remembered he’d left
the Jaguar at Reggie Fortesque’s place. Picking the phone up again, he dialed
Reggie’s number.

‘Reggie? Ross here. Look old man, I’m in a
bit of a fix and I need my car. You couldn’t run it over here for me could you?
I’ll drop you back home straight away.’

‘Sorry old boy,’ Reggie replied cheerfully,
‘no can do. The police took it away this morning don’t you know.’

‘Took it away?’ Ross asked in disbelief.

‘Yes, stuck it on the back of a damn great
lorry and carted it off. Said they wanted to test it for something or other,
didn’t understand a word of it, not much I could do.’

Ross let the receiver drop from his ear as
he thought about this latest development then hung up abruptly and headed out
of the back door, down the steps, through the garden and into the garages in
the mews. As well as the new Jaguar, he also had a bright red, 1960’s E-Type,
which was kept in mint condition. Pushing the button to operate the electric
garage door, he jumped into the vintage Jaguar, fired up the hugely powerful
V12 engine, then spun the rear wheels as he accelerated out of the mews onto
the dark London streets.

By the time Alice had finished freshening
up, dinner was nearly ready and the hut was filled with a delicious aroma. She
walked through into the tiny kitchen, handed Philippe the saucepan she’d
borrowed then said, ‘Mmm, that smells good, what is it?’

‘Pasta and stew,’ he replied, ‘I’m afraid
that’s all there is. The skiers like heavy carbohydrate food.’

‘So do I,’ Alice confided, ‘when I’m not
watching my figure. It’s a pity we haven’t got any wine.’

‘Ah, but we have!’ Philippe said. ‘Stir
this for me while I get it.’

Alice stirred the stew while he went out
into the main room and delved into his rucksack. After a few moments, he pulled
a bottle of red wine from the bag with a flourish and said, ‘Voilà!’

Alice laughed and clapped her hands,
‘You’re a genius,’ she said as he carried it into the kitchen.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it out of
mugs,’ he said.

‘Who cares? It’ll be more romantic that
way,’ Alice smiled.

Philippe pulled the cork out of the wine
with the corkscrew on his Swiss Army Knife while Alice dished the stew and
pasta up onto a couple of tin plates and put them on the table. Seated opposite
each other, Philippe poured the wine then proposed a toast. ‘To your future
happiness,’ he said raising his mug.

‘Our future happiness,’ she corrected,
clanking her mug against his.

They each took a mouthful of wine then
tucked into their food with the raging appetite that climbing and thin mountain
air always gives. Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes as they
enjoyed the food, then Alice said between mouthfuls, ‘I was thinking earlier,
how can we be sure nobody has been up to this hut in the past week?’

Philippe swallowed and said, ‘Because of
the logbook.’

‘Logbook?’

‘Yes,’ he explained, ‘each of these refuge
huts has a logbook. Anyone who visits or stays in a hut must write his name in
the book. I looked at it earlier and no one has been here since September 1st
when the helicopter crew replenished all the supplies for the winter.’

Alice nodded and carried on eating. After
another few mouthfuls she asked, ‘What about that radio? Won’t they say I
should have used it to call for help?’

‘I thought of that too,’ he replied, ‘but
unfortunately there’s a loose connection in the wiring and it doesn’t work.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked with surprise.

‘Because I loosened it with my penknife while
you were having your wash,’ he said with a grin.

Alice laughed, ‘Looks like you’ve thought
of just about everything,’ she said.

‘I hope so. There is one more job we must
do after dinner though. We need to dump a load of the food and water down the
toilet.’

‘I get it,’ Alice said, ‘just to complete
the illusion the I’ve been up here for a week.’

‘Exactly. These huts with toilets have a
septic tank that is taken away by helicopter and disposed of properly so as not
to pollute the mountains. Just in case anyone wants to check up, we have to use
enough food and water, and put enough waste into the toilet to make it look
like you have been here a whole week.’

After dinner, they washed the plates and
saucepans then carried a dozen packets of dried food and five litre bottles of
mineral water through to the toilet. Alice emptied the bottles of water into
the wash trough while Philippe emptied the sachets of food down the toilet,
flushing it after each one along with some toilet paper. When they had
finished, they put the empty bottles and packets in a box in the kitchen then
took what was left of the wine and sat back down on the mattress in front of
the stove.

Now the time was drawing near when Alice
knew he would have to leave her alone, she started to grow melancholy. ‘How
long will it take you to get back to the Charpoua Hut?’ she asked.

Philippe thought for a moment then said,
‘About two hours I expect.’

‘Won’t it be dangerous in the dark?’

‘Not too bad,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘I’ve
got a good lantern and I know the path well.’

They sat in silence for a while longer
drinking their wine, not knowing what to say. Finally Philippe swallowed the
last of his wine and stood up. ‘I suppose I had better be going,’ he said,
taking his empty mug through into the kitchen.

‘So soon?’ Alice asked, getting up and
following him.

‘I expect you’re tired and want to get to
bed,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.’

Something inside Alice snapped and tears
filled her eyes. She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his
chest and sobbed, ‘I don’t want you to go… please don’t leave me yet.’

Philippe brought his arms up and squeezed
her tight, nuzzling his face into her hair. ‘Alice,’ he whispered, ‘there’s
something I want to ask you.’

She stopped crying and looked up into his
eyes, wondering if this was going to be the moment she’d been waiting for.
‘What is it?’ she asked softly, barely able to speak.

‘I was going to wait… wait until things
were settled,’ he stammered, ‘but I must know now. When this is all over… when
you have got your divorce… when you are free again… will you marry me?’

Alice felt a pulse of pleasure surge
through her body. ‘I thought you were never going to ask me,’ she said,
throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately.

In response, he took her in his arms and
kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. It made her legs go weak and
her toes curl. When their lips finally parted, Alice kept her arms locked
around his neck but pulled away a little so she could look at him. ‘I think I
ought to tell you, there are one or two things you should know if you’re going
to take me on,’ she said ominously, but with a smile.

‘Such as?’ Philippe asked, smiling back at
her.

‘I’ve decided to put my father’s company in
trust for Charles until he is twenty-five, then he will own it outright. I’ll
be coming to you with nothing.’

‘Perfect, that’s exactly how I want you,’
he replied dreamily.

‘And I’m going to take Charles out of Eton
and have him live at home from now on.’

‘Even better, you know I’ve always wanted
children.’

‘And I want to get my hair cut short. I’m
sick of being a stereotype.’

‘I will love you no matter how much hair
you have,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Just this. I want to have two babies, one
right after the other, straight away, before I get too old.’

‘I will give you all the babies you want,’
he said, pulling her back in close and kissing her again.

When their lips parted for the second time,
Alice nuzzled into his neck and whispered, ‘You know, if things go on like this
I might just change my mind about marrying you.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, nibbling her
ear.

‘You promised to give me babies,’ she
breathed, ‘and you haven’t delivered.’

Philippe didn’t need any more encouragement
than that. With her arms still locked around his neck, he picked her up,
carried her easily across the hut and laid her down on the mattress. Then, with
the wind shrieking outside and the hut shuddering beneath them, Philippe took
Alice in his arms and made the earth move for her, gently, passionately, over
and over again, in ways she’d never even dreamed of…

.

Ross arrived at Minster at Stone and parked
the E-Type in the High Street. Taking a flashlight from the car, he walked down
to the dark churchyard and around the winding path to his family vault. To his
immense relief, he found everything as it should be. He noticed that the
entrance was clean and tidy, but the heavy, wrought iron gate was still
securely locked in place with the chunky padlocks, now rusted solid, that had
been fitted over twenty years earlier after his first wife’s funeral.

Feeling much better, he walked up to the
doctor’s house, only to find after knocking repeatedly and ringing the bell
that although there was a light on, no one was at home. After thinking for a
moment, he decided to try the pub and made his way through the door into the
warm interior.

As he walked into the public bar the
landlord looked up and said with surprise. ‘Why, it’s Sir Ross isn’t it? We
haven’t seen you around these parts in years. What can I get you? On the house
of course!’

Ross could see the doctor wasn’t in the
bar, but decided that although he really wanted to get out and find him, he
also really needed another drink. Making his choice, he instantly switched into
his condescending, hail-fellow-well-met mode that he always adopted when
dealing with people he considered to be yokels. ‘That’s very kind of you
Landlord,’ he said heartily, walking up to the bar. ‘I’ll have a large brandy
if I may.’

Seated along the bar were the regulars, the
same collection of old men who spent most lunchtimes and every evening in the
pub. Now, they slid from their stools and crowded around Ross, holding out
their hands. ‘Remember me sir?’ one of them was saying, ‘Forbes? I used to be
one of your gardeners up at the manor.’

‘Of course,’ Ross lied, shaking the
gnarled, arthritic hand enthusiastically, ‘how have you been keeping?’

One by one the old men introduced
themselves and Ross pretended to remember each one. Although he felt he was
wasting his time, he couldn’t resist playing the lord of the manor: it was a
role he missed. Getting his wallet out, he slapped a fifty pound note down on
the bar and said, ‘A round of drinks for my friends here Landlord, and one for
yourself. While you’re at it put another large one in my glass too.’

The old men all smiled and said ‘God bless
you, sir,’ as they raised their glasses and drank his health. Warmed by the
brandy and the feeling of self-importance, he smiled back at them like a
benevolent father.

When the accolades had died down and the
old men had returned to their stools, Ross called the landlord over and asked
nonchalantly, ‘Whatever happened to Doctor Mason?’

‘He was in earlier,’ the landlord told him,
‘but was called out to old Mrs Plummet. He should be back shortly.’

‘I didn’t realize he was still practicing,’
Ross said with surprise.

‘He’s only got a few patients now, mostly
the old ones he’s been treating for years. All the younger people go up the
clinic.’

Ross decided to wait in the pub and had had
another two large brandies by the time Mason got back at around nine-thirty.

As the doctor walked in he saw Ross and
stopped dead, looking like he’d seen a ghost. Within a second though, he’d
regained his composure and called out a greeting. ‘Sir Ross, what a surprise!
It must be what… twenty years?’

Ross stood up from the barstool a little
unsteadily and shook the doctor’s hand. ‘At least… what will you have?’

‘A whisky, please.’

‘Landlord, a large whisky for the doctor,
and another brandy for me.’

‘What are you doing in this part of the
world?’ Mason asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I came up to speak
with you,’ Ross said, making sure no one else heard. ‘Is there somewhere we can
talk in private?’

Mason was nervous. He knew exactly what
Ross wanted to talk to him about. In fact, he knew a great deal more than Ross
did. On Friday afternoon, he’d been summoned to the coroner’s office in
Hertford where he’d been questioned about the late Freda Webley and asked to
repeat everything he’d said to Wiseman. After that, they had informed him that
they intended to exhume Freda Webley’s body the following night, and that there
would be a full autopsy performed. Since then, he’d been wishing he’d kept his
mouth shut and dreading meeting up with Ross.

Mason glanced at the clock over the bar
nervously, he knew the exhumation team would be arriving any moment and he
really didn’t want to be around Ross when he found out what was happening.
Seeing that he’d obviously had a few drinks already, Mason decided the best bet
would be to get Ross out of the pub and back to his house where they could sit
in the back room and hopefully avoid the activities in the churchyard.

‘Why don’t we get a bottle and go back to
my house?’ Mason suggested as they finished their drinks.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Ross slurred.
‘Landlord, a bottle of brandy if you please.’ He paid for the bottle, bade
farewell to the landlord and his fellow drinkers then followed Mason out of
doors.

They had just stepped out of the pub into
the cool night air when, to Mason’s horror, a convoy of police cars and vans
sped by, heading towards the church.

‘I say,’ Ross remarked, craning his neck
and standing on tiptoes to look down the road towards the church gates where
the convoy had just pulled up. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

Mason grabbed his arm saying, ‘Just chasing
the local vandals I expect. Come on, let’s get started on this bottle.’

Ross shrugged him off. ‘No,’ he said
firmly, ‘I want to see what’s going on.’