Presumed Dead, page 10
Back outside, the rain that had been falling persistently for two days had finally stopped, but the thick, low cloud still hung in the valley ready to provide another soaking. Philippe drove down into the center of town and parked in the pay-and-display near the community center. He gave Alice a quick call to let her know how he’d got on with Batard, then set off to comb the bars of Chamonix for Monsieur Christian Lochet. Every bar in town was buzzing with the story of the rescue, and it didn’t take him long to find out that Lochet had come down off the mountain, gone straight to the bank to claim his reward, then set out on a bender.
Philippe tracked him down fairly quickly to a crowded bar in a back street off the Rue des Moulins, a favorite haunt for the mountain guides. The bar was typical of those all over France, with a wooden counter along one wall, small round tables dotted here and there and loud music blaring from a jukebox. Philippe walked in, elbowed his way to the counter, and attracted the attention of the barman with a wave. Shouting to be heard over the music, Philippe asked, ‘Christian Lochet, is he in here?’
The barman indicated to the rear corner of the bar with a jerk of his head.
‘I’ll have two beers,’ Philippe said, sliding a ten Euro note onto the bar.
The barman grunted and pulled two half-litre pots. Philippe took his change, picked up the glass tankards then headed towards the back of the bar where a man was sprawled asleep across a table. Philippe shook him by the shoulder until he raised his head, looking up with bleary, unfocused eyes.
‘Are you Lochet?’ Philippe asked.
‘I was,’ the man slurred, ‘but I’m not sure now.’
‘I’ve bought you a drink,’ Philippe said, putting the pot of beer down in front of him and taking the seat opposite.
Lochet was a small, deeply tanned, wiry man of about thirty, typical of the tough Chamonix mountain guide breed. He grabbed the tankard and drank deeply from it before banging it back down on the table. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, wiping the froth from his top lip with the back of his hand.
‘I hear it was you who found the body today,’ Philippe said conversationally.
‘No,’ Lochet said with his eyes half closed. ‘It was Miel.’
‘But I was told…’ Philippe started but was cut off.
‘The best mountain dog in the whole of France,’ Lochet said, bending down and reaching under the table.
Philippe looked under the table and saw a big yellow Labrador asleep with his head between his paws, lying across his master’s feet. Lochet was gently fondling his ears.
‘This dog,’ Lochet said proudly, sitting up again, ‘earned me ten thousand Euros today. You tell me Monsieur, have you ever heard of a dog like that before… eh?’
Philippe had to admit that he hadn’t. ‘He is a very fine dog,’ Philippe said. ‘Tell me, where did he find the body?’
Lochet recognized in Philippe someone who hadn’t heard his story, so launched into it with relish. ‘We were at about three thousand meters altitude, above the Charpoua hut on the glacier when Miel started to dig like this.’ He gave an impression of a dog digging by scratching on the table with his fingers. ‘There had been an avalanche and he was digging in the snow that had come down from higher up. Well, I got my pole and soon found there was something under there, so I dug with my hands and voilà, there she was.’
‘What was she wearing?’ Philippe asked.
Lochet frowned then said slowly, ‘A white short sleeved shirt, tight turquoise leggings that came just below her knees and small, lightweight turquoise climbing boots. We wrapped her up in a blanket as soon as we found her.’
Philippe closed his eyes as he remembered Louisa wearing exactly those things the last time he’d seen her. After a moment he asked, ‘And what color hair did she have?’
‘Brown, light brown, just like in the photograph we were given,’ Lochet replied.
‘What about her face?’ Philippe asked. ‘Did her face look like the woman in the photograph?’
Lochet’s eyes were rolling around but he eventually managed to focus and looked directly at Philippe. ‘Look Monsieur, if you really want to know, half her face was smashed in. She could have been my own mother and I wouldn’t have recognized her.’
Philippe felt a wave of nausea pass over him and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Lochet was asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms. Philippe looked down at him and started to think. Batard knew that Alice had been described as wearing shorts and walking boots, so he obviously hadn’t seen the lower half of the body when it was brought off the mountain. After that, it had been stripped and cleaned up at the hospital, therefore he probably hadn’t seen the leggings and climbing boots at all! That must be it! If he could just get Lochet to describe exactly what she’d been wearing to Batard, then surely Batard must question the identification. It was his only chance.
Philippe decided he needed to get Lochet sobered up, so he reached down under the table, stroked the dog, then swiveled his collar around until he could read the address off the identity tag. Once he had it memorized, he shook Lochet awake, dragged him to his feet, and supporting him under one arm said, ‘Come on, I’m taking you home.’
Chapter 8
By eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Ross had checked out of the Jardin du Mont Blanc Hotel, taking his own luggage with him, but leaving instructions with the manager to have Madame’s things packed and held until they were sent for. He couldn’t be bothered to struggle with the extra luggage as he had a busy day ahead of him.
By eight-fifteen, he was at the hospital arranging the release and transportation of his ‘dear wife’s’ body. The hospital administrator was very sympathetic and obliging, and in no time, his staff had her packed into a sealed body bag, placed on a stretcher and loaded into a private Blue Cross ambulance ready for the trip to Geneva airport. Ross signed the release papers, collected the death certificate and settled the hospital bill before leaving with her personal effects in a black plastic bag.
By nine, the ambulance, which was in fact a converted estate car with the rear windows blacked out and a blue light on the roof, pulled out of the hospital’s basement car park. Ross was waiting at the top of the ramp in his hire car and they set off in convoy down the Autoroute Blanche in the pouring rain towards Geneva airport. He reckoned they would be airborne by eleven at the latest.
.
Philippe slept soundly on Christian Lochet’s sofa until being woken up just after nine by Miel the Labrador, who obviously decided that he needed a wash, so was licking his face. At first, Philippe didn’t know where he was or what was happening, but then, looking around, he remembered. He pushed the dog away and sat up, rubbing the slobber off his face.
The previous evening had been a nightmare. He’d managed to get Lochet out of the bar without much trouble, but as soon as the fresh air had hit him, he’d passed out and Philippe had ended up having to carry him back to his apartment over his shoulder. As soon as they had got through the front door though, Lochet had miraculously come to, and had insisted on playing the genial host, plying Philippe with cheap red wine, refusing to take no for an answer. He’d finally passed out again at around midnight and Philippe had managed to get him onto his bed before collapsing exhausted onto the sofa.
Now there were deep, rasping snores coming from the direction of Lochet’s bedroom. Philippe looked into the room and found him just as he’d left him, fully clothed, lying on his back, arms and legs spread out as though he’d just fallen through the ceiling. Shaking his head, Philippe went through to the kitchen, made two cup of strong coffee, then went back to wake his host up.
‘Lochet… LOCHET,’ Philippe shouted, kicking the leg of the bed. ‘Come on, it’s time to get up.’
Lochet stirred and brought a hand up to rub his face. After a moment, he opened one eye, stared at Philippe and asked, ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Philippe Dulac, don’t you remember? We met last night at the bar.’
‘No I don’t remember,’ he said irritably. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You passed out, I brought you home,’ Philippe explained.
‘Then you decided to stay the night, eh?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
Lochet swung his legs off the bed and sat up. ‘Is that coffee you’ve got there?’ he asked.
Philippe handed him a cup, then shifting some clothes to one side, sat down on an old horsehair armchair, which Lochet obviously used as a wardrobe. ‘Don’t you remember anything we spoke about last night?’ Philippe asked.
‘No, can’t say I do,’ Lochet said, rubbing the stubble on his chin then sipping his coffee. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘To cut a long story short, I believe the woman you found up on the glacier yesterday was my wife, who went missing in the summer, not the American woman who was lost on Monday. I want you to come to the Platoon headquarters and help me prove it.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Lochet said disparagingly, ‘It was the American woman.’
‘How can you be so certain?’ Philippe challenged.
‘Because I’ve got ten thousand Euros in my bank account that say it was the American woman,’ Lochet said aggressively, ‘and I’m not about to do or say anything to change that.’
‘But surely you must have been suspicious when you found her. You were all told she was wearing shorts and heavy walking boots, yet the woman you found was wearing leggings and lightweight climbing boots.’
‘Who told you that?’ Lochet asked aggressively.
‘You did… last night.’
‘I was drunk last night,’ Lochet said defensively, ’I didn’t know what I was saying.’
‘You’re not drunk now, and it’s your duty to come with me to clear this up,’ Philippe insisted.
‘Nothing doing,’ Lochet snapped. ‘I did my duty up on that mountain yesterday and the day before. I found the missing woman and I got the reward. That’s the end of it.’
‘That’s not the end of it though,’ Philippe said. ‘Don’t you see? They’ve got my wife down there in the hospital and they’re going to let that stinking Englishman take her away from me.’
Lochet softened a little and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry about your wife, but you must understand my position. ten thousand Euros is more money than I’ve ever had in my life. I can’t risk losing it.’
Philippe thought for a moment then had an idea. ‘What if I guaranteed the money for you?’ he asked. ‘Would you come with me if I promised to give you ten thousand myself if it does turn out to be my wife and not the American woman?’
‘Twenty thousand,’ Lochet said flatly.
‘What?’
‘I’ll come with you if you guarantee me twenty thousand.’
‘Done!’ Philippe said, jumping up and shaking his hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘What… now?’ Lochet protested.
‘Yes now… come on.’ Philippe virtually dragged him out of the apartment and across town to the Platoon headquarters. After a brief difference of opinion with the sergeant, they were shown into Batard’s office.
Batard looked up from what he was doing at the two men, both unshaven and disheveled, then closed his eyes and shook his head. After a few moments he addressed Philippe in a weary voice asking, ‘What is it now Monsieur Dulac?’
‘There is something about the woman they found yesterday that you should know,’ Philippe said eagerly. ‘I have brought Monsieur Lochet along to tell you about it.’
Batard stood up. ‘Now look, I told you last night that the case was closed. You are wasting your time…’
‘But if you’ll just listen…’ Philippe cut in, but he was immediately cut off again.
‘No, you listen,’ Batard said, pointing his finger and raising his voice. ‘The woman’s body was positively identified by her husband. I was there and I was satisfied with his identification. This morning the body was released, and by now, it will be out of the country. Watch my lips and try to understand what I am saying to you. The…case…is…closed!’
Philippe stood in shocked silence for a moment, not quite able to believe what he’d heard. ‘She’s gone?’ he asked eventually in a weak voice.
‘Yes Monsieur,’ Batard said, a little more gently. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been upset, but she’s gone, and that’s the end of it. The case is closed.’
Philippe turned and wandered absently out of Batard’s office then out of the Platoon headquarters, followed by Lochet.
‘Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t help,’ Lochet said, putting his hand on Philippe’s shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes… I’m okay,’ Philippe said wearily.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Lochet asked.
‘Go home I suppose,’ Philippe said, flipping the collar of his jacket up against the cold wind and setting off down the hill towards the town center.
‘Take it easy,’ Lochet called after him.
When Philippe got back to his car, he shrugged his coat off, started the engine, then called Alice. When she answered, he said simply, ‘Alice, I have failed.’
‘Oh Philippe, I’m so sorry,’ she said with real compassion. ‘What happened?’
‘They wouldn’t listen to me,’ he said wearily. ‘They let him take her back to England this morning.’
‘Come home,’ Alice said. ‘Come home to me. We’ll find a way to get her back.’
Philippe smiled. ‘I am on my way.’
‘I’ll be waiting, take care.’
Philippe hung up, slipped the car into gear, then set off for home as the rain started again, beating a tattoo on the roof. He thought about the drive ahead of him and knew, the closer he got to Alice and home, the warmer it would become.
.
About the same time in England, the weather was bright and fine as David Wiseman sat on the train heading for Hertfordshire. Following his driving debacle of the previous day, the first thing he’d done after breakfast was to call Avis and have them collect the car from his hotel. He’d decided to give up trying to drive on the crowded, badly signposted roads of England and to stick to trains and taxis for the rest of his visit. He’d almost regretted that decision when he arrived at Kings Cross railway station and tried to figure out where he had to go to catch the train for Leeds. The man in the ticket office assured him that the Leeds train passed through the village of Minster at Stone, which was where he wanted to go, but didn’t tell him how to find the Leeds train. After asking a number of surly railway employees, he was finally directed to the right platform and was now on his way.
David always read the New York Times at home and had taken to reading the London Times since he’d been in England. He’d picked up a copy in the station, and as the train passed out of the grimy suburbs of north London and into the countryside, he unfolded the paper and scanned the front page. A headline on the bottom right hand section immediately caught his attention. LADY WEBLEY FOUND DEAD ON GLACIER. Folding the paper in half, he read on. The body of Alice Webley, wife of Sir Ross Webley, was found yesterday afternoon on the Charpoua Glacier in the French Alps. Lady Webley had been reported missing late on Monday after she failed to return from a day’s walking in the mountains. Alice Webley, whose maiden name was Sanderson, had recently inherited the three-hundred-million-dollar Sanderson Corporation from her father, who died earlier in the year. Sir Ross is now expected to take over responsibility for the company.
David put the paper down slowly and stared sightlessly out of the window. It’s all working out pretty well for Webley, he thought. His wife’s father dies leaving her a fortune, then, a few months later, she dies in what looks like an accident and Webley inherits the whole works. He was getting the same feeling that he’d had on the ferry when he first read the report about Lady Webley going missing. He just knew there was more to it than a simple accident, there had to be. As far as he was concerned, the whole thing stank to high heaven.
He sat staring out at the countryside, his mind a torrent of speculation, as the train rolled north at a leisurely pace through Cuffley, Bayford, and numerous other small villages before eventually starting to slow for Minster at Stone. As they approached the village, David saw the imposing presence of the minster or church, for which it was named, standing proudly on the banks of the River Rib beside a ruined abbey, dominating the village and surrounding lowlands. The train came to a halt at the deserted station where David stepped off and headed for the exit. He’d just walked through into the empty ticket hall when his two tails jumped from the slowly accelerating train and ducked into the waiting room. Finding no one to hand his ticket to, David left the station and headed towards the center of the village on foot along a pleasant leafy lane, which curved gently away from the railway and joined what turned out to be the High Street.
There were very few people about, and in the warm September sunshine, the village had a peaceful, sleepy air that he liked. It was another one of those places where he instinctively felt safe and well, a bit like Weggis, but nothing like as pretty. He walked on down the High Street past a small newsagent’s, a butcher’s shop, a general store and a public house called The King’s Head, before finally coming, at the far end, to the old wooden gates of the church. There was a wooden canopy built over the gates, which sheltered a notice board giving the times for services during the week and a small cubbyhole containing free leaflets about the church. There was also a sign inviting visitors to call at the vicarage with any queries relating to the church or the services.
David took a leaflet then pushed his way through the gates, looking up in awe at the magnificent double transepts, which had obviously been conceived on the scale of a cathedral. Referring to the leaflet, he discovered that following a fire in 1188 and the collapse of the central tower in 1213, the church had been rebuilt, starting around 1220, in the Romanesque style. He looked around him, shaking his head in wonder. It blew his mind to think that this place had been standing for over two hundred years before Columbus had discovered America.
