Presumed Dead, page 14
‘Then we’ve got a case?’ David asked eagerly.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Hubbard said flatly. ‘We must consider all the options first.’
‘What options?’ Davis asked. ‘The guy changed the death certificate, that’s all there is to it!’
‘Maybe he changed the certificate, or maybe it was a faulty copy. Photocopier machines weren’t as good back then as they are now.’
‘Aw come on, who are you trying to kid?’ David scoffed. ‘We both know how that copy got changed, and it wasn’t by a faulty photocopier! Now, what are you going to do about it?’
Hubbard thought for a moment then said, ‘First thing in the morning, I’m going to take your story and the two certificates to my immediate superior, Commander Mycroft, with a recommendation that we exhume the body and carry out a forensic post-mortem.’
David let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. That’s all I wanted to hear.’
.
Much later, back in France, by the time Philippe and Alice had finished typing and proofreading the statement and had inserted all the photographs, it was cold and dark. They had been so engrossed in what they were doing that neither of them had noticed the time. As the final version was printing, after being scanned to make it look like a photocopy, Alice rubbed her bare upper arms with her hands and shivered.
‘You are cold,’ Philippe said with concern. ‘Would you like me to light the fire?’
There was a large, stone fireplace at one end of the living room with a pile of logs stacked up next to it. ‘That would be lovely,’ Alice said. ‘I think I’m still a bit chilled from being on that mountain.’
Philippe slipped down the hall into his bedroom, then came back a few moments later carrying one of his own fleece jackets. ‘Here, put this on,’ he said, holding it up so she could slip her arms into it easily.
It felt good. Soft and masculine scented as she turned the collar up and snuggled into it. ‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re so kind.’
Philippe got down on his hands and knees in front of the grate and set about lighting the fire. ‘While you’re doing that,’ Alice said, ‘I’ll find us something to eat if you like. How hungry are you?’
‘After that lunch,’ he replied, ‘not very.’
‘How about some bread and cheese and a bottle of wine? We could eat it in front of the fire.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ he said as the kindling caught alight and an orange tongue of flame started licking around the logs.
By the time Alice came back into the living room with the food and wine on a tray, the fire had caught hold nicely and the room was lit by the dancing orange glow of the flames. Philippe had moved the big leather sofa around so that it was facing the fire and was sitting with his eyes closed, slouched in one corner, stretching his long legs out towards the flames. Alice pulled a coffee table over in front of the sofa, put the tray down, then sat and poured them each a glass of wine.
‘This is nice,’ she said, spreading some Camembert onto a chunk of baguette.
Philippe opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for his wine. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I haven’t felt this relaxed for years.’
‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘I feel tired,’ he admitted, ‘and drained. It has been a difficult couple of days, but somehow I feel I have turned a corner.’ He helped himself to some bread and cheese then laid back into the soft leather of the sofa as he munched contentedly.
They ate, sipped their wine and chatted for a while, then Alice took the tray back to the kitchen, tidied up and put what was left of the cheese away in the fridge. When she came back into the living room, Philippe had swung his legs up and was sound asleep with his head resting on one of the arms. She leaned over the back of the sofa and looked at his face, peaceful now, softly lit by the flickering orange firelight. After a few minutes lost in thought, she walked through into her bedroom and came back with a blanket, which she gently tucked around him, letting her fingers rest lightly against his cheek for a moment.
After that, she cleared away their wineglasses and the empty bottle, put the guard in front of the fire, then took herself off to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long and difficult day.
Chapter 10
Alice slept very badly. Although she wasn’t afraid of him, even after what he’d done to her, she was worried about facing her husband down. Maybe it was because he was so much older than her, or maybe it was his air of seedy grandeur, but whenever they had confrontations he always managed to make her feel like a little girl. Not this time though, Alice told herself over and over again. This time I’m in the right and I’m going to stand up to him. She kept repeating it to herself like a creed until she was convinced that that was how it was going to be.
The other thing preying on her mind was leaving Philippe and this house. The plan was that he would take her to see Ross and would hang around outside until she gave him a sign to let him know she was safe, then he would return home, leaving her in England to sort out her life. He’d been kinder and more considerate to her than anyone had ever been in her adult life, and in the short time she’d known him, she’d become very fond of him indeed. She tried to analyze her feelings, just in case she was misinterpreting her gratefulness towards him, but decided no, she didn’t feel the way she did just because he’d saved her life, it was much, much deeper than that.
She smiled as she lay in bed thinking of him. Although he had a successful business and was reasonably wealthy, he led an extremely simple life. He wasn’t one of those men who live for their work and spend every waking hour at the office. On the contrary, he’d built his business up to a point where it ran smoothly without the need for his continual involvement, so he was free to live out of town in this simple old hunting lodge and spend time in the mountains whenever he wanted. She kept imagining herself living here, married to Philippe, loving him, being his constant companion, giving him the children he so desperately wanted, and that thought gave her strength. If she was ever going to have a decent, normal life, she was going to have to face up to Ross and demand the divorce on her terms.
By six a.m., when the alarm on her watch went off, Alice had firmly resolved in her own mind what she wanted for the future and what she had to do in order to get it. With a steely determination she got out of bed ready to face what she thought was going to be one of the most difficult days of her life. She slipped into her bathrobe and went through the living room into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Philippe was still sound asleep on the sofa so she left him until the coffee was ready, then took a cup through and woke him gently.
Philippe blinked and looked up at her with a lopsided grin. ‘Hello,’ he said sleepily, ‘what time is it?’
‘A little after six, we’ve got plenty of time. Here, I’ve made you some coffee.’
He swung his legs around and sat up, taking the coffee mug from Alice, who sat down beside him. ‘Thank you, ‘ he said gratefully, taking a sip. ‘Sorry about falling asleep like that last night, you must think me a very poor host.’
‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘you were very tired.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Not very,’ she admitted, ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about facing Ross.’
‘Do you still want to go through with it today?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather wait until after the weekend?’
‘I want to do it today,‘ Alice said with determination. ‘I want that divorce so much I can hardly see straight.’
Philippe patted her leg through her bathrobe. ‘That’s my girl… the sooner we get this over with, the better for both of us. And don’t forget your promise. As soon as the divorce comes through, you and Charles are coming back here for a holiday.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, slipping her hand over his, ‘I won’t forget, that’s one thing you can rely on.’
They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments, then Philippe retrieved his hand from under Alice’s and said, ‘We had better start getting ready, we are due out at the airport by seven-fifteen.’
By seven-thirty, they were boarding the twin engine Piper Seneca air taxi at Nîmes-Courbessac aerodrome for the three-hour flight to Biggin Hill airport, south of London. The pilot had chosen Biggin Hill because it was the nearest small airport to Central London with customs and immigration facilities. Alice was certain they would find Ross at the London house.
They strapped themselves in and got comfortable while the pilot stowed their bags in the luggage compartment. Alice had borrowed a small suitcase from Philippe and had packed all her things, including her still unwashed walking kit and all the new clothes and cosmetics he’d bought her in Nîmes. Philippe took just an overnight bag. He’d decided that as soon as the mix-up over Louisa’s body had been sorted out, which should only take a day or two, he would accompany it home to Nîmes by scheduled airline.
Once the luggage was loaded, the pilot did his checks and in a very short space of time they were airborne and heading north towards England in beautiful, clear weather. As they climbed, with the Alps clearly visible to the east still shrouded by angry looking clouds, Philippe watched Alice closely as she stared out of the window at the mountains. ‘How do you feel to be flying again?’ he asked gently.
She turned and smiled, then took his hand and said, ‘Not too bad. At least I know you’re not going to throw me out.’
.
At around the same time, Vic Hubbard was sitting up to the kitchen table at his home in Pinner, scanning through the morning paper while his wife bustled around, tidying their breakfast things. This was a routine he followed every day before his lift to New Scotland Yard arrived in the form of Detective Sergeant Paul Butcher.
He was on his second cup of tea when his eye was caught by a small item buried deep in the Daily Mail. Someone at Biggin Hill had tipped off a local reporter who had dug around a little then sold the tidbit to the Mail, but the editor had obviously not thought it very newsworthy and had relegated the item to the bowels of the paper. To DCI Vic Hubbard however, the story was of major significance. ‘That’s interesting,’ he murmured as he started reading.
‘What’s that dear?’ his wife asked absently.
‘Listen to this. Body of Baronet’s Wife Returned… The body of Lady Webley, killed earlier this week in a climbing accident in the Alps, was flown back to Biggin Hill yesterday (Thursday) and taken directly to Stanley Brown & Sons Undertakers in Greenford. A private service is due to take place this afternoon at Northolt Crematorium.’
‘Isn’t she the wife of Sir Ross Webley,’ she asked, ‘the man you were telling me about last night, the one that American has accused of murder?’
‘Yes she is,’ Hubbard said vaguely, reading the article over again. When he’d finished, he frowned and asked, ‘Now why would he be having her cremated when he’s got a perfectly good family vault? And why at Northolt… that’s miles away from the family home? And why so soon?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I expect he’s got his reasons.’
‘I’m sure he has, but it doesn’t smell right to me,’ Hubbard mused. ‘His wife is reported missing on Tuesday, they find her body on Wednesday, he has it flown home on Thursday and cremated on Friday. Those look to me very much like the actions of a man who is trying to hide something. Maybe Wiseman was right after all.’
Just then, a car horn tooted outside. Hubbard got up, folded his paper, and slipped his thin overcoat on. The day had dawned dull and drizzly and the weather forecast had predicted heavier rain later. He kissed his wife goodbye, then headed out of the front door and climbed into the passenger seat of the unmarked police Peugeot.
‘Morning, boss,’ DS Butcher said as he slipped the car into gear and pulled smoothly away from the curb.
‘Morning, Paul, I want to make a little detour this morning. Do you know Greenford at all?’
‘Know it like the back of my hand,’ Butcher said. ‘My mum lives there.’
‘Do you know an undertaker’s called Stanley Brown & Sons?’
‘It’s in King’s Avenue, just off the Greenford Road… what’s up?’
‘I want to drop in on them to discuss a body that’s due to be cremated later on today. It’s just a hunch, but I think something fishy is going on.’
The eight-mile journey across west London took them over thirty minutes in the rush hour traffic, and by the time they got to Greenford, the undertaker’s was open for business. A young woman, who introduced herself as Angela Brown, a partner in the firm, greeted them as they arrived and showed them through to a tastefully decorated lounge area, which was obviously designed for dealing with grieving relatives. Hubbard and Butcher sat at either end of a sofa while Angela Brown took an armchair opposite them.
‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ she said confidently, ‘what can I do for you?’
Hubbard came straight to the point. ‘I understand you received the body of Lady Webley yesterday, is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, we are taking her to Northolt at about quarter-to-one this afternoon.’
‘Tell me, is it usual for you to turn a body around so quickly?’
‘Not usual, but not unheard of where there are special circumstances.’
‘And are there special circumstances in this case?’ Hubbard asked, taking his notebook and pen out of his pocket.
‘Yes, I understand the deceased’s husband is leaving the country tomorrow for an indefinite period.’
‘Is he now?’ Hubbard said thoughtfully. ‘And I suppose he wanted the cremation to take place before he went.’
‘That’s right, the whole thing has been a rush job.’
‘And how did you come to be involved?’
‘We were recommended to Mr Crawford by the crematorium at Northolt.’
‘Mr Crawford?’ Hubbard asked, noting down the name. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s the Webley’s private secretary. He’s the one who has done all the organization for the funeral.’
‘Why did he choose Northolt Crematorium, any idea?’
‘Apparently,’ Angela Brown explained, ‘he’d been phoning all over London trying to find somewhere that could do the job before the weekend, and Northolt just happened to have a vacant slot at one o’clock today.’
‘So he grabbed it and then had to find a local undertaker,’ Hubbard finished.
‘That’s right. He telephoned yesterday morning to ask if we could collect a body from Biggin Hill that same day and have it ready for cremation by one o’clock today. It was a terrible rush but we never like to turn business away.’
‘What about the Authority to Cremate form?’ Hubbard asked. ‘Has that all been completed properly?’
‘There was a bit of a complication with that,’ Angela Brown admitted. ‘Because she died in France, the death certificate and doctor’s report from the hospital were all in French and the medical representative from the crematorium wouldn’t accept them unless they were translated into English. Mr Crawford had certified translations made yesterday afternoon, then we had one of the doctors from the practice across the road fill in the second part of the form.’
‘Would it be possible to see the translation of the French report?’
‘The original is back with the crematorium now but I have a copy.’ She left the room and was back within thirty seconds with the report, which she handed to Hubbard.
Hubbard scanned the translation and copied the name of the doctor and the hospital’s details into his notebook before handing it back. ‘What about the local doctor?’ he asked. ‘Can we see him?’
‘I don’t see why not, his surgery is just across the road.’
‘I think I’d rather see him here, if you don’t mind,’ Hubbard said firmly. ‘Could you phone him and ask him to come over please.’
‘Look, what’s all this about Chief Inspector?’ Angela Brown asked indignantly. ‘I really am very busy.’
Hubbard looked directly at her and said in a level voice, ‘I am not at all satisfied that the cause of death recorded on this form is accurate, and I want to speak to the doctor who examined her here.’
Angela Brown caved in and went to make the call. While she was gone Hubbard turned to Butcher and asked, ‘What do you make of it, Paul?’
‘If you ask me, it stinks,’ Butcher replied. ‘She was the wife of a baronet. You don’t normally get that type stuffed in a black sack and tossed over the nearest wall, which is effectively what’s happening here.’
‘Exactly, it’s all far too rushed for my liking,’ Hubbard said.
Angela Brown came back a few moments later and said, ‘Doctor Sharif will be over in a minute, he’s just got to finish with a patient.’
‘Thank you,’ Hubbard said. They waited in awkward silence for a few minutes, then the front door bell sounded and Angela Brown went off and returned with the doctor. Hubbard introduced himself and Butcher, then as soon as the doctor was seated got down to business saying, ‘I understand you signed the second part of the cremation form for the body of Lady Webley yesterday afternoon.’
‘That is correct,’ Sharif replied slightly indignantly. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Nothing wrong, I’d just like to ask you this. Were you satisfied that the cause of death as stated by the French doctor was accurate?’
‘As far as I could tell. It is very difficult to ascertain the cause of death just by looking at a body. In many cases you have to take it on trust that the doctor who has been dealing with the patient has got it right.’
‘And you felt the French doctor had got it right?’
‘I could not see any other obvious causes. There were no knife wounds or bullet holes if that is what you are asking,’ Sharif said.
‘One last question,’ Hubbard said. ‘Weren’t you surprised that there had been no post-mortem carried out?’
‘Not really,’ Sharif said, shaking his head. ‘The French doctor seemed satisfied that she died as a result of injuries sustained in a fall. Judging by his report, he sees it quite often.’
