Presumed Dead, page 15
Hubbard got up and put his notebook away. ‘I think that just about wraps it up. Thank you for coming over Doctor, and thank you Mrs. Brown. You’ve both been very helpful.’
Angela Brown showed them to the door, but just as they were leaving, Hubbard stopped and said, ‘Just one more thing, Mrs Brown. If you speak to Mr Crawford again, don’t mention we’ve been here asking questions.’
‘Of course not, Chief Inspector,’ she replied, closing the door behind them.
As soon as they were back in the car, Butcher asked, ‘Northolt Crematorium?’
‘No. Back to the Yard.’ Hubbard said. ‘I want to do some phoning around and find out what kind of man this Webley really is.’
.
Later in the morning, at precisely eleven-thirty, down in north Kent, the French air taxi popped out of the bottom of the clouds at eight hundred feet, perfectly aligned with the approach lights for the active runway at Biggin Hill. The weather had grown progressively worse during the trip north and the last half-hour had been bumpy and uncomfortable as they had flown through solid cloud.
Alice breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the jolt and rumble of the wheels hitting the runway. She’d been on the verge of reaching for a sick bag for the past fifteen minutes. As they taxied towards the terminal beneath a gloomy sky, she looked out of the window at the rain beating down on the asphalt and wished she’d dressed in something a little warmer.
The morning had been so clear and bright back in Nîmes that she had decided to wear a thin, short sleeved, knee length cotton dress with open-toe sandals. Fortunately, she’d also brought along a blazer style jacket that went nicely with the outfit, but she was hardly dressed for this weather. Philippe, on the other hand, wearing Chino’s, a lightweight cotton shirt and sports jacket would be just comfortable. He’d also had the foresight to bring along a folding umbrella each, saying that he never set foot on English soil without one.
The pilot parked the Seneca on the apron directly outside the executive terminal. A marshal came out to the aircraft carrying a large golf umbrella, and after helping Alice and Philippe down from the rear passenger door, sheltered them as he showed them into the building, where they waited just inside the door while the pilot retrieved their luggage. While they were waiting, Philippe noticed that Alice was shaking, so he put his arm around her shoulders and asked in French, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m not sure if it’s the cold or my nerves,’ she replied, snuggling into him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any trouble. We’ll be through in a couple of minutes.’
The luggage was soon brought in, and the marshal then led them through a door marked International Arrivals. As they went through into the small customs area, a uniformed official came out from a back room and gave their passports a cursory glance before waving them on without any questions. They thanked him then Philippe carried their luggage as they went on through the far door, which led into the main part of the terminal where there was a seating area with round wooden tables, a bar and an information desk.
Alice took herself off to the toilets to freshen up while Philippe went to the information desk to collect the keys for the hire car he’d asked the air taxi firm to book for him in advance. By the time Alice joined him, he’d signed all the forms and was ready to go. They had agreed that it would be best if Alice surprised her husband by just walking in on him. That way, they figured, she would have the best chance of catching him off his guard and getting him to agree to her demands. Alice was almost certain he would be in London, but in order to be completely sure before driving all that way they had planned that Philippe would telephone the London house, ask for Ross, then hang up before he came on the line. If he were told Ross wasn’t there, then he could at least find out when he would be back.
They walked over to the telephone kiosks at the side of the terminal building. Philippe picked up the receiver and slipped his credit card into the slot while Alice dialed the number. After a few moments he winked at her and said, ‘It’s ringing.’
A few seconds later, Philippe started to speak. ‘Hello, is it possible to speak with Sir Ross Webley please?’ he asked pleasantly. Alice watched perplexed as his face grew worried. ‘I see…’ he was saying, ‘where is that? Yes… of course. I’m sorry I bothered you… later this afternoon? All right… thank you… good bye.’ He hung the receiver up slowly and turned to Alice.
‘What?’ she said anxiously. ‘Who was it… what did they say?’
‘It was a woman,’ Philippe said slowly. ‘She said Sir Ross wasn’t taking any calls this morning because it was the day of his wife’s funeral.’
‘Today?’ Alice asked incredulously. ‘Up at Minster at Stone?’
‘No,’ Philippe said, still dazed. ‘She said the ceremony was to be held at Northolt Crematorium in west London at one o’clock. She said if I wanted to, I would be able to contact Sir Ross later this afternoon at his country house, but after today, he would be away in America for some time.’
‘A crematorium?’ Alice asked aghast, ‘then America?’ ‘We’ve got to stop him!’ She looked at the large clock hanging in the terminal building, which read eleven forty-five. ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing his arm and propelling him out of the telephone kiosk. ‘We can easily make it to Northolt by one o’clock, it’s not that far from here.’ They hurried out of the terminal building and quickly found their hire car in the car park outside. Alice decided that since she knew her way around London and was used to driving on the left, that she would drive.
Philippe tossed their luggage into the car while Alice quickly checked the courtesy map that had been supplied with the car. As soon as they were both strapped in she accelerated out of the airport area and joined the A233 heading towards Central London. Once they were on their way and Alice had had time to think, she said, ‘I wonder what his game is? Why a cremation, why not the family vault?’
‘That’s easy,’ Philippe replied, still sounding a little dazed. ‘He wants to burn Louisa’s body in order to get rid of the evidence. Once she is burned, he can go to America and claim your company in safety, without the possibility of someone saying he got the wrong body.’
Suddenly the implication of what was happening hit Alice. This was Philippe’s wife they were talking about. That bastard husband of hers had just dealt him another devastating blow. Philippe had planned to bring her body back to France and lay her to rest in the small churchyard near their home. If Ross got away with cremating her, that would never happen.
She thought about stopping at a telephone box and phoning the crematorium to have the service delayed, but decided that it was highly unlikely they would take any action on the strength of a phone call. No, I’ve got to get to the crematorium in person, she thought. I’ve got to make sure they don’t destroy her body… for Philippe’s sake. He’s suffered enough already. With that thought, she floored the gas pedal and overtook a long line of cars that were slowing them down. Once she was back on clear road, she glanced across at Philippe and saw he was staring blankly into space, as if mesmerized by the windscreen wipers flipping back and forth in front of his eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly, ‘we’ll get there in time.’
Alice decided to follow the route she knew well into Central London, then turned west onto the A40, which led straight to Northolt. The combination of bad weather and heavy traffic made the trip particularly slow and tedious, and by the time they got to the Northolt turnoff on the A40, it was already one-fifteen.
Throughout the ninety-minute trip, Philippe had been quiet and withdrawn, saying only a few words in reply to Alice’s attempts at conversation and reassurance. She’d driven like a demon: speeding, overtaking whenever possible, cutting-up other drivers and jumping traffic lights, but it hadn’t helped much. She’d become more and more frustrated as the time ticked away and had cursed herself for not taking the longer but probably quicker route around the M25.
Finally they were off the A40 and with Philippe craning forward to help with the navigation, they followed the local signs for the crematorium. The rain was still beating down ten minutes later as they finally swung in through the crematorium gates and followed the curving, tree-lined driveway up to a modern stone building, just in time to see a small group of mourners, dressed in black, huddling under umbrellas, emerge from the chapel. Behind them, above the building, a fine skein of gray smoke curled upward from a tall redbrick chimney and disappeared into the murky sky. Alice took the whole scene in at once and her heart sank.
She stood on the brake pedal, abruptly pulled the car into the side of the driveway, and turned the engine off. ‘We’re too late,’ she said flatly, looking down at her hands. ‘I’m sorry Philippe, I’ve failed you.’
Philippe stared out through the rain-splattered windscreen towards the group of people, then swung his gaze up to the chimney, reaching the same conclusion as Alice. ‘You know those people?’ he asked softly.
‘My husband, my son, Alex Crawford and Mrs Holland our housekeeper… Oh Philippe,’ she choked, bursting into tears and burying her face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry… it’s all my fault.’
Philippe slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her face close into his chest. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said softly as she sobbed against him. ‘You are not to blame.’
‘But it does matter,’ Alice insisted through her tears. ‘That was Louisa… your wife… I know how much you wanted her to be buried at home.’
‘Look,’ he whispered, lifting her wet face and putting his cheek against hers, ‘the living are more important than the dead. It is not your fault, you did your best. When all this trouble is sorted out, I will be able to at least have her ashes.’
Alice brought her arms up around his neck and clung to him in silence for a few moments until her tears subsided, then slid back into her own seat, gratefully taking the handkerchief he offered. They sat and watched as the group of mourners walked slowly to the car park, where Ross and Charles got into Ross’s Jaguar, while Alex Crawford helped Mrs Holland into his Toyota Corolla. Alice’s heart went out to young Charles. She could see he was being incredibly brave and grown up, and she wanted to jump out of the car and gather him up in her arms and comfort him, but that would have to wait until she’d sorted his father out. As she thought about Ross, her sorrow gave way to anger and she was gripped by a powerful desire to strangle him.
The two-car motorcade with the Jaguar in the lead, turned out of the car park and headed down the drive to where Alice and Philippe were parked. Alice hid her face with the handkerchief as they passed, then started the car and swung around in a U-turn to follow. ‘Where are we going now?’ Philippe asked.
‘You said that Ross was going to be at the country house later this afternoon? Well, that’s where we’re going. I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him and the games he’s been playing.’
‘Do you think he will go there with your son?’
‘No, he plans to go away tomorrow and Charles was wearing his school uniform, so it’s my bet that Ross will drop him at Eton then carry on down to the farm alone. Alex will probably go straight back to London with Mrs Holland.’
They followed the two cars back towards the A312 and sure enough, Alex turned north towards the A40 and London while Ross turned south towards the M4 and Windsor. Alice followed the Jaguar at a discreet distance until suddenly, just before they were due to turn onto the M4, Ross indicated and turned left into the car park of a pub-restaurant. ‘Ross must be buying Charles lunch before he takes him back,’ Alice said, cruising on past the restaurant. ‘That’s very big of him. We might as well carry on down and wait for him.’
‘Don’t you want to stop somewhere for some lunch?’ Philippe asked.
‘Not right now. I don’t think I could swallow anything at the moment.’
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Being angry won’t help. You need to be calm and thinking clearly when you see him later.’
‘I know,’ she replied, gritting her teeth, ‘but when I think about what he’s done to you over the past few days, it makes me so mad I could kill him.’
.
Eighty miles and one-and-a-half hours later, just after three o’clock, Alice and Philippe were on the A27 passing south of the town of Lewes in East Sussex, with under ten miles to go to Moor End Farm. Access to the property was via a B road that ran from the A27, through a small village, then on to a dead end track that led to the farm. A footpath also led from the edge of the village, over some fields to the back of the property. During the journey down from Northolt, Alice had told Philippe all about the place.
Just after they’d been married, she’d had the old farmhouse completely gutted and re-fitted to her exact specification. She’d had a large gravel drive laid at the front, and out the back, on the south facing side, she’d had a ranch style patio and kidney shaped swimming pool installed. The pool was heated and had underwater floodlights. When she swam at night, usually alone, it was like being in a beautifully warm, exquisite blue lagoon.
Inside the house, she’d had polished wood block flooring laid in all the ground floor rooms, which she’d complemented with brightly colored scatter rugs. The old square staircase had been ripped out and replaced with a new one featuring a sweeping curved handrail of polished oak with delicately carved spindles and newel posts. The hall at the bottom of the stairs led all the way from the front to the back of the house, where it opened onto the patio with a series of folding glass doors.
The grounds weren’t big enough to have any shooting, but Ross kept a pair or Purdey shotguns, which had belonged to his father, and was sometimes invited to neighboring farms to go after pheasant or duck. Alice had been worried about young Charles getting his hands on them, so she’d had a concealed gun safe installed behind a panel in her husband’s oak-lined study, where they were kept locked away. Although she knew the combination to the safe and sometimes kept pieces of jewelry in it, she never touched the guns. Her father had taught her to shoot at an early age, but she hadn’t enjoyed it. She didn’t like the noise and she hated the thought of killing animals for sport.
Upstairs, she’d spared no expense either. Knocking two of the original six bedrooms into one, she’d created an enormous master bedroom. The king-size bed sat on a raised, carpeted plinth with delicate oriental fabrics hanging from an iron ring fixed to the ceiling, to form a medieval style canopy. Unfortunately, it had never turned into the love nest she had intended.
By the time they reached the turn-off, Alice had decided that she couldn’t bear to wait at the farm for Ross to arrive, so suggested that they carry on down into Newhaven for a late lunch. She would have suggested Lewes, but she often shopped and ate there and was known at most of the restaurants. Newhaven, on the other hand, was safe because she very rarely went there.
They managed to find a small restaurant that served food all afternoon, ordered a meal, then settled down to wait. They reckoned that Ross would be about two hours behind them, allowing for lunch and the diversion through Windsor to Eton. That would make his arrival time at the farm about five o’clock. They decided to give him until six, just to make sure.
Chapter 11
Back in London, the telephone rang on Detective Chief Inspector Vic Hubbard’s desk. He snatched the receiver up, ‘Hubbard.’
‘Hello Vic? Simon here. We’ve got her, and I’m about to make a start if you want to sit in.’
‘Right. I’ll be around straight away. See you in a minute.’ Hubbard hung up the phone, quickly tidied his desk, locked the files he’d been working on in one of his drawers, then slipped his coat on and set off for Westminster Hospital on foot.
As soon as he’d got back to his office earlier in the day, he’d kept his promise to David Wiseman and gone straight up to see his boss, Commander Alan Mycroft. He’d briefed Mycroft on the whole Webley affair, and had been given the green light for a forensic post-mortem. He’d then made arrangements to recover the body, and requested Dr Simon Reynolds, a highly respected forensic pathologist, to do the job.
Hubbard had been present at dozens of post-mortem examinations. When he was a young copper, it was considered part of the training to be thrown in at the deep end with a PM. It had never bothered him. Nowadays though, the youngsters were treated more gently and attendance was voluntary. A standard post-mortem, carried out in order to find a cause of death, usually took about ninety minutes, but a forensic post-mortem was a far more detailed affair and could last up to five hours.
The hospital was about half a mile from New Scotland Yard, and Hubbard covered the distance in just under fifteen minutes. He went in through the main entrance in Dean Ryle Street, then made his way down into the basement, where the mortuary was located.
Before entering the post-mortem room, he knew he would have to put on a surgical gown, hat, mask and white Wellington boots. He went into the anteroom and had just removed his coat and jacket ready to get changed when Simon Reynolds came through from the PM room.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Reynolds said, pulling his surgical mask down from around his nose and mouth. ‘I was just coming out to give you another ring.’
‘What’s up?’ Hubbard asked, immediately alert.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but the body that was delivered just now isn’t Lady Webley.’
‘What?’ Hubbard blurted angrily. ‘Don’t tell me those idiots up there have sent us the wrong one.’
‘No, it’s the right body. All the paperwork the French doctor filled in ties up: description of the body, description of the injuries, cause of death… it’s just not Alice Webley.’
‘How do you know?’ Hubbard asked incredulously.
‘Because I know Dr Charles Fawcett, the Webley family’s private doctor. He practices in Harley Street and has been looking after the Webleys for years. When you told me the name of the deceased earlier on, I gave Charles a call to find out if she had any pre-existing medical conditions. I thought it would make the PM a bit easier if I had a little medical background. Anyway, he told me that apart from an appendectomy five years ago, Lady Webley enjoyed excellent health. He’d last seen her in February for her annual check-up.’
