Presumed Dead, page 16
Hubbard’s mind was already in overdrive as he said, ‘And the body in there doesn’t have an appendectomy scar, right?’
‘Come and have a look for yourself,’ Reynolds said, turning towards the door. ‘No need to change, I haven’t opened her up yet.’
Hubbard followed him through the double swing doors into the main post-mortem room, where the naked body of a woman with terrible head injuries lay on a stainless steel autopsy tray in the middle of the harshly lit room. Reynolds pointed towards the lower abdomen on the right side and said, ‘This is where I would expect to see a scar from an appendectomy.’
Hubbard looked closely, but there was clearly no scar.
‘Anyway,’ Reynolds continued, ‘after I’d made that discovery, I got back on the phone to Charles for a more detailed description of Lady Webley.’ He picked an aluminum clipboard up from the side and read, ‘Age: thirty-six. Height: five foot six. Weight: one hundred and thirty pounds. Hair: natural blond. Eyes: green.’
As he read the items from the list, Hubbard looked down at the body and mentally checked the details.
‘And this lady,’ Reynolds was saying, ‘is about the right age but is five foot nine, weighs one hundred and twenty pounds, has light brown hair and brown eyes.’
Hubbard carried on looking at the dead woman and his mind whirled. No wonder Webley had wanted a quick cremation, he thought, and more to the point, what has he done with the real Lady Webley? ‘Any clue as to who this might be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think she’s English,’ Reynolds replied. ‘Maybe French or Italian.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Mainly her coloring, she’s got a definite Mediterranean look about her.’
Hubbard thought for a moment, then asked, ‘What about the cause of death?’
‘From the brief examination I’ve given her so far, I’m reasonably confident she’s a genuine accident case. The injuries are consistent with a fall onto rocks from height and the amount of bleeding and bruising around the head wound and the fractures in the left arm and leg are consistent with death occurring within seconds of the injury.’
Hubbard said nothing. He was staring at the body again, his mind racing.
‘Do you still want a full PM carried out?’ Reynolds asked.
Hubbard looked up and said thoughtfully, ‘No. I think you’re right in what you say about her being a genuine accident case. When we eventually find out who she is, we don’t want to send her home in little pieces, do we?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Reynolds said.
‘Can you keep her on ice for me while I launch an investigation?’ Hubbard asked.
‘Anything to oblige the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Thanks,’ Hubbard said as they walked back through to the anteroom. As Reynolds was changing, Hubbard asked, ‘This doctor friend of yours, Charles Fawcett, is he likely to say anything to Webley about your questions?’
‘No, I swore him to secrecy, and besides, he can’t stand him.’
‘Really, why is that I wonder?’ Hubbard mused.
‘Charles thinks he’s an upper class twit and a lay-about who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life,’ Reynolds confided, ‘and, judging by some of the complaints he’s had to treat, he suspects him of being a bit of a sexual deviant. Apparently, he was forced to resign his commission in the Guards in order to save himself being cashiered, after he’d thrashed a naked recruit nearly to death with a riding crop during a sadistic initiation ritual.’
‘Was he now? Well that all ties up with what I’ve heard from a couple of other people. What about Lady Webley, does Fawcett like her?’
‘He thinks she’s a doll, much too good for her husband, and certainly not involved in any of his funny bedroom business. He was very upset by the news of her death.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Hubbard said. ‘I haven’t come across one single person yet who’s had a good word to say about Sir Ross Webley.’
‘Maybe you should try talking to his bookmaker,’ Reynolds said with a grin.
Hubbard got back to New Scotland Yard at four-thirty, and went straight up to see his boss. Knocking on Mycroft’s office door, he walked in and took a seat in front of the Commander’s desk.
‘You look excited,’ Mycroft said, glancing up over half-moon glasses from a report he was reading, ‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve just come back from the Westminster,’ Hubbard said. ‘The body Webley submitted for cremation is not that of his wife.’
Hubbard suddenly had Mycroft’s full attention. ‘What?’ Mycroft exclaimed, taking his glasses off and laying then on his desk. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘Simon Reynolds knows the Webley’s GP. He got a description of Lady Webley that is nothing like the body we picked up from Northolt.’
‘And you’re sure there hasn’t been a cock-up at the undertakers or the crematorium?’ Mycroft asked.
‘Absolutely certain. Now, the question is, what has Webley done with his wife?’
‘What indeed?’ Mycroft asked. ‘You’d better bring him in, I think. There are a few things he needs to explain.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Apparently he’s leaving the country tomorrow, so I want to pull him straight away, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Fine, fine. And when you’ve got him, you had better lift his passport until we get to the bottom of this. We don’t want him doing a Lord Lucan on us, do we?’
Hubbard smiled. ‘There is something else I think we ought to get underway, now we’ve got an excuse.’
‘The exhumation of his first wife?’ Mycroft asked.
‘Exactly.’
Mycroft thought for a few moments then said, ‘Now we’ve got reason to believe that he’s responsible for the disappearance of his second wife, I think we’re justified in pursuing the suspicions we have concerning the death of his first. Leave it with me. I’ll speak to the head of Hertfordshire CID and the regional coroner, get it underway as soon as possible.’
Satisfied, Hubbard thanked him then went back to his own office, phoned his wife to let her know he would be home late again, then called DS Butcher and told him to meet him downstairs with the car in five minutes.
Fifteen minutes after setting off, they were standing on the steps of the Webley residence, waiting for the door to be answered.
‘Compact but bijou,’ Butcher commented wryly, looking up at the splendid Victorian façade, soaring above their heads.
Hubbard smiled, then instantly straightened his face and whipped his warrant card out as a short, fat woman who had obviously been crying, opened the door.
‘We are police officers. DCI Hubbard, DS Butcher,’ he said, holding up his card and indicating towards his colleague. ‘We’d like to have a word with Sir Ross Webley if we may.’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ she said, ‘the master’s gone down to the farm, then he’s off to America in the morning.’
‘Are you expecting him back tonight?’ Hubbard asked.
‘I don’t think so sir, he took all his luggage with him and said goodbye before he left. Mr Alex would know, you could ask him.’
‘Mr Alex?’
‘Mr Alex Crawford, Sir Ross’s secretary.’
‘Is he in?’ Hubbard asked impatiently, looking past her into the house.
‘No sir, he brought me back after Her Ladyship’s funeral, collected some bits and pieces, then said he had some things to do and went out.’
‘And when was that?’
Mrs Holland frowned then answered, ‘About half past two I think. He said he’d be back later on.’
‘But he didn’t say when?’
‘No sir.’
Hubbard thought for a moment then got his notebook out and said, ‘Could you give me the address of the Webley’s farm please.’
Back in the car, Hubbard said, ‘Fancy a drive to the seaside?’
Butcher smiled and slipped the car into gear. ‘I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out we’re on to him.’
‘How long do you reckon?’ Hubbard asked.
Butcher thought for a moment then said, ‘If we push it and use the blues and twos ‘till we’re out of the smoke, hour and a half tops. Should be there by half six.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Hubbard said, hitting the switch to activate the blue lights and sirens.
As they pulled away from the house on Regent’s Park, Alex Crawford was already down at the farm and had just finished preparing things for Ross, whom he expected at any moment.
.
Philippe and Alice enjoyed their late lunch, which was excellent. The restaurant was virtually deserted so no one had minded them staying on, sitting at a corner table. A waitress appeared occasionally to top up their coffee cups, but apart from that they were left alone.
Another half hour passed then Alice looked at her watch and said, ‘Five thirty, we’d better get moving.’
Philippe called the waitress over and paid the bill, then they made their way outside and hurried to the car. It was still raining. Thick, iron-gray clouds poured in from the English Channel blocking out most of the evening light, bringing with them a false dusk. Alice started the car and they drove the eight miles north to the farm in silence. They passed through the local village, but stopped short of the farm track, parking the car in a lay-by where a stile marked the beginning of the footpath that led to the rear of her property. The cinder path was well maintained and used regularly by staff who worked at the farm.
Philippe had insisted on being close by when Alice tackled her husband, but though it best, for her sake, if Ross didn’t actually see him. For that reason, they had decided not to drive up to the front of the house. Instead, they intended to park in the lay-by and approach the house from the rear, by walking along the cinder track. That way, Philippe could wait just outside the back door and would be available if needed. They locked the car, climbed the stile, then set off along the track towards Moor End Farm, grateful for Philippe’s umbrellas.
The house looked dark as they drew near, but as they climbed up onto the patio and peered in through the glass doors, they could see some light spilling down the stairs from the galleried landing above. ‘Looks like he’s upstairs,’ Alice said.
She led them around to the kitchen door, then retrieved the key from underneath a plant pot that was sitting on the window ledge. Next to the back door, there was a second door leading into a small outhouse that had originally been the outside toilet. Now it was used as a vegetable store.
Alice handed her umbrella to Philippe, and pointing to the outhouse door said, ‘You can shelter in there if you want, it will be warmer, I won’t be long.’
‘No, I will wait next to the open door,’ he said, ‘just in case you need me.’
She unlocked the kitchen door and went to go through, but then stopped and rushed back to him. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and hugged him. ‘Wish me luck,’ she murmured.
He held her trembling body close for a few seconds. ‘You have nothing to be afraid of, I will be just here,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Just remember everything we have talked about.’ She nodded, then slowly released her grip. They stood looking into each other’s eyes for a few moments. ‘Have you got your envelope?’ he asked.
She patted her jacket and felt the statement they had written sitting in her inside breast pocket. ‘Got it right here,’ she said.
‘Then go and give him hell,’ Philippe said.
A look of determination came over Alice’s face. She turned and slipped through the back door.
The dull, watery light, filtering through the windows into the house was enough to illuminate the ground floor to the extent that Alice could see where she was going. As she made her way through the kitchen and out into the hall, she could see the light from above was coming from the master bedroom. There was also a strange, rhythmic, animal like noise coming from that direction. Alice stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. At first, she didn’t recognize what she was hearing, then with a sudden shock of realization, she knew exactly what was going on.
He’s got a woman up there! Alice’s inner voice shrieked incredulously. Only a few hours after my funeral and he’s in bed with another woman! How much lower is he going to sink? She slipped out of her shoes and started to make her way slowly up the curved staircase, her mind whirling. I knew it… I knew it all along! I wonder who she is? I wonder if I know her? This is going to be perfect, catching him with another woman, in flagrante delicto, more ammunition for the divorce.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned left towards the master bedroom, which was at the far end of the galleried landing. The noises from the bedroom started growing louder and the tempo quickened as she crept along with her back to the wall. Just as she got to her own bedroom door, the noises from inside seemed to reach a crescendo, and as she stuck her head around the door frame, the full, shocking reality of the situation hit her like a hammer blow.
In a split second the scene was imprinted on her mind like a flash photograph. The noose around Alex’s neck, tied on a thick rope which passed through the iron ring on the ceiling where her delicate fabrics used to hang. The handcuffs. The blond wig. The women’s underwear he was wearing. The riding whip her husband was using. The way they were locked together in a disgusting, degrading, outrageously unnatural act. And the smell…
Alice’s hand flew to her mouth as acid spurted into the back of her throat. In an instant she’d turned and dashed down the landing, through her son’s bedroom and into his bathroom. Sinking to her knees in front of the toilet she whipped the lid up and sent her lunch splattering against the porcelain, coughing and gagging as the acid seared the back of her throat.
Slowly the spasms in her stomach subsided and she sank back on her haunches, wiping her mouth on a piece of toilet paper. Her face was flushed and burning and she could feel the sweat on her forehead standing out in beads. She closed her eyes and slumped sideways against the wall, covering her face with her hands and started to cry uncontrollably.
After a while, the tears stopped but she stayed huddled there, shocked and numb, until a distant humming noise broke through into her consciousness, making her mind start to work again, pulling her slowly out of her dark emotional vacuum. She couldn’t place it at first, then suddenly realized it was the sound of the power-shower in her en-suite bathroom making the water pipes vibrate. One of them must be taking a shower, she thought, which must mean they’ve finished... thank God, I could never face that sight again.
Abruptly the sound stopped. Things started to fall into place in Alice’s mind. Lots of little things. Remarks and looks that had passed between Ross and Alex that she hadn’t understood. The way they were often away from home at the same time. The way Alex had just appeared overnight as their secretary. Of course, she would have been suspicious if her husband had suddenly introduced a woman into the household. But Alex, gentle, friendly, effeminate little Alex? She’d accepted him without question.
And what a fool they’d made of her! Carrying on right under her nose! She couldn’t believe she’d been so blind… but then, what wife would suspect her husband of that? Then she remembered the summer holidays. Charles and his teenage friends, the way Ross had been all over the boys in the swimming pool, the wrestling matches, the presents, the outings, the treats. That made her feel sick again, sick to her stomach. She was suddenly seized by an iron resolve to give them both exactly what they deserved.
She stood up weakly, and going to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, rinsed her mouth and tried to gargle some of the acid out of the back of her throat. She dried her face on the towel then stood looking at herself in the mirror. The woman that stared back was cold, hard and determined. ‘You know what you have to do,’ she said aloud. ‘You’re already dead and gone, remember? You can be back in France by midnight and no one will ever know.’
With eyes glazed like a sleepwalker, she marched out onto the landing, down the stairs, and into her husband’s oak paneled study. Behind the door, she slid one of the panels aside which automatically caused a small strip-light to come on, illuminating a gray, steel cabinet about four feet high by two feet wide with a heavy handle and combination lock dial on the front. She spun the dial then selected four numbers, reversing the direction of rotation between each, before grasping the handle and swinging the heavy door of the gun-safe open.
Just as she was reaching for one of the Purdey shotguns, she heard her husband’s voice and footsteps on the polished wood of the upstairs landing. He was saying goodbye and something about tidying up. She quickly grabbed two shells from a box in the bottom of the safe, and breaking the Purdey, expertly slipped them into the breech. She snapped the gun shut, slipped the safety catch off, then stepped back into the shadows of the study behind the large antique desk, from where she had a clear line of fire from the bottom of the stairs to the front door. She hefted the big gun up to her shoulder assuming the stance her father had taught her, and with her finger resting lightly on one of the triggers, waited for her husband to come into view.
With a final remark and jaunty wave towards the bedroom, Ross trotted lightly down the stairs and into Alice’s line of vision. She followed his head with the shotgun sight as he slipped into his coat and collected his keys and briefcase from the hall table. Her finger slowly tightened on the trigger until suddenly her inner voice started shrieking at her to stop.
You can’t do it! What about Charles? Do you want him to lose both parents in one week? What about Philippe? Do you think he’ll want you after you’ve killed a man in cold blood? Don’t be stupid! Put the gun down!
Snapping out of the daze that had gripped her since she’d been upstairs, Alice abruptly released the pressure on the trigger and let the barrels of the gun droop towards the floor as her husband stepped out through the front door.
