Presumed Dead, page 18
‘As you said, a man is dead. How are you going to handle that? Are you going to be able to live with the fact that you were involved?’
‘How well you know me already,’ Alice said, reaching for his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to go on without doing the honest thing… but this is different.’ Her voice hardened as she spat out her next words. ‘He was a disgusting little pervert who’d already helped try to kill me once… and I’m pretty sure he would have tried again if he’d managed to get that gun off me. He caused the accident and he got exactly what he deserved!’
Philippe squeezed her hand and said, ‘I agree, and we can talk about it more later, but now let’s get out of here. What is the quickest way to the Eurostar station at Ashford?’
‘Back down onto the A27 then turn left,’ she said as he swung the car around and headed back the way they had come.
.
The local CID arrived with an ambulance and uniformed backup to seal the house and surrounding area, fifteen minutes after being called. Hubbard collared the most senior man, Detective Superintendent Mike Potter, showed him around and gave him a run down whilst the forensic team donned their white overalls and got to work.
‘So you reckon Sir Ross Webley is our perpetrator,’ Potter asked, once he’d heard all the facts.
‘That’s who my money’s on,’ Hubbard replied.
‘And you think he’s about to leave the country?’
‘So I’m led to believe.’
‘Then we’d better get an alert put out for him at all the airports and ferry terminals,’ Potter said decisively.
‘Already done,’ Hubbard said, ‘I called it in while we were waiting for you to arrive. I’ve got a team watching his house in London too. If he shows up there, they’ll grab him.’
Potter looked a little miffed, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the glamour boys from Scotland Yard interfering on his patch.
Hubbard was speaking again, ‘I don’t think he’ll try to get away tonight though. He’s due to fly out in the morning, and it’s my bet he’ll stick to that. He’s got no reason to think anyone is going to find out what’s happened down here straight away.’
‘Do you know what flight he’s booked on and which airport?’ Potter asked.
‘Not yet, but I’ve got a couple of my staff phoning around the airlines. We’ll know soon enough.’
Whilst they had been talking, the forensic biologist, Hugh Donaldson, had been examining the body. Now he came over and addressed Potter. ‘Dead less than an hour,’ he said, peeling his latex gloves off and dropping them into a plastic bag. ‘Shotgun wounds to the chest inflicted from below at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Looks like he was actually holding the end of the gun when it went off.’
‘Holding the gun?’ Potter said with surprise, ‘Could be a suicide then?’
‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ Donaldson replied. ‘Judging by the injuries up the insides of the arms, he was holding it by the end of the barrels. He’d have had no way of pulling the triggers.’
‘Maybe not,’ Potter mused. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, there are a number of fresh injuries on the back and buttocks, caused by a whip I’d say. And some fresh bruising and friction burn marks around the neck. Looks like someone tried to strangle him before he was shot.’
‘That ties up with what we’ve found upstairs,’ Potter said.
As they were speaking, Donaldson’s assistant approached them. ‘All right to kill the lights for a few seconds?’ she asked. ‘We’re ready to use the ultra-violet.’
Potter nodded his approval and they all moved over towards the staircase to watch. At the command, the lights were switched off and Donaldson’s assistant stepped forward holding an ultra-violet hand lamp on the end of an electrical flex. The lamp bathed the area with an eerie purple glow, which was designed to show blood and other bodily fluids that were invisible under normal lighting conditions.
‘Got something here sir,’ she said, pointing to smudges on the rug and a series of footprints that were now clearly visible.
‘Get them measured and photographed,’ Potter told her, then turning to Hubbard, he said, ‘Looks like our man went out through the back door.’
Hubbard was looking thoughtful. It was the first bit of evidence that didn’t tie up. Why would Webley leave by the back door when his car was bound to be at the front of the house? Why would he want to walk all that way in the pouring rain? His train of thought was broken when Potter said, ‘Let’s see what fingerprints have turned up.’
They walked through into the study, where the fingerprint expert had just finished with the gun-safe. ‘What have you got?’ Potter asked.
‘Two sets on the handle, man’s and a woman’s I’d say, judging by the size. Same man’s prints on the gun here in the safe, but none on the gun upstairs.’
‘What, none at all?’ Potter asked with surprise. ‘What about the cartridges?’
‘Both wiped clean,’ the expert replied. ‘Interesting point about the gun though, the safety was on, but it’s obviously been fired.’
‘Probably happened when it was cleaned,’ Potter surmised.
The two detectives walked out into the hall where the lights were now back on. ‘Looks like the suicide theory is out,’ Hubbard commented.
‘Looks like it,’ Potter admitted grudgingly, ‘and judging by the prints on that safe, Webley is our man, unless there’s an unknown woman involved.’
Hubbard stuck his head back into the study and addressed the fingerprint expert again. ‘Have you found the woman’s prints anywhere else?’
‘All over the place,’ he replied, ‘and the man’s. I reckon they must live here.’
‘Thanks,’ Hubbard said, then turning back to Potter, ‘I don’t think his wife’s involved. My guess is that she’s already dead, somewhere in the Alps.’
.
As the sixty-mile drive to Ashford progressed, Alice, very much alive, did the map reading, and in between, gave Philippe a detailed account of everything that had happened from the moment that she had entered the house. Often she had to stop as tears engulfed her, but getting the details out into the open and discussing it with a friend helped her a great deal. By the time they had been over it completely, she felt a lot better. She’d been particularly worried about the police finding her fingerprints on the gun-safe and brought it up again.
‘Would your fingerprints be on the safe normally?’ Philippe asked.
‘I guess so,’ she replied. ‘It was the most secure place in the house. I used to put my jewelry in there if we were going to be away for a while.’
‘There you are then,’ he reassured her, ‘they have no way of knowing if your prints are fresh or a few days old, not without special tests, which they would have no reason to do.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ she sighed. She thought for a few moments then said, ‘One thing I still don’t understand though, how could the gun go off if the safety was on?’
‘That’s easy,’ Philippe explained. ‘The safety catch just locks the triggers to stop you from pulling them accidentally. The mechanism inside the gun is still cocked and ready to fire. In an old gun, if the mechanism is worn, the firing pins can be released if there is a shock, like you would get if the gun was dropped. Many people have been accidentally shot over the years that way.’
Alice nodded her head as she understood what had happened. ‘I never knew that,’ she said. ‘I guess I should have taken the cartridges out to be completely safe.’
‘Don’t start blaming yourself again,’ Philippe said firmly. ‘It was an accident. It was not your fault. Now stop thinking about it and tell me how much further we have to go.’
.
They arrived at Ashford International Station shortly after eight o’clock, and just had time to drop the hire car keys in and buy two first-class tickets before boarding the 20:23 service to Paris. Once on board, they took turns to freshen up, then settled down to enjoy the complementary dinner, which was served airline style at their seats.
Although Alice felt hungry, when she started to eat, the fork shook in her hand and all she could do was poke the food around her plastic tray. ‘I don’t think I can manage this,’ she said, looking pale and weak.
‘You must eat something,’ Philippe insisted, ‘your stomach is empty.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said ruefully.
The drinks trolley came along. Philippe asked for two brandies and a bottle of red wine. Pouring one of the brandies out, he handed it to Alice. ‘Drink this, it will steady your nerves.’
She took the glass gratefully and drained it.
‘I think you had better have mine too,’ Philippe said, refilling her glass.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I think I need it.’
After she’d drunk the brandy, Alice managed a little of her dinner, then they finished the bottle of wine between them. By the time they arrived in Paris at eleven-twenty local time, she was just a tiny bit tipsy, but glad to be that way because it softened the anguish she felt in her heart.
They found a taxi outside the Gare Paris Nord railway station and had it take them across the Seine to the Gare Paris Austerlitz, where Philippe bought tickets on the midnight train to Nîmes, managing to get them a couchette or berth each, albeit in separate, single sex compartments. They boarded the train and Philippe carried Alice’s case into her compartment for her, where three other women were already making themselves comfortable for the eight-hour journey.
After claiming her berth, they stepped outside into the corridor. ‘Sleep well,’ Philippe said, putting his arms around her and kissing her on the cheek.
Alice clung to him and whispered, ‘Thank you for looking after me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
They held each other a few moments longer, then Alice stepped into her compartment while Philippe set off towards the next carriage to find his.
As the train pulled out of the station dead on midnight, it was still only eleven p.m. in Pinner, where Butcher had just dropped Hubbard outside his house. Before they had left the farm at nine-thirty, the forensic team had managed to make a positive identification of the victim when they had found his photo-card driver’s license in his wallet upstairs. Hubbard had also asked Potter if he could get his fingerprint expert to e-mail the prints he lifted from the gun-safe and the handle of the whip directly to the lab at New Scotland Yard so he could look for a match as soon as Webley was picked up.
Halfway home, Hubbard had received the call he’d been waiting for. The team that had been phoning around the airlines had come up trumps. Webley was booked to fly British Airways to New York at ten in the morning, but Hubbard was going to make it his business to see he missed his flight.
As he got out of the car, he said, ‘See you in the morning, Paul, eight o’clock sharp.’
‘I’ll be here,’ Butcher replied, ‘handcuffs polished.’
As he pulled away, Hubbard trotted up the path and his wife opened the front door. The delicious aroma of cooking greeted him and he knew his dinner would be waiting. After what he’d seen this evening, he was very glad to be returning to his haven of normality.
Chapter 13
The sun was shining at the start of a beautifully warm day as the train pulled into Nîmes, a few minutes after eight a.m. local time. Philippe carried Alice’s case as they walked out through the glass doors of the station onto Boulevard Sergent Triaireinto, looking for a taxi. The journey had been smooth and comfortable, but Alice had had difficulty sleeping. The few times that she had managed to doze off, she’d woken again almost immediately with visions of Alex’s tattered body in her mind.
They managed to find a cab and within ten minutes were at the aerodrome, where they transferred into Philippe’s car. After stopping at the boulangerie in the village for hot croissants and bread, they finally arrived at the hunting lodge where Alice brewed fresh coffee while Philippe made a phone call, then they settled down to a traditional French breakfast.
‘It’s good to be back here,’ Alice said, dunking a piece of croissant into her bowl of coffee. ‘It’s so warm and relaxing… seems like a million miles away from England.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Philippe replied, lifting his bowl with both hands and taking a sip of coffee, ‘but don’t get too relaxed. As soon as we have finished this, we must pack and get on our way.’
‘Where are we going?’ Alice asked with surprise.
‘Back to Chamonix, back up on the mountain.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Why on earth do you want to go back there?’
‘So that you can be found… officially this time.’ Philippe explained, ‘I spent most of the night thinking about this, and I have come up with a plan that will give you a perfect alibi for yesterday, one that could never be broken.’
‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘How does it work?’
‘There’s an old refuge called the Couvercle Hut about three kilometers to the south of the Charpoua Hut where we first met. It is in the next valley. The Couvercle is built underneath a huge granite slab, so it is barely visible from the air. It is positioned up on one of the high-mountain skiing routes, so it is only ever used in the winter. I know the rescue teams did not go that far up when they were searching for you, Lochet told me. There is a path that leads up to it from the Mer de Glace, but it is steep, and will be very dangerous after all the snow that has fallen in the past week.
‘If you had been thrown out of the aircraft just five hundred meters further south than you actually were, you would have fallen onto the other side of the peaks and ended up on the Glacier de Talèfre, just above the Couvercle Hut. Now my plan is this: We drive up to Chamonix this afternoon and climb up to the Couvercle Hut. I just checked and the weather is still bad in the area, so we should be able to get up there without being seen. When we get there, I’ll take all the climbing equipment and go back to the Charpoua Hut. Then we wait.’
‘What for?’ Alice asked.
‘For the weather to clear. As soon as the weather improves, which they say should be by tomorrow, the PGHM helicopter will start making regular patrols again and that is when they will find you.’
‘You think they’ll believe I’ve been in that hut for a whole week?’ she asked.
‘They will have no choice but to believe you. How could you have got all the way up there without any climbing equipment? There is always plenty of food and water stored in the huts for emergencies, and the Couvercle even has an oil heater, so you will be quite comfortable.’
‘And after they find me, how do I explain how I got up there?’
‘You tell them the truth… then swear out a complaint against your husband for attempted murder with the evidence from the PGHM to back you up… then you file for divorce.’
Alice thought for a few moments, then smiled. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘It solves all my problems at once!’
‘All our problems,’ Philippe replied. ‘Now eat up, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.’
.
Back in London, Butcher and Hubbard were just about to arrive at Heathrow’s Terminal Five. Hubbard had spoken with the head of the Airport Police the previous evening, and had told him he intended to make an arrest as the flight boarded. He’d also arranged for the Airport Police to provide some uniformed backup and for them to be on full alert for Webley from early this morning.
After parking in the short-term car park, they made their way up to the departure gate where there was already a strong police presence in the form of a male and female uniformed officer, each armed with light machineguns, and a senior, unarmed officer. Hubbard approached the senior man, introduced himself, then asked, ‘Any sign of him yet?’
‘No sir, but he’s checked in. He’s due here any moment now.’
‘Right, I don’t want to scare him off. Get your people out of sight, will you, but make sure they’re covering the exit in case he tries to leg it.’
The uniformed officer briefed his two staff while Hubbard and Butcher made their way to the desk where passengers were expected to show their boarding passes. Two young women in British Airways uniforms staffed the desk while a male supervisor wearing an airline captain-type uniform, complete with peaked cap, paced back and forth in the background. Hubbard approached the desk and signaled to the supervisor. As the man approached, Hubbard flashed his warrant card and said, ‘I take it you’ve been briefed about our operation this morning?’
‘Yes sir,’ the supervisor replied crisply. ’How do you want to play it?’
‘Probably the best way is if we sit nearby, then as soon as he tries to board, you give us a nod and we’ll make the arrest as quietly as possible.’
‘Right-oh, if you sit just over there, I’ll signal you as soon as he comes through.’
Hubbard and Butcher found a place to sit where they could see the desk, then waited patiently as passengers started to board, mostly couples and the occasional single man or woman, but no one remotely resembling the description they had of Webley. Then, at exactly nine-thirty, a tall, dark haired man, impeccably dressed in a hand-made business suit, approached the desk. As he stood speaking to one of the receptionists with his back to the two Scotland Yard men, the supervisor looked directly at Hubbard and gave an imperceptible nod.
‘We’re on,’ Hubbard said, getting up out of his seat and walking over to stand behind Ross.
‘Ross Frederic Arthur Webley?’ Hubbard asked.
‘That’s Sir Ross if you don’t mind,’ Ross said belligerently, spinning around to face the two policemen. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Police officers,’ Hubbard said, holding his warrant card up in front of Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard, this is Detective Sergeant Butcher. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…’
‘What?’ Ross exploded, his face turning scarlet, ‘On what charge?’
‘Suspicion of murder,’ Hubbard said simply.
‘That’s nonsense,’ Ross scoffed. ‘It was an accident, everybody knows that.’
‘How well you know me already,’ Alice said, reaching for his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to go on without doing the honest thing… but this is different.’ Her voice hardened as she spat out her next words. ‘He was a disgusting little pervert who’d already helped try to kill me once… and I’m pretty sure he would have tried again if he’d managed to get that gun off me. He caused the accident and he got exactly what he deserved!’
Philippe squeezed her hand and said, ‘I agree, and we can talk about it more later, but now let’s get out of here. What is the quickest way to the Eurostar station at Ashford?’
‘Back down onto the A27 then turn left,’ she said as he swung the car around and headed back the way they had come.
.
The local CID arrived with an ambulance and uniformed backup to seal the house and surrounding area, fifteen minutes after being called. Hubbard collared the most senior man, Detective Superintendent Mike Potter, showed him around and gave him a run down whilst the forensic team donned their white overalls and got to work.
‘So you reckon Sir Ross Webley is our perpetrator,’ Potter asked, once he’d heard all the facts.
‘That’s who my money’s on,’ Hubbard replied.
‘And you think he’s about to leave the country?’
‘So I’m led to believe.’
‘Then we’d better get an alert put out for him at all the airports and ferry terminals,’ Potter said decisively.
‘Already done,’ Hubbard said, ‘I called it in while we were waiting for you to arrive. I’ve got a team watching his house in London too. If he shows up there, they’ll grab him.’
Potter looked a little miffed, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the glamour boys from Scotland Yard interfering on his patch.
Hubbard was speaking again, ‘I don’t think he’ll try to get away tonight though. He’s due to fly out in the morning, and it’s my bet he’ll stick to that. He’s got no reason to think anyone is going to find out what’s happened down here straight away.’
‘Do you know what flight he’s booked on and which airport?’ Potter asked.
‘Not yet, but I’ve got a couple of my staff phoning around the airlines. We’ll know soon enough.’
Whilst they had been talking, the forensic biologist, Hugh Donaldson, had been examining the body. Now he came over and addressed Potter. ‘Dead less than an hour,’ he said, peeling his latex gloves off and dropping them into a plastic bag. ‘Shotgun wounds to the chest inflicted from below at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Looks like he was actually holding the end of the gun when it went off.’
‘Holding the gun?’ Potter said with surprise, ‘Could be a suicide then?’
‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ Donaldson replied. ‘Judging by the injuries up the insides of the arms, he was holding it by the end of the barrels. He’d have had no way of pulling the triggers.’
‘Maybe not,’ Potter mused. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, there are a number of fresh injuries on the back and buttocks, caused by a whip I’d say. And some fresh bruising and friction burn marks around the neck. Looks like someone tried to strangle him before he was shot.’
‘That ties up with what we’ve found upstairs,’ Potter said.
As they were speaking, Donaldson’s assistant approached them. ‘All right to kill the lights for a few seconds?’ she asked. ‘We’re ready to use the ultra-violet.’
Potter nodded his approval and they all moved over towards the staircase to watch. At the command, the lights were switched off and Donaldson’s assistant stepped forward holding an ultra-violet hand lamp on the end of an electrical flex. The lamp bathed the area with an eerie purple glow, which was designed to show blood and other bodily fluids that were invisible under normal lighting conditions.
‘Got something here sir,’ she said, pointing to smudges on the rug and a series of footprints that were now clearly visible.
‘Get them measured and photographed,’ Potter told her, then turning to Hubbard, he said, ‘Looks like our man went out through the back door.’
Hubbard was looking thoughtful. It was the first bit of evidence that didn’t tie up. Why would Webley leave by the back door when his car was bound to be at the front of the house? Why would he want to walk all that way in the pouring rain? His train of thought was broken when Potter said, ‘Let’s see what fingerprints have turned up.’
They walked through into the study, where the fingerprint expert had just finished with the gun-safe. ‘What have you got?’ Potter asked.
‘Two sets on the handle, man’s and a woman’s I’d say, judging by the size. Same man’s prints on the gun here in the safe, but none on the gun upstairs.’
‘What, none at all?’ Potter asked with surprise. ‘What about the cartridges?’
‘Both wiped clean,’ the expert replied. ‘Interesting point about the gun though, the safety was on, but it’s obviously been fired.’
‘Probably happened when it was cleaned,’ Potter surmised.
The two detectives walked out into the hall where the lights were now back on. ‘Looks like the suicide theory is out,’ Hubbard commented.
‘Looks like it,’ Potter admitted grudgingly, ‘and judging by the prints on that safe, Webley is our man, unless there’s an unknown woman involved.’
Hubbard stuck his head back into the study and addressed the fingerprint expert again. ‘Have you found the woman’s prints anywhere else?’
‘All over the place,’ he replied, ‘and the man’s. I reckon they must live here.’
‘Thanks,’ Hubbard said, then turning back to Potter, ‘I don’t think his wife’s involved. My guess is that she’s already dead, somewhere in the Alps.’
.
As the sixty-mile drive to Ashford progressed, Alice, very much alive, did the map reading, and in between, gave Philippe a detailed account of everything that had happened from the moment that she had entered the house. Often she had to stop as tears engulfed her, but getting the details out into the open and discussing it with a friend helped her a great deal. By the time they had been over it completely, she felt a lot better. She’d been particularly worried about the police finding her fingerprints on the gun-safe and brought it up again.
‘Would your fingerprints be on the safe normally?’ Philippe asked.
‘I guess so,’ she replied. ‘It was the most secure place in the house. I used to put my jewelry in there if we were going to be away for a while.’
‘There you are then,’ he reassured her, ‘they have no way of knowing if your prints are fresh or a few days old, not without special tests, which they would have no reason to do.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ she sighed. She thought for a few moments then said, ‘One thing I still don’t understand though, how could the gun go off if the safety was on?’
‘That’s easy,’ Philippe explained. ‘The safety catch just locks the triggers to stop you from pulling them accidentally. The mechanism inside the gun is still cocked and ready to fire. In an old gun, if the mechanism is worn, the firing pins can be released if there is a shock, like you would get if the gun was dropped. Many people have been accidentally shot over the years that way.’
Alice nodded her head as she understood what had happened. ‘I never knew that,’ she said. ‘I guess I should have taken the cartridges out to be completely safe.’
‘Don’t start blaming yourself again,’ Philippe said firmly. ‘It was an accident. It was not your fault. Now stop thinking about it and tell me how much further we have to go.’
.
They arrived at Ashford International Station shortly after eight o’clock, and just had time to drop the hire car keys in and buy two first-class tickets before boarding the 20:23 service to Paris. Once on board, they took turns to freshen up, then settled down to enjoy the complementary dinner, which was served airline style at their seats.
Although Alice felt hungry, when she started to eat, the fork shook in her hand and all she could do was poke the food around her plastic tray. ‘I don’t think I can manage this,’ she said, looking pale and weak.
‘You must eat something,’ Philippe insisted, ‘your stomach is empty.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said ruefully.
The drinks trolley came along. Philippe asked for two brandies and a bottle of red wine. Pouring one of the brandies out, he handed it to Alice. ‘Drink this, it will steady your nerves.’
She took the glass gratefully and drained it.
‘I think you had better have mine too,’ Philippe said, refilling her glass.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I think I need it.’
After she’d drunk the brandy, Alice managed a little of her dinner, then they finished the bottle of wine between them. By the time they arrived in Paris at eleven-twenty local time, she was just a tiny bit tipsy, but glad to be that way because it softened the anguish she felt in her heart.
They found a taxi outside the Gare Paris Nord railway station and had it take them across the Seine to the Gare Paris Austerlitz, where Philippe bought tickets on the midnight train to Nîmes, managing to get them a couchette or berth each, albeit in separate, single sex compartments. They boarded the train and Philippe carried Alice’s case into her compartment for her, where three other women were already making themselves comfortable for the eight-hour journey.
After claiming her berth, they stepped outside into the corridor. ‘Sleep well,’ Philippe said, putting his arms around her and kissing her on the cheek.
Alice clung to him and whispered, ‘Thank you for looking after me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
They held each other a few moments longer, then Alice stepped into her compartment while Philippe set off towards the next carriage to find his.
As the train pulled out of the station dead on midnight, it was still only eleven p.m. in Pinner, where Butcher had just dropped Hubbard outside his house. Before they had left the farm at nine-thirty, the forensic team had managed to make a positive identification of the victim when they had found his photo-card driver’s license in his wallet upstairs. Hubbard had also asked Potter if he could get his fingerprint expert to e-mail the prints he lifted from the gun-safe and the handle of the whip directly to the lab at New Scotland Yard so he could look for a match as soon as Webley was picked up.
Halfway home, Hubbard had received the call he’d been waiting for. The team that had been phoning around the airlines had come up trumps. Webley was booked to fly British Airways to New York at ten in the morning, but Hubbard was going to make it his business to see he missed his flight.
As he got out of the car, he said, ‘See you in the morning, Paul, eight o’clock sharp.’
‘I’ll be here,’ Butcher replied, ‘handcuffs polished.’
As he pulled away, Hubbard trotted up the path and his wife opened the front door. The delicious aroma of cooking greeted him and he knew his dinner would be waiting. After what he’d seen this evening, he was very glad to be returning to his haven of normality.
Chapter 13
The sun was shining at the start of a beautifully warm day as the train pulled into Nîmes, a few minutes after eight a.m. local time. Philippe carried Alice’s case as they walked out through the glass doors of the station onto Boulevard Sergent Triaireinto, looking for a taxi. The journey had been smooth and comfortable, but Alice had had difficulty sleeping. The few times that she had managed to doze off, she’d woken again almost immediately with visions of Alex’s tattered body in her mind.
They managed to find a cab and within ten minutes were at the aerodrome, where they transferred into Philippe’s car. After stopping at the boulangerie in the village for hot croissants and bread, they finally arrived at the hunting lodge where Alice brewed fresh coffee while Philippe made a phone call, then they settled down to a traditional French breakfast.
‘It’s good to be back here,’ Alice said, dunking a piece of croissant into her bowl of coffee. ‘It’s so warm and relaxing… seems like a million miles away from England.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Philippe replied, lifting his bowl with both hands and taking a sip of coffee, ‘but don’t get too relaxed. As soon as we have finished this, we must pack and get on our way.’
‘Where are we going?’ Alice asked with surprise.
‘Back to Chamonix, back up on the mountain.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Why on earth do you want to go back there?’
‘So that you can be found… officially this time.’ Philippe explained, ‘I spent most of the night thinking about this, and I have come up with a plan that will give you a perfect alibi for yesterday, one that could never be broken.’
‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘How does it work?’
‘There’s an old refuge called the Couvercle Hut about three kilometers to the south of the Charpoua Hut where we first met. It is in the next valley. The Couvercle is built underneath a huge granite slab, so it is barely visible from the air. It is positioned up on one of the high-mountain skiing routes, so it is only ever used in the winter. I know the rescue teams did not go that far up when they were searching for you, Lochet told me. There is a path that leads up to it from the Mer de Glace, but it is steep, and will be very dangerous after all the snow that has fallen in the past week.
‘If you had been thrown out of the aircraft just five hundred meters further south than you actually were, you would have fallen onto the other side of the peaks and ended up on the Glacier de Talèfre, just above the Couvercle Hut. Now my plan is this: We drive up to Chamonix this afternoon and climb up to the Couvercle Hut. I just checked and the weather is still bad in the area, so we should be able to get up there without being seen. When we get there, I’ll take all the climbing equipment and go back to the Charpoua Hut. Then we wait.’
‘What for?’ Alice asked.
‘For the weather to clear. As soon as the weather improves, which they say should be by tomorrow, the PGHM helicopter will start making regular patrols again and that is when they will find you.’
‘You think they’ll believe I’ve been in that hut for a whole week?’ she asked.
‘They will have no choice but to believe you. How could you have got all the way up there without any climbing equipment? There is always plenty of food and water stored in the huts for emergencies, and the Couvercle even has an oil heater, so you will be quite comfortable.’
‘And after they find me, how do I explain how I got up there?’
‘You tell them the truth… then swear out a complaint against your husband for attempted murder with the evidence from the PGHM to back you up… then you file for divorce.’
Alice thought for a few moments, then smiled. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘It solves all my problems at once!’
‘All our problems,’ Philippe replied. ‘Now eat up, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.’
.
Back in London, Butcher and Hubbard were just about to arrive at Heathrow’s Terminal Five. Hubbard had spoken with the head of the Airport Police the previous evening, and had told him he intended to make an arrest as the flight boarded. He’d also arranged for the Airport Police to provide some uniformed backup and for them to be on full alert for Webley from early this morning.
After parking in the short-term car park, they made their way up to the departure gate where there was already a strong police presence in the form of a male and female uniformed officer, each armed with light machineguns, and a senior, unarmed officer. Hubbard approached the senior man, introduced himself, then asked, ‘Any sign of him yet?’
‘No sir, but he’s checked in. He’s due here any moment now.’
‘Right, I don’t want to scare him off. Get your people out of sight, will you, but make sure they’re covering the exit in case he tries to leg it.’
The uniformed officer briefed his two staff while Hubbard and Butcher made their way to the desk where passengers were expected to show their boarding passes. Two young women in British Airways uniforms staffed the desk while a male supervisor wearing an airline captain-type uniform, complete with peaked cap, paced back and forth in the background. Hubbard approached the desk and signaled to the supervisor. As the man approached, Hubbard flashed his warrant card and said, ‘I take it you’ve been briefed about our operation this morning?’
‘Yes sir,’ the supervisor replied crisply. ’How do you want to play it?’
‘Probably the best way is if we sit nearby, then as soon as he tries to board, you give us a nod and we’ll make the arrest as quietly as possible.’
‘Right-oh, if you sit just over there, I’ll signal you as soon as he comes through.’
Hubbard and Butcher found a place to sit where they could see the desk, then waited patiently as passengers started to board, mostly couples and the occasional single man or woman, but no one remotely resembling the description they had of Webley. Then, at exactly nine-thirty, a tall, dark haired man, impeccably dressed in a hand-made business suit, approached the desk. As he stood speaking to one of the receptionists with his back to the two Scotland Yard men, the supervisor looked directly at Hubbard and gave an imperceptible nod.
‘We’re on,’ Hubbard said, getting up out of his seat and walking over to stand behind Ross.
‘Ross Frederic Arthur Webley?’ Hubbard asked.
‘That’s Sir Ross if you don’t mind,’ Ross said belligerently, spinning around to face the two policemen. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Police officers,’ Hubbard said, holding his warrant card up in front of Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard, this is Detective Sergeant Butcher. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…’
‘What?’ Ross exploded, his face turning scarlet, ‘On what charge?’
‘Suspicion of murder,’ Hubbard said simply.
‘That’s nonsense,’ Ross scoffed. ‘It was an accident, everybody knows that.’
