Presumed Dead, page 19
Hubbard and Butcher exchanged a glance. ‘What was an accident?’ Hubbard asked.
‘My wife’s death, you fool. Now leave me alone before I have both your badges. I’ve got a flight to catch!’ Ross spat, turning his back on Hubbard and starting towards the gate.
Hubbard and Butcher reacted in unison, grabbing one of Ross’s arms each, pulling them up behind his back and quickly slapping handcuffs on, sending his briefcase and boarding card flying. On hearing the fracas, the armed officers rushed in and took up position either side of the prisoner.
Ross was outraged. ‘What the bloody hell do you thing you’re doing?’ he roared, struggling against the handcuffs.
‘I told you,’ Hubbard said calmly, ‘I am placing you under arrest.’
‘And I told you, my wife’s death was an accident.’
‘It’s interesting you should say that, but this has nothing to do with your wife. You are being arrested in connection with the murder of Alex James Crawford. Now listen carefully while I read you your rights.’
Ross stood in shocked silence, visibly deflated as Hubbard advised him of his rights. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ Hubbard asked as Butcher took his notebook out.
‘Alex?’ he asked incredulously, ‘Alex is dead? How did it happen?’
‘We were rather hoping you would be able to tell us that,’ Hubbard said, grasping his upper arm and leading him towards the exit. ‘Come on, we’ve got a car outside.’
All the fight had gone out of Ross as he was led from the gate in a daze, flanked by Hubbard and the two armed officers. Butcher brought up the rear with Ross’s briefcase.
Just outside, the resident Heathrow freelance reporter and photographer were hanging about like vultures, hoping to hassle someone famous, who they had heard was due to board the flight to New York. As soon as they spotted the armed police and the handcuffs on Ross, they were all over the small party like a rash.
The reporter trotted along beside Hubbard firing questions, all of which were answered with a crisp, ‘No comment.’ The photographer, who was obviously an expert at running backwards, fired off shot after shot with his digital camera until they reached the exit and Ross was bundled into the back of a police van.
As the van pulled away and the police officers dispersed, Hubbard and Butcher to the car park and the two uniformed officers back to normal duties, the reporter and photographer headed back up to the departure gate.
‘Who do you reckon he was then?’ the photographer asked.
‘Don’t ask me,’ the reporter replied, ‘but it should be easy enough to find out. Wait here.’
The resident reporter had been working Heathrow for three years and had cultivated a large number of useful friends and contacts, especially among the female members of staff, due to his roguish good looks and native cockney charm. He walked back to the departure gate and found just the two girls behind the desk, the supervisor was nowhere to be seen. Both receptionists looked up and beamed as he approached them.
‘Hello, girls,’ he said with a huge grin.’
‘Might have known you’d be somewhere close by,’ one of them said cheekily.
‘You know me, I can smell a story a mile off. Speaking of which, who was that bloke they just carted off?’
‘Bloke? What bloke, we didn’t see any bloke, did we Elaine?’ one of the girls said, turning to her friend.
‘Come on girls, don’t hold out on me. You know I’ll see you all right.’
‘Same arrangement as before?’
‘If you like.’
‘Okay, quickly then, before his nibs comes back. His name is…’
.
Less than half an hour later, the story, complete with photographs, was being sent to one of the news wire services by e-mail from the reporter’s laptop. He’d extracted Ross’s home address and telephone number from the girls on the British Airways desk and had interviewed Mrs Holland, the housekeeper, over the phone. She’d inadvertently given him rather more information than she’d meant to, and by the end of the call he had details of Ross, Alex Crawford, Young Charles, Lady Webley’s recent accident and the address of the farm. Combining this with what he’d learnt from the receptionists, he’d produced a lively and suggestive story which was bound to be snapped up by the editors of all the Sunday rags.
.
Back at Scotland yard, Hubbard was up in his office calling off the general alert for Webley, while Butcher supervised the booking-in procedure where the suspect was fingerprinted, photographed and allowed to make one phone call. After that, he was escorted to an interview room where he was left alone, sitting at a plain wooden table while an officer in the adjoining room kept him under video surveillance. Hubbard was in no particular rush to get the interview started. He knew it would be pointless to even try before the lawyer arrived anyway, Webley was far too sharp to start talking without his brief present.
As soon as the fingerprints had been taken, they were rushed to the lab and compared with those that had been sent up from the East Sussex Police. Hubbard was advised of the results as soon as the comparisons had been made, and was not surprised that they were a perfect match. The other interesting piece of information the lab had for him concerned the shoe prints. East Sussex Police had send photographs and measurements and the boys in the lab had identified the shoe type by its distinctive, wood-louse shaped tread pattern as a Hush Puppy, size ten.
Ross’s lawyer, Jeffery Barnes, finally arrived after having been dragged from the golf course, at about eleven o’clock. After spending a short time in private with his client he indicated that they was ready to start the interview. Hubbard and Butcher made their way down to the interview room and introduced themselves to Barnes, who immediately launched an attack. ‘Now look here, Chief Inspector, my client demands to know why…’
Hubbard put his hand up, cutting Barnes off short. ‘Please wait until the recording machine had been started,’ he said firmly.
They all sat down at the table, Barnes and his client on one side, Hubbard and Butcher on the other as Butcher inserted a freshly labeled CD into the recording machine, pressed the record button and clearly enunciated, ‘Saturday the fourteenth of September. Ross Frederic Arthur Webley interview number one. I am Detective Sergeant Butcher, also present are Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard and Mr Jeffery Barnes of Barnes, Ashcroft and Peterson Lawyers.’
The official oral labeling of the interview CD over, Barnes said, ‘Well, Chief Inspector? What is the meaning of this arrest?’
‘Last night, the body of one Alex James Crawford was found by myself and Sergeant Butcher at Moor End Farm, your client’s country residence. He’d been shot.’
Ross was staring at Hubbard incredulously. ‘Shot?’ he asked, ‘by whom?’
‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ Hubbard said menacingly.
‘You don’t think I did it, surely?’ Ross gushed, ‘I loved him! I would never have harmed a hair on his head!’
Barnes laid his hand on his client’s forearm. ‘Best not to say too much, old man,’ he advised. ‘Just answer their questions, then we’ll get you out of here.’
Hubbard continued, ‘Can you describe your movements from, let’s say, the time you left your wife’s funeral?’
‘I took my son to lunch, then dropped him back at Eton and drove down to my farm.’
‘Had you arranged to meet Mr Crawford there?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what reason?’ Hubbard asked.
Ross hesitated for a few moments, then said, ‘We were lovers, as I’m sure you know by now. We met in order to make love.’
Barnes was taken aback by this revelation and scribbled furiously on his yellow legal pad, trying not to look at his client.
‘When did you leave the farm?’ Hubbard asked.
‘About quarter past six, I think.’
‘And what about Mr Crawford? Was he alive when you left him?’
‘Of course he was,’ Ross shouted, then settling down slightly he added, ‘He was going to tidy up then go back to London.’
‘Which door did you leave the farmhouse by?’
‘The front, of course. My car was parked directly outside.’
‘Where did you go after leaving the farm?’
‘I had arranged to stay with friends who live in Sunbury, near Heathrow. Reggie and Janet Fortesque. They always have me to stay when I’m flying out of Heathrow. I leave my car in their garages and Reggie drives me up to the airport. Makes the journey much easier.’
‘What time did you arrive there?’ Hubbard asked.
‘About quarter to eight. I was just in time for dinner.’
‘Did you go straight there from the farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?’
‘Just for petrol.’
‘Where was that and what time?’
‘The BP station on the A27, just past Lewes. It could only have been five minutes after I left the farm. If you let me have my wallet back, I’ll show you the credit card chit.’
‘We’ll look at that later.’ Hubbard made some notes then changed his tack. ‘Who knows the combination to your gun-safe?’
‘My gun-safe? Don’t tell me he was shot with one of the Purdeys!’
‘Answer the question please,’ Hubbard said firmly.
Ross hesitated then said slowly, ‘Just myself and my late wife.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘Absolutely, my wife and I were extremely careful about keeping it a secret. She was terrified that our son would find a way into it and get his hands on the guns.’
Hubbard changed tack again. ‘Do you own a pair of Hush Puppy shoes?’
‘Certainly not,’ Ross scoffed. ‘I have all my footwear handmade by a little chap in London.’
Hubbard made more notes then said,’ I’d like to leave it there while we check the things you’ve just told us. We’ll start again in half an hour.’
Butcher switched the recorder off and followed Hubbard out of the room. As soon as the door was shut he asked, ‘What do you reckon, Boss?’
‘I’ve interviewed a lot of villains in my time,’ Hubbard said thoughtfully, ‘and although I hate to say it, I think he may be telling us the truth.’
Butcher thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s possible someone could have broken in while they were upstairs, cracked the safe thinking it held the family jewels, then been disturbed by Crawford after Webley had gone.’
‘It’s possible, that might explain the Hush Puppies and why he went out the back door,’ Hubbard mused. ‘The other thing is, I can’t see that Webley had a motive. Let’s check up on his story anyway, then have another go at him.’
Half an hour later, they were back in the interview room with the CD recorder running. A search of Ross’s London home had revealed nothing incriminating and no shop bought shoes. The Fortesques had confirmed his story, also saying he’d seemed perfectly normal when he’d arrived. The credit card receipt they found in his wallet showed a time of 18:23, also confirming what he’d told them.
The lab had been over his clothes and the contents of his suitcases and had found no trace of blood and no Hush Puppies. Hubbard’s well-developed instinct was starting to tell him they had the wrong man, for this crime anyway. But there was still the question of his wife’s body. Why had he automatically assumed he was being arrested for his wife’s death, and why had he been so insistent that it was an accident?
‘Tell me,’ Hubbard started, ‘why did you have your wife’s remains cremated so quickly after your return from France?’
Ross was ready for this question, had been for days. ‘I had urgent business in the United States that would keep me there for some months,’ he said confidently. ‘It was a simple choice of having the ceremony immediately, or waiting until I returned. For my son’s sake, I thought it best to get it over with.’
It seemed reasonable enough, but Hubbard pressed on. ‘Who identified your wife’s body after the accident?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ Ross answered, confident that no one could now contradict him.
‘And you are certain that the body you identified was in fact that of your wife, Lady Webley?’
‘Absolutely certain. After all, a man should know his own wife, what?’
‘You would have thought so,’ Hubbard said. ‘What if I were to tell you that I have reason to believed that the body you put forward for cremation was not, in fact, your wife?’
‘I would say that you would have a hard job proving it now,’ Ross said with a smile.
Hubbard paused for a moment then said, ‘On the contrary. You saw an empty coffin cremated. The body we had removed from it before the cremation is now lying in the mortuary of a nearby hospital, and I, for one, am confident that it is not your wife. What have you got to say to that?’
Ross’s mirth changed instantly to shock, which he expertly covered, then delivered his pre-made excuse with a confidence borne out of years of lying. ‘I suppose I could have made a mistake,’ he admitted humbly, ‘she was pretty badly smashed up you know, and I’d had a few before going up to the hospital.’
For the second time, Hubbard was half inclined to believe what he was being told. He was also beginning to wonder if having the first wife exhumed was going to be a mistake, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop that now, the procedure was due to go ahead in a few hours’ time. Anyway, he was only about fifty percent certain about Webley. Either he was an innocent man, or he was the best liar he’d ever come across in thirty years on the force. Time to start again.
Hubbard went right back to the beginning and asked all the same questions again in a slightly different way, but after three solid hours, he’d still not managed to get Ross to make a single mistake or change his story on either subject one iota. Finally, by two thirty, Hubbard decided he was wasting his time, so after confiscating his passport, he released Ross pending further investigation. He also intended to speak to the police in Chamonix to find out more about the disappearance of Lady Webley, but that could wait until Monday.
Right now, all he wanted to do was to get home, spend a little time with his wife, then have his dinner before heading up to Minster at Stone for the exhumation, which was scheduled, like most exhumations, to take place in the dead of the night.
Chapter 14
Alice woke abruptly as Philippe stopped to pay the toll at the beginning of the Autoroute Blanche, just south of Geneva on the last leg of their drive to Chamonix. She’d been so tired after her sleepless night on the train that she’d nodded off almost immediately they had left the house.
They’d had a busy morning. Directly after they’d finished their breakfast, Philippe had announced that they must get rid of all the clothes they had been wearing the previous day, just in case they were ever linked to the farm. They had both gone and changed then he’d put every single item, including jackets and shoes, into the washing machine on a boil wash. While they were waiting for that to finish, he’d burned the bogus lawyer’s report and deleted the file from his hard disk. Once the washing machine had finished, he’d bagged the clothes and shoes up with his household rubbish and had driven it to the local tip, where he’d thrown it into the compacting machine personally.
While he’d been gone, Alice had treated herself to a long, hot bath, then had got dressed into her dirty, blood stained walking gear and the spare trousers which they had borrowed from the Charpoua Hut. She’d also looked out the hooded jacket, gloves and crampons they had borrowed, ready to take with her. After that, she’d carefully packed all her new clothes away into a suitcase, which Philippe had hidden in his own bedroom. Philippe had then changed into his climbing gear, packed an overnight bag, and by midday they had been ready to roll.
Just before they had left, Philippe had logged onto BBC Online on the Internet, looking for any news of the shooting. The BBC hadn’t, by that time, picked the story up, so there was no mention of it. Alice had told him he was wasting his time and explained that while they were away, their housekeeper only went in once a week, on a Wednesday, to do the dusting, so it was unlikely the body would be discovered until then. Philippe hadn’t told her about the car that had pulled up while he’d still been in the house. He hadn’t wanted her to feel pursued on top of all her other emotions.
Now, as they cruised smoothly up the Autoroute with the massive, snow capped peaks gradually enfolding them, Philippe told Alice the next stage of his plan.
‘Just before we get into Chamonix I’m going to drop you off,’ he told her. ‘Then I’m going up to see Batard, the head of the Platoon of High Mountain Police.’
Alice looked shocked. ‘What on earth do you want to see him for?’ she asked.
‘To let him know where I am,’ he explained. ‘When they find you, they are going to realize the mistake they made with Louisa’s body and will want to contact me. I just want to make it easy for them.’
‘I see,’ Alice said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I’ll drop you off at a lay-by just past the entrance to the Mont Blanc Tunnel, that’s about a twenty minute walk from the Montenvers rack railway station in Chamonix. You walk along to the station and buy a return ticket to the Mer de Glace. You should be able to catch the four thirty.’
‘Will you meet me there?’ Alice asked.
‘I’ll catch the same train, but we must not be seen together. If you see me, ignore me. When you get to the top, walk down the path towards the glacier, the one we came up, and wait for me.’
‘Okay, anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Philippe said, looking at her and smiling, ‘try not to look so beautiful. Remember, it was only a few days ago your picture was being shown to hundreds of rescuers, we can’t take the risk of someone recognizing you.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Alice said bitterly, ‘remember, I’m the classic stereotype. I look exactly like a thousand other women. No one sees past the hair and sunglasses.’
‘I do,’ he replied.
‘Thank you for that,’ she said, squeezing his hand. Then looking forward and up, through the windscreen, she said, ‘Anyway, judging by the weather up ahead, I’m going to have to have that jacket on with the hood up.’
