Presumed Dead, page 23
The huge downdraft from the rotors blew her poncho and pole away and half blinded her with a blast of snow and loose stones, forcing her to stagger backwards and cower against the rock face behind her with her ears plugged and her eyes tightly shut.
As the flying debris pebble-dashed Alice’s bare legs making them sting painfully, the helicopter slowly edged in towards the slab, and with great skill, the pilot gently rested one ski against the rock as the observer jumped from the craft and headed towards her in a crouched run. He grabbed her by the arm and shouted something that she couldn’t hear, then led her back to the hovering helicopter with one arm around her shoulders, forcing her to bend almost double under the thrashing blades. As soon as they were both in the rear cabin, the observer made her sit in a small jump-seat then slid the door shut. Although the battering down-draught was blocked out, the noise level was still painfully high.
Alice watched, with fingers in ears, as the observer, who had been wearing a helmet with a curly lead attached, plugged it into an intercom panel. As the helicopter started to climb and bank to the right, he reached into a locker and came out with a headset, which he gently placed on Alice’s head, adjusting the boom microphone so that it was right in front of her lips. She breathed a sigh of relief as the terrible noise from the engines and rotors was blocked out, then heard a crackle as the observer plugged her headset leads into the intercom so that he could speak to her.
‘Are you all right, Madame?’ he asked in French. ‘Don’t worry, we will be at the hospital in five minutes.’
‘I don’t need to go to hospital,’ Alice protested. ‘Can’t you just take me back to Chamonix?’
‘I’m afraid not, Madame, it is our policy to take anyone we pick up in the mountains directly to the hospital for a check up.’
Alice saw that it was no use arguing.
‘What is your name?’ the observer asked conversationally.
‘Alice Webley,’ she replied.
The observer’s brows knitted. ‘That name sounds familiar… wait a minute, we were searching for you earlier in the week, then it was called off when…’ He stopped abruptly.
‘When what?’ Alice asked innocently.
But the observer wasn’t listening. He’d flipped a switch on the intercom and was speaking to the pilot who was craning his neck around, looking at her with amazement.
Down in Chamonix, Batard was sitting in his office going over some papers when there was a knock at the door and his sergeant poked his head in. ‘They’re asking for you in the control room sir,’ he said.
Batard heaved a sigh, got up from behind his desk and walked through into the control room, where the radio equipment was housed. The operator saw him come in and said, ‘The pilot of Rescue One wants to speak to you sir.’
Batard took the handheld microphone he was offered. Depressing the transmit key he said, ‘Batard here, go ahead Rescue One.’
The wall mounted speaker crackled into life. ‘Rescue One to base. You’re not going to believe this sir, but we’ve just picked a woman up from the Couvercle Hut. She says her name is Madame Alice Webley!’
Batard was dumbstruck. His mind whirled as he recalled the events of the past week. ‘Is she injured?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t appear to be,’ the pilot replied, ’but we’re en route to the hospital anyway.’
‘Very good, I’ll drive over and meet you there immediately,’ Batard said, throwing the microphone down. Dashing back to his office, he grabbed his cap then ran out to his car and headed across town to the hospital, lights flashing and siren wailing.
.
Back in Minster at Stone, Ross woke to the sound of Doctor Mason clattering around in the kitchen making breakfast. Looking like death and feeling decidedly delicate, he stood up unsteadily and followed the sound. He could remember shouting at the doctor and felt he’d probably said far too much. He decided the best thing now was a damage limitation exercise.
Mason was standing in front of the cooker wearing an old brown dressing gown, frying bacon and eggs. The smell of the greasy food made Ross feel even worse as he sat down heavily at the kitchen table.
‘Like some breakfast?’ Mason asked cheerfully as he heard him come in.
‘No thank you,’ Ross replied groggily. ‘Just some tea if I may.’
‘Help yourself,’ Mason said, pointing to the teapot already sitting on the table under a knitted cozy.
He poured himself a cup while Mason slid the contents of his frying pan onto a plate then joined him at the table. Ross looked at the pile of greasy food and almost gagged.
‘Look, about last night,’ Ross started, ‘I’m sorry if I…’
‘Don’t say another word about it,’ Mason said genially, holding his hand up. ‘You’d had a few too many, that’s all. Could happen to anyone.’
‘Thank you for seeing it that way, ‘ Ross said humbly. ‘I’m afraid I was rather rude.’
‘Nonsense … you were upset. Quite understandable.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Ross insisted, ‘I had no right to speak to you like that… I apologize.’
‘Apology accepted, now, let’s say no more about it,’ Mason said, tucking into his breakfast. Ross tried not to watch him eat because it made him feel sick.
After the doctor had mopped the last of his egg yoke up with a piece of bread he said, ‘I shouldn’t worry about this exhumation business too much if I were you. They’re not likely to find anything.’
‘How do you mean?’ Ross asked innocently.
‘It’s been nearly twenty five years since she was buried,’ Mason replied, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much left of her now, and besides, she was so full of the drugs I prescribed for her, they’ll probably never find the stuff you gave her.’
‘Who said I gave her anything?’ Ross asked angrily.
‘You did, last night. Up until then, I hadn’t believed it, but you gave yourself away by coming here and getting so upset.’
Ross jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying backwards across the kitchen and shouted, ‘It’s a lie…it’s a damn lie. I never gave her a thing, and if anyone tries to prove I did, it’ll be the worst for them.’ With that, he stormed out of the doctor’s house, strode along the road to his E-Type then sped away in a cloud of tire smoke, heading for London.
.
Back in Chamonix, Batard was at the hospital helipad speaking with his crew. ‘Did she tell you what happened to her?’ he asked.
The observer shook his head. ‘All she said was that she’d been in the Couvercle hut since Sunday night.’
‘Sunday night?’ Batard queried with surprise. ‘She means Monday night surely. She didn’t go missing until Monday!’
‘That’s what I said, but she insisted she’d been up there since Sunday night and that she would explain everything to you when you arrived,’ the observer replied.
‘And you’re sure she is Madame Webley?’
‘She looks just like the photograph you gave us.’
‘Where is she now?’ Batard asked.
‘The doctor is examining her. She said to go on up when you arrived.’
Batard dismissed his men then walked into the hospital. After getting directions from the receptionist, he rode the lift up to the second floor and went along to the private wing, where he found a woman doctor was just coming out of Alice’s room.
‘Have you been examining Madame Webley?’ he asked.
‘Yes, just finished,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about, just a few cuts and bruises, mostly healed up now.’
‘How old would you say the injuries are?’
‘The lady tells me they happened last Sunday, and I would have said that was right,’ the doctor said. ‘They look about a week old.’
‘Can I see her now?’ Batard asked.
‘I don’t see why not,’ the doctor replied. ‘She can leave any time she wants.’
Batard thanked her, then knocked and entered Alice’s room.
Chapter 17
Vic Hubbard and his wife were sitting at their kitchen table, leisurely eating breakfast and reading the Sunday papers. After the rigors of the exhumation the previous evening, he’d been looking forward to a day off.
The papers were full of the Webley story, and Mrs Hubbard had been quite excited to see a picture of her husband leading the prisoner away on the front page of hers. As well as the usual mix of fact and speculation concerning the killing, they had also managed to dredge up some background information about the victim that was news to Hubbard. The article told of Alex Crawford’s career as a drag queen and even featured an old publicity photograph of him in all his gear. Hubbard shook his head and thought, you can never tell nowadays, as he looked at the photograph of what appeared to be a stunningly beautiful woman.
It was shortly after nine when he finished his paper, and he was just thinking about getting the lawnmower out when his cell phone rang. Snatching it up from the side he could see it was Scotland Yard calling, and with a sigh, he answered, saying, ‘Hubbard.’
A female voice spoke. ‘Control here. Sorry to bother you sir, but we’ve had a call from the High Mountain Police in France. They insist on speaking to the officer in charge of the Webley case.’
‘Did they say what it was about?’ Hubbard asked.
‘No sir, they just left a number and asked that you call them back as a matter of urgency.’
Hubbard sighed again. ‘All right, you’d better give me the number and the contact name.’ He copied Batard’s name and direct-dial number down, rang off, then dialed. The call was answered immediately.
‘Batard.’
‘Good morning,’ Hubbard said. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, a little. Who is that please.’
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard from Scotland Yard in London. I have been given a message to call you concerning the Webley case.’
‘Ah, thank you for calling back so soon. I heard on the radio that you have arrested Monsieur Webley for murder. I have some very important information for you. We have discovered that the body Monsieur Webley identified and took away to England was not his wife. This morning, the rescue helicopter found the real Madame Webley on the mountain.’
Hubbard’s pulse quickened. ‘Have you been able to establish how she died?’ he asked.
‘How she died?’ Batard asked with surprise. ‘But she is not dead. I just drove her to her hotel!’
Hubbard was dumbstruck for a moment. He’d been certain that Webley had killed her! Then a new thought struck him. ‘Where has she been for the past few days?’ he asked.
‘That is why I wanted to speak to you urgently,’ Batard replied. ‘She told me that last Sunday night her husband drugged her then threw her out of his aircraft over the mountains. She says she fell down a steep snow face then managed to crawl to a refuge hut. She has been there ever since.’
‘Threw her out of a plane?’ Hubbard queried incredulously. ‘And she wasn’t injured?’
‘Oh yes, she was injured. She is covered in cuts and bruises which the doctor says are about a week old.’
‘But people don’t survive being thrown out of planes,’ Hubbard insisted. ‘Do you believe her story?’
‘Yes I do,’ Batard stated emphatically. ‘Many strange things happen in these mountains. I have known people to survive falling more than a thousand meters without a scratch, and others die after falling just three meters. Besides that, she had no climbing equipment and no proper clothing. It is not possible that she could have climbed up to the position she was in when we found her. She must have been dropped up there.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ Hubbard asked again. ‘It’s very important that we establish her whereabouts for the last three days.’
‘I can fly up to the area this morning and look around if you want me to,’ Batard offered, ‘but I am sure she is telling the truth.’
‘That would be very helpful if you could, and maybe call me back?’
‘Certainly.’
Hubbard’s mind was racing. ‘Now, you say she claims to have been thrown out of this plane on Sunday night? I thought I read reports in the newspapers that said she was seen on Monday at her hotel.’
‘That is correct, but it seems Monsieur Webley was very clever. He had someone dress like his wife so that she would be seen alive on Monday when he was in Monaco. Madame Webley says it was her secretary, Alex Crawford.’
‘That makes sense,’ Hubbard said, suddenly seeing the light. ‘Mr Crawford was shot dead on Friday.’
‘Crawford is a man? But that is impossible!’ Batard scoffed. ‘No man could pass himself as Madame Webley! She is a very beautiful woman.’
‘Maybe so,’ Hubbard insisted, ‘but Crawford was a professional female impersonator. There’s no doubt he could have done it… and it supplies the motive for his shooting.’
‘I do not follow you.’
Hubbard explained, ‘Once Crawford had impersonated Lady Webley and supplied her husband with the perfect alibi, Webley had no more use for him. In fact, the knowledge Crawford had could send him to prison for murder. Webley obviously decided to get rid of Crawford too.’
‘Madame Webley is very anxious to see her husband in jail. She is coming back here after she has had a bath and changed her clothes to make an official statement.’
‘Very good,’ Hubbard said. ‘As soon as you have her statement can you fax a signed copy of it to my office? We released Webley yesterday but in the light of what you’ve just told me, I want to re-arrest him and hold him on a charge of attempted murder while we investigate the Crawford shooting further.’
‘I will fax it as soon as it is finished. What is your number?’
Hubbard gave the numbers for his office fax and his cell phone, then said, ‘Now then, about the body Webley brought back with him. Do you know who she is?’
‘I have a very good idea,’ Batard replied. I believe she is a climber who went missing earlier in the year, Madame Dulac. He husband was in my office only yesterday.’
‘Have you got a description of her?’ Hubbard asked.
Batard swiveled around in his chair and reaching into a filing cabinet, pulled a file out marked Dulac, Louise. Flipping through the pages in the file he pulled the original missing person report out and started to read. ‘Louise Marie Dulac, age thirty seven, light brown hair, brown eyes, one meter seventy-five tall, fifty-five kilos, no distinguishing marks.’
‘That’s her,’ Hubbard said with delight. ‘Webley tried to have her cremated but we’ve got her safe at Westminster hospital. Can you find the husband and tell him he needs to come to England to make an official identification?’
‘Yes, that is no problem. I know exactly where he will be. Leave it to me.’
‘One last thing,’ Hubbard said, ‘have you got the telephone number of the hotel where Lady Webley is staying? I want to speak with her.’
Batard gave him the number, then after exchanging good-byes, rang off. Leaning back in his chair, he let out a long whistle. This was turning out to be a lot bigger than anything he’d ever dealt with before. His role as a captain in the PGMH was usually limited to investigating climbing and skiing accidents and dealing with missing persons. Violent crimes like attempted murder and shootings were very rare in the mountains.
Then he thought of Philippe Dulac, up there on the glacier, searching in vain for his wife. After all that has happened, he thought, I must break the news to him personally. I wonder if he will be relieved or sad, poor bastard. With that thought, he went through into the control room and summoned the rescue helicopter back to its base at les Gaudenays on the other side of town. After that, he pulled a flying overall on over his uniform, changed into some heavy boots then set off in his car to meet the helicopter.
.
Alice received an ecstatic welcome at the hotel. The manager wept with joy at seeing her alive, kissed her hand and escorted her to her suite personally. She was delighted to find they were still holding her luggage pending instructions from her husband, and was pleasantly surprised when the manager had it delivered to her suite, along with a bottle of champagne to celebrate her safe return.
As soon as the porter and waiter had gone, she sank down on the bed with a sigh of relief. The interview with Captain Batard had gone well, but it had been one of the trickiest half-hours of her life, especially when he’d told her all about Philippe and the mix up over his wife’s body. She felt exhausted.
Gratefully, she poured herself a glass of champagne and carried it out into the warm sunshine on the balcony where she held it up towards the Mer de Glace and drank a silent toast to Philippe. As she sipped the cool wine, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on her face, she thought about Philippe up there on the freezing glacier and hoped he was all right. Then she thought about Charles and was suddenly anxious that he should be told she was alive and well. Quickly finishing her drink she went inside and was just about to put in a call to the headmaster at Eton, when the telephone rang.
‘Lady Webley?’ a man’s voice with and English accent asked as she picked it up.
‘Speaking,’ she replied.
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard, from Scotland Yard. I wonder if I might have a quick word with you.’
Alice’s heart gave a lurch. Here we go again, she thought. ‘Certainly Chief Inspector,’ she said crisply, ‘in fact you’re just the man I want to speak with.’
‘I’ve just spoken to Captain Batard and he tells me you want to bring charges against your husband for attempted murder.’
‘I certainly do,’ Alice replied adamantly, ‘and my secretary, Alex Crawford. They drugged me and tried to kill me.’
‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible to bring a charge against Crawford,’ Hubbard said, ‘he was found dead on Friday.’
