Authors: Vince May
Alice thought about it then said, ‘You
know, it might just work, but how am I going to get into England? I don’t have
a passport.’
Philippe got up from the table, disappeared
into his bedroom for a few seconds, then came back and handed Alice a French
passport. ‘We travel as man and wife,’ he said.
Alice opened the passport and saw Louisa’s
face staring out at her. ‘It would never work,’ she said emphatically. ‘I don’t
think I look anything like Louisa.’
‘That might not get you through immigration
control at an international airport,’ he said confidently, ‘but at a small
airport or on the ferry where they hardly ever check EEC passports, you could
get through easily, you speak perfect French. The other thing is, your face is
covered with bruises. If there is a problem over the photograph, we could say
you have been in a car accident, they would accept that.’
Alice looked at the photograph again, then
stood up and walked to the mirror hanging next to the kitchen door and examined
her own face. After a few moments she turned to Philippe, a cunning smile
tugging at her lips. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think it might just work. How
soon can we get over there? He’s probably started spending the money already.’
‘We can do the statement this afternoon and
fly to England first thing in the morning if you want. There is a very good air
taxi service based at a small aerodrome just a few kilometers from here, I have
used them many times in the past for business. They can fly us directly to a
small airport in England, then we can hire a car.’
‘That sounds great,’ Alice said. ‘You get
started on making up a fake letterhead while I clear away the lunch things.’
.
Ross parked his Jaguar in the mews behind
their London townhouse, then entered the house by the upper rear entrance which
led directly into his study, where Alex was already waiting.
The townhouse, built in the
eighteen-forties, was situated in a crescent, a quiet refuge of serenity and
rural charm on the east side of Regent’s Park. On the front elevation, the
beautifully restored Victorian façade stood behind a small garden wall and was
protected from the prying eyes of the general public by a tall hedge. The front
door was several feet above street level, up a set of steps whilst another set
of steps led down to the servant’s quarters below. At the rear, doors from the
kitchen and the floor above, led into a small, split level garden then on
through a gate into a mews, where the former stables had been converted into
garages for the residents.
‘How did it go?’ Ross asked, without even
saying hello. ’Have you got her safely tucked up somewhere? Is the cremation
booked up?’
‘I managed to get a slot at Northolt
crematorium for one o’clock tomorrow afternoon,’ Alex replied. ‘She’s at an
undertaker’s in Greenford at the moment, about two miles from the crematorium.’
‘Good work,’ Ross said, slapping him on the
shoulder then walking to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a large brandy.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No thank you,’ Alex replied. ‘I’ve still
got work to do.’
‘What work? I thought you just said it was
all set.’
‘Nearly, but before you can get a body
cremated, you need an Authority to Cremate, which we don’t have.’
Ross stopped as he was about to take a gulp
of his brandy and let his arm drop. ‘What, pray, is an Authority to Cremate?’
‘It’s a three-part form issued by the Home
Office. It has to be signed by two doctors and the medical representative of
the crematorium.’
‘So let’s get one of these forms and find
two doctors that are willing to sign it.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Alex said. ‘The
first part of the form has to be filled in by the doctor who dealt with the
person when they died. He has to give details of any treatment the patient
received and the cause of death.’
‘But he’s down in Chamonix!’ Ross
exclaimed.
‘Exactly. Now I’ve spoken to the undertaker
and to the crematorium and explained the circumstances. They are prepared to
accept the French doctor’s report in lieu of part one of the form, provided it
is presented with a certified English translation.’
‘Brilliant, so all we have to do is to get
it translated,’ Ross said with relief.
‘I’ve already got that underway. I’m
picking it up from the translator at three o’clock this afternoon.’
‘You’re a treasure. Now, what about the
second doctor?’
‘That part is much easier. The undertaker
works with a local practice. Whenever they need a part-two signature, they just
ring up and one of the doctors come over. They give the body a quick
examination to confirm the cause of death, sign the form and collect their
fee.’
‘I assume you’ve got that lined up as
well?’
‘Just as soon as I get over to the
undertaker with the English translation, the other doctor will come out and do
his bit.’
‘Well done, you,’ Ross said, raising his
glass in a toast and gulping down half the contents. ‘Now then, what about
young Charles? Did you speak to his headmaster?’
‘I’ve arranged to pick him up after I’ve
been to Northolt this afternoon and bring him back here for the night. Then,
since you’re off to America on Saturday morning, I thought it would be best if
we dropped him back at Eton directly after the funeral, it’s only about fifteen
miles.’
‘That sounds like a good idea, I’ve got a
lot to do tomorrow afternoon. I want to drive down to the farm and collect some
papers… I was bloody silly really, I could have got them earlier but I was in
such a rush to get up here that I completely forgot.’
‘I could get them for you if you like,’
Alex offered.
‘No, it’s all right, I want to go down
myself, but you can come as well if you want, help me tie things up.’
Just then, there was a gentle knock on the
door and Mrs Holland, the family’s London cook and housekeeper walked in. She
was a short, fat, normally jolly woman who was deeply religious. Today she was
far from jolly and looked distinctly red around the eyes. ‘I saw you come in,
sir,’ she said, ‘and I just wanted to let you know how deeply sorry we all are
about Her Ladyship. Such beauty, such vitality, snuffed out in the prime of her
life…’ She broke down and dabbed her eyes with a sodden handkerchief.
Ross put on a deeply solemn air and said,
‘Thank you Mrs Holland, it is certainly a grievous loss, but as it says in the
good book, in the midst of life, we are in death. Who are we to question His
motives?’
‘Quite so, sir,’ she said, sobbing into her
handkerchief. ‘The good always die young.’
Ross walked over to her, put his arm around
her shoulders and guided her towards the door. ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie
down for a little while? We shan’t be needing you until dinnertime.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she sobbed, ‘I think I’ll
do that.’
Ross closed the door quietly behind her
then brightened up instantly and turned to Alex saying, ‘Now, hadn’t you better
be getting off to the translator?’
.
Back in France, Philippe was just finishing
the bogus letterhead. He’d decided to base it on his own company’s stationary
and had retained his own name and the genuine telephone and fax numbers just in
case Ross decided to check up. Philippe figured that if Ross telephoned the
office and asked for Monsieur Dulac, the receptionist would give him an
absolutely genuine response by saying that he was not in the office at present,
but would call him back if he cared to leave his name and number.
While he’d been working on the letterhead,
Alice had been sitting on the sofa with a pad, writing a detailed statement on
what had happened to her since the previous Sunday. It seemed incredible to her
that it had been only four or five days since she’d met Philippe. She felt as
if she’d known him all her life. She looked over to where he was sitting at his
desk in the corner of the living room, concentrating on his computer screen,
and felt a warm glow of affection towards him. She thought he looked tired and
haggard after his long night with Lochet, but the plan he’d come up during the
drive back from Chamonix was a good one. The addition of the imaginary woman to
defend her honor and protect her against a counterclaim by her husband was a
stroke of genius and completely typical of him.
Feeling her eyes on him, he looked over and
smiled. ‘That’s done,’ he said as the printer started to whir and spat a piece
of paper out onto the desk. He picked it up, looked at it critically, then
carried it over to where she was sitting and handed it to her. ‘Not bad, do you
think? Once I have scanned the report to make it look like it has been
photocopied, no one will ever know it is not genuine.’
She took the sheet and looked at it
closely. ‘That looks great,’ she said.
‘How are you getting on with the
statement?’ he asked.
‘Just about finished,’ Alice said, handing
him the pad. ‘I’ve written it exactly as it happened, except I’ve substituted
the imaginary Monsieur and Madame Auvray everywhere you should have appeared.’
‘That is good. Now all we need are the
photographs of your injuries and I can get on with typing it. I have my camera
here so whenever you are ready, we can take them.’
They had discussed the photographs earlier
and decided that they needed shots of Alice’s face taken from the front and
each side, a shot of the front and backs of her legs, and a shot of her
shoulders and back.
‘I’ll go and get ready now,’ Alice said,
getting up off the sofa and going through into the bathroom. Once in there, she
locked the door then peeled the clinging blue dress off over her head. Next she
brushed her hair then wrapped it into a rope and pinned it up high on the back
of her head. Finally, she took a large bath towel and wrapped it around her
body just under her arms. She’d been brought up to believe modesty was a very
important virtue in a woman, and she wasn’t about to go prancing around in
broad daylight wearing just her underclothes in front of a man she hardly knew,
no matter how much she liked him.
When she was ready, she stepped out of the
bathroom and went through to the living room. Philippe had cleared the
furniture away from one wall and had removed the pictures, leaving a completely
bare, white backdrop for the photographs. He had his digital camera set up on a
tripod and was ready to start. He asked Alice to stand with her back against
the wall, then took a face on, head and shoulders shot. Next he had her turn to
the left then the right and repeated the process. After that she hitched the
towel up and he photographed the cuts and bruises on the front and backs of her
legs. Finally, she turned to face the wall and allowed the towel to fall away
from her back while holding it tightly against the front of her body.
When he’d taken the final shot of her
shoulders and back, she hurried into the bathroom and put her dress back on and
brushed her hair out again. By the time she came back, Philippe had downloaded
the photos onto his computer and was cropping them to show just what was
needed. She pulled up a chair and sat beside him while he saved the photos then
started to type up the statement.
.
Back in London at exactly ten minutes to
three, a taxi dropped David Wiseman in Broadway, close to New Scotland Yard.
He’d always imagined that British police stations were little, old-fashioned
places with a blue lamp hanging over the entrance, but now he was standing in
front of a huge glass rectangular building with a big revolving sign outside.
He walked in through the glass doors and was surprised to find the lobby just
like any city office buildings. There was a steady stream of men and women
busily chatting to their companions, making their way between the entrance and
the lifts, those on their way in showing passes to a uniformed officer as they
went.
David approached the reception desk, where
two young women were on duty, gave his name and asked to see Chief Inspector
Hubbard, telling the girl that he had an appointment.
‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let him
know you’re here,’ she said, pointing towards a row of chairs along the
left-hand wall.
He sat down and watched as the receptionist
spoke into the telephone. After a few moments she hung up and called across to
him, ‘He’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
David thanked her then sat quietly watching
the lifts. His only experience of English policemen was from the movies, where
they were usually portrayed as rather stupid and pompous. He reckoned Hubbard
would have him wait exactly ten minutes before making an appearance, just to
stamp his authority and to show that he was a busy man. To David’s surprise
though, a young woman appeared out of one of the elevators exactly six minutes
later and made her way across to him.
‘Mr Wiseman?’ she asked.
David leapt to his feet and said, ‘Yes
ma’am, that’s me.’
‘If you’d like to follow me, Chief
Inspector Hubbard will see you now.’ She led him across the entrance hall back
to the lifts, flashing her pass as she went. They rode the lift up to the sixth
floor in silence then she guided him along a corridor and past several offices
before coming to a halt outside a door marked with Hubbard’s name and rank. She
knocked, and after receiving an answer, walked in and announced, ‘Mr Wiseman,
sir.’