Presumed Dead (19 page)

A wave of revulsion shook her body as he
faced her with his genitals dangling beneath the negligee, but she held herself
in check. ‘Not quite… you’ve forgotten your wig and handcuffs.’

Resignedly, he pulled the wig on then
picked the handcuffs up from the bedside table and slipped them onto his
wrists.

‘That’s better,’ Alice said, ‘now we’re
ready to go. You lead the way.’ She followed him out of the bedroom and along
the galleried landing, holding the long gun at waist height.

He kept glancing back and had obviously
seen her fingers were nowhere near the triggers, because just as they reached
the top of the stairs, he stopped abruptly, swung around and grabbed the gun by
the end of the barrels, yanking it out of Alice’s hands.

Alice was caught entirely by surprise and
staggered forward onto her knees as the gun was wrenched from her grip. Looking
up, she saw the gun sail upwards as Alex reeled back towards the head of the
stairs holding the tip of the barrels at arm’s length between his manacled
hands.

Then the weight of the large stock got the
better of him and the wooden end of the gun came crashing down onto the landing
like a cleaver, narrowly missing Alice’s head as she ducked to one side.

The next few moments seemed to happen in
slow motion for Alice. The gunstock hit the floor right next to her head with a
splintering crash, the firing mechanism gave a sharp click, then both
cartridges discharged simultaneously with a deafening roar.

She swung her head up, away from the gun
just in time to see a blinding flash of light as the full force of both barrels
lifted Alex gracefully off his feet and blew him backwards over the banister.

Suddenly things were happening in real time
again. The gun dropped onto the floor beside her with a clatter, acrid smelling
smoke filled the air, and although Alice’s ears were ringing, she clearly heard
the sickening thud from down in the hall as Alex’s body slammed onto the
woodblock flooring.

Totally unable to believe what had
happened, she jumped to her feet and raced down the stairs to where Alex’s body
lay face-up in a pool of blood, his tattered, manacled arms extended over his
head like a boxer’s victory salute.

The sight was so horrible that her only
instinct was to get away. She turned on her heel and sprinted across the hall
and into the kitchen, where she ran full tilt straight into Philippe, who had
heard the shot and was on his way in, fearing the worst.

As Philippe grabbed her in the half-light,
she let out a piercing scream before realizing who it was, then she clung to
him and started crying hysterically.

‘What is it? What has happened?’ Philippe
asked, shaking her by the shoulders. ‘Tell me!’

‘It was an accident,’ Alice choked, barely
able to speak. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him!’

Philippe moved her to one side then went
through into the hall to see for himself what had happened. Alice, still
sobbing uncontrollably with her hands up to her mouth, followed gingerly. ‘Who
is it?’ he asked.

‘A…A…Alex,’ she stammered, then she seemed to
find her voice. ‘I didn’t mean for him to get hurt,’ she blurted, ‘I was just
trying to frighten him when he grabbed the gun and it hit the floor and went
off! It shouldn’t have happened! I had the safety on! I wasn’t going to hurt
him!’ She burst into tears again, covering her face with her hands.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘He’s gone,’ she sobbed, ‘about ten minutes
ago.’

Philippe turned back to her and put his arm
around her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he said, propelling her towards the kitchen.
‘Let’s get out of here.’

Alice cried uncontrollably all the way back
to the car and was so wracked with grief and shock that she could hardly walk.
Philippe had to half carry her along the cinder track and lift her over the
stile whilst trying to shelter her under one of the umbrellas from the pouring
rain.

Finally back at the car he opened the
passenger side door and as he bundled her in, she immediately turned sideways
away from him, brought her knees up and curled into a ball. As she did that,
Philippe noticed her bare feet were filthy and bleeding. ‘Where are your
shoes?’ he asked urgently. She lifted her head out of her arms and looked at
him blankly. ‘Your shoes,’ he shouted, trying to get through to her, ‘where did
you leave them?’

‘In the house,’ Alice said vaguely. At the
bottom of the stairs.’

‘They will have to stay there,’ he said.
‘You’ve got some more in your case.’ He slammed the passenger door shut, went
around to the driver’s side, slid the seat back as far as it would go, then
jumped in throwing the sodden umbrellas onto the back seat.

He’d just started the engine when Alice
suddenly grabbed his arm and shrieked, ‘The statement! I’ve left the statement
behind.’

‘What?’ Philippe said with disbelief,
‘Where did you leave it?’

‘Upstairs, I think… in the bedroom.’

.

Philippe immediately switched the engine
off and opened his door. Whilst he was prepared to risk leaving a pair of shoes
at the house, there was no way that document could be left. There was enough
evidence in those few pages to put Alice behind bars for life.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Back to get that statement,’ he said,
grabbing an umbrella and climbing out of the car. ‘Wait here until I get back,
I will not be long.’ Alice put her head back down on her arms as he shut the
car door.

Philippe leapt over the stile and sprinted
along the track towards the house, his mind working even faster than his legs.
He had to figure out what had happened, for his own peace of mind, and he had
to make sure there was nothing left at the house that could possibly connect
Alice with the shooting.

He pulled up abruptly at the back door,
then entered the house quietly, just in case Ross had come back, but he found
everything just as they had left it minutes before. He decided his first
priority was to get that statement, then he would have a look around.

Quickly climbing the stairs, he followed
the light along the landing and into the master bedroom. The noose hanging
above the bed, the whip, the jar of lubricating jelly on the bedside table, all
told an immediate story, one that he’d suspected after his talks with Alice,
but hadn’t liked to mention. He looked around and quickly found the statement
on the dressing table where she’d left it. He folded it roughly, stuffed it
back in the envelope then tucked it securely into the breast pocket of his
jacket. Next he grabbed the towel from the floor beside the bed and went out
onto the landing.

The gun was lying just where it had fallen,
and using the towel, Philippe picked it up and polished it carefully to remove
any fingerprints. As he was rubbing the triggers, he noticed they were locked
and that the safety catch was still on. So, she was right, she did have the
safety on, he thought with relief. Sliding the breech release lever over, he
broke the gun, ejected the shells and polished them too, slipping them back in
when he’d finished. The action of opening and closing the breech had re-cocked
the gun, so he decided to do a little experiment. I have to be sure, he told
himself.

Leaving the safety catch on and holding the
weapon by its barrels, he tapped the wooden stock against the floor. Nothing
happened. He tapped a little harder. Still nothing. Next he held the butt about
a foot above the floor and let it drop. Sure enough, there was a loud metallic
click as the worn mechanism released the hammers and they made contact with the
now spent cartridges. Satisfied, he laid the gun back down where he’d found it,
threw the towel back into the bedroom, then went downstairs to look at the
body.

By this time, it was virtually dark in the
house, so he found a light switch and flicked it on with his elbow. The
downstairs hall was bathed in light and everything Alice had told him tied up
perfectly with what he saw. The insides of both of Alex’s arms were in tatters from
the wrists right up to the armpits, so he’d obviously been holding the gun as
it had gone off. The chest, where he’d taken the full force of both barrels,
was nothing but a soggy mess.

He noticed the blood soaked wig, the
stockings, the suspender belt, and was just wondering about the handcuffs when
his attention was suddenly caught by the swish of a car pulling up on the
gravel outside the house. The sound made him involuntarily spin around and
stare at the front door, and in doing so, he put his right foot straight down
in the pool of blood that he’d been carefully trying to avoid.

Not wanting to hang about to see who had
just arrived, Philippe wiped his bloody shoe on one of the scatter rugs, picked
Alice’s sandals up from the foot of the stairs then made a hasty exit through
the kitchen, wiping the door handle with his handkerchief as he went.

The trip down from Regent’s Park took
nearly an hour and three-quarters, fifteen minutes more than DS Butcher had
estimated. First, they’d had problems getting out of London with the Friday
afternoon rush of people going home, then when they’d finally arrived in the
local area, they’d had trouble finding the farm.

As they slid to a halt in the gravel
outside the farmhouse they saw that the lights were on. Butcher looked at his
watch, ‘Quarter to seven, I hope we’re in time for dinner.’

Hubbard got out of the car and winced as
the cold rain splattered against his face. Together they walked up to the front
door and rang the bell. After waiting impatiently a few seconds for a reply,
Hubbard rapped on the door using the big, iron doorknocker. Still no answer.

‘Have a look around, Paul, see if there’s a
back door,’ Hubbard said.

‘Sure thing, Boss.’ Butcher turned the
collar of his jacket up and headed off to the right, disappearing around the
corner of the house as Hubbard sheltered in the entrance porch, cupping his
hands together trying to see through the stained glass panels on either side of
the front door. Moments later, the door swung open and Butcher appeared, his
normally cheerful demeanor gone. ‘Better come in and have a look at this Boss,’
he said ominously.

Hubbard followed him into the house and
immediately saw why Butcher had lost his sense of humor. He skirted around the
body being careful not to disturb anything, then looked up towards the
galleried landing above. ‘Looks like he’s come down from up there,’ he said.

‘Who is he?’ Butcher asked. ‘Webley?’

‘No, too young for a start. I suspect we’ll
find this is the secretary, Crawford.’

‘Nasty,’ Butcher grimaced.

‘Let’s have a quick look upstairs, then
we’ll have to call the local boys in,’ Hubbard said.

Upstairs, they found things just as
Philippe had left them, and it didn’t take Hubbard long to get the picture.
‘Looks like an S&M session that’s got a bit out of hand,’ he said.

‘You reckon Webley was involved?’

‘Almost certainly. I’ve heard he likes a
bit of that sort of thing. Anyway,’ he said, looking at the wet patches on the
bed, ‘There’s enough DNA here to float a battleship.’

‘What do you reckon happened then?’ Butcher
asked.

Hubbard thought for a few moments then
replied, ‘Judging by the whip and the noose, I reckon Webley gets his kicks out
of torturing then pretending to kill his playmates. The gun is just an
extension of the same game, but this time he went a bit too far.’

‘Then he panics and scarpers hoping no one
is going to find matey down there until he’s out of the country,’ Butcher
offered.

‘Exactly, but we’re going to have a little
welcome committee waiting for him at the airport.’ Hubbard led the way
downstairs saying, ‘Get on your phone to the local CID. Tell them what we’ve
got and tell them to get their best men up here with a scene-of-crime team.
We’ll wait out in the car until they arrive.’

.

Philippe got back to the hire car panting,
climbed in, and handed Alice her sandals. She took them from him without a word
and dropped them onto the floor at her feet. He was glad to see she was sitting
in her seat normally, rather than the fetal position she’d been in when he’d
left her. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked

‘Numb,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve decided I’m
going to go to the police. If I tell them it was an accident and explain what
happened, I’m sure they’ll believe me.’

Philippe looked at her incredulously. ‘You
must be joking,’ he said. ‘You and I both know it was an accident, but the
police will never believe it. If you hand yourself in you will be put in
prison, maybe not for murder, but certainly for manslaughter. Is that what you
want?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ she cried, ‘but a man
is dead, there will be an investigation. Sooner or later when they find out I’m
alive, they’ll figure I had something to do with it, they’re not stupid! I
don’t want to live the rest of my life waiting for a knock on the door!’

‘Maybe you will not have to,’ Philippe said
softly. ‘If we can make it look like you have been in France all this time,
there is no way they can prove you were there at the house at all.’

Alice thought about it for a few moments
then asked hopefully, ‘Do you think that would work?’

‘I’m sure it would, provided it is what you
want.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘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.’