Vince May - Presumed Dead

Philippe tracked him down fairly quickly to a crowded bar in a back street off the Rue des Moulins, a favorite haunt for the mountain guides. The bar was typical of those all over France, with a wooden counter along one wall, small round tables dotted here and there and loud music blaring from a jukebox. Philippe walked in, elbowed his way to the counter, and attracted the attention of the barman with a wave. Shouting to be heard over the music, Philippe asked, ‘Christian Lochet, is he in here?’

The barman indicated to the rear corner of the bar with a jerk of his head.

‘I’ll have two beers,’ Philippe said, sliding a ten Euro note onto the bar.

The barman grunted and pulled two half-litre pots. Philippe took his change, picked up the glass tankards then headed towards the back of the bar where a man was sprawled asleep across a table. Philippe shook him by the shoulder until he raised his head, looking up with bleary, unfocused eyes.

‘Are you Lochet?’ Philippe asked.

‘I was,’ the man slurred, ‘but I’m not sure now.’

‘I’ve bought you a drink,’ Philippe said, putting the pot of beer down in front of him and taking the seat opposite.

Lochet was a small, deeply tanned, wiry man of about thirty, typical of the tough Chamonix mountain guide breed. He grabbed the tankard and drank deeply from it before banging it back down on the table. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, wiping the froth from his top lip with the back of his hand.

‘I hear it was you who found the body today,’ Philippe said conversationally.

‘No,’ Lochet said with his eyes half closed. ‘It was Miel.’

‘But I was told…’ Philippe started but was cut off.

‘The best mountain dog in the whole of France,’ Lochet said, bending down and reaching under the table.

Philippe looked under the table and saw a big yellow Labrador asleep with his head between his paws, lying across his master’s feet. Lochet was gently fondling his ears.

‘This dog,’ Lochet said proudly, sitting up again, ‘earned me ten thousand Euros today. You tell me Monsieur, have you ever heard of a dog like that before… eh?’

Philippe had to admit that he hadn’t. ‘He is a very fine dog,’ Philippe said. ‘Tell me, where did he find the body?’

Lochet recognized in Philippe someone who hadn’t heard his story, so launched into it with relish. ‘We were at about three thousand meters altitude, above the Charpoua hut on the glacier when Miel started to dig like this.’ He gave an impression of a dog digging by scratching on the table with his fingers. ‘There had been an avalanche and he was digging in the snow that had come down from higher up. Well, I got my pole and soon found there was something under there, so I dug with my hands and voilà, there she was.’

‘What was she wearing?’ Philippe asked.

Lochet frowned then said slowly, ‘A white short sleeved shirt, tight turquoise leggings that came just below her knees and small, lightweight turquoise climbing boots. We wrapped her up in a blanket as soon as we found her.’

Philippe closed his eyes as he remembered Louisa wearing exactly those things the last time he’d seen her. After a moment he asked, ‘And what color hair did she have?’

‘Brown, light brown, just like in the photograph we were given,’ Lochet replied.

‘What about her face?’ Philippe asked. ‘Did her face look like the woman in the photograph?’

Lochet’s eyes were rolling around but he eventually managed to focus and looked directly at Philippe. ‘Look Monsieur, if you really want to know, half her face was smashed in. She could have been my own mother and I wouldn’t have recognized her.’

Philippe felt a wave of nausea pass over him and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Lochet was asleep on the table with his head resting on his arms. Philippe looked down at him and started to think. Batard knew that Alice had been described as wearing shorts and walking boots, so he obviously hadn’t seen the lower half of the body when it was brought off the mountain. After that, it had been stripped and cleaned up at the hospital, therefore he probably hadn’t seen the leggings and climbing boots at all! That must be it! If he could just get Lochet to describe exactly what she’d been wearing to Batard, then surely Batard must question the identification. It was his only chance.

Philippe decided he needed to get Lochet sobered up, so he reached down under the table, stroked the dog, then swiveled his collar around until he could read the address off the identity tag. Once he had it memorized, he shook Lochet awake, dragged him to his feet, and supporting him under one arm said, ‘Come on, I’m taking you home.’

By eight o’clock on Thursday morning, Ross had checked out of the Jardin du Mont Blanc Hotel, taking his own luggage with him, but leaving instructions with the manager to have Madame’s things packed and held until they were sent for. He couldn’t be bothered to struggle with the extra luggage as he had a busy day ahead of him.

By eight-fifteen, he was at the hospital arranging the release and transportation of his ‘dear wife’s’ body. The hospital administrator was very sympathetic and obliging, and in no time, his staff had her packed into a sealed body bag, placed on a stretcher and loaded into a private Blue Cross ambulance ready for the trip to Geneva airport. Ross signed the release papers, collected the death certificate and settled the hospital bill before leaving with her personal effects in a black plastic bag.

By nine, the ambulance, which was in fact a converted estate car with the rear windows blacked out and a blue light on the roof, pulled out of the hospital’s basement car park. Ross was waiting at the top of the ramp in his hire car and they set off in convoy down the Autoroute Blanche in the pouring rain towards Geneva airport. He reckoned they would be airborne by eleven at the latest.

Philippe slept soundly on Christian Lochet’s sofa until being woken up just after nine by Miel the Labrador, who obviously decided that he needed a wash, so was licking his face. At first, Philippe didn’t know where he was or what was happening, but then, looking around, he remembered. He pushed the dog away and sat up, rubbing the slobber off his face.

The previous evening had been a nightmare. He’d managed to get Lochet out of the bar without much trouble, but as soon as the fresh air had hit him, he’d passed out and Philippe had ended up having to carry him back to his apartment over his shoulder. As soon as they had got through the front door though, Lochet had miraculously come to, and had insisted on playing the genial host, plying Philippe with cheap red wine, refusing to take no for an answer. He’d finally passed out again at around midnight and Philippe had managed to get him onto his bed before collapsing exhausted onto the sofa.

Now there were deep, rasping snores coming from the direction of Lochet’s bedroom. Philippe looked into the room and found him just as he’d left him, fully clothed, lying on his back, arms and legs spread out as though he’d just fallen through the ceiling. Shaking his head, Philippe went through to the kitchen, made two cup of strong coffee, then went back to wake his host up.

‘Lochet… LOCHET,’ Philippe shouted, kicking the leg of the bed. ‘Come on, it’s time to get up.’

Lochet stirred and brought a hand up to rub his face. After a moment, he opened one eye, stared at Philippe and asked, ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Philippe Dulac, don’t you remember? We met last night at the bar.’

‘No I don’t remember,’ he said irritably. ‘What are you doing here?’