Vince May - Presumed Dead

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.