Vince May - Presumed Dead

The sun was shining at the start of a beautifully warm day as the train pulled into Nîmes, a few minutes after eight a.m. local time. Philippe carried Alice’s case as they walked out through the glass doors of the station onto Boulevard Sergent Triaireinto, looking for a taxi. The journey had been smooth and comfortable, but Alice had had difficulty sleeping. The few times that she had managed to doze off, she’d woken again almost immediately with visions of Alex’s tattered body in her mind.

They managed to find a cab and within ten minutes were at the aerodrome, where they transferred into Philippe’s car. After stopping at the boulangerie in the village for hot croissants and bread, they finally arrived at the hunting lodge where Alice brewed fresh coffee while Philippe made a phone call, then they settled down to a traditional French breakfast.

‘It’s good to be back here,’ Alice said, dunking a piece of croissant into her bowl of coffee. ‘It’s so warm and relaxing… seems like a million miles away from England.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Philippe replied, lifting his bowl with both hands and taking a sip of coffee, ‘but don’t get too relaxed. As soon as we have finished this, we must pack and get on our way.’

‘Where are we going?’ Alice asked with surprise.

‘Back to Chamonix, back up on the mountain.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Why on earth do you want to go back there?’

‘So that you can be found… officially this time.’ Philippe explained, ‘I spent most of the night thinking about this, and I have come up with a plan that will give you a perfect alibi for yesterday, one that could never be broken.’

‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘How does it work?’

‘There’s an old refuge called the Couvercle Hut about three kilometers to the south of the Charpoua Hut where we first met. It is in the next valley. The Couvercle is built underneath a huge granite slab, so it is barely visible from the air. It is positioned up on one of the high-mountain skiing routes, so it is only ever used in the winter. I know the rescue teams did not go that far up when they were searching for you, Lochet told me. There is a path that leads up to it from the Mer de Glace, but it is steep, and will be very dangerous after all the snow that has fallen in the past week.

‘If you had been thrown out of the aircraft just five hundred meters further south than you actually were, you would have fallen onto the other side of the peaks and ended up on the Glacier de Talèfre, just above the Couvercle Hut. Now my plan is this: We drive up to Chamonix this afternoon and climb up to the Couvercle Hut. I just checked and the weather is still bad in the area, so we should be able to get up there without being seen. When we get there, I’ll take all the climbing equipment and go back to the Charpoua Hut. Then we wait.’

‘What for?’ Alice asked.

‘For the weather to clear. As soon as the weather improves, which they say should be by tomorrow, the PGHM helicopter will start making regular patrols again and that is when they will find you.’

‘You think they’ll believe I’ve been in that hut for a whole week?’ she asked.

‘They will have no choice but to believe you. How could you have got all the way up there without any climbing equipment? There is always plenty of food and water stored in the huts for emergencies, and the Couvercle even has an oil heater, so you will be quite comfortable.’

‘And after they find me, how do I explain how I got up there?’

‘You tell them the truth… then swear out a complaint against your husband for attempted murder with the evidence from the PGHM to back you up… then you file for divorce.’

Alice thought for a few moments, then smiled. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘It solves all my problems at once!’

‘All our problems,’ Philippe replied. ‘Now eat up, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.’

Back in London, Butcher and Hubbard were just about to arrive at Heathrow’s Terminal Five. Hubbard had spoken with the head of the Airport Police the previous evening, and had told him he intended to make an arrest as the flight boarded. He’d also arranged for the Airport Police to provide some uniformed backup and for them to be on full alert for Webley from early this morning.

After parking in the short-term car park, they made their way up to the departure gate where there was already a strong police presence in the form of a male and female uniformed officer, each armed with light machineguns, and a senior, unarmed officer. Hubbard approached the senior man, introduced himself, then asked, ‘Any sign of him yet?’

‘No sir, but he’s checked in. He’s due here any moment now.’

‘Right, I don’t want to scare him off. Get your people out of sight, will you, but make sure they’re covering the exit in case he tries to leg it.’

The uniformed officer briefed his two staff while Hubbard and Butcher made their way to the desk where passengers were expected to show their boarding passes. Two young women in British Airways uniforms staffed the desk while a male supervisor wearing an airline captain-type uniform, complete with peaked cap, paced back and forth in the background. Hubbard approached the desk and signaled to the supervisor. As the man approached, Hubbard flashed his warrant card and said, ‘I take it you’ve been briefed about our operation this morning?’

‘Yes sir,’ the supervisor replied crisply. ’How do you want to play it?’

‘Probably the best way is if we sit nearby, then as soon as he tries to board, you give us a nod and we’ll make the arrest as quietly as possible.’

‘Right-oh, if you sit just over there, I’ll signal you as soon as he comes through.’

Hubbard and Butcher found a place to sit where they could see the desk, then waited patiently as passengers started to board, mostly couples and the occasional single man or woman, but no one remotely resembling the description they had of Webley. Then, at exactly nine-thirty, a tall, dark haired man, impeccably dressed in a hand-made business suit, approached the desk. As he stood speaking to one of the receptionists with his back to the two Scotland Yard men, the supervisor looked directly at Hubbard and gave an imperceptible nod.

‘We’re on,’ Hubbard said, getting up out of his seat and walking over to stand behind Ross.

‘Ross Frederic Arthur Webley?’ Hubbard asked.

‘That’s Sir Ross if you don’t mind,’ Ross said belligerently, spinning around to face the two policemen. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Police officers,’ Hubbard said, holding his warrant card up in front of Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard, this is Detective Sergeant Butcher. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…’

‘What?’ Ross exploded, his face turning scarlet, ‘On what charge?’

‘Suspicion of murder,’ Hubbard said simply.

‘That’s nonsense,’ Ross scoffed. ‘It was an accident, everybody knows that.’

Hubbard and Butcher exchanged a glance. ‘What was an accident?’ Hubbard asked.

‘My wife’s death, you fool. Now leave me alone before I have both your badges. I’ve got a flight to catch!’ Ross spat, turning his back on Hubbard and starting towards the gate.

Hubbard and Butcher reacted in unison, grabbing one of Ross’s arms each, pulling them up behind his back and quickly slapping handcuffs on, sending his briefcase and boarding card flying. On hearing the fracas, the armed officers rushed in and took up position either side of the prisoner.

Ross was outraged. ‘What the bloody hell do you thing you’re doing?’ he roared, struggling against the handcuffs.