Vince May - Presumed Dead

‘I told you,’ Hubbard said calmly, ‘I am placing you under arrest.’

‘And I told you, my wife’s death was an accident.’

‘It’s interesting you should say that, but this has nothing to do with your wife. You are being arrested in connection with the murder of Alex James Crawford. Now listen carefully while I read you your rights.’

Ross stood in shocked silence, visibly deflated as Hubbard advised him of his rights. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ Hubbard asked as Butcher took his notebook out.

‘Alex?’ he asked incredulously, ‘Alex is dead? How did it happen?’

‘We were rather hoping you would be able to tell us that,’ Hubbard said, grasping his upper arm and leading him towards the exit. ‘Come on, we’ve got a car outside.’

All the fight had gone out of Ross as he was led from the gate in a daze, flanked by Hubbard and the two armed officers. Butcher brought up the rear with Ross’s briefcase.

Just outside, the resident Heathrow freelance reporter and photographer were hanging about like vultures, hoping to hassle someone famous, who they had heard was due to board the flight to New York. As soon as they spotted the armed police and the handcuffs on Ross, they were all over the small party like a rash.

The reporter trotted along beside Hubbard firing questions, all of which were answered with a crisp, ‘No comment.’ The photographer, who was obviously an expert at running backwards, fired off shot after shot with his digital camera until they reached the exit and Ross was bundled into the back of a police van.

As the van pulled away and the police officers dispersed, Hubbard and Butcher to the car park and the two uniformed officers back to normal duties, the reporter and photographer headed back up to the departure gate.

‘Who do you reckon he was then?’ the photographer asked.

‘Don’t ask me,’ the reporter replied, ‘but it should be easy enough to find out. Wait here.’

The resident reporter had been working Heathrow for three years and had cultivated a large number of useful friends and contacts, especially among the female members of staff, due to his roguish good looks and native cockney charm. He walked back to the departure gate and found just the two girls behind the desk, the supervisor was nowhere to be seen. Both receptionists looked up and beamed as he approached them.

‘Hello, girls,’ he said with a huge grin.’

‘Might have known you’d be somewhere close by,’ one of them said cheekily.

‘You know me, I can smell a story a mile off. Speaking of which, who was that bloke they just carted off?’

‘Bloke? What bloke, we didn’t see any bloke, did we Elaine?’ one of the girls said, turning to her friend.

‘Come on girls, don’t hold out on me. You know I’ll see you all right.’

‘Same arrangement as before?’

‘If you like.’

‘Okay, quickly then, before his nibs comes back. His name is…’

Less than half an hour later, the story, complete with photographs, was being sent to one of the news wire services by e-mail from the reporter’s laptop. He’d extracted Ross’s home address and telephone number from the girls on the British Airways desk and had interviewed Mrs Holland, the housekeeper, over the phone. She’d inadvertently given him rather more information than she’d meant to, and by the end of the call he had details of Ross, Alex Crawford, Young Charles, Lady Webley’s recent accident and the address of the farm. Combining this with what he’d learnt from the receptionists, he’d produced a lively and suggestive story which was bound to be snapped up by the editors of all the Sunday rags.

Back at Scotland yard, Hubbard was up in his office calling off the general alert for Webley, while Butcher supervised the booking-in procedure where the suspect was fingerprinted, photographed and allowed to make one phone call. After that, he was escorted to an interview room where he was left alone, sitting at a plain wooden table while an officer in the adjoining room kept him under video surveillance. Hubbard was in no particular rush to get the interview started. He knew it would be pointless to even try before the lawyer arrived anyway, Webley was far too sharp to start talking without his brief present.

As soon as the fingerprints had been taken, they were rushed to the lab and compared with those that had been sent up from the East Sussex Police. Hubbard was advised of the results as soon as the comparisons had been made, and was not surprised that they were a perfect match. The other interesting piece of information the lab had for him concerned the shoe prints. East Sussex Police had send photographs and measurements and the boys in the lab had identified the shoe type by its distinctive, wood-louse shaped tread pattern as a Hush Puppy, size ten.

Ross’s lawyer, Jeffery Barnes, finally arrived after having been dragged from the golf course, at about eleven o’clock. After spending a short time in private with his client he indicated that they was ready to start the interview. Hubbard and Butcher made their way down to the interview room and introduced themselves to Barnes, who immediately launched an attack. ‘Now look here, Chief Inspector, my client demands to know why…’

Hubbard put his hand up, cutting Barnes off short. ‘Please wait until the recording machine had been started,’ he said firmly.

They all sat down at the table, Barnes and his client on one side, Hubbard and Butcher on the other as Butcher inserted a freshly labeled CD into the recording machine, pressed the record button and clearly enunciated, ‘Saturday the fourteenth of September. Ross Frederic Arthur Webley interview number one. I am Detective Sergeant Butcher, also present are Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard and Mr Jeffery Barnes of Barnes, Ashcroft and Peterson Lawyers.’

The official oral labeling of the interview CD over, Barnes said, ‘Well, Chief Inspector? What is the meaning of this arrest?’

‘Last night, the body of one Alex James Crawford was found by myself and Sergeant Butcher at Moor End Farm, your client’s country residence. He’d been shot.’

Ross was staring at Hubbard incredulously. ‘Shot?’ he asked, ‘by whom?’

‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ Hubbard said menacingly.

‘You don’t think I did it, surely?’ Ross gushed, ‘I loved him! I would never have harmed a hair on his head!’

Barnes laid his hand on his client’s forearm. ‘Best not to say too much, old man,’ he advised. ‘Just answer their questions, then we’ll get you out of here.’

Hubbard continued, ‘Can you describe your movements from, let’s say, the time you left your wife’s funeral?’

‘I took my son to lunch, then dropped him back at Eton and drove down to my farm.’

‘Had you arranged to meet Mr Crawford there?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what reason?’ Hubbard asked.

Ross hesitated for a few moments, then said, ‘We were lovers, as I’m sure you know by now. We met in order to make love.’

Barnes was taken aback by this revelation and scribbled furiously on his yellow legal pad, trying not to look at his client.

‘When did you leave the farm?’ Hubbard asked.

‘About quarter past six, I think.’

‘And what about Mr Crawford? Was he alive when you left him?’

‘Of course he was,’ Ross shouted, then settling down slightly he added, ‘He was going to tidy up then go back to London.’

‘Which door did you leave the farmhouse by?’

‘The front, of course. My car was parked directly outside.’

‘Where did you go after leaving the farm?’

‘I had arranged to stay with friends who live in Sunbury, near Heathrow. Reggie and Janet Fortesque. They always have me to stay when I’m flying out of Heathrow. I leave my car in their garages and Reggie drives me up to the airport. Makes the journey much easier.’