Vince May - Presumed Dead

Now, as they cruised smoothly up the Autoroute with the massive, snow capped peaks gradually enfolding them, Philippe told Alice the next stage of his plan.

‘Just before we get into Chamonix I’m going to drop you off,’ he told her. ‘Then I’m going up to see Batard, the head of the Platoon of High Mountain Police.’

Alice looked shocked. ‘What on earth do you want to see him for?’ she asked.

‘To let him know where I am,’ he explained. ‘When they find you, they are going to realize the mistake they made with Louisa’s body and will want to contact me. I just want to make it easy for them.’

‘I see,’ Alice said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I’ll drop you off at a lay-by just past the entrance to the Mont Blanc Tunnel, that’s about a twenty minute walk from the Montenvers rack railway station in Chamonix. You walk along to the station and buy a return ticket to the Mer de Glace. You should be able to catch the four thirty.’

‘Will you meet me there?’ Alice asked.

‘I’ll catch the same train, but we must not be seen together. If you see me, ignore me. When you get to the top, walk down the path towards the glacier, the one we came up, and wait for me.’

‘Okay, anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Philippe said, looking at her and smiling, ‘try not to look so beautiful. Remember, it was only a few days ago your picture was being shown to hundreds of rescuers, we can’t take the risk of someone recognizing you.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Alice said bitterly, ‘remember, I’m the classic stereotype. I look exactly like a thousand other women. No one sees past the hair and sunglasses.’

‘I do,’ he replied.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said, squeezing his hand. Then looking forward and up, through the windscreen, she said, ‘Anyway, judging by the weather up ahead, I’m going to have to have that jacket on with the hood up.’

‘That reminds me, I want to try to get the weather forecast from CHUT FM as soon as we are within range. We should be able to pick them up from here.’

Philippe switched the car radio on and punched the key he had permanently pre-programmed for the local Chamonix station. They were just in time for the four o’clock news and the French newsreader’s resonant voice filled the car. ‘The top story this afternoon is from England. Sir Ross Webley, the man who funded the massive search and rescue bid for his wife in Chamonix earlier this week, has been arrested for the murder of his secretary, who was found shot dead last night at the Englishman’s country house just hours after the cremation of his wife. Police from Scotland Yard arrested Webley this morning as he attempted to leave the country. Now for some local news…’

Alice let out a little cry. ‘They’ve arrested Ross!’

‘What did you expect?’ Philippe asked calmly.

‘I don’t know… I guess I hadn’t thought about it,’ Alice admitted.

‘I had,’ he said, ‘when you look at the evidence that was left all over the place, there is only one conclusion that the police could possibly come to.’

She thought for a moment then asked, ‘Do you think there’s enough evidence for them to convict him?’

‘I would have thought so,’ Philippe answered. ‘I think it is called poetic justice in English.’

‘Yes,’ Alice said, her lips contorting into a grim smile, ‘and it’s exactly what he deserves.’

‘By the time you have had him prosecuted for attempted murder, on top of what he is already facing, he will be away for a very long time.’

‘The longer the better as far as I’m concerned,’ Alice spat.

Back in London, Ross and his lawyer, Barnes were standing on the sidewalk just outside New Scotland Yard, trying to find a taxi. The rain that had been plaguing the country for the past few days had finally gone leaving the afternoon warm and bright. A black cab swooped into the curb and both men climbed into the back. They had decided to share a cab so that they could have a brief chat.

‘Thanks for getting me out of there,’ Ross said with relief, as soon as they were under way.

Barnes looked at him with puzzlement. The revelations about Ross’s homosexuality had been a shock, and he suddenly realized that although they had been friends for years, he didn’t know the man at all. ‘I’m worried about you Ross,’ he said. ‘Normally you’d be bellowing with righteous indignation in this situation. I say, there isn’t anything to these accusations is there?’

‘Of course not,’ Ross replied confidently. ‘I told you, Alex was alive and well when I left him, all I can think is that someone broke in after I left and shot him. I’m just a bit shocked by it all, to be honest.’

‘What about this business with your wife’s body? Do you think you may have made a mistake with the identification?’

‘It’s always possible, I suppose. I was in a hell of a state that night.’

‘Yes, I can quite imagine,’ Barnes replied sympathetically, thinking of his own wife.

‘What’s going to happen next?’ Ross asked.

‘They’ll probably want you back for more questioning on Monday, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure they don’t hold you,’ Barnes reassured him. ‘As far as I can see they’ve got nothing but circumstantial evidence.’

‘Plenty of people have gone to prison on circumstantial evidence,’ Ross observed.

Just then, the taxi pulled over to the side of the road and Barnes jumped up saying, ‘Ah, here’s where I get out.’ Turning to Ross, he said, ‘If you need me over the weekend, just call. Goodbye.’

The taxi pulled away and headed for Regents Park, where it deposited Ross outside his house. Ross had just paid the driver when the front door of the house flew open and Mrs Holland launched herself down the steps.

‘Oh Sir, thank goodness you’re home. We’ve had the police here searching everything and those awful newspaper reporters keep ringing up and knocking on the door. They say Mr Alex’s been shot! It’s not true, is it?’

‘I’m afraid it is true, Mrs Holland,’ he said remorsefully.

Mrs Holland burst into tears. ‘First Her Ladyship and now Mr Alex,’ she sobbed from behind her handkerchief as she followed Ross into the house.

She was beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves so he said, ‘Look Mrs Holland, I can see you’re upset. Why don’t you take some time off, eh? Get away for a little holiday somewhere.’

‘I couldn’t sir,’ she sobbed. ‘Who’d look after you?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, Mrs Holland, besides, I’ll probably go and stay with friends until this blows over.’

‘That’s very wise sir… well, if you’re sure, I had planned to stay with my sister for a few days while you were away.’

‘You get on your way then,’ he said, going into his study and shutting the door behind him. Suddenly, ensconced in privacy and away from the hostility of the police, the full horror of what had happened hit him. He slumped down in an armchair, buried his face in his hands and wept. Alex, dear Alex, what happened to you? His mind went back to the passion and newfound sense of freedom they had shared the previous afternoon. It had been difficult at times over the past five years, living in the same house as the person he adored and not being able to show that love, or even hint at it most of the time.

He got up, poured himself a large brandy, took the phone off the hook then slumped back down in his chair, thinking back to the first time he’d ever seen Alex, seven years ago on stage at the Chez Nous on Marburgerstrasse in Berlin. The Chez Nous was an outrageous drag club that was based on Isherwood’s seedy Berlin of the early 1930’s. Alex had been billed as Die Engländerin Rose, The English Rose, and it had certainly been an apt description.