Vince May - Presumed Dead

Ross jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying backwards across the kitchen and shouted, ‘It’s a lie…it’s a damn lie. I never gave her a thing, and if anyone tries to prove I did, it’ll be the worst for them.’ With that, he stormed out of the doctor’s house, strode along the road to his E-Type then sped away in a cloud of tire smoke, heading for London.

Back in Chamonix, Batard was at the hospital helipad speaking with his crew. ‘Did she tell you what happened to her?’ he asked.

The observer shook his head. ‘All she said was that she’d been in the Couvercle hut since Sunday night.’

‘Sunday night?’ Batard queried with surprise. ‘She means Monday night surely. She didn’t go missing until Monday!’

‘That’s what I said, but she insisted she’d been up there since Sunday night and that she would explain everything to you when you arrived,’ the observer replied.

‘And you’re sure she is Madame Webley?’

‘She looks just like the photograph you gave us.’

‘Where is she now?’ Batard asked.

‘The doctor is examining her. She said to go on up when you arrived.’

Batard dismissed his men then walked into the hospital. After getting directions from the receptionist, he rode the lift up to the second floor and went along to the private wing, where he found a woman doctor was just coming out of Alice’s room.

‘Have you been examining Madame Webley?’ he asked.

‘Yes, just finished,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about, just a few cuts and bruises, mostly healed up now.’

‘How old would you say the injuries are?’

‘The lady tells me they happened last Sunday, and I would have said that was right,’ the doctor said. ‘They look about a week old.’

‘Can I see her now?’ Batard asked.

‘I don’t see why not,’ the doctor replied. ‘She can leave any time she wants.’

Batard thanked her, then knocked and entered Alice’s room.

Vic Hubbard and his wife were sitting at their kitchen table, leisurely eating breakfast and reading the Sunday papers. After the rigors of the exhumation the previous evening, he’d been looking forward to a day off.

The papers were full of the Webley story, and Mrs Hubbard had been quite excited to see a picture of her husband leading the prisoner away on the front page of hers. As well as the usual mix of fact and speculation concerning the killing, they had also managed to dredge up some background information about the victim that was news to Hubbard. The article told of Alex Crawford’s career as a drag queen and even featured an old publicity photograph of him in all his gear. Hubbard shook his head and thought, you can never tell nowadays, as he looked at the photograph of what appeared to be a stunningly beautiful woman.

It was shortly after nine when he finished his paper, and he was just thinking about getting the lawnmower out when his cell phone rang. Snatching it up from the side he could see it was Scotland Yard calling, and with a sigh, he answered, saying, ‘Hubbard.’

A female voice spoke. ‘Control here. Sorry to bother you sir, but we’ve had a call from the High Mountain Police in France. They insist on speaking to the officer in charge of the Webley case.’

‘Did they say what it was about?’ Hubbard asked.

‘No sir, they just left a number and asked that you call them back as a matter of urgency.’

Hubbard sighed again. ‘All right, you’d better give me the number and the contact name.’ He copied Batard’s name and direct-dial number down, rang off, then dialed. The call was answered immediately.

‘Batard.’

‘Good morning,’ Hubbard said. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘Yes, a little. Who is that please.’

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Hubbard from Scotland Yard in London. I have been given a message to call you concerning the Webley case.’

‘Ah, thank you for calling back so soon. I heard on the radio that you have arrested Monsieur Webley for murder. I have some very important information for you. We have discovered that the body Monsieur Webley identified and took away to England was not his wife. This morning, the rescue helicopter found the real Madame Webley on the mountain.’

Hubbard’s pulse quickened. ‘Have you been able to establish how she died?’ he asked.

‘How she died?’ Batard asked with surprise. ‘But she is not dead. I just drove her to her hotel!’

Hubbard was dumbstruck for a moment. He’d been certain that Webley had killed her! Then a new thought struck him. ‘Where has she been for the past few days?’ he asked.

‘That is why I wanted to speak to you urgently,’ Batard replied. ‘She told me that last Sunday night her husband drugged her then threw her out of his aircraft over the mountains. She says she fell down a steep snow face then managed to crawl to a refuge hut. She has been there ever since.’

‘Threw her out of a plane?’ Hubbard queried incredulously. ‘And she wasn’t injured?’

‘Oh yes, she was injured. She is covered in cuts and bruises which the doctor says are about a week old.’

‘But people don’t survive being thrown out of planes,’ Hubbard insisted. ‘Do you believe her story?’

‘Yes I do,’ Batard stated emphatically. ‘Many strange things happen in these mountains. I have known people to survive falling more than a thousand meters without a scratch, and others die after falling just three meters. Besides that, she had no climbing equipment and no proper clothing. It is not possible that she could have climbed up to the position she was in when we found her. She must have been dropped up there.’

‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ Hubbard asked again. ‘It’s very important that we establish her whereabouts for the last three days.’

‘I can fly up to the area this morning and look around if you want me to,’ Batard offered, ‘but I am sure she is telling the truth.’

‘That would be very helpful if you could, and maybe call me back?’

‘Certainly.’

Hubbard’s mind was racing. ‘Now, you say she claims to have been thrown out of this plane on Sunday night? I thought I read reports in the newspapers that said she was seen on Monday at her hotel.’

‘That is correct, but it seems Monsieur Webley was very clever. He had someone dress like his wife so that she would be seen alive on Monday when he was in Monaco. Madame Webley says it was her secretary, Alex Crawford.’

‘That makes sense,’ Hubbard said, suddenly seeing the light. ‘Mr Crawford was shot dead on Friday.’

‘Crawford is a man? But that is impossible!’ Batard scoffed. ‘No man could pass himself as Madame Webley! She is a very beautiful woman.’

‘Maybe so,’ Hubbard insisted, ‘but Crawford was a professional female impersonator. There’s no doubt he could have done it… and it supplies the motive for his shooting.’

‘I do not follow you.’

Hubbard explained, ‘Once Crawford had impersonated Lady Webley and supplied her husband with the perfect alibi, Webley had no more use for him. In fact, the knowledge Crawford had could send him to prison for murder. Webley obviously decided to get rid of Crawford too.’

‘Madame Webley is very anxious to see her husband in jail. She is coming back here after she has had a bath and changed her clothes to make an official statement.’

‘Very good,’ Hubbard said. ‘As soon as you have her statement can you fax a signed copy of it to my office? We released Webley yesterday but in the light of what you’ve just told me, I want to re-arrest him and hold him on a charge of attempted murder while we investigate the Crawford shooting further.’