Vince May - Presumed Dead

Ignoring them, he jumped out of the car and ran back to the newsstand where he quickly scanned the headlines of the Sunday papers with mounting horror. Sir Slays Sexy Secretary proclaimed one, while another declared Baronet Blasts Boyfriend and another Knight of Passion . Furiously snatching up a copy of each of the nationals, he pushed a ten-pound note at the attendant, then without waiting for his change, dashed back to his car and sped away.

Driving home, he scanned the papers with growing fury. Ten minutes later he screeched to a halt in the mews, leaving the car outside his garage. He let himself in to the house through his study door, and going straight to the telephone, dialed the home number of his lawyer. As soon as it was answered, he barked, ‘Have you seen the papers this morning Jeff?’

‘Morning Ross,’ Jeff Barnes replied cheerfully, ’I though I might be hearing from you about now. Got quite a bit of exposure, didn’t you?’

‘This is no laughing matter,’ Ross exploded. ‘I want you to sue every one of them for libel! I want an apology printed in every single paper!’

‘Calm down Ross,’ Barnes said firmly. ‘First, the majority of what they have printed is true. You know that and so do I. They may have dressed it up a bit, but essentially they’ve got the facts right.’

‘But I didn’t shoot him!’ Ross insisted.

‘And if you read the articles carefully, none of them actually say you did,’ Barnes pointed out. ‘All they say is that you were arrested on suspicion of shooting him, which is true.’

Ross thought for a moment, then said, ‘All right, but what about all the references to my being a homosexual?’

‘That’s true as well, isn’t it?’ Barnes asked candidly.

‘Damn it, yes!’ Ross erupted, ‘but they have no right to spread details of my private life all over their filthy newspapers.’

‘I’m afraid they have,’ Barnes said soothingly, ‘it’s called freedom of the press.’

Ross crumpled. ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked, near to tears. ‘This will ruin me… I’ll never be able to hold my head up in public again.’

‘Look, Ross,’ Barnes said comfortingly, ‘don’t worry too much about it. Lots of people have been crucified by the press and survived. Remember, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapper. It’ll soon blow over. What you should be more concerned about is proving yourself innocent of the Crawford shooting.’

By this time, Ross’s mood had swung completely and he was feeling thoroughly sorry for himself again. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you, we may have another problem to deal with,’ he said morosely.

‘What’s that?’ Barnes asked with concern.

‘The police exhumed the body of my first wife last night.’

There was silence on the end of the line for a few seconds, then Barnes asked cautiously, ‘What are you trying to tell me, Ross?’

‘I’m trying to tell you that they exhumed her body and they are going to try to prove that I killed her too.’

‘And did you?’ Barnes asked.

‘No I damn well did not,’ Ross shouted. ‘She died after an epileptic seizure. Anything they find in her body was given her by the quack who was treating her, not me.’

‘All right Ross, all right… calm down… this is what I want you to do. Sit down and write an account of the events leading up to her death. Include every detail, no matter how small. I want to be ready for them if they try to arrest you or bring charges.’

‘I’ll do as you say,’ Ross said dejectedly.

‘Good, and bring it up to my office first thing in the morning so we can go through it.’

‘All right Jeff,’ Ross said, now thoroughly crestfallen, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow… and thanks.’

‘See you tomorrow old man, g’bye.’

Ross placed the receiver back on the cradle then put his face in his hands and wept.

The blue and white rescue helicopter lifted off and headed south at low level up the center of the Mer de Glace with Batard on board, wearing the spare headphones so that he could speak to the crew. When they drew parallel with the Charpoua Glacier, he borrowed the observer’s binoculars and scanned the immense river of ice for Philippe, spotting him after a few seconds high up near the source, where the recent avalanches had dumped huge mounds of snow.

Less than a minute later, they passed out of sight of the Charpoua Glacier and rounded the ridge into the next valley where the Couvercle Hut was perched precariously high on the snow-covered mountainside. The pilot climbed the helicopter up the valley and brought it to a hover with one skid resting on the granite slab over the hut, just as he’d done earlier in the day, while Batard stepped out of the machine. As soon as he was clear, he gave the pilot the thumbs-up sign and the helicopter swooped away as instructed, with orders to return ten minutes later.

Alone now on the slab, Batard made his way down the slippery path and had a good look around the outside of the hut. He could see no signs of footprints on the trail leading up from the valley, and when he tried to walk a little way down it to take a closer look, he slipped heavily on the ice and nearly plunged over the edge. Shaken, he managed to recover his footing and clambered back up to the hut.

Once there, he shot the bolts on the heavy insulated door and stepped inside. Taking a good look around, he checked the logbook and noted the empty food packets and water bottles in the kitchen. He also checked the oil and water levels in the storage tanks and had a look at the radio to confirm it was dead, just as Alice had told him. Thoroughly satisfied that he’d been told the truth, he climbed back up onto the slab just as the helicopter was coming up the valley.

After he’d been picked up, he gave instructions to fly up the Charpoua Glacier to the spot where Philippe was probing the fresh snow with a ski pole, his rucksack and jacket lying on the ice nearby. As they approached, Batard flipped the switch on the intercom panel, which patched his headset microphone through to the loudspeaker mounted below the machine.

‘Dulac,’ his voiced boomed across the ice, ‘this is Batard, we are going to pick you up, I need to talk to you urgently.’

Philippe waved his hand in assent, and while the helicopter hovered about a hundred yards away, he collapsed his ski pole and strapped it to the side of his rucksack. After putting his jacket back on, he waved the helicopter in, and as the pilot brought the machine to a hover against the ice nearby, Philippe passed his rucksack up to the observer then scrambled aboard. There was too much noise in the cabin to speak and there wasn’t another headset, so all Batard could do until they landed back at the helipad was to smile and nod at Philippe.

As soon as they were on the ground, Batard and Philippe jumped out and ran clear of the rotors as the helicopter lifted off to resume its patrols. They watched it go, then when the noise had faded, Philippe turned to Batard and asked, ‘What’s this all about, Captain?’

‘I’m afraid I owe you an apology,’ Batard said, leading the way through the small maintenance hangar back to his car. ‘This morning, we picked a woman up from the Couvercle Hut. That woman was Madame Webley.’

Philippe stopped dead and stared at Batard with his mouth open, doing an excellent impression of shocked surprise. ‘Madame Webley?’ he asked incredulously, ‘that means the body you found on Wednesday must have been Louisa!’ Then he dropped his gaze to the floor and said sadly, ‘And that means she was cremated on Friday.’

‘I’ve got some good news for you about that,’ Batard said buoyantly, ‘she wasn’t cremated…’