There was a pause between them, then Alice asked, ‘Will you give me a call when you get there, just to let me know you’re safe?’
‘Of course I will, and if you look in the notebook that is in the drawer under the telephone, you will find my cell phone number in case you want to call me.’
‘Thank you,’ Alice said. ‘Speak to you later, take care.’
‘You too, au revoir.’ Philippe punched the disconnect button on his steering wheel.
Alice stood holding the telephone, staring off into space for a few seconds before placing it back on the cradle. Ever since he’d dropped her at the house with her shopping and sped away, she’d been feeling uneasy and worried, worried about Philippe, worried about young Charles and worried that her husband was about to have her declared dead and ruin her company. How, she wondered, would the headmaster at Eton tell her son that his mother had been found dead on a mountain? How would he feel? Her heart went out to him, but she knew she must play the game, Ross’s game, a little longer if she was going to save her company and the jobs of all those thousands of people who relied on her for their livelihood.
After she put the telephone down, she wandered outside and sat on the veranda for a while, but it wasn’t the same without Philippe. Getting up, she went back into the house and spotted her shopping bags on the kitchen table, just where she’d dumped them earlier on. She decided she’d better take them through to her bedroom and put her new things away, but before she could do that, she would have to move the clothes that Philippe had given her when she’d first arrived. She opened the drawers in her room and put Louisa’s clothes in a neat pile on her bed, then picked them up and went through into Philippe’s room.
It was the first time she’d been into his room, and its beauty and simplicity immediately struck her. The floor was polished wood, just like her floors at home, and there were brightly colored scatter rugs here and there. A small door led off to an en-suite bathroom, which was cool and pleasant with marble tiles on the floor and walls. The big double bed had a rustic antique pine frame, which matched the rest of the farmhouse style furniture in the room. On one of the bedside cabinets there was a silver-framed photograph of a tall, slim woman with long brown hair wearing climbing gear and leaning against a rock with a wonderful mountain view behind her.
Alice put the pile of clothes on the bed then picked the photograph up and studied it. This must be Louisa, she thought. As she looked at the other woman’s dark, handsome features, she suddenly felt an enormous pang of pity for Philippe. How long had he spent out there on the mountain looking for her? How must he have felt, week after week, trekking through the snow, searching, hoping to find just some sign of her? And how must he feel now to have her taken away by someone else, someone like Ross? The thought of Ross made her feel vicious. I hate that bastard, she thought vehemently, I hate him for what he did to me, for what he’s doing to poor Philippe and for how Charles must be feeling right now. I’m going to get even with him if it’s the last thing I do!
The subject of Alice’s intentions was at that moment enjoying a drink in the bar of the Jardin du Mont Blanc Hotel, waiting for Jacques Batard to turn up. Ross had been feeling particularly pleased with himself ever since his earlier conversation with Batard when he’d realized he was going to get away with it. He’d gone straight to the bar as soon as he’d arrived back at the hotel and had been drinking steadily ever since. The hotel staff had looked on with sympathy as he’d downed the best part of a bottle of brandy. ‘Poor Monsieur,’ they had said to each other, ‘drowning his sorrows. Such a beautiful woman, such a waste.’
But Ross was far from sorrowful. This was his own personal, private celebration, a celebration of five hundred million dollars that were coming his way. He’d drunk to his new Learjet, to his new yacht, to his new villa in Monaco, to having as much cash as he wanted, to unlimited credit at any gambling house in the world. By the time six o’clock came and Batard walked into the bar, Ross was, by his own admission, a bit squiffy. But surely that was understandable for a chap in his position, wasn’t it?
Batard seemed to think so, and took it in his stride when Ross hailed him. ‘Ah, there you are my friend, come and have a drink.’
‘No thank you Monsieur, I have a lot of work to do tonight before I get off duty. Are you ready to go to the hospital?’
‘Suppose we better get it over with,’ Ross said, climbing unsteadily to his feet.
Batard had a car parked outside, and opened the front passenger door for Ross. Going around to his own side, he jumped in and they were soon heading across town to the hospital.
The mortuary was located in the hospital basement and the two men rode the lift down in silence. When the lift opened, Batard let the way through a pair of swing doors into the morgue, where they were instantly enveloped by the sickly, penetrating smell of formaldehyde. In the middle of the room, there were two stainless steel autopsy tables on wheeled bases, both of them empty. Harsh overhead fluorescent lights reflected back from the scrubbed floor and white-tiled walls into Ross’s bleary eyes, making him squint.
A morgue attendant led the way to a wall of refrigerated body vaults, and, pulling back a heavy metal clamp, swung one of the doors open and slid a body pan draped with green sheeting half way out. The brilliant light in the room accentuated the contours of the body under the sheet and for the first time in this whole affair, Ross felt a twinge of nervousness run up his spine. The morgue attendant stood back to let Batard and Ross stand one either side of the tray.
As Batard lifted the sheet and folded it neatly back, just below the shoulders of the naked corpse, Ross caught his breath and stared down with horror on the bloated, blue lipped, half-crushed face, surrounded by light brown hair. Of all the things he’d been expecting to see, the body of a complete stranger was not one of them. Suddenly, his throat filled with bile and his legs gave way. He staggered backwards into the arms of the morgue attendant who guided him over to a steel chair and sat him down, forcing his head down between his knees. He spat the mouthful of bile out onto the floor.
Batard flipped the sheet back over Louisa and rushed around to Ross. ‘Are you all right Monsieur?’ he asked with concern.
Ross didn’t move for a while. After he’d recovered from the initial shock, his mind started working at full pelt. Who the hell was that on the tray? Could he get away with identifying her as Alice? He thought it was worth a try: after all, if anything happened, he could always say he’d made a mistake. He slowly lifted his head and looked up at Batard. ‘I’m all right thank you,’ he said. ‘It was just the shock of seeing her like that… she was so beautiful when she was alive… and now…’
‘I understand,’ Batard said sympathetically. ‘It must have been a terrible shock. If you will just sign the official identification document, we can get out of here and I will take you back to your hotel.’
Ross took the clipboard Batard offered him and signed the form confirming that he, as her next of kin, officially identified this body as Alice Webley. The deed was done. Now he’d have to make sure no one found out.
As soon as Batard dropped him outside the hotel, Ross rushed up to his room, locked the door, poured himself a drink from the mini-bar then sat on the edge of the bed and dialed Alex’s number on his cell phone.
The moment Alex answered he said, ‘We may have a problem.’
‘What? What’s gone wrong?’ Alex asked desperately.
‘It wasn’t her.’
‘What do you mean, it wasn’t her? Who wasn’t who?’
‘The body in the morgue, the one they brought down off the mountain, it wasn’t Alice.’