‘Have you been drinking?’ Alex asked.
‘Yes, but not enough to make me see things that aren’t there. I promise you, that was not Alice they found today.’
Alex paused for a moment to take it in, then asked, ‘What did you say when they showed her to you?’
‘Nothing. I felt a bit queasy and had to sit down. They took that as confirmation of her identity, asked me to sign a form, and that was it.’
‘So you identified her as Alice?’ Alex asked incredulously.
‘That’s right, and we’ll be fine provided the rightful owner doesn’t turn up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I mean is that the sooner we get rid of this body, the safer we’ll be. I don’t want someone turning up claiming I’ve got his wife or daughter in my family vault. If they exhume the body and can prove it’s not Alice by DNA testing, that will invalidate her death certificate and cause all sorts of legal problems with ownership of the corporation.’
‘What are we going to do then?’ Alex asked.
‘Get her cremated as soon as possible. I don’t want to go off to the States on Saturday to take over control of Sanderson’s with the wrong woman lying at the undertakers. Until she goes up in smoke, we’re vulnerable.’
‘But what happens if Alice’s body turns up later on?’ Alex wailed. ‘What will we do then?’
‘I’ve already thought of that. I simply say I was distraught and had had a few to drink when I went to the hospital. I made a mistake and I’m very sorry. We then get a new death certificate for the real Alice, and that’s that,’ Ross said triumphantly.
‘So you want me to arrange to have her cremated on Friday?’ Alex asked flatly.
‘That’s right. I know it will be difficult, but phone around, see who can take her at short notice. There are plenty of crematoriums around London. Once you’ve got it fixed up, let the Head at Eton know so he can arrange a pass for young Charles to attend the funeral.’
‘Aren’t people going to think it a bit strange that you find your wife on Wednesday, fly her home on Thursday and cremate her on Friday? A man in your position would be expected to send out invitations, arrange a…’
‘I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks or expects,’ Ross snapped. ‘There’s too much money involved to take any chances. I want to get things rolling at Sanderson’s on Saturday, and I want that body out of the way first.’
‘All right,’ Alex sighed, ‘I’ll do the best that I can. See you tomorrow.’
Ross switched off his phone, swung his legs up onto the bed, and laid there with his hands behind his head, contemplating his own brilliance.
Philippe rolled into town about half an hour later, just before eight o’clock, and went straight to the headquarters of the Peloton de Gendarmerie de Haute-Montagne. He asked to see the duty officer and was shown into Jacques Batard’s office. Batard was still hard at work typing his report on the Webley case into his computer terminal. He knew Philippe, as most of the Platoon did, because of his frequent visits to the PGHM headquarters demanding renewed searches for his wife. In fact, Philippe was regarded as something of a pain in the backside by the Platoon.
Batard greeted him courteously and shook his hand. ‘Now, Monsieur Dulac, what can I do for you.’
‘I’ve come about the woman you found on the Charpoua Glacier today,’ Philippe said eagerly.
‘What about her?’ Batard asked.
‘I think it was my wife, Louisa.’
‘No Monsieur, it was not your wife. The woman we found today was the wife of Monsieur Webley, an American woman who went missing on Monday.’
‘How do you know?’ Philippe asked belligerently.
‘Because she has been identified by her husband,’ Batard said, as if explaining something to a particularly dense child.
‘How do you know he wasn’t lying?’ Philippe asked.
Batard looked at him with disbelief. ‘Look Monsieur, I was there when he made the identification. The man nearly fainted. He was so badly shocked that he puked. I’ve been to lots of these identifications and I can tell you, that was his wife he saw, no doubt about it.’
Philippe though for a few moments then asked, ‘Would it be possible for me to see the body?’
‘No Monsieur, it would not,’ Batard said firmly. ‘The cause of death has been established by the doctor, the body has been identified, the death certificate has been issued and now the case is closed.’
Philippe changed his tack and said reasonably, ‘Look, her husband really might have made an honest mistake. What about if I give you a photograph of my wife and a fuller description of what she was wearing, right down to the make of her boots and the color and size of her underwear, would you at least double check?’
Batard sighed, ‘I really do not have time for this Monsieur, I’m sorry about your wife, I know how you feel, but the woman we found today was not her. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lot of work to do before I can go home. Goodnight.’
‘But surely it wouldn’t hurt to just call the hospital and…’
Batard cut him off firmly, ‘I said goodnight Monsieur. Now, are you going to leave, or do I have to call my sergeant?’
Philippe sighed then got to his feet. ‘Tell me just one thing before I go,’ he said wearily. ‘Who found her?’
‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you since it is common knowledge anyway,’ Batard said, ‘Christian Lochet.’
‘Where could I find him?’ Philippe asked.
‘Probably in one of the bars drinking his reward money,’ Batard replied, ‘but he won’t be able to tell you anything new.’
‘We’ll see,’ Philippe said, walking out of the office without saying goodbye.
Batard watched him go, then shook his head. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said to himself, ‘I hope he finds her one day, or he’s going to end up going crazy.’
Back outside, the rain that had been falling persistently for two days had finally stopped, but the thick, low cloud still hung in the valley ready to provide another soaking. Philippe drove down into the center of town and parked in the pay-and-display near the community center. He gave Alice a quick call to let her know how he’d got on with Batard, then set off to comb the bars of Chamonix for Monsieur Christian Lochet. Every bar in town was buzzing with the story of the rescue, and it didn’t take him long to find out that Lochet had come down off the mountain, gone straight to the bank to claim his reward, then set out on a bender.
Philippe tracked him down fairly quickly to a crowded bar in a back street off the Rue des Moulins, a favorite haunt for the mountain guides. The bar was typical of those all over France, with a wooden counter along one wall, small round tables dotted here and there and loud music blaring from a jukebox. Philippe walked in, elbowed his way to the counter, and attracted the attention of the barman with a wave. Shouting to be heard over the music, Philippe asked, ‘Christian Lochet, is he in here?’
The barman indicated to the rear corner of the bar with a jerk of his head.
‘I’ll have two beers,’ Philippe said, sliding a ten Euro note onto the bar.
The barman grunted and pulled two half-litre pots. Philippe took his change, picked up the glass tankards then headed towards the back of the bar where a man was sprawled asleep across a table. Philippe shook him by the shoulder until he raised his head, looking up with bleary, unfocused eyes.
‘Are you Lochet?’ Philippe asked.
‘I was,’ the man slurred, ‘but I’m not sure now.’
‘I’ve bought you a drink,’ Philippe said, putting the pot of beer down in front of him and taking the seat opposite.
Lochet was a small, deeply tanned, wiry man of about thirty, typical of the tough Chamonix mountain guide breed. He grabbed the tankard and drank deeply from it before banging it back down on the table. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, wiping the froth from his top lip with the back of his hand.