‘You did… last night.’
‘I was drunk last night,’ Lochet said defensively, ’I didn’t know what I was saying.’
‘You’re not drunk now, and it’s your duty to come with me to clear this up,’ Philippe insisted.
‘Nothing doing,’ Lochet snapped. ‘I did my duty up on that mountain yesterday and the day before. I found the missing woman and I got the reward. That’s the end of it.’
‘That’s not the end of it though,’ Philippe said. ‘Don’t you see? They’ve got my wife down there in the hospital and they’re going to let that stinking Englishman take her away from me.’
Lochet softened a little and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry about your wife, but you must understand my position. ten thousand Euros is more money than I’ve ever had in my life. I can’t risk losing it.’
Philippe thought for a moment then had an idea. ‘What if I guaranteed the money for you?’ he asked. ‘Would you come with me if I promised to give you ten thousand myself if it does turn out to be my wife and not the American woman?’
‘Twenty thousand,’ Lochet said flatly.
‘What?’
‘I’ll come with you if you guarantee me twenty thousand.’
‘Done!’ Philippe said, jumping up and shaking his hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘What… now?’ Lochet protested.
‘Yes now… come on.’ Philippe virtually dragged him out of the apartment and across town to the Platoon headquarters. After a brief difference of opinion with the sergeant, they were shown into Batard’s office.
Batard looked up from what he was doing at the two men, both unshaven and disheveled, then closed his eyes and shook his head. After a few moments he addressed Philippe in a weary voice asking, ‘What is it now Monsieur Dulac?’
‘There is something about the woman they found yesterday that you should know,’ Philippe said eagerly. ‘I have brought Monsieur Lochet along to tell you about it.’
Batard stood up. ‘Now look, I told you last night that the case was closed. You are wasting your time…’
‘But if you’ll just listen…’ Philippe cut in, but he was immediately cut off again.
‘No, you listen,’ Batard said, pointing his finger and raising his voice. ‘The woman’s body was positively identified by her husband. I was there and I was satisfied with his identification. This morning the body was released, and by now, it will be out of the country. Watch my lips and try to understand what I am saying to you. The…case…is…closed!’
Philippe stood in shocked silence for a moment, not quite able to believe what he’d heard. ‘She’s gone?’ he asked eventually in a weak voice.
‘Yes Monsieur,’ Batard said, a little more gently. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been upset, but she’s gone, and that’s the end of it. The case is closed.’
Philippe turned and wandered absently out of Batard’s office then out of the Platoon headquarters, followed by Lochet.
‘Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t help,’ Lochet said, putting his hand on Philippe’s shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes… I’m okay,’ Philippe said wearily.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Lochet asked.
‘Go home I suppose,’ Philippe said, flipping the collar of his jacket up against the cold wind and setting off down the hill towards the town center.
‘Take it easy,’ Lochet called after him.
When Philippe got back to his car, he shrugged his coat off, started the engine, then called Alice. When she answered, he said simply, ‘Alice, I have failed.’
‘Oh Philippe, I’m so sorry,’ she said with real compassion. ‘What happened?’
‘They wouldn’t listen to me,’ he said wearily. ‘They let him take her back to England this morning.’
‘Come home,’ Alice said. ‘Come home to me. We’ll find a way to get her back.’
Philippe smiled. ‘I am on my way.’
‘I’ll be waiting, take care.’
Philippe hung up, slipped the car into gear, then set off for home as the rain started again, beating a tattoo on the roof. He thought about the drive ahead of him and knew, the closer he got to Alice and home, the warmer it would become.
About the same time in England, the weather was bright and fine as David Wiseman sat on the train heading for Hertfordshire. Following his driving debacle of the previous day, the first thing he’d done after breakfast was to call Avis and have them collect the car from his hotel. He’d decided to give up trying to drive on the crowded, badly signposted roads of England and to stick to trains and taxis for the rest of his visit. He’d almost regretted that decision when he arrived at Kings Cross railway station and tried to figure out where he had to go to catch the train for Leeds. The man in the ticket office assured him that the Leeds train passed through the village of Minster at Stone, which was where he wanted to go, but didn’t tell him how to find the Leeds train. After asking a number of surly railway employees, he was finally directed to the right platform and was now on his way.
David always read the New York Times at home and had taken to reading the London Times since he’d been in England. He’d picked up a copy in the station, and as the train passed out of the grimy suburbs of north London and into the countryside, he unfolded the paper and scanned the front page. A headline on the bottom right hand section immediately caught his attention. LADY WEBLEY FOUND DEAD ON GLACIER. Folding the paper in half, he read on. The body of Alice Webley, wife of Sir Ross Webley, was found yesterday afternoon on the Charpoua Glacier in the French Alps. Lady Webley had been reported missing late on Monday after she failed to return from a day’s walking in the mountains. Alice Webley, whose maiden name was Sanderson, had recently inherited the three-hundred-million-dollar Sanderson Corporation from her father, who died earlier in the year. Sir Ross is now expected to take over responsibility for the company.
David put the paper down slowly and stared sightlessly out of the window. It’s all working out pretty well for Webley, he thought. His wife’s father dies leaving her a fortune, then, a few months later, she dies in what looks like an accident and Webley inherits the whole works. He was getting the same feeling that he’d had on the ferry when he first read the report about Lady Webley going missing. He just knew there was more to it than a simple accident, there had to be. As far as he was concerned, the whole thing stank to high heaven.
He sat staring out at the countryside, his mind a torrent of speculation, as the train rolled north at a leisurely pace through Cuffley, Bayford, and numerous other small villages before eventually starting to slow for Minster at Stone. As they approached the village, David saw the imposing presence of the minster or church, for which it was named, standing proudly on the banks of the River Rib beside a ruined abbey, dominating the village and surrounding lowlands. The train came to a halt at the deserted station where David stepped off and headed for the exit. He’d just walked through into the empty ticket hall when his two tails jumped from the slowly accelerating train and ducked into the waiting room. Finding no one to hand his ticket to, David left the station and headed towards the center of the village on foot along a pleasant leafy lane, which curved gently away from the railway and joined what turned out to be the High Street.
There were very few people about, and in the warm September sunshine, the village had a peaceful, sleepy air that he liked. It was another one of those places where he instinctively felt safe and well, a bit like Weggis, but nothing like as pretty. He walked on down the High Street past a small newsagent’s, a butcher’s shop, a general store and a public house called The King’s Head, before finally coming, at the far end, to the old wooden gates of the church. There was a wooden canopy built over the gates, which sheltered a notice board giving the times for services during the week and a small cubbyhole containing free leaflets about the church. There was also a sign inviting visitors to call at the vicarage with any queries relating to the church or the services.