‘So let’s get one of these forms and find two doctors that are willing to sign it.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Alex said. ‘The first part of the form has to be filled in by the doctor who dealt with the person when they died. He has to give details of any treatment the patient received and the cause of death.’
‘But he’s down in Chamonix!’ Ross exclaimed.
‘Exactly. Now I’ve spoken to the undertaker and to the crematorium and explained the circumstances. They are prepared to accept the French doctor’s report in lieu of part one of the form, provided it is presented with a certified English translation.’
‘Brilliant, so all we have to do is to get it translated,’ Ross said with relief.
‘I’ve already got that underway. I’m picking it up from the translator at three o’clock this afternoon.’
‘You’re a treasure. Now, what about the second doctor?’
‘That part is much easier. The undertaker works with a local practice. Whenever they need a part-two signature, they just ring up and one of the doctors come over. They give the body a quick examination to confirm the cause of death, sign the form and collect their fee.’
‘I assume you’ve got that lined up as well?’
‘Just as soon as I get over to the undertaker with the English translation, the other doctor will come out and do his bit.’
‘Well done, you,’ Ross said, raising his glass in a toast and gulping down half the contents. ‘Now then, what about young Charles? Did you speak to his headmaster?’
‘I’ve arranged to pick him up after I’ve been to Northolt this afternoon and bring him back here for the night. Then, since you’re off to America on Saturday morning, I thought it would be best if we dropped him back at Eton directly after the funeral, it’s only about fifteen miles.’
‘That sounds like a good idea, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow afternoon. I want to drive down to the farm and collect some papers… I was bloody silly really, I could have got them earlier but I was in such a rush to get up here that I completely forgot.’
‘I could get them for you if you like,’ Alex offered.
‘No, it’s all right, I want to go down myself, but you can come as well if you want, help me tie things up.’
Just then, there was a gentle knock on the door and Mrs Holland, the family’s London cook and housekeeper walked in. She was a short, fat, normally jolly woman who was deeply religious. Today she was far from jolly and looked distinctly red around the eyes. ‘I saw you come in, sir,’ she said, ‘and I just wanted to let you know how deeply sorry we all are about Her Ladyship. Such beauty, such vitality, snuffed out in the prime of her life…’ She broke down and dabbed her eyes with a sodden handkerchief.
Ross put on a deeply solemn air and said, ‘Thank you Mrs Holland, it is certainly a grievous loss, but as it says in the good book, in the midst of life, we are in death. Who are we to question His motives?’
‘Quite so, sir,’ she said, sobbing into her handkerchief. ‘The good always die young.’
Ross walked over to her, put his arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the door. ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down for a little while? We shan’t be needing you until dinnertime.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she sobbed, ‘I think I’ll do that.’
Ross closed the door quietly behind her then brightened up instantly and turned to Alex saying, ‘Now, hadn’t you better be getting off to the translator?’
Back in France, Philippe was just finishing the bogus letterhead. He’d decided to base it on his own company’s stationary and had retained his own name and the genuine telephone and fax numbers just in case Ross decided to check up. Philippe figured that if Ross telephoned the office and asked for Monsieur Dulac, the receptionist would give him an absolutely genuine response by saying that he was not in the office at present, but would call him back if he cared to leave his name and number.
While he’d been working on the letterhead, Alice had been sitting on the sofa with a pad, writing a detailed statement on what had happened to her since the previous Sunday. It seemed incredible to her that it had been only four or five days since she’d met Philippe. She felt as if she’d known him all her life. She looked over to where he was sitting at his desk in the corner of the living room, concentrating on his computer screen, and felt a warm glow of affection towards him. She thought he looked tired and haggard after his long night with Lochet, but the plan he’d come up during the drive back from Chamonix was a good one. The addition of the imaginary woman to defend her honor and protect her against a counterclaim by her husband was a stroke of genius and completely typical of him.
Feeling her eyes on him, he looked over and smiled. ‘That’s done,’ he said as the printer started to whir and spat a piece of paper out onto the desk. He picked it up, looked at it critically, then carried it over to where she was sitting and handed it to her. ‘Not bad, do you think? Once I have scanned the report to make it look like it has been photocopied, no one will ever know it is not genuine.’
She took the sheet and looked at it closely. ‘That looks great,’ she said.
‘How are you getting on with the statement?’ he asked.
‘Just about finished,’ Alice said, handing him the pad. ‘I’ve written it exactly as it happened, except I’ve substituted the imaginary Monsieur and Madame Auvray everywhere you should have appeared.’
‘That is good. Now all we need are the photographs of your injuries and I can get on with typing it. I have my camera here so whenever you are ready, we can take them.’
They had discussed the photographs earlier and decided that they needed shots of Alice’s face taken from the front and each side, a shot of the front and backs of her legs, and a shot of her shoulders and back.
‘I’ll go and get ready now,’ Alice said, getting up off the sofa and going through into the bathroom. Once in there, she locked the door then peeled the clinging blue dress off over her head. Next she brushed her hair then wrapped it into a rope and pinned it up high on the back of her head. Finally, she took a large bath towel and wrapped it around her body just under her arms. She’d been brought up to believe modesty was a very important virtue in a woman, and she wasn’t about to go prancing around in broad daylight wearing just her underclothes in front of a man she hardly knew, no matter how much she liked him.
When she was ready, she stepped out of the bathroom and went through to the living room. Philippe had cleared the furniture away from one wall and had removed the pictures, leaving a completely bare, white backdrop for the photographs. He had his digital camera set up on a tripod and was ready to start. He asked Alice to stand with her back against the wall, then took a face on, head and shoulders shot. Next he had her turn to the left then the right and repeated the process. After that she hitched the towel up and he photographed the cuts and bruises on the front and backs of her legs. Finally, she turned to face the wall and allowed the towel to fall away from her back while holding it tightly against the front of her body.
When he’d taken the final shot of her shoulders and back, she hurried into the bathroom and put her dress back on and brushed her hair out again. By the time she came back, Philippe had downloaded the photos onto his computer and was cropping them to show just what was needed. She pulled up a chair and sat beside him while he saved the photos then started to type up the statement.
Back in London at exactly ten minutes to three, a taxi dropped David Wiseman in Broadway, close to New Scotland Yard. He’d always imagined that British police stations were little, old-fashioned places with a blue lamp hanging over the entrance, but now he was standing in front of a huge glass rectangular building with a big revolving sign outside. He walked in through the glass doors and was surprised to find the lobby just like any city office buildings. There was a steady stream of men and women busily chatting to their companions, making their way between the entrance and the lifts, those on their way in showing passes to a uniformed officer as they went.