‘A little after six, we’ve got plenty of time. Here, I’ve made you some coffee.’
He swung his legs around and sat up, taking the coffee mug from Alice, who sat down beside him. ‘Thank you, ‘ he said gratefully, taking a sip. ‘Sorry about falling asleep like that last night, you must think me a very poor host.’
‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘you were very tired.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Not very,’ she admitted, ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about facing Ross.’
‘Do you still want to go through with it today?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather wait until after the weekend?’
‘I want to do it today,‘ Alice said with determination. ‘I want that divorce so much I can hardly see straight.’
Philippe patted her leg through her bathrobe. ‘That’s my girl… the sooner we get this over with, the better for both of us. And don’t forget your promise. As soon as the divorce comes through, you and Charles are coming back here for a holiday.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, slipping her hand over his, ‘I won’t forget, that’s one thing you can rely on.’
They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments, then Philippe retrieved his hand from under Alice’s and said, ‘We had better start getting ready, we are due out at the airport by seven-fifteen.’
By seven-thirty, they were boarding the twin engine Piper Seneca air taxi at Nîmes-Courbessac aerodrome for the three-hour flight to Biggin Hill airport, south of London. The pilot had chosen Biggin Hill because it was the nearest small airport to Central London with customs and immigration facilities. Alice was certain they would find Ross at the London house.
They strapped themselves in and got comfortable while the pilot stowed their bags in the luggage compartment. Alice had borrowed a small suitcase from Philippe and had packed all her things, including her still unwashed walking kit and all the new clothes and cosmetics he’d bought her in Nîmes. Philippe took just an overnight bag. He’d decided that as soon as the mix-up over Louisa’s body had been sorted out, which should only take a day or two, he would accompany it home to Nîmes by scheduled airline.
Once the luggage was loaded, the pilot did his checks and in a very short space of time they were airborne and heading north towards England in beautiful, clear weather. As they climbed, with the Alps clearly visible to the east still shrouded by angry looking clouds, Philippe watched Alice closely as she stared out of the window at the mountains. ‘How do you feel to be flying again?’ he asked gently.
She turned and smiled, then took his hand and said, ‘Not too bad. At least I know you’re not going to throw me out.’
At around the same time, Vic Hubbard was sitting up to the kitchen table at his home in Pinner, scanning through the morning paper while his wife bustled around, tidying their breakfast things. This was a routine he followed every day before his lift to New Scotland Yard arrived in the form of Detective Sergeant Paul Butcher.
He was on his second cup of tea when his eye was caught by a small item buried deep in the Daily Mail. Someone at Biggin Hill had tipped off a local reporter who had dug around a little then sold the tidbit to the Mail, but the editor had obviously not thought it very newsworthy and had relegated the item to the bowels of the paper. To DCI Vic Hubbard however, the story was of major significance. ‘That’s interesting,’ he murmured as he started reading.
‘What’s that dear?’ his wife asked absently.
‘Listen to this. Body of Baronet’s Wife Returned… The body of Lady Webley, killed earlier this week in a climbing accident in the Alps, was flown back to Biggin Hill yesterday (Thursday) and taken directly to Stanley Brown & Sons Undertakers in Greenford. A private service is due to take place this afternoon at Northolt Crematorium.’
‘Isn’t she the wife of Sir Ross Webley,’ she asked, ‘the man you were telling me about last night, the one that American has accused of murder?’
‘Yes she is,’ Hubbard said vaguely, reading the article over again. When he’d finished, he frowned and asked, ‘Now why would he be having her cremated when he’s got a perfectly good family vault? And why at Northolt… that’s miles away from the family home? And why so soon?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I expect he’s got his reasons.’
‘I’m sure he has, but it doesn’t smell right to me,’ Hubbard mused. ‘His wife is reported missing on Tuesday, they find her body on Wednesday, he has it flown home on Thursday and cremated on Friday. Those look to me very much like the actions of a man who is trying to hide something. Maybe Wiseman was right after all.’
Just then, a car horn tooted outside. Hubbard got up, folded his paper, and slipped his thin overcoat on. The day had dawned dull and drizzly and the weather forecast had predicted heavier rain later. He kissed his wife goodbye, then headed out of the front door and climbed into the passenger seat of the unmarked police Peugeot.
‘Morning, boss,’ DS Butcher said as he slipped the car into gear and pulled smoothly away from the curb.
‘Morning, Paul, I want to make a little detour this morning. Do you know Greenford at all?’
‘Know it like the back of my hand,’ Butcher said. ‘My mum lives there.’
‘Do you know an undertaker’s called Stanley Brown & Sons?’
‘It’s in King’s Avenue, just off the Greenford Road… what’s up?’
‘I want to drop in on them to discuss a body that’s due to be cremated later on today. It’s just a hunch, but I think something fishy is going on.’
The eight-mile journey across west London took them over thirty minutes in the rush hour traffic, and by the time they got to Greenford, the undertaker’s was open for business. A young woman, who introduced herself as Angela Brown, a partner in the firm, greeted them as they arrived and showed them through to a tastefully decorated lounge area, which was obviously designed for dealing with grieving relatives. Hubbard and Butcher sat at either end of a sofa while Angela Brown took an armchair opposite them.
‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ she said confidently, ‘what can I do for you?’
Hubbard came straight to the point. ‘I understand you received the body of Lady Webley yesterday, is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, we are taking her to Northolt at about quarter-to-one this afternoon.’
‘Tell me, is it usual for you to turn a body around so quickly?’
‘Not usual, but not unheard of where there are special circumstances.’
‘And are there special circumstances in this case?’ Hubbard asked, taking his notebook and pen out of his pocket.
‘Yes, I understand the deceased’s husband is leaving the country tomorrow for an indefinite period.’
‘Is he now?’ Hubbard said thoughtfully. ‘And I suppose he wanted the cremation to take place before he went.’
‘That’s right, the whole thing has been a rush job.’
‘And how did you come to be involved?’
‘We were recommended to Mr Crawford by the crematorium at Northolt.’
‘Mr Crawford?’ Hubbard asked, noting down the name. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s the Webley’s private secretary. He’s the one who has done all the organization for the funeral.’
‘Why did he choose Northolt Crematorium, any idea?’
‘Apparently,’ Angela Brown explained, ‘he’d been phoning all over London trying to find somewhere that could do the job before the weekend, and Northolt just happened to have a vacant slot at one o’clock today.’
‘So he grabbed it and then had to find a local undertaker,’ Hubbard finished.
‘That’s right. He telephoned yesterday morning to ask if we could collect a body from Biggin Hill that same day and have it ready for cremation by one o’clock today. It was a terrible rush but we never like to turn business away.’