‘What about the Authority to Cremate form?’ Hubbard asked. ‘Has that all been completed properly?’
‘There was a bit of a complication with that,’ Angela Brown admitted. ‘Because she died in France, the death certificate and doctor’s report from the hospital were all in French and the medical representative from the crematorium wouldn’t accept them unless they were translated into English. Mr Crawford had certified translations made yesterday afternoon, then we had one of the doctors from the practice across the road fill in the second part of the form.’
‘Would it be possible to see the translation of the French report?’
‘The original is back with the crematorium now but I have a copy.’ She left the room and was back within thirty seconds with the report, which she handed to Hubbard.
Hubbard scanned the translation and copied the name of the doctor and the hospital’s details into his notebook before handing it back. ‘What about the local doctor?’ he asked. ‘Can we see him?’
‘I don’t see why not, his surgery is just across the road.’
‘I think I’d rather see him here, if you don’t mind,’ Hubbard said firmly. ‘Could you phone him and ask him to come over please.’
‘Look, what’s all this about Chief Inspector?’ Angela Brown asked indignantly. ‘I really am very busy.’
Hubbard looked directly at her and said in a level voice, ‘I am not at all satisfied that the cause of death recorded on this form is accurate, and I want to speak to the doctor who examined her here.’
Angela Brown caved in and went to make the call. While she was gone Hubbard turned to Butcher and asked, ‘What do you make of it, Paul?’
‘If you ask me, it stinks,’ Butcher replied. ‘She was the wife of a baronet. You don’t normally get that type stuffed in a black sack and tossed over the nearest wall, which is effectively what’s happening here.’
‘Exactly, it’s all far too rushed for my liking,’ Hubbard said.
Angela Brown came back a few moments later and said, ‘Doctor Sharif will be over in a minute, he’s just got to finish with a patient.’
‘Thank you,’ Hubbard said. They waited in awkward silence for a few minutes, then the front door bell sounded and Angela Brown went off and returned with the doctor. Hubbard introduced himself and Butcher, then as soon as the doctor was seated got down to business saying, ‘I understand you signed the second part of the cremation form for the body of Lady Webley yesterday afternoon.’
‘That is correct,’ Sharif replied slightly indignantly. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Nothing wrong, I’d just like to ask you this. Were you satisfied that the cause of death as stated by the French doctor was accurate?’
‘As far as I could tell. It is very difficult to ascertain the cause of death just by looking at a body. In many cases you have to take it on trust that the doctor who has been dealing with the patient has got it right.’
‘And you felt the French doctor had got it right?’
‘I could not see any other obvious causes. There were no knife wounds or bullet holes if that is what you are asking,’ Sharif said.
‘One last question,’ Hubbard said. ‘Weren’t you surprised that there had been no post-mortem carried out?’
‘Not really,’ Sharif said, shaking his head. ‘The French doctor seemed satisfied that she died as a result of injuries sustained in a fall. Judging by his report, he sees it quite often.’
Hubbard got up and put his notebook away. ‘I think that just about wraps it up. Thank you for coming over Doctor, and thank you Mrs. Brown. You’ve both been very helpful.’
Angela Brown showed them to the door, but just as they were leaving, Hubbard stopped and said, ‘Just one more thing, Mrs Brown. If you speak to Mr Crawford again, don’t mention we’ve been here asking questions.’
‘Of course not, Chief Inspector,’ she replied, closing the door behind them.
As soon as they were back in the car, Butcher asked, ‘Northolt Crematorium?’
‘No. Back to the Yard.’ Hubbard said. ‘I want to do some phoning around and find out what kind of man this Webley really is.’
Later in the morning, at precisely eleven-thirty, down in north Kent, the French air taxi popped out of the bottom of the clouds at eight hundred feet, perfectly aligned with the approach lights for the active runway at Biggin Hill. The weather had grown progressively worse during the trip north and the last half-hour had been bumpy and uncomfortable as they had flown through solid cloud.
Alice breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the jolt and rumble of the wheels hitting the runway. She’d been on the verge of reaching for a sick bag for the past fifteen minutes. As they taxied towards the terminal beneath a gloomy sky, she looked out of the window at the rain beating down on the asphalt and wished she’d dressed in something a little warmer.
The morning had been so clear and bright back in Nîmes that she had decided to wear a thin, short sleeved, knee length cotton dress with open-toe sandals. Fortunately, she’d also brought along a blazer style jacket that went nicely with the outfit, but she was hardly dressed for this weather. Philippe, on the other hand, wearing Chino’s, a lightweight cotton shirt and sports jacket would be just comfortable. He’d also had the foresight to bring along a folding umbrella each, saying that he never set foot on English soil without one.
The pilot parked the Seneca on the apron directly outside the executive terminal. A marshal came out to the aircraft carrying a large golf umbrella, and after helping Alice and Philippe down from the rear passenger door, sheltered them as he showed them into the building, where they waited just inside the door while the pilot retrieved their luggage. While they were waiting, Philippe noticed that Alice was shaking, so he put his arm around her shoulders and asked in French, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m not sure if it’s the cold or my nerves,’ she replied, snuggling into him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any trouble. We’ll be through in a couple of minutes.’
The luggage was soon brought in, and the marshal then led them through a door marked International Arrivals. As they went through into the small customs area, a uniformed official came out from a back room and gave their passports a cursory glance before waving them on without any questions. They thanked him then Philippe carried their luggage as they went on through the far door, which led into the main part of the terminal where there was a seating area with round wooden tables, a bar and an information desk.
Alice took herself off to the toilets to freshen up while Philippe went to the information desk to collect the keys for the hire car he’d asked the air taxi firm to book for him in advance. By the time Alice joined him, he’d signed all the forms and was ready to go. They had agreed that it would be best if Alice surprised her husband by just walking in on him. That way, they figured, she would have the best chance of catching him off his guard and getting him to agree to her demands. Alice was almost certain he would be in London, but in order to be completely sure before driving all that way they had planned that Philippe would telephone the London house, ask for Ross, then hang up before he came on the line. If he were told Ross wasn’t there, then he could at least find out when he would be back.
They walked over to the telephone kiosks at the side of the terminal building. Philippe picked up the receiver and slipped his credit card into the slot while Alice dialed the number. After a few moments he winked at her and said, ‘It’s ringing.’
A few seconds later, Philippe started to speak. ‘Hello, is it possible to speak with Sir Ross Webley please?’ he asked pleasantly. Alice watched perplexed as his face grew worried. ‘I see…’ he was saying, ‘where is that? Yes… of course. I’m sorry I bothered you… later this afternoon? All right… thank you… good bye.’ He hung the receiver up slowly and turned to Alice.