THE WIG
MAKER
Roger Silverwood
Table of Contents
Tite Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
SHFFIELD CITY CENTRE, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK. EASTER SUNDAY, 8TH APRIL, 2 A.M.
The sky was as black as a judge’s cap.
A man with a bag strapped to his back scrambled up a drainpipe on the side of a furniture shop to the second storey roof. He lifted himself up from the gutter, straightened his arms, swung himself on to the tiles and then scampered up to the apex of the roof. He picked his steps like a tightrope walker across it to the adjoining building, where he squatted astride the apex and began to unseat one of the blue slate tiles. It soon gave way. It had not been touched since it was built ninety years earlier. He placed the tile safely inside his jacket, then he tore at the next one until he had eight slates safely inside his coat. He had made a hole large enough for him, with the slates and the backpack, to get through. He shone a torch down inside to see how far he had to drop. It was about a twelve-foot drop on to cross beams about fifteen feet apart. He took a three-pronged hook out of his backpack, fastened a pulley to it, secured the hook round the apex coving, threaded a rope through the pulley, then, holding both ropes, he lowered himself down into the loft of the furniture shop. He landed quietly on the beams and left the rope hanging there. He placed the slates from inside his jacket tidily in a pile on a crossbeam; he hadn’t wanted to risk them clattering down the furniture-shop roof and smashing on to the pavement below. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. Then he flashed the torch around. It was, as he had expected, a dusty, unpleasant place, with more than its fair share of cobwebs. He put a hand into his inside pocket and took out a mask. It was a plastic face mask of a fox. He put it on and fitted the elastic over the back of his big shock of red hair: there was no knowing when he might come across a CCTV camera, perhaps one with a night lens. He crossed the loft in the direction of the beams underfoot to a rough door in an even rougher brick wall. He heaved at the door and it gave way easily. It had been there since the building was first built and had probably never been inspected or even looked at since. He flashed the torch around. He was looking for a loft cover into the floor below. There should be one. There was always one, sometimes several. He found it. It was about a yard square and made up of tongue-and-grooved five-by-one timber. He sighed with relief, crossed to it, crouched down, took out another three-pronged hook, dug it into a nearby beam, fastened on a pulley, threaded another rope through. He was ready for a second descent. He lifted the loft cover away, it weighed very little, then listened. He shone the torch down into the office below. As expected, the building was deserted and in darkness. He sat on the edge of the opening, his feet hanging down into the room. He put the torch between his teeth, took hold of both ropes and lowered himself through the hole.
He was safely inside the jeweller’s shop.
FOREST HILL ESTATE, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK. 7 A.M. TUESDAY, 10 APRIL 2007
It was 7 a.m. Michael Angel was busily munching muesli and prunes in his blue-and-white striped pyjamas and red slippers while Mary, his wife, returned from the front door of 30 Park Street, a semi-detached bungalow on the Forest Hill estate. She had a copy of the local newspaper, the Bromersley Chronicle in her hand. She opened it up. The headline jumped out at her.
‘Oooo!’ She gasped. ‘You’ll never guess, Michael,’ she muttered, sitting down, pulling up to the little kitchen table and staring at the paper.
‘What?’ he said, being careful not to spray the muesli around.
‘Smith and Glogowsky’s shop in Sheffield has been robbed! Big page spread. Listen to this.’
Angel was surprised. His eyes opened wide. He was about to say something. She beat him to it.
‘Here, listen.’
She read:
THE FOX IN £4.5M JEWEL HEIST
Smith & Glogowsky, the famous jeweller’s shop in the centre of Sheffield was broken into and robbed by The Fox. Gold jewellery set with precious stones including diamonds, rubies and emeralds were taken, including an all-diamond tiara being reset for Lady Tiverton of Bromersley.
The robbery took place over the Easter holiday weekend.
The opening of the safes and sorting of the jewels took place in front of CCTV cameras with night lenses, so the activities of the daring thief known as The Fox were fully recorded. It showed a man with a lot of hair believed to be ginger and wearing the mask of a fox.
It was reported that The Fox only took jewellery set in platinum and 18ct gold or better, which inevitably included the largest and best precious stones, which Smith & Glogowsky had in stock. It happened over the holiday period when the shop was closed for three days. Police say that The Fox had gained entrance through the roof of the neighbouring premises, then crossed the shared loft, where he dropped down into an office, opened the alarm-box controls and, it is thought, squirted two aerated chemicals which on contact with each other became instant setting glue which prevented the alarm system operating. Industrial chemists and security experts are said to be working non-stop to try to discover the exact process.
The proprietor Mr Igor Glogowsky is reported to be ‘stunned’ by the robbery. He is said to have understood that the alarm system was infallible. Whilst entirely covered by insurance, he said, some of the items were irreplaceable.
This holiday robbery was the twenty-second robbery by The Fox using the same MO. The police have made no progress in identifying and apprehending the thief. He was assumed to be a local man, who worked alone. Most of the robberies had been committed in Yorkshire, but there had also been cases in other parts of the country as far north as Newcastle upon Tyne. In four years, he has robbed more than twenty-two jewellery shops and the police admit to being completely baffled by the case.
Even in these sophisticated days of DNA, it seemed that there had never been any kind of substance, human fluid or matter or hair left behind at the scene or anywhere else that could be attributed to him.
Every policeman in the UK was desperate to unmask and arrest him. Profilers at all levels had been making projections, but with such limited information their reports had not proved adequate.
The general public is requested to report anything suspicious that they may have seen in or around the shop over the holiday period to any police officer.
Each of the 43 forces, as well as the Serious Organized Crime Agency (SOCA), have been put on special watch for this master serial jewellery thief known as ‘The Fox’.
She folded the paper. ‘What do you think to that?’
Angel shook his head.
It was bad news for policemen, there was no denying it.
‘The newspapers will have a field day, Mary,’ he said. ‘Whenever The Fox strikes, the press, particularly the tabloids, fill their pages with every detail of the latest crime and compare it with the earlier ones attributed to him, and gleefully publish cartoons and all sorts of tales ridiculing the police. I feel sorry for the Sheffield lads. This Fox chap makes them look like mugs, which they are not.’
‘The Fox must be somebody round here.’
‘Aye, he must be,’ he said. �
��Oh! Look at the time.’
FLAT 4, JUBILEE CLOSE, BROMERSLEY, 9 30 PM, FRIDAY, 13 APRIL 2007
Zoë Grainger was on her own in the tiny cramped kitchen, pressing a skirt on a skeletal ironing table squeezed awkwardly between the sink unit and the little kitchen table because of the limited length of the cord on the iron. She was concentrating on making the pleat in the skirt look tidy and smart, when suddenly something occurred to her. She put the hot iron on the stand, rushed into the little sitting room and looked around. She was looking for her handbag. It was on the sideboard. She grabbed it and felt around inside it. She took out a powder compact. She snapped it open and looked at her eyes and face in the mirror. She moved around a bit to get the best light and to see all her face. She wrinkled her nose, and shook her head. Zoë knew she had a great figure, long shapely legs, round bottom, slim waist and a big perky bosom. Her jet-black hair was thick and manageable, and much admired. She didn’t have need to tint it or do much at all with it. Even her voice, once described by a sexy man on the deli counter in Tesco’s as gravelly, she wouldn’t have changed. But she reckoned her face let her down. She had thought for some time that if she could have had a smaller, narrower and slightly turned-up nose, and less distance between her nose and her top lip, she could have had a more than equal chance of pulling any man she fancied. However, plastic surgery was expensive and not available to her, nor ever likely to be.
She quickly snapped shut the compact and tossed it into her handbag, then glanced up at the bigger mirror over the clock. She unfastened the second button down on her blouse and pulled it tight to show a bit more skin. She smirked at the mirror. It exposed the smallest amount of cleavage, by today’s standards quite unremarkable. She smiled into the mirror, nodded and turned away. Then she stopped thoughtfully, scowled, turned back, fastened the button and checked it was tidy. As she did so she thought she caught sight of a hair or two out place. She began to fiddle with them. She heard a noise on the stairs … rushed back into the kitchen, and had her hand on the iron as the stairs door opened.
A tall, slim, sun-tanned young man, with blue eyes, dark hair and muscles as tight as a moneylender’s contract, swaggered into the little kitchen. He was looking pleased with himself. He flashed a smile at her as she stood at the ironing board, still running the iron over her skirt.
‘Hi, sweetheart. Got me a clean shirt?’
Her eyes flashed and her lips quivered. ‘You’re not going out?’
‘Yes. Yes. I’m going out,’ he said, his face tightening. ‘Why would I want a clean shirt if I wasn’t going out?’
‘Where you going?’
‘You can’t come.’
‘Why not?’
His blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘It’s business.’
She snatchily rearranged the skirt on the ironing board and banged the iron on to it. ‘I could come and wait, and we could go on somewhere, have a drink? Make a change.’
‘Naw. Where’s my shirt?’
She turned the skirt over, licked her lips and said, ‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Nobody. Now can I have a shirt?’
She lifted up the skirt, put it on a hanger and hung it on a knob on the cupboard door. ‘It was a woman, wasn’t it?’ she said quietly.
‘No. It wasn’t.’
‘Sounded like a woman.’
‘You couldn’t possibly have heard, but, as a matter of fact, it was a man offering me a job.’
‘At this god-forsaken time on a Friday night? You must think I fell out of a tree.’
‘A job. Work. Money, Zoë.’
‘Huh.’
‘I’ve told you it would happen. Big money. I’ve told you.’
‘Huh.’
‘I told you,’ he said. He had to convince her. ‘I’m getting on really well with this man. He’s well-to-do. Very well-to-do. And great connections. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, Zoë. Now will you tell me where there’s a clean bloody shirt or do I have to go out in my vest?’
‘Huh. It’s funny time to be interviewing a man … Friday night at half past nine.’
‘Not an interview. I had the interview last week. He’s going to tell me what he wants me to do. He’s an important man. He works all hours.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ah. I can’t tell you his name. It’s sort of … hush-hush.’
‘A government job?’
‘Yes. You could say that. Sort of under cover … for the police.’
He had fallen straight into her trap. She knew her husband so well.
‘Pull the other one.’
‘Well, not the police exactly, but it’s … confidential. You never believe me.’
‘Huh! It’s another woman. I knew it. I always knew that you had to have a bit of cheap skirt on the side!’
‘Are you going to give me a clean shirt or not? I shall be late.’
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘It’s a man! He’s going to tell me what he wants me to do.’
‘Whereabouts are you meeting him then, Gabriel?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘In a pub? Is it the Fat Duck?’
‘It isn’t in a pub.’
The phone rang.
They looked at each other. Eyebrows raised. Neither of them expected a call at that time.
‘Could be him,’ he said.
He reached out for it. ‘Hello, yes?’ he said tentatively.
Zoë could hear faintly a distorted voice through the earpiece, but she couldn’t detect what was being said.
He looked across at her, his blue eyes looked overjoyed. He tried to convey the happiness to her. Into the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Gabriel Grainger, yes … For how long? … Oh? Right. No, I’m not busy with anything else … Thank you. Thank you very much. You won’t regret it … Ten minutes? I’ll be right there … Goodbye.’
He replaced the phone. ‘That was him. There you are, now do you believe me?’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘I’ve got to leave straightaway. Throw a few things in a suitcase, he said. There’s money in this, Zoë. Big money. Can’t you believe me, this time? Trust me.’
‘I’ve trusted you before. You’re a born liar. I should never have married you. It was for better or worse. It’s always been worse. Where are you going to?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but it will be OK. I’ll be back before you know it.’
He reached over the ironing board, grabbed her tightly by the shoulders, gave her a hurried, rough kiss on the mouth and said, ‘This is it, Zoë. My chance to hit the big money. Have faith in me, for once, you silly cow.’
He let her go.
She turned away. She pretended the kiss had had no effect on her. She loved him too much. She couldn’t let him see that. She knew he was making a fool of her. She wanted to murder him, but if she had done, she would have cried after him for the rest of her life.
‘Where’s that shirt?’
That brought her back to earth. Without a change of expression, she reached into the linen basket, dug around and pulled out a shirt.
He snatched it, grinned and dashed off.
She watched him rush out of the kitchen and listened to him clump up the stairs. She sighed, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, sniffed, turned to the linen basket, dragged out a pillowcase, and draped it across the ironing board.
HEATHROW AIRPORT CONCOURSE 3 PM. SUNDAY, 29 APRIL 2007
‘Still no sign of the bitch?’
‘No, Max. I told you, she might be making her own way here.’
‘Wanna bet? And buy her own ticket? You must be joking. Anyway the arrangement was clear. It was to meet here at two o’ clock. I have done this with her a few times. She knows exactly where to meet us. And she’s got my mobile number. If she had a problem, she could phone. Have you got the number of that agency?’
‘It’s in my book. Here, hold the camera. Don’t put it down anywhere. Too many thieving bastards around.’
‘What’s th
e number? What’s the frigging number?’
‘I’m getting it. I’m getting it. I’ll dial it.’
‘Hurry up. Hurry up.’
‘It’s ringing out. There.’
Max Peppino hurriedly exchanged the camera for the mobile phone.
There was a click and the phone was answered.
‘Top Notch Model Agency, twenty-four seven. Melanie speaking, can I help you?’
‘Max Peppino here, darling. I’m on the concourse at Heathrow and I’m bloody fed up. Katrina hasn’t shown.’
‘Really? Oh. Good afternoon, Mr Peppino. Katrina? Oh dear. I’m very surprised. She’s usually so reliable, I don’t know what to say. She’s not phoned you? Is your mobile working all right?’
‘Perfectly. Now we’ve missed the two o’clock flight because she didn’t show. I’ve the chance of three seats on the 1640 flight, but she’ll have to be here by four o’clock or we won’t get on.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Peppino. I don’t understand it. Have you tried to phone her?’
‘ ’Course I have. And her home number. I can’t raise her.’
‘Oh dear. I am so sorry. I can’t think what may have happened. She never misses an assignment. And she’s never late. And she loves going on shoots with you. And I know she was so looking forward to it. I suppose I might be able to get you a replacement. There’s Mary Ann, who is coming up very quickly, but it’s extremely short notice.’
‘Look, Melanie, if I’d merely wanted a long-legged blonde with big Bristols, I could have sailed round Kings Cross in my Jag and had a choice of a dozen for peanuts. I want Katrina. Her face is known. I paid top whack for her, and that’s who I want. For the money I’m paying her, she should be here, on time, with her engine running. I want Katrina, not just any old body. If she’s not here in twenty minutes, in time to catch the four o’clock flight, the deal is off and I’ll be suing you. This cock-up is costing me about twelve hundred a day, so you’d better dust your cheque book off.’
Melanie’s voice hardened. ‘I am extremely sorry, Mr Peppino, that you have been inconvenienced by Katrina’s failure to arrive on time. I expect she is still trying to reach you. If not, something calamitous must have happened, which concerns me greatly. If she does not arrive, you will obviously not be billed. I have offered you a substitute and I regret there is nothing else I can do. As for compensation, I suggest you reread your agreement. You will see that we are not responsible for any illness, accidents or matters of any kind that are out of our control. Now is there any other way in which I can help you?’
The Wigmaker Page 1