The Wigmaker

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel returned to his office and glanced at the pile of post on his desk. He wrinkled his nose. It hardly ever seemed to get any less. He fingered thoughtfully through the envelopes, but it was pointless: his mind was on the wig maker. He wondered why anyone would want to murder him. He began in his thoughts to go systematically through the list of possible motives. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Trevor Crisp, a handsome, well-dressed young man much admired by the ladies. It was rumoured that he had a relationship with the best looking unattached young woman in the station, WPC Leisha Baverstock, but his love life was neither straightforward nor comprehensible.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. His jaw tightened.

  ‘I wanted you two hours ago, at a murder scene,’ he snapped. ‘A wig maker, Peter Wolff of Market Street, was shot dead in the early hours. That’s when I wanted you. And then at Lord Tiverton’s place, a suit of armour worth millions was stolen. I could have done with you there as well.’

  Crisp looked sheepish. ‘I heard about the wig maker, sir, but I was tied up with a house burglary; thieves got away with the contents of a deep freezer in a garage. It wasn’t a major incident, but I couldn’t just dump the woman.’

  Angel’s face was red. He blinked. He couldn’t resist saying, ‘I don’t know, lad? You’ve dumped plenty of women in the past!’

  Crisp’s eyes opened wide. He was thinking what to reply. He wasn’t usually stuck for words.

  Angel moved on quickly. ‘This wig maker, Peter Wolff, did you know him?’

  ‘No, sir. Heard of him. I reckon there isn’t a woman in the town who hasn’t. Some of them would’ve given their eye teeth to have had a wig made by him. He knew the hair business backwards. You know, he knew what constituted a glamorous hairdo. Expensive though, I think.’

  ‘Yes, but what was he like as a man?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘I want you to ask around. Find out where he went. What made him tick. What his interests were. Who his friends were. Who his enemies were. I’ve had a cursory look over his shop and flat, but learned very little. Surely there’s more to life than eating and sleeping and making wigs? There is no apparent reason for his murder. There’s got to be a motive.’

  Crisp looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve got Ron Gawber asking around Market Street, where his shop is. His neighbours and so on. I want you to start asking in women’s hairdressers. They are his natural competitors, I suppose. Might be up for a bit of gossip. But don’t waste time, lad. Work is piling up.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  After Crisp had closed the door Angel picked up the phone and tapped in the CID office number.

  It was soon answered by Probationer PC Ahmed Ahaz, aged twenty. He was a handsome, shy, very intelligent and enthusiastic young man who came third at Aykley Heads police college in Durham and had been on Angel’s team since joining the force as a humble cadet three years previously.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said brightly.

  ‘Ahmed, there’s a man, Peter Wolff, wig maker … find out if he has any form. Also, there’s a man called Larkin, check him out while you’re at it. I haven’t got his Christian name. And bring me a cup of tea.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.

  ‘Ah, Ron. What have you got?’

  ‘Can’t find anything much on Wolff, sir. He seems to have been a quiet sort of bird. Kept himself to himself. Pleasant. Courteous. Paid his way. Bought sandwiches most every day from the shop next door. Lived on his own. Some of the shopkeepers didn’t know he lived over the shop and were surprised when I told them. The card shop lady opposite thought he must be well off. She’d only seen well-heeled people go into his shop. It was appointment only. The door was always locked. Callers had to press a button to get into the place.’

  ‘Did she recognize any of his callers?’

  ‘No, sir. Only that they were … well dressed. No riff-raff, she said.’

  Angel frowned. ‘He was only a wig maker, dammit. Why keep the door locked? What had he got in there, the crown jewels?’

  ‘Maybe he was just being selective … keeping a high standard.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Hmmm. Come to think of it, there was no intruder alarm system in the building.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘That’s right. Maybe SOCO will come across a safe?’

  ‘Aye. What about his next of kin?’

  ‘Nothing known about that, sir.’

  ‘Right. Well, find out his bank and let’s look at his finances. His doctor, chase that up and anything else about him.’

  The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Superintendent Harker.

  ‘Come along up here, right away, lad,’ he said. There was an unpleasant click in his ear and the line went dead.

  Angel’s face dropped. He replaced the phone and turned to Gawber. ‘The super wants me. Can’t think what for. There’s a cup of tea coming. You have it. If I’m going to be long, I’ll give you a buzz. All right?’

  Gawber nodded.

  Angel dashed up the corridor to Harker’s office.

  ‘Come in, Angel,’ Harker said. ‘Got something special on.’

  Angel lifted his head. Sounded interesting. Or was it something with a catch to it? It would be just like Harker to dress something dodgy up by saying it was ‘something special’.

  ‘You’ve heard of Chancey’s DIY and timber importers?’ Harker said importantly.

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Well, Frank Chancey, multi-millionaire and boss of that outfit, is on a sort of nodding acquaintance with the chief constable. Same club, charity boards and so on. He’s in a spot of trouble. Just rung up the chief, and the chief has just phoned me. His wife Katrina has disappeared. She’s a model, and her agent’s reported her missing to her husband first thing this morning. Possibly run off. Wants us to find her.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. He wasn’t pleased. ‘A misper, sir? That’s a job for the Salvation Army, isn’t it?’

  Harker sniffed, then said: ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘You know that at present I’m up to my neck looking for the murderer of a wig maker, sir. Or is looking for this millionaire’s runaway wife more important than looking for a killer? She’s probably run off with the chauffeur or the milkman or somebody, for a change of pace.’

  ‘Don’t get smart, lad. The chief constable is still my boss and I’m still yours. And you know that the chief wouldn’t be pushing an order through without good reason, and he’s not obliged to tell you or me everything he knows. Now he wants it looking into by us, and that’s as much as you need to know.’

  Angel felt properly put in his place. He nodded and said: ‘Right, sir. I’ll fit it in the best way I can.’

  ‘There’s an appointment been made for you for nine o’ clock tomorrow morning, at Frank Chancey’s home.’

  ‘I might have to be somewhere else,’ he said, just to be awkward.

  ‘Cancel it!’ Harker snapped. ‘You’ll need his address.’

  ‘I’ve got it, sir.’

  He went out and closed the door.

  It was 8.58 a.m. on Tuesday, 1 July.

  Angel had put on his best suit and new shoes; he was going to see Frank Chancey, multi-millionaire and allegedly a big number in the town. He drove the BMW along Creesforth Road, turned down into Creesforth Drive, a narrow private road. He passed Tiverton Hall on the left, then travelled alongside a red brick wall for 250 yards until it curved into a short entrance. The words ‘Chancey House’ were fashioned out of wrought iron and cemented into the wall. He turned the wheel and saw a pair of black wrought iron gates, which were wide open. He drove between the stone gateposts but had to stop abruptly as a big yellow bulldozer reversed across his path in front of him. The driver, a young man, shirtless and wearing a hard hat waved his thanks, then st
opped, lowered the dozer blade and began to push forward a mound of soil. He seemed to be in the process of building some sort of an embankment. As soon as the bulldozer had moved out of the way Angel let in the clutch and followed the drive between several strategically placed conifers and clusters of evergreen bushes located to make for privacy, round to the front of the house.

  The drive opened up into a large square area of silver-grey gravel directly in front of the main house entrance. In the middle of the square a circular hole about twenty feet in diameter had been excavated, and two men in hard hats were leaning on large shovels watching a ready-mix vehicle discharge its heavy load into the cavity. There were two other ready-mix wagons behind them, their cylinders noisily revolving, apparently awaiting their turn to unload.

  Angel wondered why so much was happening when the lady of the house was apparently missing. He drove around the workmen towards the front entrance and stopped. He got out of the car and locked it. He walked briskly across the gravel to the front door, climbed up the four steps and found the bell push. It was promptly answered by a smartly dressed young man in a morning suit. His accent showed he was from the Dublin area.

  ‘Yes, sir? You’d be the police inspector?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel, to see Mr Chancey.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Please come in. Mr Chancey is expecting you. Please follow me.’

  The house was magnificent. He was glad he’d put on his best suit. It looked as if Chancey had bought a piece of Buckingham Palace and had it towed up to Bromersley. He strode out on the plush carpet behind the smart young man. He could smell fresh paint. He looked round. Why could he smell fresh paint?

  ‘My name is Lyle, sir. Is there anything I can do for you before you go in to see Mr Chancey?’

  Angel frowned. It was probably his euphemistic way of enquiring if he needed directions to the bathroom.

  ‘No thank you, Mr Lyle.’

  They marched down a corridor, passing a dozen or more big oil paintings on the walls, of ugly, bald men, possibly Chancey’s ancestors, until they reached double doors at the end.

  ‘Here we are,’ Lyle said. He knocked loudly on one door, opened it, put his head in and said, ‘Inspector Angel, boss.’

  ‘Right, Jimmy,’ he heard a man’s voice call out.

  Lyle opened the other door, ushered Angel in and closed the doors behind him.

  It was a big room, furnished like the sitting-room of a four-star hotel, with one major difference: in the middle of it was a desk as big as a bed.

  A smart, tall, handsome man of about thirty-four or thirty-five stood up behind the desk, hand outstretched. ‘Come in, Inspector. Chancey is the name, Frank Chancey. Thank you for coming. Please take a seat. May I say that you come highly recommended.’

  Angel wondered who by. His eyes flitted up and down the man, taking stock. Chancey had all the characteristics of the moneyed classes: hand sewn dark suit cut as sharp as a heroin needle, silk shirt, diamond cuff-links, Roché watch, gold signet ring, skin tanned that distinctive apricot by the Carribean sun, and a mop of jet-black curly hair going distinguished white at the temples.

  At the same time Chancey had been looking Angel up and down. He seemed to approve. He indicated a chair opposite the desk and Angel took it.

  ‘I expect your … chief constable has told you about my wife, Inspector?’

  ‘Only that she has disappeared, sir. Perhaps you’d like to tell me all about it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Chancey rubbed his chin. ‘Where to start?’ he said and licked his bottom lip. ‘It’s hard to try to convey five years of my life into a few minutes, but, well it all started with a row. Nothing serious, you understand. But a row. We didn’t often have a disagreement, but that’s what happened. Families have them all the time, don’t they?’

  Angel hesitated. He didn’t want to agree, but he had to concede it happened. He pursed his lips and rocked his head a couple of times.

  ‘Katrina and I normally get on very well, very well indeed. But, anyway, it was one of those days. So to try to stop the arguing, I said that she should have a holiday. That she needed a holiday. It was a way of bribing her, I admit it. I said she should go somewhere nice, somewhere … where she could relax. I should explain, Inspector, that my wife is a model. Quite well-known out there … and on both sides of the Atlantic. You may have heard of her. She uses the professional name of Katrina?’

  Angel mentally scoured his memory. He couldn’t place the name, but then again he easily admitted to having little or no knowledge of prevailing culture. He had an all-encompassing word for it: it sounded like scrap, but it only had four letters.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  Undeterred, Chancey continued. ‘I gave her a handsome cheque, reserved a suite for her at the Hotel Leonardo Quincento in Rome. It was the most expensive place I could think of. I booked a plane ticket to Rome and organized transport to the airport. I thought I had dealt with the situation pretty well. I thought she would fly off, enjoy herself, buy a few clothes, relax, and return in a couple of weeks in a happy, settled mood and life would go on.’

  Angel looked round the room. He took in the framed photographs on the walls. They were all of the same young woman. Strikingly beautiful, long legs, big bosom, deep cleavage, blue eyes, full lips, long blonde hair. He assumed it was Katrina. Some of the photographs displayed more than Angel would have liked to be shown of his wife to all and sundry.

  ‘These photographs,’ he said at length. ‘Are they all of your wife?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Chancey said, smiling. He breathed in noisily, stuck out his chest, glanced round at them and added: ‘Aren’t they … sensational?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. Sensational might be the word Chancey wanted to use. The word Angel would have used would have been simply … mucky.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say, but his lack of enthusiasm might have been obvious. He moved quickly on. ‘Then what happened, sir?’

  Chancey peered thoughtfully across the desk. He had lost the thread. His eyes moved to left and then to right. He picked it up after a few seconds. ‘I got a phone call from her agent in London. The model agency. She had seemingly not turned up for a shoot. Now in the modelling business, Inspector, a missed appointment is almost as criminal as assassinating the pope. She would never have forgotten or overlooked a modelling appointment, especially a shoot. She was modelling mad; it was her life!’

  Angel appreciated the point.

  ‘What was the name of the agency, sir? And who spoke to you?’ Angel said.

  ‘The agency’s called “Top Notch” and the woman who phoned me was called Melanie something or other.’

  Angel nodded smiled and with a gesture invited Chancey to continue.

  ‘So when the agency phoned me and told me she was not answering her mobile and that she hadn’t been in touch with them for some weeks, I naturally became concerned. I immediately phoned the hotel in Rome, discovered she had not booked in and that the suite had not been occupied for the last fourteen days, also the airline had by this time sent the unclaimed ticket with the bill to my office address and yesterday morning it had filtered its way to me. I got Jimmy to check on her car, and it was here, parked up in the garage. I have no idea where she is.’

  ‘Can we sort these dates out, sir? When did you book the hotel and so on? When should she have gone, and when did her agency phone you?’

  ‘Friday, the thirteenth, we had the row. That was also the same day that I booked the hotel, the airplane and a car. All by phone. The arrangements were made for early the next day, the fourteenth, of course. The agency phoned yesterday morning to say they hadn’t heard from her.’

  ‘So it’s clear that your wife didn’t go to Rome then, sir. Is it reasonable to think that these past two weeks she stayed in this country?’

  He hesitated. ‘I think it is, Inspector.’

  ‘Hmm. Have you any children?’

  ‘No.’

&n
bsp; ‘Have either of you been married before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. Is there some particular place, relative, friend, lover, whatever, where you consider she might be or has been these past two weeks?’

  Chancey’s mouth tightened. ‘No.’

  ‘It would be a big job to trace every friend, relative or acquaintance of your wife, people she may have struck up a relationship with in her lifetime. And believe me, Mr Chancey, we do that, most thoroughly, but it’s time consuming. And we would only undertake such an action if there were some fact to indicate that a crime has been committed. Ten thousand people go missing in this country every year: over three thousand are never traced. I have to ask you, have you any such evidence?’

  ‘Not specifically,’ Chancey said quietly. ‘I have told you all I know.’ His hand went to his face. He rubbed his hand across his chin. He spoke quietly, confidently. ‘No. But I’m nevertheless getting very worried, Inspector. Very worried. She has been missing for two weeks. We did not part on the best of terms. Something has happened to her.’

  ‘You may have to face up to the possibility, Mr Chancey, that Katrina … may have left you of her own free will.’

  ‘I have already considered that and dismissed it, because if she had, Inspector, I tell you she would still have kept her appointment at the shoot, wherever it was, chatted on her mobile phone, she couldn’t keep off the damned thing, and used her credit cards. But she hasn’t done any of those things.’

  Angel raised his head. These facts, if that was what they were, were greatly significant, but not conclusive. Many women, particularly those of independent means, could and have told their overbearing husbands where to stick their money.

  ‘You’d better give me her mobile, credit card numbers and bank details. It won’t take long to do a check on them.’

  Chancey broke off, opened desk drawers, consulted address book and bank statement folder and supplied Angel with numbers which he wrote on the back of an envelope taken from his inside pocket. He then considered carefully his next question.

  ‘Are you suggesting that she has been abducted, sir?’