The Wigmaker

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel parked his BMW further away from the concentration of activity, in front of the outbuildings, and walked swiftly down to the marquee. A dog barked excitedly. A PC threw up a salute, he responded, dodged under the DO NOT CROSS tape, pulled open the flap on the marquee and went in. The smell was appalling. There were three men in whites, boots and masks. He recognized the shortest man. It was Dr Mac. Nobody spoke. Mac was closing his bag. Next to him, on a stretcher-bed on wheels, was a naked chalk-white assemblage of most of a once human body comprising long legs, skinny arms hanging from a torso; where a head had been was an horrific blue and red mishmash half-covered in straggly wet hair.

  Angel’s jaw dropped. He turned away.

  One of the men pulled a sheet over the corpse.

  Mac caught Angel’s eye and pointed to the flap, indicating that he was going out.

  Angel preceded him and held open the flap. Outside the air smelled of gardenias. They walked up the rise, under the tape and along the path to the outbuildings.

  Mac pulled his mask down under his chin and said, ‘Nasty. I fear I might never find the actual blow that killed her. There are so many. Face and mouth area severely damaged, finger-ends and thumbs removed …’

  Angel sighed. ‘Presumably to conceal the identity.’

  ‘Aye. Long time since I saw anything as extreme as this.’

  ‘Female.’

  ‘Age, at a guess, between sixteen and thirty-five. I’ll get more exact after examination. Blonde, of course. Blue eyes. Tall. About five feet eight or nine. No obvious signs of drugs. No obvious signs that she put up a struggle, either. One severe blow to the temple or crown and out she would be.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity.’

  Angel nodded. They had both seen this many times before. Angel knew he’d never get used to it.

  ‘We’re taking the victim to the mortuary now, Michael, unless there’s anything more you want to see?’

  ‘How was the body put in to the suit of armour?’

  ‘Easily enough. Back opens up on a hinge. Murderer would simply thread the arms into the sleeves, push the torso in and close the back … like a cupboard. The legs, each into a steel leg. They weren’t fastened to the top bit. The head simply put on from the top. The gauntlets and bits that cover the feet weren’t used, or they fell off. The divers pulled them out, and a wheelbarrow. Being steel it showed on the scan.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Mmm. Did they pull anything else out? The weapon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Most probably a ball-pane hammer.’

  Taylor came rushing over to him.

  ‘Sir. Sir. We’ve found some bloodstains on the jetty by the boat.’

  A handsome springer spaniel stood on the jetty, his eyes bright and tail going like a helicopter propeller. A proud handler stood by.

  Angel went up to him, looked down at the Tarmacadam. There was nothing to see. ‘Blood did you say, lad? How do you know?’

  ‘It’s Kim, sir. Blood trained. He’s never wrong.’

  Kim barked. Angel stroked his ears and back.

  ‘It’ll be the rain as flushed it away, sir. There’s been quite a lot.’

  Angel straightened up and rubbed his chin. ‘Ta, lad.’ He looked at the motor launch and called out to Taylor. ‘Have you swabbed the boat, Don?’

  Taylor came up to him. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Give it a careful seeing to,’ Angel said leaning over it. He admired the gleaming brown varnished wood and white painted aluminium bodywork. ‘He must have used it for transporting the body and the suit of armour to the middle of the lake.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He turned away. ‘I must have a word with Lord Tiverton,’ he muttered to himself. His mobile phone rang out. He dived into his pocket and pulled it out. It was DC Scrivens.

  Angel took a deep breath. He couldn’t imagine what was coming next. ‘Yes, lad. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Grainger’s arrived here, sir. He’s wounded and he wants to know where his wife is. He’s acting up. He refuses to go with us. Do I cuff him or what.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s wounded? How bad is it?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. It’s a gunshot wound in his arm. I reckon he should be seen by a doctor, make sure it doesn’t go wrong.’

  ‘Right. Take him to the A and E at the General, then. Cuff him if needs be, but make sure he knows that he’s not under arrest. Tell him that we are protecting him. And tell him that his wife is in our custody for her safety. All right? And when he’s had his arm seen to, give me a ring, and let me know what’s happening. All right?’

  ‘What made you think that Katrina Chancey was buried in the bottom of Lord Tiverton’s lake, sir?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to be conned into burrowing under Chancey’s gazebo and have egg on my face twice. I knew he couldn’t have moved the body far, so when his lordship told me his wheelbarrow had also been stolen, an idea emerged. I kept it quiet because I didn’t want Chancey to get to know and start making plans to make an early escape attempt. We haven’t enough to book him with yet.’

  ‘But why was Grainger shot, sir?’ Gawber said. ‘I don’t understand why Chancey wanted Grainger dead.’

  ‘Don’t you see, Ron? At the moment, we can’t prove that that body just dragged out of Lord Tiverton’s lake is that of Katrina Chancey, but I’d be happy to bet my gas bill with any respectable turf accountant that it most definitely is. However, as we can’t prove that it’s Katrina then she, theoretically, is still alive, and if Gabriel Grainger was actually murdered and his body had been buried in another lake or somewhere else, and nobody knew anything about it, then it could be thought that Gabriel and Katrina had run off together for mad, interminable sex. In which case we, the police, would have no need – indeed, no business – to be out there looking for either of them. They haven’t committed a crime, they’re over eighteen and are free to “disappear” with the other three thousand people in this country, who vanish every year and are never seen again. That’s why Chancey wanted him dead and lost. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s called freedom, or liberty or democracy or something like that.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Right, sir. It’s sad though.’

  ‘Very sad … that their lives are so miserable living with their wives, partners, mothers, fathers, children or even on their own, they decide that it’s a better option. Anyway, what we’ve got to do now is prove that that messed-up pile of human meat was originally the body of Katrina Chancey.’

  The phone rang. It was Scrivens.

  ‘We’re at the general hospital, sir. The doctor says Grainger’s arm is nasty, but it’s only a flesh wound, hasn’t touched the bone. As it’s a gunshot wound, he has to report it to the superintendent. I suppose that’s all right. What do you want us to do with him now, sir?’

  ‘Is he quieter now?’

  ‘Yes sir. The doctor gave him an injection. Told him to rest. He says he feels sleepy.’

  Angel frowned. He had intended interviewing Grainger, but it would hardly be fair to him.

  ‘All right. Take him up to the safe house on Beechfield Walk. That’s where his wife is. Check him in to WPC Baverstock and leave him there. Tell him that for his own safety he’s not to go out, then clock off.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone. He glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s six o’clock, Ron. Don’t know about you. I’ve had enough of today. I’m going home.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  * * *

  ‘What you doing late, love?’ she said gently as he came through the back door. ‘Been trying to stop it drying up for the last hour.’

  Angel blinked. Mary was friendly, considering he was late. That was the nicest she had spoken to him since the saga of the ‘Chippendale’ table had started.

  He took off his jacket.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Found a body … a murdered body … came in late,’ he said as he crossed ove
r to the fridge and took out a bottle of German beer.

  She wrinkled her nose and feigned a shudder. ‘I don’t know why you can’t get a respectable job. Instead of all that mixing with sleazy individuals and messing about with dead bodies and their DUD.’

  ‘DNA!’

  ‘DNA? I thought that was a machine that plays recordings of films and things.’

  ‘That’s a DVD.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. I know for a fact they’re called CDs. My sister’s got one in her Jimmy Osmond collection.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Who?’

  She didn’t reply. She rattled some plates.

  He shook his head. Got a glass from the cupboard and poured the beer while still standing.

  ‘Well, sit down. I’m serving up.’

  Despite all the argy-bargy, Angel identified a distinct thawing in the relationship. In fact, she was so agreeable throughout the meal that he began to be quite worried. He thought there must have been some further expensive development concerning the three legged eyesore in the hall.

  It was after they had finished the meal, cleared away, she had kicked off her slippers and before he had sat down in the sitting room and switched on the television, that she began.

  ‘You know that I have tried all over Sheffield to get a matching leg for that table?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, hiding his eyes in the glass of beer, bracing himself for what was coming.

  ‘Well, there’s a man on Abbeydale Road. He’s an antique dealer. He says he can do it. It’ll cost four hundred pounds.’

  Angel’s heart started pounding. He said nothing. Her stories had a way of building up to a climax, then, it was to be hoped, coming back down to reality. The only money available was £106. It was no use her proposing ideas involving a higher figure. There was no question of extending the mortgage. That was definitely out. He sat tight.

  ‘Yes, love,’ he said mildly, hoping the outcome was less than £106.

  ‘Well, Michael, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to get a matching leg for this table leg,’ she said. ‘I’ve phoned all the likely people in Bromersley, Barnsley and Sheffield now, to no avail.’

  And it’s cost me an absolute fortune in telephone calls too, he wanted to say but didn’t.

  ‘And, in view of the fact that you are against this proposal—’

  ‘I am not against it, we simply can’t afford it.’

  ‘In view of the fact that you are against this proposal, I have decided to put it into Williamson’s auction, tomorrow evening. That Mr Williamson is such a nice man. He said he’d accept it as a late entry.’

  Angel felt his back muscles relax. Mary was referring to a half-baked, gimcrack establishment run by a publican up a backstreet on the outskirts of town. Sending the table to auction would at least get shot of it. Get it out of the house. But she’d get nothing for it in that flea-bitten establishment. She’d be lucky to get a bid of a fiver. That would be £500 down the pan. Timms must be laughing his chrysanthemum-perfumed socks off.

  ‘With the proceeds,’ she continued, ‘I’ll have to satisfy myself with a table from that very modern shop … IDEA.’

  ‘You mean, IKEA.’

  ‘Or the FBI.’

  He frowned. ‘MFI.’

  ‘Yes. Well, anyway, they both sell brand-new modern stuff. Wouldn’t be ideal, but there you are.’

  He rubbed his chin. What was there to say? It was a fait accompli. It was goodbye to £500. But it had been goodbye two weeks ago, when she had first met the sainted Seymour Timms. Anyway, goodbye and good riddance. He hoped that she would learn from the experience. The gas bill would have to wait until his next pay day. Thank goodness it was summer. He wouldn’t like to be paying late for gas in the winter. Although he didn’t suppose they would cut them off. He wasn’t pleased. He didn’t like Mary being done like that. He wrinkled his nose, then nodded and picked up the Radio Times.

  ‘The thing is…’ she said and waited.

  He eventually looked up at her.

  ‘Would you be a darling and take it round there sometime this evening before eight o’clock?’

  His jaw dropped. He sighed, then he stood up. He threw the Radio Times on to the chair and said, ‘I’ll do it now.’

  Mary smiled.

  It was a treat to see her smile. She hadn’t smiled since that cheque had come from Snap, Crackle and Pop.

  She stood on the front step and watched him load the tawdry woodworm-ridden three-legged shambles of a table in the boot of the BMW.

  ‘Take the books,’ she called, ‘and set it up firmly for him. Make the best of it, for me. There’s a darling.’

  Things were looking up.

  He wrapped the table top carefully with the cloth, then wrapped it over a leg and pressed everything down. He closed the boot lid.

  ‘Don’t let it wobble,’ she added. ‘Show him how firm it stands and tell him that that nice Mr Seymour Timms from the BBC used to stand his prize chrysanthemums on it. And remind him that it’s a Chippendale piece, around 1780. Could have been in the Nostell Priory collection. No. Perhaps you’d better not say that, as I can’t be sure about it.’

  He sighed. The muscles round his mouth tightened. He loved her dearly, but she really was pushing her luck. He got in the car, started the engine and drove away.

  It was 8.28 a.m.

  Angel put his head round the CID office looking for Ahmed. The young man came in behind him.

  Angel looked at his watch.

  ‘I’m not late, sir,’ Ahmed said, looking wide-eyed.

  ‘No lad, you’re not. But there’s a lot going to happen today, and I want to be in front of it. I want you to get the Top Notch model agency, London, on the phone for me. I want to speak to a woman called Melanie.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And I want you to find DS Gawber, DS Crisp and DC Scrivens and send them to my office, pronto.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel went into his office. He took off his raincoat and hung it on the hook on the stationery cupboard, just as he had done for the past eight years. As he did it, he began thinking. He liked being a copper and he liked being a DI. Detective inspector was the best rank to be. To be any lower meant you might be on relatively menial jobs, even fetching pet cats down trees, while any higher and you would be forever in meetings, grappling with targets, statistics, reports and kowtowing to visiting hierarchy. No. DI was where he was and DI was where he wanted to stay. He would always be hands on, doing what he liked doing best, catching the worst of all criminals: murderers.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was the Top Notch model agency.

  ‘Ah, Melanie. We are still looking for Katrina Chancey. You will have a detailed physical description of her on your books, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. Of course we have.’

  ‘Could you give me her height exactly?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I have it here. She is five feet eight and a half inches tall.’

  ‘Blue eyes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did she have any distinguishing marks on her, such as an appendix scar or a scar following a mastoid operation, or a hysterectomy or a birthmark or anything like that?’

  ‘No. No. Nothing unusual to identify here. But of course, she would be unmistakable. A face like hers … her features were unusual, classical … unique. I would recognize her anywhere.’

  Angel hesitated. He was almost drawn into saying what he thought, but he managed to control himself. Good coppers ask questions but never volunteer information. Information is part of a policeman’s stock in trade. And sometimes it is expensive to get hold of it.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Melanie asked. ‘Has she been seen somewhere?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said, which might not have been the truth, but that was all he said.

  ‘If you need someone to ID her from CCTV or something like that, I could do it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Thanks very much. I’ll let you k
now if it becomes necessary.’

  He replaced the receiver. His face looked grim. If Melanie could see the body now, the body that he thought was Katrina’s, maybe she wouldn’t have offered to ID it so rashly.

  There was a knock at the door. Crisp and Scrivens came in.

  Angel turned to Scrivens first. ‘Ted, I want you to go to the safe house and bring Gabriel Grainger here. Don’t bring his wife. I just want him. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He dashed off.

  ‘Now, Trevor,’ he said to Crisp. ‘I need to find out if Chancey is back from wherever he went to yesterday, and confirmation that he spent the night at home and is in his office today as usual. You could go to his offices. He doesn’t know you. You could tell the girl on reception you’re looking for a job. Start from there. And there’s a chambermaid works at the house. Her Christian name is Maria. You might be able to find out her full name. You’ll like this job. She’s very pretty. But there’s a snag. I need to know that info today, so there’s no time for any foreplay, just get on with it. All right?’

  Crisp grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went out and closed the door.

  It was a tall order, but Crisp had always been one for the ladies; he was gifted with the looks and the chat. And was the best on Angel’s team at extricating info with ease and charm.

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in the Bromersley general hospital number. It was answered quickly and he asked for the mortuary. He was soon through.

  ‘Good morning, Mac. I know it’s early days, but what can you tell me?’

  ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to ID the body, of course. Have you managed to have a look at it? Is it Katrina Chancey or somebody else? I’ve found out she’s five feet eight and a half inches, blue eyes and no surgery or birthmarks.’

  ‘Well, all that fits this corpse. I can close in on her age a bit. I’d say that she’s between sixteen and twenty-five.’

  ‘That helps. What about fingerprints?’

  ‘No chance. Her hands were totally mutilated. As are her face and mouth, which also rules out ID by dental records.’