by Michael Kerr
CHAPTER ONE
SERGEANT Ron Perkins took details, but was decidedly unenthusiastic. That a married man had been missing for one night was not unusual. Ron knew Wayne and Paula Ingall. They were a wealthy, thirty-something childless couple who lived out at Blaine Lodge, a grand eighteenth century pile that was situated at the edge of Brockett Wood.
Ron advised Paula to phone round the hospitals in the district. The only niggle in his mind was, that she said his car was still in the garage. Maybe he’d taken a cab, or been picked up by someone he knew. Rumour had it that Wayne was playing away from home with Fiona Marshall, who was divorced and had put herself about ever since the split with her husband, Cyril, who’d relocated to the South of France. Ron made a mental note to pop round and quiz Fiona, if Wayne hadn’t turned up in twenty-four hours.
For the next two days, Paula played the part of a troubled wife becoming more and more distressed with every passing hour that her husband’s whereabouts were not known. She contacted everyone they knew, apart from Fiona Marshall, who she feigned total ignorance of.
Ron Perkins did eventually get round to contacting Fiona. Drove out to the riding centre to find her in the office, drinking tea and working her computer.
“What brings you out here, Ron?” Fiona said. “Decided to learn how to ride? Thinking of becoming a Mountie?”
“Not likely,” he replied. “I tried it once and got thrown. Horses are unpredictable buggers.”
“Not as unpredictable as people, Ron. What’s on your mind?”
“Wayne Ingall,” he said, but did not elaborate, just left the name hanging in mid-air.
Fiona waited. Raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Ron, I give in,” she said after a lengthy silence. “What about Wayne?”
“He’s gone missing.”
“And what makes you think I would know where he is?”
“I believe you were...close friends.”
“How diplomatic. What you mean to say is, that you have it on good authority that we were having an affair. Don’t beat about the bush with me, Ron.”
“Okay. When was the last time you saw Wayne?”
“About a week ago. If you want the squalid details, we made out in one of the empty stalls. And when he left, he said he’d give me a call and arrange something for Saturday night. But he didn’t.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?”
“None whatsoever. What does Miss. Penelope have to say?”
“Who?”
“His grabbing wife. Miss. Penelope was Wayne’s nickname for the bitch.”
“Did she know about you and Wayne?”
“I have no idea. It wouldn’t surprise me. She wasn’t interested in him, though, just his inheritance, and Charlie De Mornay.”
“What does De Mornay have to do with it?”
“She was screwing him, Ron. What she didn’t know was that Wayne was going to dump her. He wanted rid. She was a money pit. Didn’t matter how much she had, she just swallowed it up and came back for more.”
“If you were to hazard a guess, where―”
“All I’d suggest is that if Miss. P had any inkling that Wayne was contemplating a divorce, then she would have everything to gain if he vanished. He talked to me, Ron. He’d got a private detective following her. That’s how I know about De Mornay.”
Once sure that Fiona had told him everything she knew, Ron made to leave.
“Sure you don’t want to try getting your leg over, Ron?” Fiona said salaciously. “I’ve got an old nag out back that would give you a nice, gentle ride.”
Ron grinned. “Not today, love. Maybe in my next life.” He was happily married, and wasn’t going to risk damaging his suspect back by bouncing up and down on a horse, or by having a quickie with Fiona, whom he reckoned was up for a frolic in the hay.
Dressed in civvies, Ron drove into Guildford, made a courtesy call at the police station and drank coffee with Barney Cox, a sergeant he’d known since training days at the police college in Hendon. Told him that he was checking out a missing person report, and that he intended to have a word with a PI by the name of George Devane. Asked Barney for a rundown on the private investigator.
“George is okay, Ron. Used to be with CID. Give him my regards, and remind him he owes me a pint.”
After catching up on gossip, Ron walked to Devane’s office on the high street. Made his way up the narrow staircase to the first floor landing. The carpet was tacky on the soles of his shoes. The frosted glass on the first door he came to proclaimed DEVANE DETECTIVE AGENCY, stencilled on it in flaking gold foil. He rapped on the wood frame.
“It’s open,” a gruff voice barked.
Ron entered. The office was pure Mike Hammer. Cheap and utilitarian furniture and fittings. The man behind the desk was maybe sixty, but trim looking with a grey crew cut and eyes the same shade. His face was heavily lined, clean-shaven, and had the look of a man who’d been there, done it, and pissed on the T-shirt.
“You’re a copper,” George Devane stated simply, lowering the newspaper he’d been reading.
“Takes one to know one,” Ron said, introducing himself and flashing his warrant card. “Barney Cox says you owe him a pint.”
“Wrong tense, pal. I’m an ex-copper. And Barney’s full of shit. I don’t owe anyone the time of day. Ask your questions, expect to be blanked, and let me get back to the sports pages.”
Ron ignored the abrasive attitude. Maybe the man suffered with piles, or just enjoyed coming across as a hard-arsed bastard. He acted as if he’d seen too many old Yank private-eye movies and really thought that he was Mike Hammer, Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe.
“One of your clients has gone missing,” Ron said. “Could be foul play. I need a little help here.”
“Do I look like a registered charity?”
“No, Devane. You look like a guy who’s got a chip on his shoulder for some reason. We can talk off the record, or make it official and start the paperwork flowing.”
“You want a coffee?” George asked.
“Please. Black, two sugar.”
“So who’s dropped out of sight? And why do you care?” George asked, pouring coffee into chipped mugs from a coffeepot that looked to be as old as he was.
“Wayne Ingall. His wife reported him missing two days ago, and as you know he was looking for grounds to give her the elbow, legally. He just evaporated. Didn’t take his car or anything else. It doesn’t fit.”
“And what do you imagine happened to him?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve ruled out alien abduction. That leaves me looking for some human element to explain why he would walk away from his home without even taking his wallet. Maybe he cracked up, or had an accident and is confused.”
“You need to look closely at the wife. She had a lot to lose, given that I’d dug the dirt on her.”
“De Mornay?”
“Can’t say. What I do for a client is confidential.”
“Off the record, George. Your client could be a victim.”
George gave it some thought. “Nothing’s off the fucking record, but, yeah, I’ve got some red-hot action photographs that would make you soil your pants.”
“Did Ingall’s wife know?”
“Pass. I gave copies to Wayne last week. Whether he showed them to her or not, I wouldn’t know and don’t care. They had a pretty open relationship. Both of them screwed around. Thing is, Wayne started to wise-up and realise that she was an expense he could live without.”
“Are you saying that if she knew he was planning to dump her, she might have got rid of him?”
“Don’t try to put words in my mouth, Sergeant. I’m not saying anything. Like you, I haven’t got a clue. But if he doesn’t turn up, then he’s either topped himself, or someone else has punched his ticket. You don’t walk away from the sort of money he’s worth. Did you talk to the bird he knew in the biblical sense?”
“Yes. She seems clean, without any motive. And I don’t understand how his going m
issing is that beneficial to his wife.”
“He told me that the house, investments, and a very healthy bank account are in joint names. If she had arranged for him to vanish, then she’s in clover. And in seven years she would get her hands on the lot, when he’s officially written off.”
There was nothing else. George gave Ron a copy of one explicit photograph. Client confidentiality was put aside. After all, it was the client who was missing. In one sense, George was looking after Wayne Ingall’s interests. Plus, there was the matter of an outstanding fee that Wayne had not got round to paying.
Ron knew Paula Ingall, but had had never visited Blaine Lodge. He drove up the winding drive and parked at the front of the impressive Gothic-style property. It was a little bleak; grey, weathered granite and pointed-arch style windows and door. Even had a small turret. It could have been Hill House, straight out of the classic, spooky old novel by Shirley Jackson.
He thumbed the crazed porcelain bell push and heard the faint strains of something classical that he thought he remembered from some bygone cigar commercial on TV. After a minute had passed, he rang again and kept his thumb on it until he heard footsteps approaching.
When the solid oak door opened, Ron was taken aback by Paula Ingall’s appearance. This was a woman who he had never seen with a hair out of place, or not wearing expensive designer label clothing. She looked like shit; red-rimmed eyes with dark crescent smudges beneath them. No makeup, and her ash-blonde hair tangled and in need of shampooing. She wore a crumpled short sleeved satiny top over equally creased cream slacks, and was barefoot.
“Have you found him?” Paula asked, her bottom lip quivering; eyes beseeching.
“No, Mrs. Ingall,” Ron said quickly, knowing that a copper showing up on the doorstep was usually associated with bad news. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“It’s about time you took this seriously. Wayne went missing two days ago. It’s as if he just fell off the planet,” Paula said with a quality of righteous indignation in her husky voice. “You’d better come in.”
She led Ron along the wide hall and into a reception room that had more square footage than the whole of his semidetached house. Motioned for him to sit and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee or anything, Sergeant Perkins?”
“Black, two sugars, please,” he said. He was in no hurry. This was a nice little aside to being tied to his desk at the small station, shuffling papers and watching the clock hands creep round. He wanted to smile, but didn’t, as she actually pressed a button on the wall next to the ingle-nook fireplace. Within thirty seconds a small, olive-skinned woman in a stereotype black and white maids’ uniform appeared at the door.
“A pot of coffee, please, Maria,” Paula said. The maid bobbed her head and rushed away.
“Where do you think your husband might be?” Ron asked when Paula settled in a chair opposite him.
“I have no idea, Sergeant. Wayne would not just walk off. I’ve already told you, he didn’t take his car, or his wallet. We live a mile from the village, and he was a creature of habit and drove everywhere. He even left his medication.”
“Medication?” Ron said.
“For chronic asthma,” Paula answered, reaching out to take a cigarette from a green onyx box on the oval-shaped occasional table. “He didn’t leave the house without his inhaler. But even his condition didn’t stop the idiot from smoking.”
Ron had always thought that Wayne Ingall was a sickly looking individual. He was a short, skinny man with a pronounced stoop, who could easily have been a decade older than his years. He was the living proof that money wasn’t everything.
“Let’s run through it again from the top,” Ron said, reaching for his notepad and ball-point. “You told me you’d gone on a golf trip with friends. How did your husband seem when you left?”
“Fine. He said he was going to spend the time in his studio. He was a sculptor of sorts. Not a Henry Moore, but it kept him occupied.”
“What about the business?”
“Sold. Wayne wasn’t happy being associated with money-lending. He said it made him feel like a Shylock. A large German-controlled company bought the firm lock, stock and barrel.”
“Where did you play golf?”
“At the new Ditchling Club near Brighton. And before you ask, I stayed at the on-site hotel.”
“Did you telephone your husband?”
“Yes, the first night, late. He sounded a little squiffy. Said he’d had a couple of scotches. But he seemed in a good mood. Where are you going with this, Sergeant?”
“I’m trying to get a feel for what mental state your husband was in. It doesn’t sound as if he had any reason to leave. After all, I believe it was he who wanted a divorce.”
A nerve began to twitch in Paula’s cheek. She jumped to her feet, glared at him and said, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine, Mrs. Ingall,” Ron said, staying seated. “And I’m sure you knew that he was aware of your, shall we say, impropriety with Charles De Mornay.”
“How dare you come into my house and make such outlandish accusations. Where did you hear such rubbish?”
“From the private investigator that your husband hired.”
“You’d better leave. Jesus! The next thing you’ll say is that you think I had something to do with Wayne’s disappearance.”
“I’m doing exactly what you supposedly want, Mrs. Ingall. I’m investigating a missing person report. You will appreciate that I have to consider every possibility.”
“If you must know, we had a very open marriage, Sergeant. Both of us had other partners. But we were happy.”
“Apparently Wayne wasn’t,” Ron said. “He wanted out. Did he confront you with the proof he had of your affair with Mr. De Mornay?”
“What proof?”
Ron opened his briefcase and withdrew a brown manila envelope. Slid a photocopy of the photograph that George Devane had given him across the tabletop, face down.
Paula retook her seat, reached out with trembling fingers. Read the notes that had been written in caps on the back of the photo: SUBJECT PHOTOGRAPHED @ 22.30 HOURS ON 9/7/15, MILTON HOUSE, BUCKWORTH.
Ever so slowly, like a gambler lifting a card, Paula took a furtive look at the monochrome print. Felt her cheeks flare stoplight red. The setting was Charles’ lounge, and from the angle it was obvious that the shot had been taken from outside the window, presumably through a gap in the curtains. Although slightly fuzzy, there was no mistaking either herself or Charles. She was knelt, naked on the hearth rug, and Charles was behind her, in her, his large, blocky hands cupping her breasts. His eyes were bulging, and his lips were drawn back in an expression that signified he had been caught in the throes of a climax. Fuck! This was not how things were supposed to be. She pushed the incriminating photocopy back across the tabletop.
She said, “Wayne knew about Charles.”
“Obviously,” Ron replied, retrieving the graphic image and slipping it back inside the envelope.
“The only thing that matters, Sergeant, is that my husband is missing, and believe it or not I am extremely concerned.”
“I noticed you have a CCTV system. Have you looked at the tapes?”
“Er, no, it didn’t occur to me. Wayne dealt with all that.”
“Then I suggest we investigate. There may be tape of your husband leaving the house.”
“And just how would that help?”
“Like you said, Mrs. Ingall, it seems a little odd to say the least that he would walk off without his medication or wallet. Maybe someone called at the house.”
“You mean abducted him?”
“I don’t know. It’s one possibility. He could have arranged a lift.”
Paula led Ron along the hallway to an oak-panelled study at the rear of the house. On a sturdy, purpose-built unit set against one wall were six small monitors linked up to VCRs.
“Have you changed the tapes since Wayne went missing?” Ron asked.
“No. I haven’t been in here.” But that bastard Charles has. Sneaked in while I was still at the pool and stole a cassette that showed me committing fucking murder.
Ron checked the machines. Only three of them had tapes in. None of the VCRs were now recording. “There are tapes missing,” he stated.
Paula shrugged. “Wayne was a little sloppy. It was hit and miss. He was fastidious when the system was initially installed, but the novelty wore off. He would forget to change the tapes, or just couldn’t be bothered. He thought that the cameras were deterrent enough.”
Ron ejected the three tapes. “I’ll need to take these and view them,” he said, withdrawing a pad from his briefcase, on which he itemised the videos and asked Paula to sign the release form. She did so, and took the proffered copy sheet.
“Is that it, Sergeant?”
“No. I need to talk to your maid, and to any other employees.”
He drew a blank. The maid, Maria, confirmed that Paula had been away on a golfing trip, and that when she had arrived at the house to work, the kitchen door had been open, and she had not seen Wayne Ingall. Out in the grounds, Ron spoke to the gardeners. The elder of the two said that he had not seen the ‘guv’nor’, but had assumed he was probably messing about in his studio. The old man’s son was vague; probably had trouble remembering his own name, and was at least one brick short of a hod.
Ron went back to the house. “I’ll need Wayne’s mobile phone, Mrs. Ingall. And permission to check all incoming and outgoing calls on the land line.”
“Fine. You’ll let me know if you find anything,” Paula said as Ron made to leave.
Ron nodded. “Count on it.”
“And Sergeant, be advised that whatever suspicions you may harbour, I do not have the slightest idea where Wayne has got to. His disappearance is a mystery to me.”
Ron drove back to the station and dusted off a combined TV/VCR that was rarely used. He ran the tapes through on high speed, while he drank coffee and reviewed the interviews he’d conducted. Cops’ instinct and a gut feeling told him that Wayne Ingall was not going to show up, at least not alive. This had all the makings of a murder case. He hoped that he was wrong. Only time would tell. The footage on the tapes was disappointing. There was nothing on them that he considered relevant. But he would get Neil to run off copies.