The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel followed. ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Any birthmarks, tattoos, operation scars, distinguishing features?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see.’

  ‘Needle-marks?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see.’

  ‘How long had she been in the water?’

  ‘Nae long.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Any bright ideas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right, Mac. Thanks.’ Angel said thoughtfully. ‘You’re as much use as a bacon slicer in a synagogue,’ he muttered as he walked away. He turned back and added, ‘I’ll ring you later.’

  The police surgeon had reached his car. ‘Do that,’ he replied. ‘Look after yourself, Mick.’ He eagerly clambered in out of the cold and put his bag on the seat beside him.

  ‘You make more promises than a tart in a jeweller’s shop,’ Angel muttered after him.

  ‘Mick,’ the pathologist called mischievously as he closed the car door and wound down the window.

  Angel leaned eagerly into the car window. ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’re putting on weight.’

  ‘And you should lay off the booze, because that Zimmer frame’s closer than you think!’ Angel retaliated as he turned away to DS Gawber.

  The surgeon called out again. ‘Oh, Mick!’ The policeman turned back to the Scotsman’s car. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Mick. There is one thing,’ he said, without a smile.

  The detective licked his lips expectantly, and put his ear close to the car window.

  ‘What is it?’

  The elderly doctor said quietly, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you, would you?’

  *

  ‘Sit down,’ Angel said to Ron Gawber indicating the chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I’m knackered. And these cases are building up quicker than the queue at the crematorium.’

  He slumped in his chair and lifted up the phone. ‘Ahmed, come in here and bring three teas with you, pronto.’

  He slammed the phone down. ‘My mouth’s drier than a camel’s powder puff.’

  He looked attentively across at Ron Gawber. ‘You’d better bring me up to date on this off-licence case. I can’t do anything about this Millhouse job until I hear from Mac the Knife. There’s nothing more pressing, is there?’

  ‘I don’t think we have a case, if I can’t get Harry Hull to confess. And I don’t think we’ve any chance of that.’ Ron Gawber sighed. ‘I’m worn out with it, sir. I think we’re on a loser.’

  ‘Harry Hull? Harry Hull? Don’t I know him?’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘A name like that stays with you.’

  ‘He’s been down before. Nothing to do with firearms, though. Housebreaking. Receiving. A couple of motoring offences. A factory break in. Harry Hull comes from Manchester. A big, ugly brute. Six foot. A jaw like a gorilla. His mother died in mysterious circumstances. He was accused of suffocating her and then trying to stuff her into a breadbin. Stupid jury let him off.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said, suddenly raising his eyebrows. ‘I remember. It was known as the “Mother’s Pride” case. I know him. I know Harry Hull. Of course, I know him! He was a mate of Barry Scudamore, and Scott and Scrap Scudamore,’ Angel said leaning back in his chair. ‘Married to Ingrid Hull. Great friend of Edie Scudamore. Yes. I know Harry Hull. He’s as much use as an ice cream sundial. Go on then, tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, two men went into that Pakistani off-licence on the Bradford Road at eight o’clock on a Friday night last October. One of them — Harry Hull, we think — was carrying a sawn-off shotgun wrapped in a plastic bag. The other had a baseball bat.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘They were both wearing scarves or balaclavas. They threatened the owner — Injar Patel — a man in his sixties. The usual. Empty the till or else. There’s only Patel in the shop at the time. A scuffle follows. The old man tried to take the gun off Hull and in the scuffle Hull hits him on the head with it. Then his wife comes in from the back room behind them, sees what’s happening, she screams, they both turn nasty. Patel is on the floor. Hull’s accomplice makes to belt Mrs Patel with the bat. Patel gets up off the floor, opens the till, gives them all the money there is ... about a hundred quid, he says ... and they run off. Later, Mrs Patel picks out Harry Hull from our pix, although she could only see half his face. His height, his eyes, his ears, his skin, as well as the rest of his clothes — his imitation leather jacket, jeans and trainers, all fit her description. Hull’s alibi was that he was with his wife, Ingrid, all that evening, watching the telly. Of course, she confirms it. We have no trace of the other man — the one with the baseball bat.’

  Ron Gawber leaned back in his chair.

  ‘And how badly was the old man hurt?’

  ‘A bit early to say. Two stitches in his head. He seems all right. His wife was badly shook up. On pills for depression now. Nice people. It’s only a little tin pot business, you know. I don’t know how they scratch a living out of it.’

  Angel nodded.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Cadet Ahmed Ahaz with a small tray of plastic tea cups.

  Angel looked up. ‘We’re surrounded by Indians.’

  Ahmed glared at him.

  ‘Put them down there, lad. And take a pew.’

  ‘What is this about being “surrounded by Indians,” sir?’ Ahmed asked coldly.

  Angel sighed again, but louder. ‘Just a joke, boy. Nothing more.’

  ‘Oh, I see, sir,’ he replied, his jaw fixed. ‘Not a very funny joke, sir. Nobody is laughing.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Don’t be so touchy, lad. DS Gawber and I have just been talking about this Patel case, and — ’

  ‘Mr Patel is not an Indian. He is from Pakistan,’ Ahmed said, brusquely.

  ‘Is he? All right then. Now can we get on? Just sit there and listen. See what you can learn.’

  Ahmed picked up his tea and sat down in a chair by the wall.

  Angel swivelled back in his chair to the DS. ‘So, what it amounts to is that we need to break Hull’s alibi.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s it. But his wife is a hard nut too, sir. Her name is Ingrid. I’ve interviewed her. Streetwise, you might say. She’ll not give him away.’

  Angel nodded quickly. ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘We can only hold him until eight o’clock in the morning. Unless we can get another warrant, which I doubt.’

  ‘Harry Hull. Harry Hull,’ Angel muttered as he dropped his chin on to his chest and shook his head. ‘I must be getting old. There’s something about him. I just can’t dredge it up. I can’t remember like I used to.’

  After a few seconds of silence, he looked up. ‘Where’s Barry Scudamore, these days?’

  ‘He couldn’t have been the accomplice, sir. He’s in Durham doing time.’

  Angel suddenly smiled. ‘Of course, Barry Scudamore. Red hair!’

  ‘You remember now, sir?’

  ‘Of course. You can’t be a villain and have red hair. It’s against all the laws of commonsense. But then, he’s thicker than a politician’s Filofax.’

  Ahmed looked across engrossed. ‘Sir, can I ask a question?’

  Angel looked back at the young man. ‘What is it, lad?’

  ‘Why cannot a villain have red hair?’

  ‘Well, he can. But red hair makes him too conspicuous in a crowd or a line up.’

  Ahmed nodded his understanding.

  Angel continued. ‘Sticks out like a monkey’s bum. Yes. Come across him a few times. Well, well, well. Hasn’t he learned that yet?’ Suddenly his eyes brightened. He muttered something and then said, ‘Yes, Edie Scudamore! Edie Scudamore! I remember.’ He jumped up from the desk. ‘Well, well, well. I think we might nail this Harry Hull, Ron.’

  DS Gawber’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘What cell is he in?’

  ‘Numb
er two, sir.’

  ‘Hang on here. I’ll just nip down and have a look. Make sure.’

  Angel bounced out of the office, down the green corridor to the custody suite. He had a word with a constable who unlocked the door and he crept on tiptoe to a cell and peered through the observation grille.

  There was a big, middle-aged man with black hair, in jeans, a shirt and trainers, lounging on a bench-bed reading a newspaper.

  Angel slowly smiled. He silently closed the observation grille and returned to his office.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ he said rubbing his hands.

  Ron Gawber smiled without knowing the reason.

  Angel’s smile suddenly left him. ‘Ron, there are two things I must be certain of.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I must be certain that Scudamore is still locked up, and that his wife is still the same one — Edie.’

  Ron rose to his feet. ‘Well, I can soon check on the whereabouts of Barry Scudamore, sir.’

  ‘Use the phone in CID, Ron.’

  ‘It will only take a minute.’

  He went out of the office.

  Angel dragged the phone book out of his office drawer. There weren’t many Scudamores in the book. In fact, just the one, ‘B. Scudamore.’

  The inspector dialled the number.

  It rang out.

  Brrr. Brrr.

  It kept on ringing out. Angel’s mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes closed. He drummed his fingers on the desktop.

  Suddenly there was a click followed by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Hello. Who’s that?’ It was a loud cry like a cockatoo.

  Angel brightened up. ‘Hello. How are you, Edie?’ he said in a warm, friendly voice.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she squawked back.

  ‘It is Mrs Edie Scudamore, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It’s the Queen of bloody Sheba. Who is it? Who is it? Who the hell is it?’

  Angel smiling, gently replaced the receiver.

  Ron Gawber came in. ‘That’s all right, sir. Barry Scudamore is safely tucked up in Durham jail and is likely to be until next July at the earliest.’

  ‘That’s great, Ron! That’s great! We’ll bottle this today, with a bit of luck,’ Angel said beaming, then he turned to Ahmed. ‘Have you ever done any acting, lad?’

  Ahmed rose to his feet. ‘Oh no, sir.’

  ‘Then you are about to become a contender for an Oscar!’

  ‘I want to be a copper, not an actor!’ said Ahmed.

  Angel ignored his pleas turned to Ron Gawber and said, ‘Here’s what we do.’

  *

  At three o’clock, an hour later, Detective Inspector Angel and Cadet Ahmed Ahaz walked through the custody suite door to cell number two, accompanied by the duty constable.

  Ahmed was no longer in his usual smart dark suit, white shirt and dark tie; but in a sloppy pair of jeans, pullover, trainers and baseball cap.

  Angel held him by the forearms and silently positioned him with his back to the corridor wall out of vision outside the cell door. He looked him straight in the face, gave him a wink and whispered, ‘You’ll be all right. Do exactly what I told you.’

  Ahmed stood there, breathing deeply, looking at the ceiling and fidgeting with his fingers.

  Angel looked at the duty constable and put up his thumb to show he was ready.

  The constable looked through the grill, rattled his keys, stuck one in the lock and opened up the cell door.

  ‘Hull, you’ve a visitor,’ he said, leaving the cell door wide open. Then, expertly swinging the keys and chain, he ambled down the short corridor and noisily locked the suite door.

  DI Angel appeared in the open cell doorway, his face expressionless. He stood there, square on, his arms down by his sides, feet slightly apart. He stared across the cell at the prisoner.

  Harry Hull put down the newspaper he had been reading and got up from the bed. He looked the inspector up and down with his cold, watery eyes. Then, sticking out his lantern jaw, he walked pointlessly across the tiny cell and then back again deliberately avoiding looking the policeman in the eye.

  Inspector Angel maintained his position in the doorway.

  Hull sat down on his bed. He stared down at the brown tiled floor. After a moment or two, he picked up the newspaper and pretended to read it.

  Angel didn’t move.

  A few seconds passed.

  Then without looking up from the paper, Hull spat out the words, ‘Well, what do you want, Angel? I ain’t talking.’

  The policeman took a step forward into the cell. He spoke firmly. ‘That’s all right. There’s no need for you to say anything, Harry. I’ll do all the talking. You can do all the listening.’ Then he added, ‘For a change.’

  ‘If this is a cross-examination, my solicitor should be present, and we should be in the interview room with the recording machine going,’ he snarled.

  Hull reached over to the table at the side of the bunk. There was an open packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and an ashtray. He picked out a cigarette, lit it and turned to the inspector.

  Suddenly, Hull’s attitude changed. ‘Didn’t you bring me any fags?’ He asked with a sly grin.

  ‘No,’ Angel replied tightly, but he wished he had one of Hull’s cigarettes between his lips at that very moment. He continued, ‘This is not a cross-examination. In fact, you needn’t say a word.’

  The man threw the newspaper on the cell floor, leaned back full length on the bunk-bed, raised his thick, tattooed arms behind his head and stared at the policeman. He took a deep, noisy suck at the cigarette. ‘Well, what do you want, then?’ And then he added quickly, ‘I ain’t answering no questions. I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. I don’t know nuthin’ about it. I’m not sayin’ nuthin’.’

  Angel smiled. ‘I have just said — you don’t have to say a thing. Just listen.’ He dragged a chair from the corner of the cell and placed it about a yard from the bunk-bed. He sat on it horse-back style and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the back.

  He took his time starting, and when he did, he spoke quietly in a pseudo friendly conversational manner.

  ‘Well, Harry, I was thinking the other day about this and that and the other, and I got to thinking about you and the old days. The fun we used to have. You batting old ladies about, and me batting you about. And that led me on to thinking about our mutual friend — Barry Scudamore. Red hair. Remember him? I’m sure you do. Barry and Harry. What a pair! You two were inseparable. Barry and Harry. The Bromersley duo. With names like that, you could have made hit records. And with Barry’s two brothers:Scott and Scrap Scudamore, you made a brilliant quartet. A bit like the Marx Brothers. Except that you are all stupid. Thicker than Strangeways custard. Remember the Scudamores? Of course you do. Did quite a few jobs together, didn’t you. That factory job. That car scam. A few housebreaking jobs. Do you remember terrorising that woman in the petrol station for a few quid. Two hundred and eighty quid, think it was. Yes, that was a laugh, wasn’t it? She was seven months gone. Do you know she lost the baby she was carrying? Yes, she did. And they dragged her out of the River Don a month after that. Her husband went do-lally and is in a mental home in Huddersfield. The two kids are living on social security with their grandmother. All that for two hundred and eighty quid. But you wouldn’t worry about that, would you, Harry? You wouldn’t even care. Anyway, that’s life, isn’t it? It’s the way things go, isn’t it, Harry? It’s the way that toast falls on the carpet. Butter side down. The luck of the draw. Wasn’t your fault, was it Harry? A bit like three weeks ago. Belting the living daylights out of an old Paki, for the hundred quid in his till. It’s all in a day’s play, isn’t it, Harry? If Mrs Patel dies of a heart attack, it wouldn’t be your fault, would it? As long as you and Barry and Scott and Scrap, could sink a few pints together in The Feathers, and have a few laughs with the girls in the “Can Can Club,” that’s all that mattered, then, wasn’t it, Harry?’

  Without taking
his eyes off him, he paused for a second and then adopted a more serious tone.

  ‘Do you know where Barry is these days, Harry? He’s on his holidays. Gone away to get a suntan. Yes. He’s in Durham. Sunny Durham. Durham Prison.’

  Angel paused again. He looked closely at Harry Hull and waited. There was no reaction. He went on.

  ‘But, of course, you know that, don’t you, Harry? You know all about it. You know exactly where Barry Scudamore is. Seeing as how you helped put him there.’

  Hull returned the stare but without any expression.

  The policeman continued. ‘How’s his wife getting along, Harry? What’s her name, Harry? What’s her name? I’m not good at names.’ He paused, and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Now whatever is it?’ He snapped his fingers and smiled. ‘I’ve got it. I remember it now. Yes. It’s Edie, that’s her name, isn’t it Harry? Edie Scudamore. Yes. The beautiful Edie.’

  Harry Hull stared at him without blinking.

  Angel dropped the smile. ‘A right trollop if ever I saw one. They don’t come much cheaper than Edie Scudamore, do they? And any man would do. Her head has bobbed up and down more times than Lady Chatterley. But she stood by Barry. When he was out of prison, that is. I’ll give her that. And he’s been in and out of jail more times than David Beckham has credit cards. But yes. She’s stuck to him. Like the rent man on pay day. God knows why, Harry. I suppose it’s because you go well together, like Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Morecambe and Wise, and Barry and Harry.’

  Angel could see Hull’s face very gradually getting redder and the corners of his mouth turning downwards; but the policeman chose to disregard the changes.

  ‘But of course, you knew Barry Scudamore’s wife’s name, didn’t you?’

  Hull remained silent.

  Angel went on. ‘You did, Harry. Didn’t you? And I’ll tell you why. Because Edie Scudamore is your sister, isn’t she, Harry? She’s your sister! She’s your sister!’

  Harry Hull could keep quiet no longer.

  ‘So what!’ he yelled. ‘So what! What are you going on about? It’s no secret! Of course she’s my sister. Everybody knows she’s my sister! The whole world knows she’s my sister!’ He waved his arms above his head. ‘Some copper you are. Think you’re smart, do you? Who the ’ell do you think you are? Sherlock Holmes?’