The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel sat there unmoved. He spoke even more quietly than before. ‘I know it’s no secret, Harry. Everybody who knows you in Bromersley knows that that tart, Edie Scudamore, is your sister. It’s no secret. Dammit, you and her and Barry and Scott and “Scrap” have been in the papers often enough for some villainy or other for years.’

  Hull opened his huge mouth like a lion. ‘Aah!’ he snarled.

  Angel leaned forward and stared into his watery eyes. ‘No that’s not the secret, Harry. That’s not the secret. I’m coming to that.’

  Hull stubbed out the consumed cigarette and lit another quickly.

  Angel started a different tack. ‘I don’t suppose you remember clocking a ten year old BMW that had done a million miles, back to about twenty thousand, do you?’

  Hull stared hard at the policeman.

  ‘That was a little job you did on your own. Barry and Scott and Scrap didn’t know anything about that, did they, Harry? The evidence was a bit hazy. The fingerprints were smudged. We couldn’t quite prove it. Our witness was a bit dithery. There was room for doubt. I’ll give you that. But do you remember?’

  The man didn’t react. The policeman continued.

  ‘Is your memory improving, Harry? Do you need a holiday? Maidstone’s nice at this time of year. A bit of rock cake breaking? Or Wandsworth? They say it’s nice in Wandsworth these days. You get your own ping-pong ball, tea pot and bucket. The head warden comes round every day at eleven o’clock with chocolate digestives. Are you looking forward to a holiday, Harry?’

  Angel was getting into his stride. He added firmly, ‘Because you’re going to get one. It was exactly the same time that you tipped me the wink about poor Barry and his wagonload of hot cigarettes.’

  Harry Hull yelled across the cell. ‘I didn’t squeal. I never squeal. I didn’t do a deal with you! I would never do a deal with a copper. Never!’

  ‘Oh, you’re hearing me, Harry? I’m getting through to you,’ Angel continued. ‘And you’re remembering. That’s good, Harry. Well, we didn’t call it a deal. Coppers don’t do deals with scum like you; but that’s what it amounted to. A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse, isn’t it, Harry? You told me about Barry and his cigarettes and I dropped the charge against you for clocking the BMW. It was as simple as that.’

  ‘I never said a word to you about Barry’s job!’ he yelled, then turned away and looked outside through the cell bars.

  Angel took a breather. ‘I reckon you got a bargain. Is it all coming back to you Harry? Is it?’

  He went in for the ‘kill’.

  ‘Now all it would take is a word from me to your sister, Edie. She would tell her loving husband, Barry. It would simply ruin his holiday in Durham. His stitching would go to pot. The Post Office would be losing letters all down the Ml! And he would set those lovely brothers of his on to you — Scott and Scrap — and they would come looking for you. And puff! You wouldn’t know whether it was Shrove Tuesday or Sheffield Wednesday. They’d cut you up into little pieces and sell you for dogmeat on Barnsley Market. I wouldn’t give a tanner for your chances. And Edie wouldn’t be able to keep it from Ingrid, her best friend, your wife, either, would she? Your loving, ever faithful wife, Ingrid. Oh no. Because Edie’s got a mouth bigger than a tallyman’s satchel. A right pair of slags together they make. And Ingrid would be off like a shot with that Italian she fancies — ’

  Harry Hull leaped rapidly off the bunk and put his scarlet, sweaty face six inches away from DI Angel. ‘I don’t have to take this!’ he roared. His eyes bulging. ‘I want my solicitor. You’ve no right to make threats. You can’t interview me without it being recorded.’

  He could hear his heavy breathing as he stormed past the policeman, round the back of him and then back again.

  Ahmed, still waiting in the corridor, was afraid he might come out of the cell and see him secretly waiting.

  Angel was surprised at the unexpected commotion, but he didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even turn round when the man was behind him. ‘This isn’t an interview. I wasn’t interviewing you, Harry. And I certainly wasn’t making any threats. You’ve got it the wrong way round, Harry. I’m the policeman: you’re the crook. It’s you that does the threatening, Harry. No. Look on it as a sort of a history lesson. A blast from the past. A reminder of happier days.’

  Hull wasn’t listening. His big eyes moved from side to side. He passed a hand quickly through his oily hair. His heavy breathing grew faster. ‘What Italian?’ He suddenly yelled. ‘What Italian? Who is it? Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. It’s just what I hear,’ Angel lied.

  Hull wiped his sweating face with his hands, and slumped down on the bunk. His closed eyes concealed his confusion.

  Angel stood up and put the chair back against the wall. Then he said, ‘Oh, before I go, I’d like to introduce you to a young man. You may have seen him the night you assaulted his grandfather.’

  Angel stuck his neck out of the cell doorway, where Ahmed was still patiently waiting in his baggy clothes and baseball cap. ‘Come in, Mr Patel,’ he said to the young cadet.

  Ahmed, as instructed, walked boldly into the cell. Angel pointed to Hull and said, ‘Is that the man?’ Ahmed looked closely at the man before he replied robustly. ‘That’s the man, sir.’

  ‘Right, Mr Patel. Thank you. Please leave us. Knock on the door at the end and the constable will let you out.’ Ahmed nodded and left the cell.

  Angel was pleased with the young man’s performance.

  Harry Hull was crestfallen. ‘You can’t do that,’ he protested. ‘That’s not a line up. That won’t stand up in court.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to. It was exclusively for my benefit. I just needed confirmation that I wasn’t going to do you an injustice, Harry,’ he lied, and then he added with a broad smile, ‘You know me, Harry — always want to be fair.’

  ‘Are you saying that lad was in the Paki’s shop?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Where was he? I never saw him. Where was he? Was he behind the Paki woman?’ he stormed.

  ‘He saw the whole thing,’ Angel lied.

  Harry Hull walked around the cell — as much as space allowed — shaking his head.

  ‘Who told you it was me what done it?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, Harry. Maybe it was one of Barry Scudamore’s brothers. Maybe it was somebody else. “Information received” we call it in the trade, Harry. You know that.’ The policeman made an educated guess. ‘Remember poor Barry who was caught with the wagonload of cigarettes, Harry? Perhaps it was pay-off time?’ Angel added slyly.

  Harry Hull went scarlet. He walked around the cell with his arms in the air. ‘I’ll kill that Scott! I’ll kill him! He never could keep his trap shut!’

  Angel noted that free piece of information with great satisfaction. He didn’t react. He hovered a few seconds by the door for Hull to regain his composure.

  ‘Well, what’s it to be, Harry? I haven’t got all day.’

  Hull slumped back on the bed. He held his head in his hands. Then he banged on the end of the bed with his hands. ‘I need time.’

  ‘You’ve had enough time,’ Angel yelled. ‘And so has Barry Scudamore!’ he added pointedly.

  ‘I want to see Blomfield. I ought to see my solicitor.’ He muttered.

  Angel spoke quietly. ‘It’s got nothing to do with law, Harry. The best barrister in the land can’t sort this one out for you. It’s much easier than that. It’s simply a question of whether you want to live or die. Whether you want the Scudamore family, including your wife, after your blood or whether you want to stay alive. And I’d have thought the answer to that would have been easy. Still ...’ The inspector paused a second, then turned to leave. If Hull didn’t break now, he never would. Angel reached the door.

  ‘Mr Angel,’ Hull called in a small voice.

  The policeman turned back. ‘Yes, Harry?’

  ‘How long do you think I’ll get?’ He asked quietly.<
br />
  CHAPTER FOUR

  Detective Inspector Angel mopped his forehead with a handkerchief as he made his way along the green corridor to the CID room. He peered through the doorway, spotted that Ahmed was still wearing the scruffy jumper, jeans and trainers, and said, ‘you’d better get out of that camouflage, lad. You look as if you’ve been to a blind man’s jumble sale.’

  Then he became aware that the seven or eight occupants of the office were staring at him and all smiling broadly.

  Angel glowered back at them. ‘What are you all grinning at?’ He looked down at the front of his trousers. ‘Is my fly undone?’

  Ahmed flashed a smile and said, ‘I told everybody how you stuck up for the Patels, and that you told Hull exactly what he was.’

  ‘Yes. Er — well, you had no right to. That’s confidential. Er — everybody get on with your work,’ he stammered. ‘This isn’t Blackpool Pleasure Beach!’ Then he turned back to Ahmed, ‘Where’s DS Gawber?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, find him, lad. Find him! And send him to my office, pronto.’ He turned away and then back. He glanced at Ahmed again and said, ‘And do get out of those scruffy clothes!’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I will have to go home.’

  Angel made his way determinedly to his office.

  Ahmed followed, calling after him, down the corridor. ‘Sir. Please, sir.’

  Angel didn’t stop until he was sat at his desk.

  Ahmed tapped on the open door and followed him in. ‘Sir.’

  ‘What is it, lad?’ the inspector said testily as he riffled through the papers on his desktop.

  Tentatively Ahmed said. ‘Sir, please tell me, did Hull spit?’

  ‘Spit?’ Angel queried.

  Ahmed looked abashed. ‘Er I mean, er — “come clean”?’

  Angel smiled. ‘You mean, did he “cough”?’ He smiled broadly. ‘Yes, Ahmed. He coughed.’

  Ahmed beamed. ‘Very good, sir. I’m glad for you, sir.’

  The policeman stopped smiling. ‘I thought I asked you to find DS Gawber for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, chop-chop! And get out of those clothes!’

  Ahmed still beaming closed the inspector’s office door.

  Angel smiled briefly as he started shuffling through the papers on his desk looking for something. At the bottom of the pile was the postcard size photograph of Lady Yvette Millhouse. That was what he had been looking for. He stared at it closely. It reminded him of the sort of photograph a society beauty of the thirties would have posed for in a professional photographer’s studio. And she was wearing the flamboyant jewellery of that period. He remembered that a foreign name was stamped on the back of the photograph. He turned it over. In the form of a sort of a ‘logo,’ in a circle was the name, ‘Marcus La Touche.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Gawber. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Sit down.’ Angel said abruptly. ‘You’re harder to find than Lord Lucan.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I want you to crack on with Hull while he’s on the boil. I think it’ll be a mere formality, now. But it’s best to get on with it quickly. I don’t want him going cold. He’s twitching more than lace curtains in a cul-de-sac. He’ll cough his heart up. He’d rather do three years inside than get the wrong side of the Scudamores. And his wife, Ingrid, is a close friend of Edie Scudamore,’ he chuckled.

  Gawber grinned. ‘Yes, Ahmed told me.’

  ‘But you’ve got to sew it up, Ron. And quick. I want a case as strong as nun’s elastic. No loose ends. No surprises in court. You understand?’

  DS Gawber nodded and then said, ‘Did you find out Hull’s accomplice?’

  ‘Yes. It was Scott. I should have known it was one of the Scudamores.’ Angel went straight on quickly. ‘Get Hull’s solicitor in now. Who is it? Blomfield?’

  Ron Gawber nodded. ‘And he’s smart.’

  Then Angel pointed his finger at him. ‘Don’t worry. Hull’s as scared as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking-chairs. He’ll not renege. But get him while he’s hot. And get it signed, sealed and delivered before you fetch Scott in. Do it now. I want it in the bag before Harry Hull knows what’s hit him. And I don’t want Scott Scudamore to get wind of what’s afoot.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ He smiled and turned to the door. Then looked back. ‘Someone should take Ahmed home and let him get out of those clothes.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ He sniffed, looked at his hands and turned up his nose. And I need a shower and a clean shirt myself. I feel as mucky as a dog-walker’s boot.’

  Ron Gawber closed the door.

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped out a number. A young voice said, ‘Yes? Pathology.’

  ‘Dr Mac, please. It’s Michael Angel. He’s expecting me.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Angel heard the pathologist clear his throat as he picked up the phone. ‘I thought it would be you, Mick. Tell you what I’ve got so far.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  ‘Aye, well she has been murdered and it could well be the woman you are looking for,’ he sniffed. ‘Slim. Soft hands. Well manicured. No pressure on her feet. Very little muscle tone. No sportswoman. Never done a day’s physical work in her life.’

  Angel started scribbling in his notebook as the doctor’s Glaswegian twang rang in his ear. ‘Yes, Mac.’

  ‘Contusions on the throat consistent with her being choked by a person with large hands, almost certainly a man, causing asphyxiation and inhibiting the supply of blood to the brain, resulting in death. Discoloration and bruises to the throat and neck also indicate that she had been wearing jewellery, or some sort of heavily patterned clothing, that would make regular indentations on the neck under pressure, that is, while the assailant was choking her. Her fingernails were freshly damaged so she put up some resistance. She had been dead six to twelve hours and had been left in a horizontal position on her back, probably where she was murdered, before being dumped in Western Beck. Her lungs were bone dry.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Hmmm. Anything under the finger nails?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would her assailant be marked by her?’

  ‘You mean scratched and so on? I shouldn’t think so. There was no blood on her nails or her teeth. I suspect the assailant would have hardly noticed her relatively feeble efforts to defend herself.’

  Angel grunted. ‘Not much to go on, Mac.’

  ‘No. There might be more.’

  ‘Any DNA?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Is she fit to be seen? For ID?’

  ‘Give me an hour. I’ll have her made to look presentable.’

  ‘I’ll be in with someone from her family, shortly or in the morning. Thanks Mac. I’ll buy you a pint.’

  He put down the phone and gazed down at the notes he had made.

  The sad time had now arrived when it had become necessary to tell Sir Charles Millhouse that there was a strong possibility that his wife had been found dead in Western Beck and to ask him to attend the mortuary to identify the body. This was one of the jobs that Angel would have liked to have avoided.

  An hour later, the policeman silently led Sir Charles Millhouse, his son, Duncan, and daughter-in-law, Susan, through a side entrance to Bromersley Hospital, along a short corridor to the door bearing the one stark word ‘Mortuary’ in black on the glass pane. Angel knocked on the door and walked in. The Millhouse family followed.

  The high, long room was white tiled and had an expanse of frosted glass through which the low winter sun shone, casting shadows of the window frames on the opposite tiled wall. The floor was tiled with a network of channels covered by perforated iron grills to allow fluids to drain away. The place reeked of ammonia and antiseptics. A constant throbbing hum could be heard from refrigeration machinery.

  At the far end of the room there were two brown painted doors: on one, in black, was the word, ‘Private,�
� and on the other, ‘Laboratory.’

  A young man in a blue shirt, blue trousers, blue apron, blue hat and white rubber boots was hosing down a stainless steel trolley at the far end of the room. He recognized Angel, and without a word or change of expression, he turned off the hose and approached the bank of twenty-four large steel drawers, some with paper documents stuck with pink sticking plaster on the front. He waited by one of the drawers.

  Inspector Angel glanced back at Sir Charles and his family. With a gesture, he invited them to pass in front of him and go towards the young man. He then followed close behind. Nobody spoke. When they were all gathered by the technician, Angel gave the man a discreet nod. The technician gently pulled out a drawer about three feet only and then withdrew to a discreet distance. The refrigeration machinery droned louder.

  A swirl of odourless cold vapour drifted from out of the drawer, across a white linen sheet covering the head and shoulders of a corpse and then trickled in wisps downwards to the sides of the drawer and the floor. Everyone gazed down at the cover.

  Angel, his face set like stone, looked up at Sir Charles and raised his eyebrows. The man gave an almost imperceptible nod and Angel slowly peeled back the white sheet. The group of four looked down intently at the head and shoulders of the dead woman. Her face was a pale blue colour, except for the eyelids and one corner of her mouth which were red. Apart from several protruding dark blue veins down the neck, her skin was tight and without any wrinkle, blemish or sign of age. Her eyes were closed. Her hair was ordered but uncombed and had been arranged evenly at the sides of the face. Her neck was covered with a white bandage.

  Susan Millhouse involuntarily breathed in sharply and reached out to find her husband Duncan’s arm. Sir Charles put a hand up to his mouth and fingered his lower lip.

  *

  Ahaz knocked on Angel’s office door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Mrs Moore, Sir,’ Ahmed said and showed a lady of about sixty years of age into the inspector’s office.

  Angel immediately put down his pen, stood up and extended his hand to the lady.