The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  It was a great disappointment to Angel who ran his hand across his mouth and screwed up his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t prove anything to have the dead woman’s hair on it, after all she lived there. It would be useful if we had a suspect. Get Mac to save the samples ... you never know.’ Then he added, ‘Have we got the right piece of carpet?’

  Gawber said, ‘Well, Leeds Ops didn’t search the Beck. It was just that this one was caught in the reeds by the bank where the body was found.’

  ‘From the description, it certainly sounds like the missing one. I’ll have a word with the housekeeper, Mrs Moore again. It’ll be a good excuse to go up there. Has it been cleaned and dried out?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s like new.’

  ‘Good. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s that funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. Is it?’

  ‘The undertaker rang up. It’s being held at St Mary’s. Eleven thirty.’

  ‘Right. I want you in that van with the smoky windows, with a full can of tape. Best take Ahaz with you. He can man the phone and do any running you may need. You’d better liaise with uniformed division and the traffic wardens. We don’t want them sniffing round and drawing attention to you while you’re filming. I want a picture of everybody who comes out of the church. Let’s hope it’s not raining. Go early. You should be able to get a good position at the other side of the road right opposite the gates. You know where I mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant turned to go.

  ‘Afore you go, I’ve some interesting information for you. Who do you think is Melanie Bright’s boyfriend?’

  The sergeant considered the question and then smiled slowly. ‘Sir Charles Millhouse?’

  ‘Nope.’ Angel leaned forward and said, ‘The man who’s done more chiselling than Thomas Chippendale.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Scrap Scudamore.’

  Gawber put his head slightly on one side and sighed. ‘It’s all very puzzling, sir.’

  Angel nodded. ‘What a mixture. Melanie Bright, who could make page three of “The Tart’s Weekly.” Her chest is like the buffers on Waterloo Station. And Scrap Scudamore. He’s so thick, if he’d any tattoos they’d be spelled wrongly.’

  ‘And yet he’s the smartest one of the Scudamore tribe.’

  ‘True. It’s hard to put those two together though, isn’t it.’

  The sergeant nodded.

  ‘What do you make of it so far?’

  Ron Gawber rubbed his chin and said, ‘Well, as I understand it, Sir Charles Millhouse arrived home at five o’clock on Friday afternoon as usual, expecting to be greeted by his wife, but the house is empty. He looks all over the place for her. She’s not there. She turns up three days later in Western Beck, naked and strangled to death. She’s not on drugs. She’s not on the bottle. There’s nothing known. No boyfriends. No motive. It doesn’t appear to be Sir Charles; he has neither opportunity nor motive. It could be his son, Duncan, for the family fortune — but he’ll get that anyway if he has the patience to wait. Duncan’s wife, Susan, for the same reason. And they are giving each other an alibi. The housekeeper, Mrs Moore, her husband, Walter Moore. I doubt either of them. They’re honest, hardworking folk. Then we have this unexpected relationship between Sir Charles’s chauffeur, Melanie Bright and Scrap Scudamore.’

  ‘That’s about it.’ Angel suddenly turned sharply to Sergeant Gawber. ‘Did Scenes of Crime do a thorough search of the interiors and tailgates of the Rolls, the Citroen and the son’s Mercedes? That body had to be transported by some vehicle to Western Beck.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We need a positive match against that carpet. Have Forensic got sample fibres?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They promised their written report by this afternoon. Young Duncan Millhouse protested vigorously at having his car swept. Civil liberties and all that guff.’

  Angel ignored the sergeant’s news. His mind was on other things. ‘Funny thing, her clothes haven’t turned up. And her watch, rings and her pearls.’

  Gawber ran his hand through his hair. ‘We went through all the rubbish bins on the Millhouse estate. We raked through the ashes of the fire down by the gardener’s compost heap. Nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t look in the lake?’

  ‘Have you seen the size of it, sir?’

  ‘I don’t expect we’ll ever see anything of them again,’ Angel said thoughtfully. And then his face brightened. ‘Pearls,’ he muttered as he ran his hand across his chin. ‘The number of times jewellery turns up in a shop or in an auction after a murder. It’s a mark of the intelligence of the murderer. I wonder what will happen this time.’

  ‘How’s that, sir?’

  ‘Elementary psychology, Ron. A murderer doesn’t want to get caught, does he? Murder is life in prison. An intelligent murderer isn’t going to risk being caught trying to make an easy, but relatively paltry, few hundred quid selling his victim’s jewellery. The enormity of the risk is obvious. Now a less intelligent murderer might just decide a few extra quid worth taking the risk for.’

  He continued, ‘Well, we will have to wait and see. It’ll be a bonus if they do turn up. But conditions have altered. Drugs have changed the priorities and thinking of crime patterns. The public, especially the younger population, are more stupidly brave when they’re filled to the gills with heroin.’ Angel shook his head and looked down at the brown linoleum. ‘And you should hear some of the latest theories to come out of Hendon!’

  Gawber smiled. He had read some of the reports. There was a short pause.

  The sergeant said, ‘I reckon they’ll be buried miles from here.’

  Angel didn’t hear him. He was staring blankly at the ceiling but he didn’t notice the fresh cobweb stretching across from a chain holding the fluorescent tube to the shade, nor the dark mark immediately above the light source.

  ‘Has your wife any pearls, Ron?’

  Gawber blinked, then he said, ‘She did have, sir. They broke. For no reason. There were pearls all over the house for months. Kept turning up. Under the bed, between the sheets. There was even one in my slipper.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That happened to my wife. Months after the string broke we had a holiday in Scotland. Do you know we took one of the little devils all the way round Argyllshire. It was still at the bottom of the suitcase when we got home.’

  ‘Why, sir? Are you thinking of buying your wife another string?’

  Angel smiled broadly. ‘Who me? Don’t be daft, Sergeant.’ He laughed. ‘They’re a waste of money. I mean what can you do with a string of pearls that break as soon as you look at them?’ He shook his head. ‘No. No. Just an idea, that’s all.’ Then he said quickly, ‘I’ll tell you what, I want you to find out if old Annie Potts still stands the market. She sells all sorts of cheap jewellery. You know who I mean, don’t you? Her son was done for possession of cannabis.’

  ‘Yes. You got him off with a caution. I remember.’ Then Gawber observed with a smile. ‘She sells pearls.’

  ‘What a coincidence!’ Angel grinned. ‘And see what you can find out about Hugo Scudamore.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Scrap Scudamore to you. What he does for a living these days. Has he any other women besides Melanie Bright in tow. And any other muck you can rake up about him.’ Then he added, ‘I know he’s thicker than newly-weds’ gravy, but there might be something interesting.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And find out if he owns a car. I’m going out to Millhouse Hall now. Going to have another go at Mrs Moore,’ Angel announced, pushing his chair back from the desk. He reached over for his raincoat.

  ‘And ring up Forensic about that carpet. Find out if they have found any trace of anything interesting in any of those cars.’

  ‘Before you go, sir,’ Gawber said, running his hand through his hair.

  ‘What?’ Angel grunted as he pushed his arm into a sleeve.

  ‘Reporters keep ringing up. The
y’re getting a bit restless, Sir Charles being an MP and all that. Not just the local rag, nationals and editors keep on at me. Even the TV people want an interview. They’re all getting a bit fed up with me saying “we are proceeding with our enquiries.” They want to speak to you. Can I say that you’ll be making a statement or organizing a press conference or something?’

  ‘You can say that we expect to make an arrest shortly.’

  Gawber looked puzzled. ‘Right, sir.’ Then he added thoughtfully, ‘And do we, sir?’

  Inspector Angel was halfway up the corridor.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mrs Moore stood in the doorway at Millhouse Hall. ‘Oh it’s you, Inspector. Did you want to see Sir Charles? I’m afraid he’s in London, of course.’

  ‘No Mrs Moore, it is you I want to see,’ he said as he strode into the big oak-panelled entrance hall. He patted the roll of carpet he was carrying under his arm.

  She stood back from the door to give the policeman easier access.

  ‘Oh, you’ve brought me carpet back.’

  ‘Not exactly. I just want you to tell me whether this is the piece of carpet that went missing at the same time as Lady Millhouse, that’s all.’ He partly unrolled the length as far as the floor.

  ‘Oooh yes, Inspector, that’s it,’ she said wide-eyed and smiling. ‘Are you going to put it back where it belongs?’

  ‘I can’t leave it, I’m afraid. It’s wanted as evidence.’ He turned towards the drawing room door. ‘Will you show me exactly where it was?’

  She closed the front door and ushered him through the nearest doorway. ‘Go on through, Inspector.’

  The big airy room with its many upholstered chairs, settees, piano, grandfather clock and other furniture looked like a department store showroom without the illumination of the big fire, and the wall lights, the lamps, the chandeliers and people milling around. There was a strong smell of beeswax and glinting brass and silver testified that Mrs Moore had been busy.

  She stood at the side of the grandfather clock and waved her hand downwards across the area directly in front of the fireplace. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s where it was. It’s been there for years.’

  Angel grunted. ‘A sort of hearthrug.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was.’

  He looked at the grandfather clock. He noted that it was secured to the wall by screws through black iron brackets down each side and that the brackets were partly covered by wallpaper. The base of the clock had an arch cut out of the front and the big chintz patterned carpet fitted neatly under the foot all the way back to the skirting board.

  A small, satisfied smile appeared on his face. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He listened briefly to the rich sound of the big clock’s tick, and then he turned to the housekeeper. ‘Very nice. I’ll put this carpet down a minute, if you don’t mind. There are a few other questions I would like to ask you.’

  ‘If I can help, Inspector,’ she said, wiping her sweaty hands on her overall.

  He pulled the little leather-backed notepad from his inside coat pocket and turned back a few pages. ‘Ah, yes. Lady Yvette used to receive letters from abroad?’

  ‘Yes. From France. I have sometimes picked the letters up from the mat and put them on the hall table. It depended what time the postman delivered. Sometimes I noticed that there was a letter for her with a foreign stamp on it. Yes.’

  ‘Who was it from?’

  ‘Ooooh, I have no idea, Inspector. She wouldn’t tell me.’

  Angel looked into her watery blue eyes then he said, ‘Sir Charles and I looked in the bureau for a letter or an address, but there was no indication as to who it might have been. No letters and no addresses. Can you help me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t know anything about it. She did seem to be a bit secretive about her post. I mean, she was quick to pick her letters up and disappear somewhere to read them. Especially that one with the Paris mark.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Would you say it was a man’s handwriting, or a woman’s?’

  ‘I really have no idea. I didn’t examine them.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He looked away, tapped his notebook with his pen thoughtfully and then said, ‘Well, if you cannot help me, Mrs Moore, it will remain a mystery forever.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. Just one more question. You said when you left the house on Friday last, the day her ladyship went missing, that she was wearing a thick woollen red jumper, blue jeans, brown leather shoes, a square-faced wristwatch and a choker of creamy coloured pearls.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Tell me about the pearls. Did she wear them often?’

  ‘I can’t remember ever seeing her without them,’ she replied firmly. ‘She was very fond of them. Of course, she’s only been here through a summer. She may not have worn them in winter.’

  ‘Quite. Can you describe them for me?’

  Mrs Moore’s jaw dropped. ‘Well, what is there to say, Inspector? It was a choker of pearls.’

  ‘Well, how big were the individual pearls?’

  ‘Oh. Not very big.’

  ‘Were they different sizes?’

  She nodded. ‘The largest about as big as a pea and then getting smaller. They were perfectly round.’

  ‘So how many individual pearls would there be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, would there be a hundred?’

  Mrs Moore licked her lips as she considered her answer. ‘Maybe.’ Then after a second, she added, ‘Perhaps a hundred. Maybe more. I never counted them.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t, but there were a lot, weren’t there? So they must have been small.’

  ‘I suppose you would say that. Yes. They were small.’

  ‘I just wanted a rough idea so that we know what we’re looking for. And what was that colour again?’

  ‘They were that warm, creamy colour. They were very nice.’

  Angel carefully wrote it down, made a deliberate full stop, closed the notebook, looked up and smiled. ‘That’s it for now, Mrs Moore. And thank you.’

  He picked up the carpet.

  Mrs Moore smiled, then put her hand to her face. ‘Oh, and I never even asked you to have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Some other time, perhaps.’ He made for the door. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  He went through the doorway, on to the frontage, past the pillars and down the stone steps on to the gravel at the front of the house. He kicked the gravel noisily as he made his way back to his car. He opened the boot and deposited the roll of carpet into the back. His mobile phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That you, sir?’ It was DS Gawber.

  ‘Yes, Ron. What is it?’

  ‘Forensic have found no trace of carpet fibres in the Rolls, Citroen or Mercedes. In fact, they’ve found nothing of interest to us in any of the cars.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel grunted.

  ‘Does that take them out of the frame, sir?’

  ‘Not necessarily. What did you find out about Scrap Scudamore?’

  ‘Not much. Yes. He has a car. An old Jaguar. I’ve got the number. And he’s unemployed. That’s all I’ve got at the moment on him.’

  ‘Right. Shove the car licence number through computer. See what it throws up.’

  ‘I already have done, sir. It’s owned by him and a finance company.’

  Angel smirked. ‘Right. Find out where he garages it. It’ll be in the street, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh, you asked me to find out about old Annie Potts.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I phoned the market inspector. She’s standing Bromersley Market today.’

  Angel beamed. ‘Good. I’ll go there straight away, and I’ll see you in the office in about an hour.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel drove straight to the town centre and stopped on a yellow line outside t
he Market Hall. The journey had taken twenty minutes. He put the card with the word ‘Police’ printed on it in the windscreen and made his way through one of six entrances into the modern, concrete building among people, shoppers, lookers, and stallholders shouting out incomprehensible phrases. The interesting smells of ground coffee and freshly baked bread invaded his nostrils. Bromersley Market had a long-standing reputation for good value and big choice, and crowds came in from every village for miles around on market day.

  He shuffled through the shoppers in the covered area and out through another entrance to the outdoor stalls. He looked up and down the dozens of stallholders selling everything from fruit and vegetables to bolts of cloth and secondhand pushchairs. Eventually he saw Annie Potts. She was next to a stall selling women’s dresses that were hanging from coat hangers protruding in all directions.

  Annie Potts was a small, round, elderly woman swathed in coats, scarves and a battered velvet hat. She had a leather apron with a pouch sewn into it, tied around her waist, and she was wearing navy blue mittens. Her face was red, the result of forty years working outside markets in all weathers. She was standing behind a small glass topped showcase in the middle of a spread of brightly coloured jewellery pinned to a piece of curtain material. People with plastic shopping bags were pushing past her stall, mostly not seeming even to give her a glance. She was repinning a brooch to the cloth she was using to display her costume jewellery when she saw the grey raincoat and the big figure of the policeman smiling down at her.

  She beamed back and raised her hands. ‘Mr Angel! How nice to see you.’

  ‘Hello, Annie. And how are you?’

  ‘I’m all right. What brings you here?’

  Without giving him the opportunity to reply, she said, ‘Are you following somebody? Can I help you with anything? Oh, I’m glad you came. I was going to get in touch. I was thinking of you only last night. I was in The Feathers. I was having a port and lemon with a friend of mine. A lady.’

  She broke off. Angel was being pushed from behind by a lady with a child in a pushchair. She was having difficulty making progress because of people passing the front of the stall in the opposite direction. Three youths pushed past eating fish and chips out of newspaper. The pushchair wheel scrubbed against the bottom of his trouser leg. He leaned over the front of the stall to give them all more room.