The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  Annie Potts continued. ‘You know I’ll always be ever so grateful to you for speaking up for my son when he got in with that bad crowd. Do you know what he’s doing now? He got that job with the bus company. Well you know that, ’cos you helped to get him the interview, and gave him a reference. I’ll always be grateful to you for that. Well, he got that job as a driver, now he’s an instructor. Yes, he teaches other men to drive them big buses round town and all over. Sometimes he has to drive to Manchester. The other week he was taking a party to London. It’s a long way to London, isn’t it, Mr Angel? And do you know, he’s courting! Yes, after all this time. Mind you, she’s been married before. I don’t mind that. She’s a widow with a youngster but she’s ever so nice; and she’s good for him. Yes. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to know about me and my lad. As I was saying, I was in The Feathers, me and Edie Longstaff — but you won’t know her — last night. And just across from us, two men were talking about that murder up at the big house. Lady Millhouse, I mean.’

  A young woman in a headscarf shuffled up next to Angel and was fingering a brooch pinned to the curtain.

  Annie turned to her briefly. ‘Everything on there is fifty pence, luv. If you want to try it on — ’

  The young woman scuttled away.

  ‘And your name came up.’ Annie continued as if she’d never been interrupted. ‘One of the men said that he’d heard that you was in charge of the case. The big man said that you’d never find out who’d done it ’cos you ’ad a head as big as a bucket. Them’s his exact words. I wanted to say something to him, but Edie Longstaff stopped me. She said it could be dangerous. Well, he was a big lump, and we shouldn’t have been listening. Mind you, they were talking that loud we couldn’t help but hear them. Any road up, the big one then said that she ’ad a string of fancy men as long as your arm. The other one said that she didn’t have any fancy men at all and that he ought to know. The big one kept saying that she was only after the money. The smaller chap said that she wasn’t. They were getting a bit hot under the collar by this time and they’d had a few drinks. I thought they were going to finish up fighting. But ‘ere’s the interesting bit, Mr Angel. Do you know who they were?’

  The inspector shook his head.

  She indicated that he should come closer, and then she said quietly into his ear, ‘One was Duncan Millhouse and the other was the eldest of that horrible Scudamore family. They call him Scrap Scudamore. A daft name, if you ask me.’

  Angel straightened up. The smile left his face.

  Annie Potts nodded and then winked.

  The policeman weighed the information carefully before he spoke.

  ‘Well, thank you for telling me, Annie.’

  ‘I think he could be very dangerous, Mr Angel. I know you policemen are specially trained and all that, but you will be careful won’t you? I mean I wouldn’t want anything like what happened to Lady Millhouse to happen to anyone I know.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it.’

  She beamed and nodded. There was a bright twinkle in those old eyes.

  ‘Well now, Annie — ’ he began.

  ‘Dearie me, I’ve done all the talking and I haven’t asked you what it is you’ve come for.’

  He smiled again. ‘That’s all right, Annie. I’ll tell you. What I want is a nice string of small pearls, that are a warm, creamy colour. Have you got any?’

  ‘Course I have,’ she said and she bent down and produced a bunch of twenty or thirty strings from under the stall. They were fastened together by a twist of wire. They were different lengths, colours and sizes. ‘Do you want real ones? Or cultured? Or costume?’

  Angel began shuffling through the strings. ‘Why? What’s the difference?’

  ‘About a hundred pounds,’ she said with a laugh.

  He selected a double string of small, creamy, graduated pearls. ‘These look like just what I want.’

  ‘There’s some bigger ones here. They’re better.’

  ‘These will do fine, Annie.’

  ‘Are you sure? Give ‘em here then. I’ll put them in a nice box for Mrs Angel.’

  ‘No need Annie, thank you. They’ll be fine.’

  She saw him look at the paper price ticket stuck on the catch. On it was scrawled ten pounds. He quickly pushed the string of pearls into his raincoat pocket and then pulled out his wallet.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Have these on me. As a thank you.’

  ‘No, Annie,’ he said taking out a twenty pound note. ‘And I don’t want any change.’ He thrust it into her hand.

  ‘No,’ she protested firmly, and began ferreting in the leather pouch tied round her middle. ‘Here, just a minute, Mr Angel.’

  He would have none of it. ‘Must dash. Take care of yourself, Annie.’

  Annie’s jaw dropped as she slowly unfolded the note.

  ‘And you watch out, Mr Angel,’ she called out after him.

  He turned and waved.

  She waved back. Then he disappeared into the crowd. She looked at the money, smiled and put the note into the purse inside the leather pouch. Then she looked round for any customers.

  Angel dissolved into the crowd and soon reached his car. He pointed it towards the police station. It was only a few minutes away. Although it had been a delight to see Annie Potts and her bright smile, nevertheless his mood was dark. It was worrying to hear further stories of Scrap Scudamore’s involvement with Duncan Millhouse. As long as Scudamore was free on the streets, there was a threatening outlook for the town of Bromersley. The quicker he could get Scudamore behind bars, the safer it would be for the community. He needed only one opportunity, one piece of hard evidence and he would have him put away for a long time. Perhaps it was time he had a word with that young man. He was still thinking along those lines when he arrived at the station.

  He went into his office and summoned Cadet Ahmed Ahaz to find Detective Sergeant Gawber.

  When the trio were sat drinking tea, Angel told Ron Gawber about the conversation Annie Potts had overheard in The Feathers the previous night.

  ‘Isn’t it surprising that all our enquiries always seem to lead back to Scrap Scudamore, sir?’

  Angel nodded and slowly passed his hand across his mouth. Then he said, ‘He’s a bad lot, Ron.’

  ‘He could be responsible for Lady Millhouse’s murder?’

  ‘It has to be a possibility. I mean we have to ask ourselves what sort of person would commit such a crime?’

  ‘Well sir, what sort of person would commit such a crime?’

  Angel screwed up his face as he began to answer the question. ‘To answer that we have to get inside the mind of the murderer. To do that we need to find his motive, and we haven’t got a motive for Scudamore.’

  ‘Robbery?’

  Angel pursed his lips then stretched out his arms, put them at the back of his neck and leaned back in the chair. ‘We do have a motive for Duncan Millhouse.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that then, sir? His inheritance?’

  ‘He might be thinking his inheritance is at stake while Lady Yvette was around. Get her out of the way and the whole pot of gold will eventually come to him.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘And Susan Millhouse might be very expensive to keep.’

  Angel licked his lips and sighed. ‘You know, it’s times like these I could eat a cigarette.’

  Ahmed piped up from the chair by the wall. ‘Would you like me to go out and fetch you a packet, sir?’

  ‘No, lad. I’ve got to fight it. I don’t know why. Doctor’s orders.’

  There was a pause, then Angel said, ‘If it was Duncan Millhouse, then his wife, Susan, would know about it, after all she’s the one providing the alibi.’

  ‘Money is a strong motive, sir.’

  ‘It is a strong motive.’ Angel agreed. He arched his back and stretched his arms. ‘But there’s one that’s stronger.’

  ‘Passion.’

  ‘Exactly. Passion!’ Then he brought his arms down and bounced them he
avily on the desk. ‘You asked me what sort of person could commit this crime. I’ll tell you. Sir Charles Millhouse. I reckon he could be cool enough to carry it through. He’s the sort of man that could commit murder. He’s mature enough. He has brains. If it were he, he would be thinking how he could get away with it. His paramount thought would be how not to get caught. His whole being would be geared to covering his tracks. There would be nothing more important to him than to get away with this crime. He wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his life swilling out the lavs in Strangeways. He would not be casual about any detail. His mind would be wholly concentrated on this most important matter. It would require immense attention to detail. He would be trying to get into our minds too. Yes. Now there’s a thought. Him trying to get into our minds.’

  Gawber smiled wryly.

  Angel continued. ‘He would be spinning a web of deception that he would hope we would never be able to cut through. It would be good. Not good enough. Never good enough. But it would be good.’

  The inspector drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘He may have committed murder before and got away with it. His first wife, maybe. I don’t think so. The doctor’s report was very clear-cut. She died from natural causes. But if Charles had committed murder before and got away with it, that would give him tremendous confidence in himself. He’d know how to act the part. He’d be au fait with what to expect. He’d know the pressures. He’d know what he’d be subjected to — by the medics, by Forensic and by us. He’d be sweeping up clues and patching up holes as he went along, removing any indication that would point us in his direction. I’ve said all that on the basis that he could have committed the murder in a fit of rage or passion. Of course a premeditated murder would be much easier to conceal. A highly skilled player would plan it like a military operation. Choose his ground. Choose the time. Arrange an alibi. Provide us with an alternative suspect and then help inveigle the poor sucker. He would leave nothing to chance and therefore would expect to get away with it. He might live on his nerves. It could become a game to him. He might even enjoy playing with us. It could give him a thrill. He would be laughing every time we went down the wrong track. He might even enjoy a perverted thrill of danger whenever we made a move towards discovering his guilt.’

  Angel looked across at Ron Gawber. ‘It reminds me of a case history I was reading about the other day. It was about an Australian stage hypnotist in the sixties called Harry Harpo. He used hypnotism to commit murder. He travelled the outback with an aborigine guide, doing his act anywhere the white man would pay to watch him. He tried hypnotizing animals, and it seemed to work too. Except for a contrary crocodile that couldn’t count up to three. Apparently Harpo thought he had it under the influence but it woke up and took his leg off. So he emigrated to America and had an artificial leg fitted. He married a Milwaukee chiropodist. But they didn’t get on. His wife took on a fancy man. Harpo found out about this. He had a radio transmitter fitted inside his leg. It had a loop tape recorder sending his wife a repeated recorded message to a miniature receiver he had had implanted in her ear when he had her hypnotized one time. It was urging her, repeatedly, to kill the man by putting the strychnine he had put in her handbag, into his whisky.’

  ‘And did it work, sir? Was she hypnotized?’

  ‘No, it didn’t work. And yes, she was hypnotized.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Harpo died from strychnine poison. She put the poison into his whisky!’

  Gawber stared at the inspector intently.

  ‘I only mentioned that case to show you how devious some murderers can be. Also how far wrong their plans can go.’

  ‘And do you think Sir Charles Millhouse is that devious, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But if he was, what’s his motive? From all accounts Sir Charles and Lady Yvette were blissfully happy. We have no evidence to say that they weren’t. I don’t even know whether this was a premeditated crime or not. We have not been able to find out if anyone visited the house between the hours of four and five on that Friday afternoon. That is, between Mr and Mrs Moore leaving, and Sir Charles arriving.’

  ‘Do you mean Scrap Scudamore? With the objective of robbing the place?’

  Angel cocked his head to one side. ‘Could be. Did he go there to burgle the place and got caught in the act, and had to silence Yvette Millhouse?’

  ‘Then afterwards loaded the body into his car and took it up to Western Beck and dumped it?’ Gawber asked.

  ‘It could be like that. Mac said that the body had been on its stomach for a few hours before being dumped in the water. So he may have gone home and waited until the middle of the night. It would have been safer.’

  ‘Would he have needed an accomplice?’

  ‘He could have carried her easily. I think her weight was down at eight stones.’

  ‘Yes, but he’d be under pressure.’

  ‘That’s true. She had to be undressed ... those pearls removed from round her neck. They wouldn’t go over her head. They’d have to be unfastened. A little fiddly catch at the back of the neck, the pressure of time, the risk that someone may arrive at any second. Sir Charles could arrive back from London. Would Scudamore’s hands be steady enough, would he have the patience to unfasten a tiny catch in such circumstances? Have you seen the size of his hands? He had just throttled the woman. He needs to get out of there — fast. He’s unlikely to be in complete control of himself. Would he fiddle with the catch or would he simply yank it free? Would the choker have already been broken in the execution of the murder? Damn it, we all know the thread breaks easily enough! Either way there would be pearls all over the place, wouldn’t there?’

  Gawber smiled. ‘There you go again. Pearls. You’re up to something, aren’t you, sir? And it’s to do with pearls.’

  Angel smiled back at him. He shook his head but there was a twinkle in his eye. He went on. ‘Then there’s all that struggling with arms and elbows and her head to get that jumper off.’

  ‘She didn’t have to be undressed there.’

  ‘I think she did,’ he replied promptly. ‘Who would murder her, roll her body into a carpet, put it in a car, drive it somewhere else, unload it, undress it, roll it back in the carpet again, reload it and then later take it up to Western Beck to dump it? Too messy. Take too long. Too risky.’

  Ron Gawber nodded. ‘You’re right, sir.’

  Angel looked at him strangely. ‘Am I, Ron? Am I?’ He shook his head. He looked weary. This murderer is harder to find than Harry Houdini’s rabbit!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The church funeral service for Lady Yvette Millhouse ended. The tuneless wail of the organ could be heard as the chief mourners, Sir Charles Millhouse, Duncan Millhouse and his wife Susan Millhouse, and Mr and Mrs Moore followed the coffin out of the grimy, weather-beaten stone church in the centre of Bromersley. The wind blew the priest’s cassock in all directions. Only the colours of the wreaths and flower sprays brightened the scene on that dull November day. The party stood in silence on the pavement as the coffin was put in the hearse.

  A blue transit van was parked directly opposite the church gate on the other side of the road. It had a dark glass window in the side. DI Angel hardly gave it a glance as he came out of the church amidst a large crowd of mourners. His interest was purely professional. He expected the murderer to be among the congregation and he was looking for a familiar face. He glanced discreetly to his left and to his right as he shuffled down the steps. As he neared the church gate, he dropped the printed service sheet to give him an excuse to bend down. As he rose back up, he turned round to look back at the hundred or so expressionless faces. He saw what he expected to see: He saw the tall, athletic figure of a man. The man was looking sideways. Angel knew the profile. It was the rough, red face of Scrap Scudamore, who was looking across the mass of bobbing heads at a woman with a pile of blonde hair and an orange suntan. The woman was Melanie Bright. Angel saw her turn towards him. He saw their eyes meet followe
d by the exchange of small nods and the slightest smile. The man then turned towards the church gates. His eyes may have caught Angel’s. The inspector looked away. He pursed his lips. He might have been pleased with his observations but he was not.

  The hearse and the two official mourners’ cars drove off.

  A slim woman all in black with a small veil and very high-heeled shoes hurriedly got into a local taxi, which had just arrived. It had a noisy exhaust and sped off in a cloud of black smoke behind the official cortege. Angel glanced after it.

  The inspector decided it was not necessary for him to go to the crematorium, but he would attend the reception at The Feathers. He strolled down the street to the town square and along Bradford Road to the large hotel with a big car park on three sides of it. It was The Feathers. It was the nicest hotel in Bromersley, with choice of three sizes of reception rooms, two bars and offered a dozen or so comfortable bedrooms. A lot of other mourners and sightseers had had the same idea as he had, and he soon found himself being jostled in a queue at the bar. Eventually he was served and he struggled through the crush with a glass of Bromersley Bitter and went into a quiet corner. At the end of the big entrance hall he noticed a sign outside the door of one of the reception rooms. It read: ‘Sir Charles Millhouse Reception’.

  He put the glass down on a three-legged iron round table. He took out his mobile and dialled. ‘Ron ... Have you finished? ... Everything all right? ... Good. I’m at The Feathers ... Send Cadet Ahaz back to the station and join me ... Right.’

  Five minutes later, DS Gawber came through the door. Angel went over to him, nodded and then went to the bar for a glass of the local brew for him. The crush had gone and the bar was neglected. The barman took his order and then said, ‘Hello, Inspector. Don’t see you in here often.’

  ‘At your prices is there any wonder?’ he said as he picked up his change. ‘You must be rich enough to buy a footballer’s leg.’