The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  The barman grinned.

  Angel and Gawber sat in the corner and waited for the arrival of the funeral party. It didn’t take long.

  There was a flurry of noise, as the front double doors swung open and four photographers and two men with microphones and tape recorders burst in. They were closely followed by the hotel manager in a dickie bow and morning suit, who was leading Sir Charles and the funeral party to the reception room. At the door, he held the clamouring press men back by holding out his arm and saying, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you.’

  Sir Charles looked flustered at the presence of the media. He moved swiftly into the reception room, leaving cries for, ‘A statement,’ and ‘Will you look this way, Sir,’ behind him. The reporters stopped at the room door. They lowered their cameras and microphones and immediately crowded around the bar.

  Sir Charles brushed his suit down with his hands as he strode across the room to a group of easy chairs on a low stage at the far end. His son, Duncan, and daughter-in-law, Susan, accompanied him. Mr and Mrs Moore and Melanie Bright tagged on behind.

  Angel looked at Gawber. They stood up and, leaving their empty glasses on the round table, mingled into the queue of people filtering into the big room. The small woman in the smart black coat and veil seen entering a taxi at the church, gently pushed her way under Angel’s arm and ahead of him into the room. She seemed a little unsteady in the high heels. Angel watched her. It was hard to judge her age. She had black hair with a touch of grey. She was wearing a large black hat with a veil that covered her eyes. She was carrying a small black handbag and black kid gloves in one hand and a glass of amber coloured liquid in the other.

  Angel nudged Gawber and grunted, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. I saw her come out of the church.’

  The woman manoeuvred her way to a position by a table with four chairs around it, but she didn’t sit down.

  A waiter was standing behind a table at the far end of the room pouring coffee. Next to him, along the length of the room, were tables covered with starched white tablecloths on which plates, cutlery, red napkins, smoked salmon, pork pies, sausage rolls, salads, trifles, cakes and the like were temptingly displayed.

  Sir Charles and the family had glasses in their hands and were seated at the far end of the room. Angel watched them discreetly. They spoke very little. Sir Charles silent and staring blankly out of the window was sipping from his glass now and again. Occasionally, Susan’s lips would move a little, then Duncan seemed to offer a very short reply. None of them were interested in the buffet.

  Mr and Mrs Moore hovered tentatively near the table where the waiter was serving coffee. Melanie Bright joined them. A few other guests began slowly to drift towards the buffet.

  The slim woman in the veil stood on her own, speaking to no one. She still had the glass in her hand. It was empty and she looked round for somewhere to leave it. A waiter with a tray came along and conveniently solved the problem. As she put the glass on the tray, Angel noticed that her hand was expensively manicured and that she was not wearing any rings. An important choker of pearls fitted closely around her brown, suntanned neck. His eyes lingered on the jewellery. He thought of Yvette Millhouse’s pearls.

  A man in a sleek suit approached Sir Charles. The MP put his half full glass on a table beside him and stood up. The two men shook hands and began talking animatedly. Two more people went across to the family and then another couple. A small crowd began slowly to gather around Sir Charles and the family.

  Several guests were lighting up cigarettes. Angel sniffed and glared at them.

  The woman in the veil began to walk slowly, a yard at a time, along the edge of the spongy maroon carpet towards the family. She was now wearing black gloves and carrying the handbag well up her arm. She stopped, looked back to see if anyone was observing her. Angel looked away. She didn’t notice him. Then he saw her making more progress towards the small group. Angel’s eyes followed her every move. He nudged Ron Gawber and whispered urgently, ‘Watch that woman.’ He nodded towards her. ‘Don’t take your eyes off her.’

  She continued her slow advance towards the group of family and friends. She increased her pace. Gawber sensed the urgency. He moved closer towards her. He glided past the buffet table. Angel went the other route by the door entrance and the long wall with people seated on chairs, his eyes constantly on her. She didn’t look back. She had her target in view. She was a yard behind Sir Charles. His half full glass was on the table only two feet from his hand.

  She reached out and passed her closed gloved hand over the rim of the glass, opened it, then withdrew her hand and glided away at speed.

  Angel saw it. So did Gawber. The woman passed swiftly behind the group and back into the body of the guests. The inspector said, ‘Get her. Don’t let her go.’ Gawber rushed off.

  Angel turned to Sir Charles, who had picked up the glass and was about to take a sip.

  Angel knocked his wrist. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The glass fell to the floor.

  Sir Charles turned round angrily. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Very sorry, sir.’

  ‘What the hell is going on, Inspector?’

  ‘May I speak to you privately?’

  ‘What is it?’ he replied testily. ‘Look at my glass!’

  The glass had landed unbroken on its side on the carpet. Angel swiftly pulled out a handkerchief, turned the glass upright and picked it up by its foot. It was empty of wine but was still wet and contained sediment.

  Sir Charles eased away from the crowd and leaned over to the policeman.

  ‘I saw someone — a woman — drop something in your glass. I had to stop you drinking it,’ Angel said quietly.

  Sir Charles’s jaw dropped. His eyes shone. He stared at the glass in Angel’s hand. He said nothing. He picked his way back to his chair and sank into it. He put the back of his hand to his mouth.

  Duncan had seen the glass fall to the floor. He looked down at the stain on the carpet and then at the glass in Angel’s hand. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’

  Susan leaned over the chair and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I should get him a brandy. He’s had a shock,’ Angel said quietly.

  ‘Dad. Dad!’

  Sir Charles said nothing and looked straight ahead.

  A waiter appeared. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he said to Duncan Millhouse.

  ‘A double brandy, quickly please.’

  ‘At once, sir.’ The waiter rushed off.

  The crowd did not notice what had happened. The buzz of conversation continued uninterrupted.

  *

  Angel strode down the green corridor to the CID room. He was carrying a paper bag, carefully holding it in front of him in both hands. The door was open and several officers were seated at computers. Cadet Ahmed Ahaz was nearest the door. He saw Angel and promptly stood up.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said smartly.

  ‘Where’s DS Gawber?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But I will look for him for you, if you wish it.’

  ‘Do that, Ahmed. Ask him to come to my office pronto.’

  ‘I will sir. Pronto, sir,’ he said and smiled showing his white, even teeth.

  Angel turned and went along the corridor to his own office. He placed the paper bag on the desk, put his raincoat on the coat stand and then peeled off his suit coat. He undid his shirtsleeve and rolled it up to reveal a flesh coloured sticking plaster on his arm. He pressed it down with his fingers and grunted angrily. Then he opened a drawer in the desk and shuffled around the front of it. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a white paper packet labelled ‘Nicotine Patches.’ He peeled the covering off a patch and slapped it on his arm near to the existing one. He pressed it down firmly, looked at it and muttered, ‘Now work, damn you, work!’

  He fastened up his shirt cuff and put on his coat. He was adjusting the collar when
there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes!’ he bellowed.

  It opened. It was DS Gawber. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Come in. How did it go?’

  ‘I got her back to the station.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  He pulled the chair across from the wall and sat down. ‘I charged her with disturbance of the peace.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll want her for attempted murder, but that’ll hold her for twenty-four hours. Has she a solicitor?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. I booked her in, cautioned her and tried to ask her some questions, but she won’t say anything.’

  ‘She won’t say anything?’ He grunted. ‘What did she say in reply to the charge?’

  ‘She simply said, “I have nothing to say.” ’

  Angel grunted and pursed his lips.

  ‘Anyway she was carrying a passport in her handbag. She is French — a French foreign national. Her name is Simone Lyon. And she’s carrying a return ticket to Paris. It has a Paris address on it. That’s all I’ve managed to find out.’

  ‘French is she? And she won’t talk? Does she understand English?’

  ‘Oh yes. You should have heard her carry on when I arrested her! She speaks English all right, sir.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Number one interview room, sir.’

  ‘On her own?’ Angel asked quickly.

  ‘No, sir. There’s a WPC with her.’

  Angel nodded and drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘Has she been searched?’

  ‘Not yet. I was waiting for you, sir.’

  ‘Right. Move her to a cell. Have her searched. Then fingerprint her. Make sure she’s comfortable. Give her a cup of tea or something now, and a meal later on.’

  ‘Then shall I have another go at her?’

  ‘No. Leave her overnight. And tell the WPC not to engage in any kind of conversation. She must be polite, of course. As polite as a dustbin man at Christmas, but no chit-chat. All right?’

  Gawber nodded and smiled knowingly. ‘Yes, sir. And you’ll have a go in the morning.’

  Angel looked at him and a small smile appeared on his face. ‘How well you know me, Ron.’ Then he added with a wink, ‘And you know what else they say?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  The inspector stood up and leaned over the desk. ‘If you want a pig to go down a ginnel, pull its tail!’

  Gawber smiled and stood up. ‘Oh.’ He remembered something. ‘Is Sir Charles all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes. He says he doesn’t know the woman. Never seen her before. And he’s no idea why she would put anything in his glass.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Very strange.’ Angel leaned across the desk and picked up the paper bag. ‘Here’s that glass. It’ll have my prints on it, and Sir Charles’s. Have Scenes of Crime check it out, record it, then let Doctor Mac have it. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him I think he’ll find it contains rat poison.’

  ‘Rat poison, sir?’ he exclaimed raising his eyebrows. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘An educated guess, Ron. An educated guess.’

  Gawber shook his head and smiled as he picked up the bag. He left quickly and closed the door.

  Angel looked after him and sighed. He stared across the desk at the oak grain on the office cupboard in front of him. After a few seconds, he lowered his eyes on to the pile of papers on his desk. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. He could murder a cigarette. ‘I’m as dry as the small print on a mortgage,’ he muttered. He picked up one letter after another, and slowly turned each one over on to another pile. He was looking at them but not reading them. The contents were not registering. They might just as well have been written in Chinese. They were just words, black on white. It was just babble. He lowered his hands. His eyes returned to the oak cupboard door. He stared at the brown varnished woodwork. The grain on the door went out of focus. A mist appeared. He was daydreaming. He saw the petite French woman, all in black with the hat and the veil, and wearing the pearl choker — those pearls again — and a close up of her hand passing over the top of Sir Charles’s glass. Then the look of shock and terror in the MP’s eyes. The French woman must be either very stupid or very desperate. If she was desperate, what was she desperate about? It most assuredly was rat poison. It was a very serious offence. It was nothing less than attempted murder. And how did Angel know it was rat poison? He didn’t know. He couldn’t explain. There must be a reason. He had just told DS Gawber it was rat poison. It is as if the brain works things out for itself. Maybe he’ll be wrong? Perhaps it won’t turn out to be poison at all. Maybe it was a vitamin pill? Perhaps the cow did jump over the moon after all?

  There was a knocking sound. Somebody was knocking at the door. It brought him out of his reverie with a jolt. The knock was repeated.

  ‘Come in!’

  The door opened slowly and Cadet Ahaz was there tentatively carrying a plastic cup. ‘Excuse me, sir. I thought you might like a cup of tea.’

  Angel smiled.

  He sipped the tea, and returned to the papers on his desk. He made good progress and remained for several hours with his head in the reports and letters uninterrupted. His concentration was suddenly disturbed by the slam of a door and loud voices along the corridor passing his office. He looked at his watch. It was six o’clock. It was the changeover of the shifts. He was tired. He wanted to get that black funeral tie off. A stiff whisky, a hot meal, and his sheepskin lined soft leather slippers beckoned. He went home.

  The following morning he arrived in the office. He had had a peaceful evening at home. He had had to chase off some newspaper reporters who had ambushed him outside the station wanting news of the French woman, Simone Lyon. He had told them that she was helping them with their enquiries, and that at the moment, he could tell them nothing. He had wondered how they had discovered her name until the local reporter for the Bromersley Herald told him that she was staying at The Feathers and that she had signed into the hotel in that name. It was an interesting piece of information and he wondered if there would be anything helpful in her luggage. He must get Gawber to take a look at it.

  He was preparing himself to interview Simone Lyon when Cadet Ahaz knocked on the door.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Ahmed said beaming. He had a bunch of letters from the morning’s post.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Just a minute, lad,’ he said to Ahmed as he picked up the phone. ‘Angel,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

  It was Superintendent Harker, the inspector’s immediate superior. ‘Michael, a triple nine call has just come in. A man has found a male body at the back of the Can Can Club.’

  Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The finder has already sent for an ambulance but I want you to get there before it does.’

  Angel licked his dry lips. ‘On my way, John.’

  He slammed down the phone.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His face grim, he reached out for his coat and turned to Ahmed. ‘Find DS Gawber. Tell him a body has been found at the back of the Can Can Club. Tell him to meet me there.’

  The boy’s jaw dropped. The whites of his big eyes reflected the light. His pulse was racing. He looked down at the back of his hands. The skin had turned to gooseflesh.

  ‘Er, yes sir,’ he said mechanically as he watched Angel race out of the office.

  It took only five minutes for Angel to reach the Can Can Club. It was situated on one of the secondary roads leading from Bromersley town centre. The building had been a small purpose-built cinema of the nineteen twenties. It had closed down and been for sale for a decade or more before a local businessman had had the enterprise to buy it. He had levelled off the floor, had a few coats of paint thrown at it, and some secondhand tables and chairs brought in from a club in Manchester that had closed down. He had had coloured neon lights installed above the three main doors and he had opened it a year or two ago. It had
a food and drinks licence, and a pop singer, comedian or novelty act was engaged from time to time to entertain the townsfolk.

  Detective Inspector Angel arrived to discover a police car parked at the side of the building. Its amber light was flashing. A police constable was putting out blue and white tape warning, ‘Do Not Cross. Police.’

  Angel crossed to the PC. ‘What’s happening then, lad?’

  The young PC lowered the tape. ‘I’m glad you’ve come, sir. I’ve only just got here. There’s a man’s body between these dustbins and the skips,’ he said panting.

  ‘Have you seen anything of an ambulance?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The PC pointed to the walled off area adjacent to the nightclub in which were six grey dustbins and two rubbish skips. ‘He was found a few minutes ago by an old man who lives opposite. He was returning from the newspaper shop with his dog. The dog got interested in something behind the bins and wouldn’t respond to his call. He had to come across to get hold of the dog and that’s when he saw the body. It’s pretty gruesome, sir.’

  ‘Right, lad. You carry on.’

  An ambulance arrived.

  Angel moved into the area and peered behind the bins and then between the two skips. He saw a rumpled pile of clothes on the wet ground. It had a head at one end and shoes at the other. The eyes were open and looking upwards, one arm lay awkwardly above the head. There were no obvious signs of the cause of death. A brick from a jagged wall end was on the tarmac a yard or so from the dead man’s head.

  A red-faced ambulance man in a blue and green uniform came running up to Angel. He was carrying a bag.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘I think you’re too late, lad.’ He pointed down between the two skips.

  The ambulance man said nothing. He reached over the body and grabbed the wrist. He held it for a second. Then he touched the neck.

  He stood up. ‘Aye, he’s stone cold. Any idea who it is?’

  Angel didn’t answer the question. He knew who it was. ‘You can leave it to us, lad,’ he replied rubbing his chin.

  The PC came up. ‘He’s a gonner isn’t he?’