The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  The ambulance man looked at the PC and said, ‘Aye. I can’t do anything for him.’ Then he turned to Angel. ‘You can have him. I’ll be off.’

  As the ambulance drove off, three vehicles arrived from different directions. The Scenes of Crime van, Dr Mac the pathologist and DS Gawber.

  All three made for Angel.

  ‘Help yourselves, lads,’ he said to the Scenes of Crime team nodding towards the bins. They glanced at the body and then returned to the van and began to unpack their special clothing.

  The old pathologist looked over his spectacles. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mick. Good morning to you.’ Then he looked down between the skips and back at Angel. He grimaced. ‘Messy. Very messy.’

  Angel noticed the lace curtains of some of the houses opposite were drawn back and curious faces had appeared at the windows and were staring across at the scene.

  ‘Morning, Mac. If you want privacy, you’ll have to put up a tarpaulin,’ he said, indicating the houses opposite.

  ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ he replied looking up and pulling on a white rubber boot. ‘We may not have to be here long.’

  ‘Did you have time to look at that wine glass I sent to you yesterday?’ Angel asked tentatively.

  Dr Mac looked up at him and smiled. ‘The one you thought contained rat poison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have,’ the doctor replied as he tucked his trouser bottoms into the boots.

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Rat poison. Common or garden rat poison, just as you said. You can buy it in any hardware or gardening shop. It’s coloured blue to make it unmistakable.’

  Angel smiled. ‘I know the stuff. Thanks, Mac. Thank you very much. That’s a pint I owe you.’

  Dr Mac proceeded to pull on the other rubber boot. ‘You’re welcome. That’s practically a whole brewery you owe me.’

  Angel stroked his chin. He was in no mood to banter this cold November morning. Eventually he asked, ‘Would it kill a man, Doc?’

  The pathologist pulled on a white rubber glove. ‘If you could get a big enough dose into a man, it would.’ The glove snapped tight as he released it. ‘It would taste pretty foul, though. The most successful way of polishing someone off would be to disguise the taste in cocoa, drinking chocolate or some patent medicine — anything liquid with a strong flavour — and administer small doses over a period of time.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to know.’

  Doctor Mac nodded and turned towards the rubbish skips.

  DS Gawber came up to Angel panting. ‘Got your message, sir.’

  He told him briefly how the body had been found. ‘I want you to get a statement from the man who had been walking his dog. And see what you can find out from the other people in the houses opposite. See if anybody had seen anything unusual last night, during the night or this morning. Or heard any shouting or fighting.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel pointed to the body. ‘And see if you can find out his movements over the past twelve hours or more. You know what to do. I can’t do anything useful here. I’ll get back to the office.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced in the direction of the rubbish bins. ‘Any idea who the murdered man is?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Oh yes. I know who it is.’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘It’s been coming to him for a long time. It’s Scrap Scudamore.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Angel arrived back at the police station. He went into his office and began preparing himself to interview Simone Lyon. The case against her was more serious now that Dr Mac had confirmed that there was poison in the wine glass. What she might have to say might help with the solving of the murder of Lady Yvette Millhouse. He picked up the phone, dialled a number and instructed the duty jailer to bring her to an interview room. Then he moved swiftly there himself. He switched the tape recorder on to standby and put a new tape in the machine. He looked round the room and noticed a statement form on the seat of a chair. He picked it up, glanced at it, noted the date and then dropped it in a wastepaper basket. He fastened a suit coat button and adjusted his tie. Then he went to the door. A woman’s protesting voice indicated that Simone Lyon was on her way.

  ‘Where are you taking me, young man?’

  The black suited lady, now without the hat and veil, was walking quickly along the green corridor escorted by a PC.

  Angel opened the door wider. ‘In here, if you don’t mind,’ he said pleasantly. He nodded a ‘thank you’ to the constable who turned round and disappeared round the corner.

  She cautiously came into the room, checked off the four chairs, the small table, the high windows, the cream painted walls, the telephone and the red light of the audio recorder. Her big eyes looked up at him.

  He looked down at her. She was aged about fifty. Her high cheekbones, blue eyes and thick black hair indicated that she had been very beautiful in her younger days and was not unattractive now. Her face was lined, her eyes tired, her mouth turned down at the corners. She spoke clearly with a rich, deep voice, with a nasal intonation typical of the French. Her pronunciation of consonants was very distinctive.

  She looked Angel straight in the face. ‘I am not saying anything. I don’t care what you do to me.’

  ‘Please sit down. I am not going to do anything to you.’

  He sat in the chair nearest the door. She hesitated then slowly sat down opposite him. She stared at him fixedly.

  He looked across the table at her, then he turned to the audio recorder and pressed the switch. ‘I have to switch this on whether you speak to me or not. I have something to say to you and it is necessary to make a record of it.’

  She defiantly changed the direction of her stare to the wall opposite.

  Angel spoke towards the microphone rapidly, ‘It is ten fifteen on Wednesday morning, November the fifteenth. This is interview room number one. Present are Detective Inspector Angel and Miss Simone Lyon. Miss Lyon was arrested and charged yesterday with disturbing the peace. Confirmation of new evidence has come to light that requires her to be charged with a more serious offence.’

  He turned briefly back to her. ‘Miss Lyon, I am charging you with the attempted murder of Sir Charles Millhouse. You do not have to say anything but whatever you do say may be recorded and used in evidence against you. Do you understand that? Do you have anything to say?’ He looked at her and raised his eyebrows to encourage her to reply. She continued to stare at the blank wall.

  He repeated the question. ‘Miss Lyon, do you have anything to say?’

  She remained silent.

  He pursed his lips and said, ‘Very well. Miss Lyon refuses to answer. Now I am going to ask Miss Lyon if she has legal representation.’

  He stared at her. There was a pause. She remained tight lipped.

  ‘You haven’t, have you?’ he said, raising his voice slightly.

  She shook her head furiously. Then looking at the recorder light, she snapped out a curt, ‘No.’

  Angel smiled briefly then said, ‘Well, do you want legal representation?’

  There was silence.

  He added, ‘I recommend that you employ a solicitor. This is a very serious offence. You could end up in prison for a long period of time.’

  ‘No,’ she snapped.

  Angel put his elbows on the table and then said quietly, ‘The situation is this, Miss Lyon. Detective Sergeant Gawber and I both saw you deposit a substance into Sir Charles Millhouse’s wine glass at The Feathers yesterday. I recovered the glass and sent it to the lab for examination. It proved to contain rat poison. If you have nothing to say in your defence, the matter will go to court and you will be accused of attempted murder by poisoning. It seems inevitable that you will be found guilty and, although it is not for me to suggest the sentence, I would think you would be facing a jail term of up to four years.’

  He looked straight across th
e table at her. She was looking at the wall trying to avoid his eyes. He looked at the plain pearl choker enhancing her slender neck and then up to her eyes. It was difficult to calculate what she was thinking. She didn’t seem to be afraid. She didn’t seem to be stupid either.

  ‘Don’t you want to say anything?’

  He waited a few seconds and then said, ‘Very well.’ He turned to the recorder. ‘Interview terminated at ten twenty.’ Then he picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Interview room number one. Will you escort the prisoner back to the cells?’ He returned the handset to its cradle.

  Suddenly Simone Lyon said, ‘Inspector, how long do you intend keeping me locked up?’

  Angel stood up and looked down at her. ‘If you remain silent, then your case will be heard at a preliminary hearing. That could be in a few days time. Then you will be transferred to a prison awaiting trial. That could take weeks or even months.’

  She inhaled quickly. Her mouth tightened and exaggerated the skinny neck.

  He made his way to the door and opened it. Then looking back at her he said quietly, ‘You would be well advised to see a solicitor, you know.’

  A police constable arrived.

  She stood up and walked to the door with her nose in the air.

  Angel sighed as he looked at her. She was not the usual type of criminal he was used to interviewing. ‘Is there anybody you would like me to contact, to tell them you’re here? You would almost certainly be allowed to see them.’

  She turned back. ‘There is nobody.’

  He nodded to the police constable who stood back to let her pass in front of him. Angel watched them disappear round the corner and down the corridor. He returned to the recorder, ejected the audiotape, switched off the machine and slowly strolled out of the room.

  With his head down and his hands in his pockets, he meandered slowly up the corridor. This case was tiring. He was going nowhere fast. Time was ticking on and he still didn’t have any concrete evidence. He didn’t believe in luck, but that’s what he was hoping for. There were two murders and no clear motive for either. Scudamore’s murder could be a disagreement with the local gangland heavies. Little Caesars were frequently marking out their territory and needed to make an example of some little crook muscling in on their ground. It could easily have been a man brought in from Leeds or Manchester to settle an old score.

  Lady Yvette’s murder was very different. What was the motive?

  As he looked down at the stone coloured tiles, he saw a red and gold cigarette packet. He kicked it forward a few feet, then, as he reached it, he gave it another kick. And another. He remembered his school days and how he used to fly up the wing with the ball never more than a yard from his toe-cap, apparently tied to his feet by a piece of invisible elastic. All inhibitions gone, he ran up to it and made a further mighty lunge at it towards his office door.

  ‘It’s a goal!’ he called spontaneously.

  ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’ He suddenly heard a woman’s voice inquire.

  He straightened up and looked round. A young policewoman appeared from behind. She had been walking up the corridor. She looked knowingly into his eyes and smiled brightly at him. He looked at her sourly. Then he noted how pretty she was. He tried to smile back and said, ‘Er, erm. Some scruffy devil’s dropped a cigarette packet.’ He pointed to the floor.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said still smiling.

  ‘I was picking it up,’ he explained lamely. He continued watching her.

  Without slowing her pace, she maintained that smile at him until she went out of sight round the corner.

  He stood there, watching her disappear, then he smiled, reached down and picked up the battered cigarette packet. It was nice to feel it in his hands. It was clearly empty, but nevertheless he found the squashed top, tore it open to see if by some miracle there was a cigarette inside. There wasn’t. He pulled a face as he went into his office and closed the door. He tossed the cigarette packet into the wastepaper bin.

  He slumped down in the chair and leaned back. He looked up at the cobweb and stretched his arms into the air. He stayed like that for a minute, then suddenly he lowered his arms, leaned forward and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out the string of pearls he had bought from Annie Potts on Bromersley market. He dropped them noisily on the desk. He opened another drawer and took out a pair of scissors.

  *

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Millhouse. Please sit down.’ Inspector Angel closed the office door and indicated the chair at the other side of his desk.

  Duncan Millhouse unfastened his raincoat and sat down. He said nothing. He was not a happy man. The corners of his mouth were turned down as if there was an unpleasant smell under his nose.

  ‘I also wanted to see your father, but there was no reply from the house.’

  ‘He’s gone to London,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘I phoned late yesterday afternoon,’ Angel explained.

  ‘He went straight from the reception.’

  ‘Yesterday? After the funeral?’

  ‘Yes. His chauffeur, Miss Bright, took him in his car. He’s an MP you know. He said that he had to be there. There was a big vote coming up.’

  Angel’s bushy eyebrows went up and then down again quickly. He didn’t want Duncan Millhouse to see that he was surprised. He pressed on quickly. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Millhouse,’ he said evenly.

  Duncan Millhouse nodded. ‘Good.’

  The inspector thought the reply was insolent but he continued not showing his attitude. ‘You will have heard that Hugo or Scrap Scudamore has been murdered?’

  Duncan swallowed almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand that you were a friend of his?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Duncan said quickly. ‘I knew him. That’s all.’

  ‘You used to have business dealings with him?’

  ‘Well yes. As you know, I used to buy things from him from time to time.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, er, different things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, er, things for me to sell.’

  ‘Like stolen things. Like jewellery?’

  ‘Well sometimes jewellery, yes. Not stolen things. No. I wouldn’t buy anything stolen. There’s nothing stolen in my shop.’

  ‘Good.’ Angel looked at him closely as he asked, ‘He didn’t bring any pearls, for instance?’

  Duncan looked at him for a second before he answered. ‘No. He didn’t bring any pearls.’

  ‘What else did Scudamore bring to your shop?’

  Duncan Millhouse hesitated. ‘Small bits. Like brass or copper. Sometimes he might have brought a painting.’

  ‘And where did he get these small bits from?’

  ‘I don’t know. He used to scratch round fleamarkets, I suppose, antiques fairs, Bromersley secondhand market, house clearances. I don’t know. I never asked him.’ ‘How did you decide the price of an item?’

  ‘He asked a price. If I could see a profit in it for me, I would agree.’

  ‘What if you didn’t agree?’

  ‘Well, I might suggest a price at a level where I could make a profit.’

  ‘And did he usually agree to that?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not always.’

  ‘What happened if you didn’t agree?’

  ‘He would have gone away. He would have tried to sell it to another dealer. I tried to buy as much as I could from him so that he would continue to bring me good stuff that I could have sold at a profit.’

  ‘After all this time, you must have had a good relationship with him, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that. He’s not my style, Inspector. It’s all very well to buy from a man, but you don’t have to like him.’

  ‘I thought you did like him. I was told that he was a regular drinking pal of yours. You’ve been seen at The Feathers.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ He asked curtly.
/>
  ‘Several people.’

  ‘Several people. What is this? He’s not in my circle of friends.’

  ‘Who is in your circle of friends?’

  ‘Well, I have to be sociable. And a few pints of lager may well lubricate the wheels of business, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh yes. I know what you mean,’ Angel said lingering on the phrase. ‘I know what you mean. But you were both heard discussing matters that one would describe as personal to your family. Not the sort of chit-chat you might have with a man you had a business relationship with, that you had met in the pub and was buying a drink for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On one occasion, you were overheard discussing the morals of your stepmother for one thing.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You were,’ Angel said firmly. ‘Goodness knows what else you might have discussed while you were drinking ale.’

  Duncan’s face reddened. ‘I can hold my liquor, Inspector. Anything I might have said to Scrap Scudamore would be to defend any allegation he might have made about Yvette. He was a mean, corrupt man. I only bought from him. I didn’t share anything else with him, and I certainly would not willingly have discussed my family with him.’

  ‘Very well, sir. I have taken note of that,’ Angel said, not very convincingly. Then he asked quietly, ‘Where were you last night, after the funeral, between eleven o’clock last night and four o’clock this morning?’

  Duncan Millhouse took in a deep breath and looked into the policeman’s eyes. ‘Well I wasn’t outside the back of the Can Can Club, I can tell you that!’ He snapped. ‘I was at home with Susan, my wife. We were there all evening and all night. We didn’t go out. I had just been to my stepmother’s funeral. I was not in the best sorts.’

  ‘Quite. And your wife would testify to that, wouldn’t she.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that, of course, gives your wife an alibi for last night also.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like it does for the time your stepmother was being murdered.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Angel had that feeling that he was not going to extract any useful information from this man. It wasn’t that he was clever. It was simply that there was nothing new to ask him. All questions produced answers that did not further the investigation. The real problem was that there wasn’t enough evidence, and without a motive there wasn’t even a case. He had one further question. It might reveal a motive.