She continued. ‘On top of everything else, Inspector, if it came out that Yvette had been thought to be a murderer, that would have been very hard for me to bear.’
Angel said quietly, ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to face up to that now.’
‘I know. But I didn’t expect to be caught in the act.’
She sat back in her chair and dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. Her breathing was even. She was relaxed now, relieved at having told her story.
‘Have you anything else to tell me?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Inspector,’ she replied wiping an eye with the back of her hand. ‘Do I get released now?’
He looked down at her and smiled. ‘I will have to consult the chief constable. It may be possible to let you out on bail pending any charges. You would have to surrender your passport and be available for further questioning, if it should be necessary.’
She nodded. ‘How long for?’
‘Say, a week,’ he replied with an avuncular smile. ‘What is the accommodation at The Feathers like?’
‘Could I stay there?’
‘I think so.’
She allowed herself a small smile. ‘It’s better than here!’
Angel stood up. He summoned the duty jailer. Simone Lyon was led back to her cell.
Angel returned to his office. His mind was racing. The facts he had been juggling with that past week were falling into place. There was a lot to do.
At last he had a motive.
*
Detective Sergeant Ron Gawber grinned. ‘That’s great news, sir.’
Angel nodded and leaned forward out of the chair. ‘I shall want to see Sir Charles at a very early date, but I don’t want his suspicions raised. I don’t intend issuing a warrant at this stage. I want you to find out from his housekeeper when he is due back from London. Don’t let it sound urgent. I’ll arrange to see him then. We still have to play this very carefully, Ron. We have the motive but we haven’t got a watertight case,’ he said stabbing the desktop with his forefinger. ‘There is still the chance he could wriggle free. We need to establish that his wife was murdered by him — in the Hall or elsewhere — was undressed and rolled in the carpet by him, and then transported to Western Beck by him. Well, we can prove that he murdered her, but I’m not sure that we can prove that he took her body up to Western Beck yet. For one thing he doesn’t drive!’
‘He probably can, but he doesn’t.’
‘Right. I’ll go along with that.’
‘He hasn’t been seen driving a car.’
‘Precisely. But what vehicle would he have used to transport the body? I believe that her body was rolled in the carpet, and that the carpet and the body were taken up to Western Beck.’
‘That’s right, sir. But Mac said that there were no carpet fibres in any of the family cars, the Rolls, the Citroen, or the Mercedes.’
‘So that means that either she was not rolled in the carpet to take her body up to the reservoir, or that the vehicle used to transport the body is as yet unknown to us.’
‘Mmm. Or Mac is wrong, and he has simply overlooked any traces of fibre, or simply, that there weren’t any.’
‘Have you ever known Mac to be wrong?’
Gawber shook his head.
Angel continued quickly. ‘Nor have I. And I have known him more than twenty years. And that old piece of carpet would have shed some tell tale fibres wherever it had been carried. I’m certain of that! Very well. Then we are left with the possibility that Yvette Millhouse had been carried naked out of the house to a car or a vehicle of some sort and then in turn taken out of the vehicle naked at Western Beck and dumped into the water. That would have been unnecessarily risky, and pointless. A roll of carpet is ideal cover for moving a body about. And what would be the point of taking a piece of carpet up to Western Beck if it didn’t have a useful purpose? No. It doesn’t make sense.’
Gawber nodded.
‘Then I take it that you agree with me, that Yvette Millhouse was definitely transported rolled in the carpet.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we have to find the vehicle that took it there.’
They both nodded.
Gawber said, ‘Where do we start?’
Angel stroked his chin.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
It was Cadet Ahmed Ahaz. He put his head through the door. He smiled across at Angel and Gawber. He was holding a piece of paper. ‘Excuse me, sir. Excuse me, Sergeant.’ He came into the room up to Angel and held out the paper. ‘You were right, sir. But I don’t know how you did it.’
‘What is it, lad?’ He said taking the paper.
‘A Panda car has found that missing Citroen, sir. You said it would be found near Bradford Road, and it was. How did you do that, sir?’ Ahmed asked excitedly.
Angel smiled at Ahmed as he took the report from him. ‘Guesswork, lad. Guesswork.’
Ahmed blinked.
‘Come in, lad. Close that door and wait over there.’ He pointed to the chair by the cupboard.
Angel read the report and turned to Gawber with raised eyebrows. ‘That didn’t take long. No damage was done to it. It was found locked. The seat was set back for a big person. Well it would have been set forward for Lady Yvette, wouldn’t it? She was only short. No fingerprints. I would have been surprised if there had been.’ He lowered the report and looked up. ‘Ahmed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell the duty transport officer that when Scenes of Crime have finished with that Citroen that I want it moving off the street, today, before it is dark, and taken up to Millhouse Hall. All right.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied smiling. He stood there looking at the inspector still smiling.
‘Go on then. Pronto!’
‘Oh yes sir. Pronto!’ Ahmed said. He dashed through the door and closed it quietly.
Angel looked at Gawber and then shook his head.
Gawber smiled and then said, ‘I’ve been thinking, sir. It’s getting to look as if Sir Charles took the car. He could have left for London in the Rolls chauffeured by Melanie Bright, come back by train, and taken the Citroen to the Can Can Club to await Scrap Scudamore.’
‘Mmm. What would he use for a key? Shouldn’t think he could hot wire a car.’
‘Every car has two keys, sir. No doubt there would be a spare key at the Hall?’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And all the time we would think he was in London?’
‘Exactly.’
‘A good alibi, the foundation stone of a crime.’
Gawber nodded.
Angel pursed his lips. ‘How would he get back to the railway station from the back of the Can Can Club?’
‘By taxi, sir?’
‘Well, check up on that. There are only about twenty taxis in Bromersley. There would only be about half a dozen working through the night. That shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Right, sir. I’ll get on to it.’ Gawber stood up to go. He could smell a breakthrough.
Angel said, ‘Just a minute, what did Scott Scudamore want?’
Gawber brightened. ‘He wanted to complain that the police were not protecting the innocent tax paying citizens of this town, and that it was not safe for a man to walk the street without risk of being murdered. He also wanted to know if we would be looking through Scrap’s things, and when — ’
Angel jumped in quickly. ‘Put a guard on that house today and tonight.’
‘I’ve done that, sir.’
‘Good. Go on.’
‘And when could he have access to the house, he said, as he was next of kin!’
‘He’s not without cheek. Anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you tell him what I told you to tell him?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Andy?’
Gawber hesitated and then smiled. ‘I can’t repeat exactly what he said, sir, but the second word was, “off�
��’.’
Angel stared at him and grunted. ‘Huh. I’ve got a degree in rudeness. Learned at the Inland Revenue College of Charm and Charisma. I’ll take him on anytime he likes.’
The sergeant grinned. He didn’t reply.
Angel added, ‘In fact the sooner, the better. I don’t understand it. He ought to be nice to us. It would be in his best interests to be friendly to the police, instead of making enemies of us. Perhaps we would be nicer to him. I don’t know.’ Angel muttered something incomprehensible and then said loudly, ‘You know, Scott Scudamore’s got more slates missing than Strangeways.’
Gawber nodded.
‘And it was Tinker Scudamore — his father — who was on the roof in 1976 chucking them down!’
Gawber smiled as he stood up. ‘I’d better get on, sir. And I’ll check on those taxis tonight.’
‘Right,’ Angel said curtly. He reached across the desk and picked up a pile of papers. ‘On your way past the CID room, call in and tell that cadet I want him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The door closed.
Angel threw down the papers and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet. It had a green and white labelled wrapper covering a sealed silver paper sachet. The printing on the sleeve read ‘Nicotine chewing gum. Contains no sugar.’ He pulled off the sleeve and then attempted to tear open the silver paper. The packet resisted. He tried digging in his fingernails and pulling. He tried several times. He made no impression. It could not be opened. Eventually he managed to make a small tear in the silver paper. He kept pulling at it. It resisted. He tried several times. Then, unexpectedly, the paper tore open and the contents of white torpedo shaped tablets spewed out across the desk. He quickly put one in his mouth and sunk his teeth into it.
There was a knock at the door.
Angel quickly gathered up the loose sticks of gum and swept them into a drawer.
‘Come in.’
It was Cadet Ahmed Ahaz.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Yes. Bring me the London street map from the CID office.’
‘Are you going away, sir?’
‘No, I’m not. You ask more questions than my wife!’ he said with a wave of the hand. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Yes, sir. Pronto,’ he said. He went out and closed the door.
Angel quickly opened his desk drawer and picked out the loose nicotine chewing gum tablets and put them into an envelope and stuffed them quickly into his pocket.
There was a knock on the door.
He reached out for the pile of correspondence and then called out, ‘Come in.’
It was Cadet Ahmed Ahaz again. He was carrying the A to Z street guide of London. ‘Was that pronto enough for you, sir?’ He said with a smile, and he held up the front of the book for Angel to see. ‘Is this what you wanted, sir?’
Angel looked up from the letters. ‘Yes, that’s it, lad. Ta. Put it there,’ he said pointing to the desk.
Ahmed went out of the room and closed the door.
Angel tossed the pile of correspondence on one side and reached over for the street guide urgently. ‘Now then, Marylebone Road. What page is it?’
He fingered through the pages, found the reference and then the map. His finger traced across the map. A few seconds later, he found what he was looking for. He leaned back in the chair and beamed. Then he closed the street guide, and placed it on the corner of his desk nearest the door. He leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. He closed his eyes briefly and wondered what Charles Millhouse might have been doing around Marylebone Road.
The phone rang.
He sighed, leaned forward and picked up the receiver. ‘Angel.’
It was the WPC on the telephone switchboard. ‘Inspector, there’s an odd person on the line. Her name is Annie Potts. She asked if you were in. I didn’t say that you were. She wants to speak to you.’
‘That’s all right, Constable. Put her through.’
There was a click. ‘Hello. Angel here. Is that you Annie?’
‘Oh yes. I’m glad you are in.’
She sounded breathless. ‘Can I speak to you a minute, Mr Angel?’
‘Of course you can. Is there something wrong? Where are you speaking from?’
‘I’m at home Mr Angel. Oh dear! I’ve just come back from the shop. A woman in there said that that man, Scrap Scudamore had been found murdered at the side of the Can Can Club. Is that right? I know you’d know.’
‘Yes, it’s right, Annie. Why?’
‘Well, it must have happened last night.’
‘Yes, Annie. It did.’
‘Well, you remember I told you about overhearing him talking to that Duncan Millhouse, last Wednesday night, and I was telling you what he said about you, among other things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I was in the The Feathers with my friend, Edie Longstaff again, last night. And would you believe it, they came in again, and sat right next to us again.’ She paused and pushed the handset closer to her ear. Then she said quickly, ‘are you there?’
‘Yes, Annie. I’m listening.’
‘Yes. Well, that Scrap Scudamore and Duncan Millhouse were drinking as if whisky was going out of fashion. Especially that Scudamore! And who do you think was doing all the buying? Duncan Millhouse was doing all the buying, I tell you. I don’t think that Scudamore put ’is ’and to ’is pocket all evening.’ She took another deep breath and then waited. ‘Are you there?’
‘I hear you, Annie.’
‘Ah, yes. Right. Well, I had to tell you. They were talking about money. I couldn’t make it out exactly. A lot of money. Ten thousand pounds was mentioned! I ask you, Mr Angel, who’s got ten thousand pounds in Bromersley now that the mines are closed down? Anyway, that Scudamore kept going on about it. I don’t know if they was planning to rob a bank together or what. They were very chummy. Very chummy indeed. That Scudamore also said something about it would be worse if she was expecting. Well he said pregnant. I couldn’t catch who he was talking about. I couldn’t work out whether it was Duncan Millhouse’s wife that was expecting, or somebody else. Or nobody. I’m not too sure about that part of it. Can you hear me, Mr Angel?’
‘I hear you, Annie. I hear you.’
‘He definitely said ten thousand pounds, Mr Angel. But who would be pregnant?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Angel turned his car into Sebastopol Terrace: a long stretch of high-roofed houses with many small black windows overlooking a side street sadly in need of repair. Old cars of mixed sizes were parked on both sides of the road. A police car, and a black van from Scenes of Crime added to the congestion. A young uniformed policeman was standing at the open doorway of the end house.
Two women in floral aprons with scarves wound tightly around their heads stood on their respective front steps with their arms folded, chattering to each other. When they saw Angel’s shiny car approach, they stopped talking and blatantly stared across at him. Two small girls bounced brightly coloured rubber balls on the pavement and then on the house walls cyclically.
Angel found a space at the far end of the street, between two old cars. He locked his car and walked back up the street to the policeman.
He threw him up a salute. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Morning, lad. This has got to be the place where Scrap Scudamore had a flat?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is Dr Mac there?’
‘Yes.’ He turned round and looked through the open door. ‘I think he’s coming out just now, sir.’
The compact figure of Dr Mac emerged through the green painted street door. He was in white overalls, close-fitting hat and white boots. He was carrying a green plastic bag. His spectacles were his most distinguishing feature. He hovered on the front step when he saw the inspector.
‘It’s you, Mick.’
‘How’s it going? Find anything interesting?’
‘Not yet. What were you expecting?’
‘I dunno. Swag
would be useful. Although we can hardly charge him now, can we?’ He grinned.
‘Haven’t found anything like that, Mick. Just the usual domestic bits and pieces of a man living on his own.’
‘No signs of a woman then?’
Mac smiled. ‘A few dirty photographs, that’s all.’
Angel looked disappointed.
‘We’ll be through here by this afternoon. I’ll let you know if I find the Grand Cham’s diamond.’
‘Ta. What about the postmortem on him? Have you finished that?’
‘It’s being typed up.’
‘Can you give me the gist?’
‘Aye. He died from asphyxia. He was choked to death.’
‘The murderer would have had to be male then, I suppose?’
‘I think it was male from the placing of the bruises, but, in this case, you canna be certain.’
‘How’s that?’
Dr Mac smiled. ‘Do you happen to know if he was celebrating something big that night?’
Angel screwed up his eyebrows. ‘No.’ Then he added, ‘The only big thing he would have to celebrate would be the size of his head!’
‘His bloodstream had the highest alcohol content of all my customers I can recall for some time. You can understand why vampires enjoy their work.’ He smiled and then added, ‘It must have been a woman then. I hope she’d been worth it.’
‘Oh, I think she had.’ Angel said. He was thinking of Melanie Bright.
‘Well, the victim received a fractured skull at the back, consistent with having a corner faced object, such as a house brick, being either dropped, thrown or held in the hand and wielded with a mighty force. It would have stunned the brain, causing temporary (or permanent) paralysis of the muscles with loss of balance, resulting in him falling. In such a feeble state, a much weaker person could easily have applied their hands to his throat and choked him to death.’
The Missing Wife Page 15