Angel nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘So he was choked to death?’
‘Aye.’
‘Similar to Lady Yvette Millhouse?’
‘Nae. Not similar, Michael,’ the white-haired Scot said heavily. ‘I’d bet my feyther’s second best set of pipes that it was the same man.’
Dr Mac turned away and made his way to the black van.
Angel followed. His hands thrust into his pockets. His eyes looked down at the cracks in the flagstones.
The doctor slid open the side door of the van and deposited the big green plastic bag he had brought out of the house.
Angel looked up at the small man in the white clothes and said, ‘Scudamore had a car?’
Mac turned round and pointed to a big, black Jaguar saloon, a few cars away. ‘Aye. That one. If you can call it a car.’
Angel turned to look at it.
‘Have you been over it?’
Mac nodded. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks, Mac. I will have a look. Hear from you when you’re ready.’
He waved at the doctor without looking.
‘Aye.’
Then the inspector walked systematically round the powerful old car. The number plate indicated that the black saloon was more than twenty years old. There were signs of an old accident, an indentation and a wide scratch on the nearside door, and one of the tyres was flat. There were old newspapers screwed up on the floor in the back. Angel thought they were fish and chip papers. The leather upholstery was cracked in several places. There was a worn cushion on the front seat. He stopped and peered at the tax disc. It was still licenced. His eyebrows lifted. He tried the door. It was locked. He went round to the rear. He tried the tailgate door. It opened. He raised it to its full height. The smell of rancid fish and chips billowed round his nostrils. The boot was empty. He pulled a face and grunted as he lifted the thick carpet and the false bottom between his finger and thumb. He was looking for the spare wheel. He found the studs sticking up that would have held it. There was a jack, a handle and a spanner, but no spare wheel. He let go of the false bottom and then looked across the grubby carpet to assess the size of the boot. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He lowered the tailgate door. It made a solid clunk as it closed.
Angel looked down at the flat tyre again. His jaw tightened. He licked his lips and patted his pockets hoping some kind angel had dropped a packet of cigarettes in one of them.
They hadn’t.
*
Sir Charles Millhouse bounced into the drawing room carrying a glass of an amber liquid. He looked very smart in a light brown tweed suit, red dickie bow and white shirt. He was wiping perspiration from his forehead with a crisply ironed white handkerchief. The gold signet ring on his little finger caught the light from the table lamp by Angel’s chair and twinkled briefly as he raised his glass.
‘Yes Inspector. Mrs Moore said you wanted to see me.’
Angel looked up from a comfortable armchair facing the grandfather clock. He switched on his best disarming smile as he made to stand up. ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Please, don’t get up. Good evening. Look here, Inspector, I have only just arrived home. What brings you here? It’s been one hell of a week in the House. I hope it is important.’
‘Oh yes, Sir Charles. I have a few questions, nothing more,’ he replied airily, with the wave of the hand. ‘My sergeant phoned earlier in the week to find out when you would be back in Bromersley. Your housekeeper said you would be back from London this afternoon. So here I am. I could have summoned you back from London, you know, but I try to be considerate,’ he said pointedly.
Sir Charles’s manner softened. ‘Well, yes. I appreciate that, Inspector.’ He took a sip from the glass. ‘Oh. Can I offer you a drink? A whisky or ... ?’
‘No thanks.’
Sir Charles chose a comfortable chair almost opposite the policeman. ‘Are you any nearer finding my wife’s murderer?’
Angel nodded. ‘Indeed we are, I’m pleased to say. Indeed we are. There are just a few little details.’
‘Yes. Yes. Good. Well, fire away, Inspector.’
The grandfather clock chimed the quarter. Angel’s head swivelled round to look at the dial. His eyes travelled down the dark polished oak case all the way to the floor.
‘A beautiful clock,’ he said looking down at its foot. ‘Yes. Yes.’ Sir Charles said quickly, looking at his watch. And it’s spot on time.’
Angel’s eyes appeared to see something interesting.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he raised himself out of the chair. He kneeled down on the plush carpet and leaned forward towards the bottom of the clock. ‘I thought I saw something shining at me.’
‘What is the matter,’ Sir Charles said looking intently.
Angel looked back to check that he was being observed by the man.
He was.
Then he put his finger through the cutaway part of the clock case and slowly manoeuvred into the light the tiny pearl he had deliberately placed there six days earlier.
‘Whatever is it?’
‘It’s a pearl!’ Angel said as he rose to his feet. ‘I wonder how that got there?’
Sir Charles stood up. ‘A pearl?’ His mouth opened and stayed open.
Angel held it between forger and thumb. He offered it to Sir Charles, who held out his hand. Angel released it into his palm.
Sir Charles held it as if it had been a ten carat diamond instead of a tiny glass bead dipped in lacquer. But he wasn’t to know. He sat down. His eyes lowered.
‘You know what this is, inspector, don’t you?’
‘No, Sir Charles,’ he lied. ‘Tell me.’
‘A pearl from my wife’s choker. The one she always wore.’ Sir Charles gazed at it fondly.
‘Oh?’ Angel said. He knew he must move cautiously. He silently counted to ten and then he said, innocently, ‘I wonder how it got there.’
Sir Charles held the pearl up for the light to reflect from it. After a few seconds, he shook his head slowly as he closed his fist tightly round the imitation pearl. He looked down at the carpet, recently cleaned and returned to the front of the fireplace, and then to the foot of the clock. He stood up. His eyes moved slowly from side to side. He walked to the drawing room door tapping the side of his thumb on his lips. He turned round. He came back and looked across at Angel. His mouth opened as if he was about to speak. He changed his mind and turned away. He walked to the door again, and then suddenly he turned round and thrust his arms into the air.
‘Oh no!!’ he yelled. Then he held his head in his hands for a second and slumped in a chair.
Angel knew what was going through Sir Charles Millhouse’s mind.
They sat together in silence.
After a minute, Sir Charles said quietly, ‘You know who murdered Yvette, don’t you, Inspector?’
Angel nodded. ‘I do now, sir.’
*
It was the following morning.
Sir Charles Millhouse had made a statement and was in a cell at the station. Inspector Angel’s team at Bromersley police station was glowing with success. Detective Inspector Angel almost ran into his office. The door was open and he was humming a Frank Sinatra song of yesteryear called, ‘I Did It My Way.’
Cadet Ahmed Ahaz put his nose through the open door. ‘I’ve got your post, sir,’ he said, opening the door wider.
‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ he beamed and carried on humming.
Ahmed placed the letters on the desk. ‘Things are going well for you, sir?’
‘Couldn’t be better, lad,’ he said looking up. Ahmed came closer to the big man. His smile was bigger than ever. ‘Would it be a good time then to ask you about my promotion, sir? Will you be putting a letter of recommendation about me to the chief constable? My mother says I should not let the grass grow under my feet, sir. That I should strike while the iron is hot. And that there is no time like the present.’
Angel chuckled. He tried to concea
l his amusement from the cadet. He looked down at the correspondence. ‘Your mother is quite right. I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I want you to buzz off and keep busy. Can you do that?’
‘Keep busy, sir?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
‘As busy as a flea in a nightdress.’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ he beamed, dashed out of the office and closed the door.
The inspector reached out for the letters. The phone rang. He reached out for the receiver. ‘Angel.’
It was Ron Gawber. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Morning, Ron. Where are you?’
‘Scrap Scudamore’s flat, sir. We’ve just made a discovery. Under a loose floorboard under the bed is a black plastic bin liner. Inside is the damaged pearl choker, loose pearls from it, a red woollen jumper, ladies jeans, shoes, underwear and a handbag.’
Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Great! Get them to Mac as soon as possible.’
‘Will do. I couldn’t wait to tell you.’
‘You did right, Ron.’
He could hear the sound of triumphalism in his voice. ‘It wraps up the case against Scrap Scudamore beautifully, doesn’t it?’
‘Magnificently, Ron. Magnificently. Tell me, is there a car key in the handbag?’
‘No sir. It has the usual stuff, but no money and no keys.’
‘I didn’t think there would be.’
‘There’s something else, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘You remember we needed to know how Sir Charles would get from the Can Can Club to the railway station? And we thought it would have to be by taxi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, last night I went round all the taxi offices and asked all the drivers working that night and no one could remember him. Now then, sir, they would have remembered Sir Charles Millhouse, wouldn’t they? I mean, he’s not your usual night time drunk, is he?’
‘Well it doesn’t matter now, Ron, does it?’
‘Just thought I’d tell you, sir.’
‘Right, lad.’
‘Bye.’
He replaced the receiver and rubbed his hands like a moneylender in a miner’s strike.
The phone rang again. He reached out for it eagerly. ‘Angel.’
It was Doctor Mac. ‘Yes, laddie. I’ve got some news for you.’
‘You’re on the wagon?’ He said teasingly.
‘Tosh. No!’ he replied. ‘And if you’re in a daft mood, I’m nae talking to you.’
‘Go on, Mac. You sound sober.’
‘I’ve found fibres from that piece of carpet we pulled out of Western Beck in the boot of Scrap Scudamore’s car — that old Jaguar.’
‘That’s great, Mac. That confirms that Lady Yvette’s body was taken from the Hall to Western Beck in that old car, just as I thought. You’re a genius.’
‘Maybe I am. Jus’ doing my job,’ he replied in that singsong Scottish accent peculiar to Glasgow. ‘And there’s something else, laddie. I think you’d like to know.’
‘Yes, Mac. What’s that?’
‘I found a car key in Scrap Scudamore’s jacket pocket. And it was nae for a Jaguar car. No. It was for a Citroen. And it was nae for any old Citroen. I sent a man up to the Hall with it, and it fits the Millhouse’s Citroen!’
Angel beamed. ‘That’s great, Mac. Thanks very much. That confirms that he took the Citroen. That’s what I thought when I saw the flat tyre and no spare. I’ll tell Flora MacDonald when I see her.’
Angel returned the phone to its cradle. He leaned back in the chair. Unusually, he found himself smiling. Everything was going to plan. Things couldn’t be better. The only thing missing was a cigarette. He leaned forward to the drawer and helped himself to a strip of nicotine chewing gum. It would hold the craving at bay for a while. He folded it and put it in his mouth. He sunk his teeth into the yellow stuff and sighed. There is no denying that it was going to be very satisfying to put this case to the Crown Prosecution Service.
The phone rang. He leaned forward and picked up the handset. ‘Angel.’
It was the WPC at the reception desk. ‘Inspector, there’s a man here asking to see Sir Charles Millhouse. He says he’s his son, Duncan Millhouse. Is it all right?’ She sounded unusually crisp. Maybe Duncan had been rubbing her up the wrong way.
‘Thank you, Constable. I’ll send someone to collect him.’
‘Right, sir.’
There was a click. Angel had a clear line. He dialled out a number.
Ahmed answered. ‘Cadet Ahaz, I would be pleased to assist you.’
Angel couldn’t resist a smile. He was not used to such courtesy in the police station. ‘Ahmed, there’s a man at reception, a Mr Duncan Millhouse, will you show him down to my office straight away?’
‘I will, sir,’ he said brightly. Then he added the word, ‘Pronto!’
Angel returned the receiver to its cradle and then stood up. He gathered together the papers on his desk and rammed them in a drawer. He dropped an empty paper cup into the wastepaper basket and then looked round the room. Everything was tidy. He looked in the mirror and noticed an unruly twist of hair sticking out like a flag from the side of his head. He tried to flatten it with his hand. It refused to stay down. There was a knock. He turned to face the door.
‘Come in,’ he said quickly and forgot the hair.
It was Cadet Ahaz. His eyes were unusually wide open and shining, and his jaw was set. ‘Mr Millhouse, sir,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
Angel noticed Ahmed’s unusual manner. He said nothing, and with a nod of the head indicated to him that he should leave them alone.
The cadet closed the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Duncan Millhouse was dressed in an expensive suit and shirt, but still managed to look untidy. He suffered from four o’clock shadow and was in need of a shave.
When the two men were on their own, the inspector held out his hand to the young man. ‘Good morning, Mr Millhouse.’
Duncan Millhouse looked back at the door and then at Angel. ‘Good morning,’ he said automatically. ‘I want to see my father.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Angel said with that deceitful smile he had practised so well. ‘I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Just to tidy up a few loose ends. Is that all right?’
‘I suppose so,’ he replied looking at his wristwatch. ‘Will it take long?’
‘No. Let’s go into the interview room.’
Angel picked up a tape from his desktop and passed swiftly across the front of the man to the door. ‘After you, sir.’
Duncan looked annoyed. He didn’t reply. He went along with the inspector’s request.
When they were seated in the interview room and formalities over, Angel said, ‘There was a slight misunderstanding that occurred in the interview you gave me in my office a couple of days ago. I expect it’s only an oversight. I am sure you can put me right in a jiffy.’
Duncan Millhouse looked surprised. He looked anxiously around the room. ‘Oh? What’s that then?’
Angel looked him square in the face and, with a smile, said, ‘I asked you if you went out at all on the evening of your stepmother’s funeral.’
Millhouse screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember.
Angel dipped into his inside pocket and brought out his leather-backed notebook, already open at the appropriate page. ‘You said,’ he began reading, ‘I quote: “Well, I wasn’t outside the back of the Can Can Club, I can tell you that. 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.” ’
Angel lowered the book and smiled across at him.
He glowered back.
‘Well, Mr Millhouse? Is that correct?’
‘Of course!’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘I have a statement from two witnesses who say you were in The Feathers that night.’
Duncan immediately began to perspire. He passed his hand
through his thick hair. ‘Oh? I must have just dropped in for a drink.’
‘And that you were with Scrap Scudamore!’
He held up his hands as if to protect an assault on his face. ‘No. No. That’s not true. Those two old biddies got it wrong.’
‘Which two old biddies?’
‘I wasn’t with Scrap Scudamore.’
Angel’s face changed. He dropped the smile and pseudo charm. He looked straight into the younger man’s steel blue eyes. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, shall I?’
Duncan’s jaw dropped.
‘Your father isn’t in here because he murdered two people. Oh no. He’s here as my guest. For the one night only. For his own protection. He’s being protected from you!’
Duncan’s lip quivered. ‘You can’t fool me,’ he sneered. ‘It’s me that needs protection.’
‘And you’re going to get it,’ Angel said ominously. ‘A lifetime of it.’
‘He murdered Yvette with Scrap Scudamore’s help when he found out she was trying to poison him,’ he yelled.
‘How do you know that?’ Angel snapped.
‘My father told me.’
‘Yes. He told you by phone after he received the results of the tests from that Harley Street specialist he saw the day Yvette was murdered.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you hoped he would be pleased if you murdered your stepmother, his wife, for him.’
‘No. No. It wasn’t like that. He did it and made it look as if it was me.’
Angel shook his head. He gave the tape machine a glance to check that the tape was rolling. Then he turned back to Duncan. He could see the man was struggling to steady his rapid breathing.
‘You didn’t welcome the arrival of Yvette as your stepmother, did you? Mind you, you wouldn’t have wanted anybody, would you? You held a grudge against her from the start, but you always pretended to like her for the sake of your father. Your business wasn’t doing too well either, was it? You could have done with a financial leg up when your father announced his upcoming plans to marry Yvette. That would’ve have been a shock to the system. You must have been livid. And you couldn’t keep your resentment from your closest business mate and drinking pal, Scrap Scudamore, could you?’
The Missing Wife Page 16