Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery)

by Roger Silverwood

  He called on five hairdressers, usually one-person businesses. The lady proprietors of each business did not recognize the photograph of the missing woman. Then he stopped the BMW outside a small shop with the words ‘Irene. Unisex Hairdressers’ painted on the glass window. It was the last shop on his hastily scribbled list.

  He sighed and wrinkled his nose. His jaw set like Dartmoor rock, he grabbed hold of the handle and walked in.

  The electric bell rang and stopped when he closed the door. There were four plump, cheerful ladies in chairs around the little shop with their hair in various states of orderliness, and a slim lady in an overall with a spray can was hovering over one of them.

  She was chewing something. She lowered her arm when she saw Angel standing there and smiled across at him. The jaw stopped working. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  He smiled back. ‘Sorry to bother you. Are you Irene?’

  ‘That’s me, love.’

  He crossed the little room in a stride, came up very close to her, flashed his warrant card and quietly said, ‘Police. Can I have a quick word, in private?’

  She blinked, smiled and started chewing again. All right,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  Angel nodded and moved away.

  She sprayed the lady in the chair with lacquer. She pointed it in all directions as if she was chasing a fly.

  ‘There you are, Gladys. How’s that?’

  ‘That’s lovely. Thank you,’ Gladys said as she got out of the chair and reached for her handbag.

  She gave Irene some money. The till rang.

  ‘Same time next week?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Put you in the book. Lovely,’ Irene said.

  Gladys left the shop. The bell rang and the door closed.

  Irene looked round at the three ladies and said, ‘You’ll all keep a minute. Excuse me? A bit of business with this young man,’ she said, with the flutter of the eyelashes and a giggle.

  The three ladies smiled.

  Irene looked at Angel. ‘Will you come in the back?’ she said with a smile.

  He followed her through a door, past the bottom of a staircase, through another door into a little sitting room. He closed the door.

  Her eyebrows shot up. The smile went and the chewing stopped. ‘What is it? she said.

  He produced the photograph. ‘Nothing to worry about. Have you ever done this lady’s hair?’

  She took the photograph. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have let her out of the shop looking like that. What’s it all about? Has she made a complaint about me?’

  Angel felt his heart beat like the big drum in the Salvation Army. ‘No. I am wanting to get in touch with her, that’s all. What do you know about her?’

  ‘What’s she done? She didn’t seem like a rob dog.’

  ‘She’s done nothing. I am trying to get in touch with her, that’s all. When did you see her?’

  ‘I’ll have to look in my book. It must have been about three weeks ago.’

  ‘What name did she give you?’

  ‘I’d better get my book.’

  He nodded. She went through the door back into the shop. He could hear some chatter and some laughter. She came back in with the book, smiling and chewing. She turned back several pages and eventually found it. ‘The name was Line. She didn’t give me her first name. Miss Line. It was for two o’clock on Friday the eight. SS, look. It was for a shampoo and set. Usual thing.’

  Angel blew out an uneven sigh. He didn’t want to show how elated he was. ‘And what did you talk about?’

  ‘I dunno. Very little. She didn’t want to talk.’

  ‘It’s ever so important.’

  ‘She was a quiet sort of woman. I remember now. She was not from round here.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she intended living round here, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think she intended living round here. Yes. She wore very expensive clothes. Her shoes must have cost a hundred quid. She was a bit prim, you know. Didn’t have much conversation. Very intense, she was. And in a hurry.’

  ‘Did she say where she was staying? Talk about anybody?’

  ‘No. She was very particular at her looking her best. Well, I wouldn’t turn anybody out of the shop less than the best I could for them.’

  ‘How did she make the appointment?’

  ‘By phone, I think.’

  ‘Do you have an address or a phone number?’

  She looked in the book. ‘No.’ She frowned ‘That’s funny,’ she said. ‘I always take a phone number.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Supposing she said she was ringing from a phone box…’

  Irene smiled. ‘That’s it. That’s what she said. I wouldn’t bother with taking that, would I? No point.’

  ‘And how did she get here? Who brought her or did she drive herself? This is very important.’

  Irene shook her head. ‘I don’t know. She just came through the door, on her own.’

  ‘And left in the same fashion? Nobody with her? Nobody called for her?’

  ‘No. She was on her own.’

  ‘Did she mention any names? Did she talk about her husband?’ he said, watching her closely.

  ‘No. But I did notice she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or any ring on that hand, for that matter. It’s funny, I tend to look for rings on that third finger, left hand. I’m a nosy devil. She was wearing a monster diamond solitaire on her right hand, though. Beautiful thing. Must have been ten carats. Probably not real. I’m not wearing one either,’ she said with a grin. ‘You might have noticed. He hopped it years ago. Only good thing he ever did.’

  Angel licked his lips. ‘Irene, is there anything else you can tell me…about what she said, what she wore, her plans, anything, absolutely anything at all?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She just wasn’t talkative. She was shy, you know? I’m right nosy, but I couldn’t get to know anything.’ She chewed a few times and then said, ‘No, I really cannot think of a single thing. As I said, she was in a hurry.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much. That’s been most helpful.’ He pulled a card out of his top pocket and gave it to her. ‘If you remember anything else — however small — please contact me at that number.’

  Irene took the card, stopped chewing, smiled, wriggled her shoulders, came much closer and said, ‘Here. Now. You’re not leaving without telling me what she’s done, are you?’

  It was a quarter to five. Angel walked into the office, whistling the theme from one of his eight gramophone records. His step was lighter. He no longer felt that he had a brick on his chest. He pulled open a drawer in the desk, took out his address book, riffled through the pages, found a number, picked up the phone and tapped out the number of The Feathers.

  ‘Mrs Henderson? I’m glad I’ve caught you in. I thought you’d be pleased to know that I’ve found positive evidence that your sister was in Bromersley on Friday 8 August.’

  He heard her sigh then she said, ‘Oh, Inspector, that’s great news. Is she all right? Have you found her? Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Although we cannot find where the marriage took place, or even if it did take place, the fact that your sister had her hair attended to on the eighth tends to confirm that she had expected to get married the following day.’

  ‘Oh? Well. Yes, I suppose it does.’

  He told her of his inquiries at the hairdressers and the essence of what Irene had told him.

  ‘Oh, Inspector, I am so delighted. I was afraid that you must have thought that I was mistaken, and that I had got the dates wrong.’

  Angel said nothing.

  ‘I will sleep better tonight,’ she added.

  They ended their call and he replaced the phone.

  He rubbed his chin. It was a great step forward. But he needed to find out where Selina Line was at that time. His eyes caught the pile of stuff on his desk. He looked up at the clock. It was five minutes to five. He wrinkled his nose. Hardly
worthwhile starting anything. He looked at the heap a moment longer. His sense of honesty began to overtake his common sense, and he reached out to it.

  The phone rang.

  He pulled back his hands with a grin, swivelled round in the chair, snatched up the phone and spoke into the mouth-piece. ‘Angel.’

  It was an old snout of his who always gave the name of Helpman. Angel had never known his real name. It didn’t matter. His information had always been reliable.

  Helpman sounded more excited than usual. ‘I got a hundred quids’ worth, Mr Angel, and no mistake,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t pay out that sort of money, Mr Helpman. You know that.’

  A new police form had been devised (one of many) and Angel had to give details of the information received, the amount spent and the informant’s full name and address before Harker would have authorized the chitty for reimbursement. If Angel had asked Helpman for his name and address he would have run off and never been seen again, and some of his cases may never have been solved. He had christened him Helpman and the address he gave was of a flat in London that had existed years back but was now pulled down for road widening. He didn’t expect anyone to follow it up.

  ‘What I know is really worth a ton to you, honest, Mr Angel.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Helpman.’

  There was silence.

  Angel said, ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah,’ the man said. He was distinctly cooler. ‘Eighty nicker?’

  ‘Fifty is tops. You know that. I’ve told you that before. And I’ve got to be the arbiter of its value. Who knows, I might already know what you have for me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said sneeringly. ‘You’ve been very tight in your payouts just lately.’

  ‘No. No.’

  Then with a tremor in his voice, Helpman said, ‘You have no idea of the risks I take.’

  ‘I’ve always been as generous as I can be. And as discreet. You know that I have never disclosed my source.’

  ‘My life could be on the line if this leaked out, I tell you.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. He thought he must have something very special. Helpman had never actually used that phrase before.

  ‘Are you at the usual place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll leave straightaway.’

  Angel replaced the phone, made for the green corridor, past the cells and outside to the BMW. He drove into the town centre then out on the Huddersfield Road via a back way to where a low railway bridge passed over the road. He looked round for somewhere to stop; the only place was just under the bridge. He got out of the car and walked back to a little newsagent’s around the corner. He dashed in, bought an Evening Star and returned to the car. He put it on the seat beside him, and then drove off quickly towards Tunistone. When he was out of the built-up area, he glanced over his shoulder at the tartan car rug wedged between the back and front seats. It twitched from time to time.

  ‘You can come up now,’ Angel said.

  ‘Anybody following us?’ Helpman said.

  Angel glanced again in the mirror. ‘No.’

  Helpman threw off the car rug, edged up into the back seat, pressed his head back into the corner and kept his face well away from the windows.

  ‘Phew. I think I am getting too old for this game, Mr Angel. Have you brought the money?’

  ‘What have you got, Mr Helpman?’ he said, pressing his foot on the accelerator as he passed the speed de-restriction signs. They were moving into the countryside.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Angel. I visited an old friend of mine the other day. He’d just come out of Boston, worked his way through Lincoln, and while he was in Boston he was on the same corridor as Aaron Moss — played pinball together — who happened to mention the long-standing vendetta between your Charlie Drumme and the Corbetts.’

  ‘Is Aaron Moss a relation of Cecil Moss?’

  ‘His brother. Now, Aaron said that he was going straight when he’d finished his time in Boston. He’d a little boy, five or six, and he wanted to see him grow up. Anyway he’d been approached — indirectly — by Charlie Drumme to get shot of the Corbetts once and for all. They are a vicious couple of brothers from Manchester.’

  ‘I know them. I’ve met the Corbetts.’

  ‘Oh? Well, Charlie Drumme meant with shooters. Shooters, Mr Angel. Anyway, Aaron said he wanted nothing of it, but he knew of a man who would do it, smooth as a cat’s belly. What the intermediary didn’t know, Mr Angel, was that Aaron hated the sight of Charlie Drumme. So why should he do him any favours? It was partly Drumme who got him into so much trouble with the coppers in Manchester. Years ago he ran off a job leaving Aaron carrying the money when the coppers turned up. But that’s a long story. Now, although Aaron and Cecil are brothers, they’re not that close. Nevertheless, I reckon Aaron told Cecil, and he told James and Lloyd Corbett, which probably served to fuel the ding-dong between Charlie Drumme and the Corbetts. But that’s by the way. It’s been going on for a year or so. I won’t charge you for that. This is the big one. Who do you think Charlie has set on to get rid of the Corbetts, Mr Angel?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Fixer. Yus.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. He had to concentrate on his driving.

  ‘And Charlie is paying him ten grand,’ Helpman continued. ‘That’s for the both of them. Now, The Fixer insists he wants to take them out together. That is, he wants them in the same place at the same time. He wants to make one job of it. Economical. And he don’t want to risk one getting away and coming hunting for him.’

  ‘When and where is this showdown to take place?’

  Helpman’s mouth turned down. His eyes shone. ‘I don’t know that, Mr Angel. Whew! How would I know that?’

  ‘And who is The Fixer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I can’t do much only knowing the intention that Drumme has set The Fixer on. I can’t arrest somebody I don’t know, for intending to murder two men at an unknown place at an unknown time, can I? You’ll have to do better than that, Mr Helpman.’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that you know? You can warn the Corbetts that they should be out of here.’

  ‘I would have to arrest The Fixer.’

  ‘Arrest him? Huh.’ He turned up his nose. ‘You wouldn’t get near him.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s his real name, Mr Helpman?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Angel, and if I did know, I’d have to emigrate to Mars, and even that might not be far enough away from him for me to stay alive.’

  Through the driving mirror, Angel saw genuine fear in his eyes. It seemed to happen to everybody when the name The Fixer was mentioned. Angel ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘At least give me an approximation of when this is likely to happen.’

  ‘Oh, soon. Very soon. Could be tonight, could be tomorrow, or —”

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. This week, next week, sometime, never. I can’t work like that.’

  Helpman’s face dropped. He could see that Angel was not that impressed. The darting around of his eyes showed he was desperately thinking of something to say that would make more of the information he had to offer.

  Angel was thinking quickly to make the most of Helpman before they parted.

  From out of the blue, Angel said, ‘Where’s big Laura these days?’

  ‘If James Corbett is in the town, she’ll be there, hustling girls, wherever they are.’

  Angel knew he was right. That stuck with him. He had an idea.

  Thereafter was an uncomfortable few moments. Helpman was embarrassed. He realized he had not impressed Angel with his information. He couldn’t see him getting the £50 he had expected. Angel was disappointed. He clearly thought Helpman had more information to give and was holding back.

  He swiftly banged the indicator stalk on the steering column and turned right; shortly afterwards he did the same again. It put him on a parallel road back to town. ‘I’m sor
ry, Mr Helpman. Twenty-five is all that’s worth. Give me the name of The Fixer and the time and place of the would-be attack and I could do you fifty pounds straight off’

  Helpman sighed. ‘That would be worth a hundred.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Angel said with a shrug.

  ‘You’re a hard man, Mr Angel,’ he said, but secretly he was satisfied with the deal.

  Angel paid him the cash as they travelled, then he drove the BMW back to the gloomy privacy provided by the low bridge. As soon as the wheels stopped moving, Helpman dived out of the car and disappeared into obscurity faster than a teenager with money.

  Angel moved away from under the bridge swiftly and drove straight to Bromersley market. He went to a woman he knew who sold costume jewellery. He gave her £25 and bought a dozen or more 16” gold-plated chain necklaces. She put them in a blue plastic bag and handed them to him.

  He went back to the office. There was a lot to do. He summoned Gawber, briefed him and then sent him home. He phoned the Firearms Support Unit at Wakefield and spoke to his old friend DI Waldo White. Then he went home, had an early tea and went to bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was 2 a.m. on Canal Road in the rundown area of Bromersley. The night sky was as black as fingerprint ink.

  The BMW rolled slowly along the cobbled street, through high-walled, empty warehouses and under age-stained arches with the words ‘Robinson’s Repository and Removals’ painted in big letters over everywhere. In every alleyway, doorway, niche, nook and recess, the car headlights picked out pairs of skinny legs, white as chip fat, supporting skimpily dressed bodies with naked middles and topped with a fuzz or length of dark or fair hair. Each girl, one after another, turned her head, pulled back her shoulders, tightened her buttocks, shielded her eyes, took a rapid suck on a cigarette and tottered in uncomfortable high heels towards the car.