The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  Sir Charles ran his hand over his forehead and through his hair. ‘Well, I suppose that’s a start.’

  Angel grabbed a piece of paper out of the desk drawer.

  ‘What’s her full name?’

  ‘Lady Yvette Millhouse.’

  The policeman began writing quickly.

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  Angel looked up and stared at him.

  ‘I mean forty-one,’ he said with an embarrassed, short-lived smile.

  The inspector shook his head and carried on writing.

  ‘Height, weight, hair colouring. Any special distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Height, about five feet six inches. Weight, I don’t know — but she is slim, and she’s blonde with blue eyes. Inspector, she is beautiful. She is my wife!’ he said, holding up his arms, expressively.

  The inspector ignored the gesture. He was busy writing. ‘That’s about it for now; but I’ll need that photograph. I’ll call at your house this evening, if that would be convenient?’

  ‘Anytime. The sooner the better,’ he said, waving a hand for emphasis. ‘You know where I live?’

  ‘Everybody knows where you live, Sir Charles — I pass it every day coming here. It’s the largest house in Bromersley,’ he replied dryly.

  The corners of the MP’s mouth turned up for a second. He enjoyed the policeman’s observation. He thought it was a compliment.

  Inspector Angel stood up, opened the door and indicated to Sir Charles to lead the way. ‘Try not to worry, sir. We’ll do everything we can.’

  ‘Er — thank you, Inspector.’

  As Angel followed him out through the door, there was that smell of tobacco again, also a perfumed French soap. He also noticed that the MP was an inch or two taller than he was. That would make him six feet two.

  Sir Charles looked vacantly first one way then the other down the olive green corridor.

  ‘That way. Through the double doors, past the reception desk and you’re at the entrance.’ The man nodded and, pulling on his tight leather driving gloves, he set off out of the building.

  Angel stood with his hands in his pockets at the door of his office and watched the man walk briskly down the corridor.

  A woman police constable came running up towards him panting. Her mouth open, her eyes like two fried eggs. ‘Excuse me, sir. Is that Sir Charles Millhouse?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Yes.’

  The young woman’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened wider. She let out a long ‘wow.’ And ran down the corridor to the double doors after him.

  ‘He’s old enough to be your father,’ Angel called after her and then shook his head.

  She didn’t hear him.

  ‘What is it women see in millionaires?’ He grunted. He sauntered pensively into his office and closed the door, shaking his head.

  A thought occurred to him. He leaned over the desk, quickly picked up the phone and pressed a button. He spoke urgently.

  ‘Constable, Sir Charles Millhouse — a posh chap — camel hair coat, expensive tan, will be passing you anytime now — get the index number of the car he leaves in, also, see if he has anyone in the car with him, hurry man.’

  He slammed the handset down and ran his hand thoughtfully across his mouth. He could do with something. He blew out a sigh. He knew what it was. He could murder a cigarette! He slumped down in the padded chair, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pile of papers. He dug deeper and pulled out more letters and reports. He dumped them on the desktop. He was certain there was an opened packet of cigarettes somewhere in that desk. He got a hand to the back of the drawer when the phone rang.

  ‘Angel,’ he grunted down the handset.

  It was the constable on the desk.

  ‘Ah yes. Just a minute, lad.’ He fumbled around for a pen. ‘Yes. Go on.’

  The constable gave him the car number and said that a young woman with blonde hair in a chauffeur’s cap had driven Sir Charles away. Angel scrawled the number on the nearest piece of paper to him.

  ‘Thanks, lad.’

  He grinned as he dropped the phone back in its cradle. He tore the piece of paper with the number of the car off the bottom of a letter and looked at it. He picked up the phone and pressed a button.

  ‘Send that new cadet into my office, pronto.’

  A few seconds elapsed and there was a tap at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel bawled.

  It was Cadet Ahaz.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ Ahmed asked politely.

  Angel handed him the scrap of paper. ‘Run that through your computer and see what you come up with. Can you do that?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he replied opening wide his big brown eyes and smiling with enthusiasm.

  Angel grinned. ‘Go on then. And let me know what you find — quick sharp.’

  Ahmed ran out of the office, closing the door behind him. He was pleased to be doing something obviously important and useful.

  The inspector continued scratching around the back of the drawer for cigarettes.

  The phone rang. Angel sighed and picked up the receiver. It was Gawber.

  ‘Yes, Ron ... A witness? Does she? ... Will she stand up in court? ... Good. Any sign of a shotgun? ... Oh. You’ve got to find that gun ... Keep at it, Ron. Speak to you later.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ the inspector called, as he replaced the receiver.

  It was Ahmed holding forth a sheet of paper.

  ‘Details of that car you wanted, sir,’ he said with a big smile. ‘Was that “quick sharp” enough for you, sir?’ he added confidently.

  ‘Aye, ta,’ Angel said, showing a quick smile and snatching the small folded piece of paper. Then, flashing his teeth, he added, ‘Off you go. It’s time you went home to your non-smoking mother.’

  Ahmed’s eyes opened wide. His small, handsome square jaw stiffened. He looked straight into Angel’s craggy face. ‘Nobody smokes in our house, sir. It is a dirty habit and my mother is a very clean lady.’

  Angel sniffed and looked at his watch. ‘Well, go home and annoy her then.’

  The smile left Ahmed’s face. He turned smartly to the door, and with his hand on the handle added, ‘I do not annoy my mother. Goodnight, sir!’

  The door slammed shut.

  Angel smiled as he glanced down at the paper and began to read the details of the licence plate of Sir Charles Millhouse’s car. Then the smile left him, his jaw dropped and he screwed up his eyebrows.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was seven o’clock that same evening, and already very dark in a cloudy sky.

  Detective Inspector Angel drove the new, standard issue, two-litre, unmarked police car, from the front of the modern semi-detached bungalow on the new estate where he lived.

  He took the country road for a mile, bypassing the centre of Bromersley, and then up the hill to Millhouse Hall. His car headlights picked out the big black iron gates, which were standing wide open, ahead of him. He went straight through the entrance, past the sign marked ‘Private,’ along a curved drive, between huge Canadian redwood conifers leaning inwards from each side. He then passed smaller trees and bushes until the road straightened out into a long stretch, bordered by a big expanse of cleared grass on both sides and leading up to the black painted wooden doors of the big Georgian stone house immediately ahead.

  Angel drove up to the front of the house. Gravel crunched noisily and sprayed from the tyres as he swung the car round. A Silver Cloud Rolls Royce and a Citroen estate car standing in front of the house were caught in the headlights. He parked his car alongside them and noted the registration number of the foreign car on the back of an envelope from his inside pocket. He never knew when it might come in handy. He pulled on the handbrake, doused the lights and switched off the ignition. Six powerful lights mounted on the front of the house suddenly illuminated the parking area and front steps. Angel shielded his eyes as he kicked his way through the
noisy gravel.

  The black door opened and Sir Charles Millhouse appeared at the top of ten wide stone steps. His face, at first, seemed to indicate disappointment as he looked down at the inspector. Then he smiled.

  ‘Oh it’s you, my dear fellow. Come in,’ he said to Angel unexpectedly cordially. ‘Come in. Come in.’

  Sir Charles was still dressed as he had been earlier at the station. He was still wearing the camel hair overcoat.

  Angel noted that the man must have known of his arrival. He must have a heat responsive alarm system installed, or closed circuit television with night vision. Not surprising for a small family living in a big house in its own extensive grounds.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Angel said, as he trudged up the steps into the house. He looked round at the large oak-panelled hall and wide oak staircase leading up to a balustraded balcony with four or five closed doors just visible from the front door. Downstairs in the centre of the hall was a long, highly polished table. Everything was spotless and there was the smell of recently polished furniture. He noticed the tiny red intruder alarm light blinking at him from under the balcony.

  Sir Charles rushed ahead, swiftly snatching a half full tumbler of an amber coloured liquid from the long table as he passed. Then looking back he said quickly, ‘Close the door, old chap. And then come on through here.’

  He disappeared at speed passing several doors and down a long passageway.

  Angel closed the big wooden front door and muttered something inaudible about, ‘not being a rich man’s lackey.’ He followed the man down the wide passageway. It led into a kitchen of mammoth proportions with spotless white walls and a scrubbed tiled floor. In the corner was another intruder alarm light. On the table in the centre of the room were packets and tins and plates and cutlery and all manner of culinary ingredients and equipment. At the stove was the smell of a frying pan with hot fat spitting noisily into which an egg had been dropped.

  Sir Charles was standing over the pan. He looked back at Angel. ‘Sorry about the abrupt greeting. Have you any news?’

  ‘No, sir. Have you?’

  ‘No. You caught me at a critical time. I am making myself an egg sandwich. Will you join me?’

  ‘No, ta,’ Angel grunted. ‘I only came for a photograph of your wife.’

  He stood by the door, looking around at the walls, the floor and the powerful strip lights on the high ceiling. He took everything in, but his face maintained a disinterested expression.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Sir Charles said, flipping hot fat over the top of the egg, jumping in the pan. ‘You’ll have a drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Of course,’ the MP said knowingly. ‘On duty.’

  ‘Got to get back. I want to get that photograph copied and in circulation.’

  ‘Will you just give me a minute to finish this, Inspector?’

  Angel looked at his wristwatch. ‘I suppose so.’

  The hot fat threw up blue smoke and a burning smell most of which sailed up to the huge shiny copper hood of an extractor fan. The policeman rubbed his big nose and turned towards the door. He could not help wondering where the ‘help’ was. Why was a man in his position preparing his own meal?

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  Sir Charles slapped the egg in the bread roll and put it on a plate. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Inspector?’

  ‘No thanks.’ He replied sullenly.

  ‘The house is empty because my wife is missing, isn’t she?’ He said pointedly. ‘We can’t get staff to live in these days. Please follow me. I’ll get you that photograph.’

  Sir Charles took the plate and his glass out of the kitchen and across the hall to a large room with a grand piano, two settees and ten or more easy chairs. A huge imitation gas fire was burning in the big grate. A long cased clock with its pendulum swinging stood near the fireplace. A large oil painting of Sir Charles in army officers’ uniform was hanging on the chimneybreast.

  ‘Very nice,’ Angel said surveying the room. With a nod to the portrait, he added, ‘In the army were you, then?’

  ‘Briefly, Inspector. Saw service in the Falklands. Not much fun.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Sir Charles took a big bite out of the sandwich and then crossed over to the piano. There were twenty or so photographs in silver or wooden frames covering the top of the piano. Most of the photographs were of family groups, or of twos and some single portraits. He pointed to several of a young, pretty woman.

  ‘Take your pick, Inspector. The beautiful woman you see there is my wife.’

  Angel surveyed the photographs. ‘Which is the latest? And which looks most like her?’

  Sir Charles took another bite of the sandwich, put the plate down, picked up a framed photograph and without a word handed it to the policeman.

  Angel took the photograph out of its frame and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘I’ll see you get it back, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Angel was turning to leave when he noticed a polished silver box, highly decorated with filigree work, on the piano top in front of the photographs. He turned back. It looked as if it might contain cigarettes. His eyes hovered over the box for a brief moment. His hand ran across his mouth.

  Sir Charles noticed his interest, and picked the box up.

  ‘Attractive, isn’t it?’

  Angel sniffed and nodded. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Solid silver. Bought it in America, at Tiffany’s, actually,’ he said, holding it in the palm of his hand. ‘It’s for cigarettes, of course.’

  He opened the lid.

  Angel’s eyebrows lifted as he peered inside.

  ‘But it’s empty,’ Sir Charles said a little surprised. ‘Nobody in this house smokes cigarettes. I must have it refilled. It is nice to be able to offer them to guests.’

  The policeman grunted.

  There was a knock on the open drawing room door. He turned to see a pretty young woman with long blonde hair, and wearing a grey trouser suit with a white blouse collar sticking out of the coat.

  Angel was surprised. He thought there was only the two of them in the house.

  Sir Charles turned to the door. ‘Yes?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Will you be wanting me any more this evening, sir?’ she said.

  Angel could have sworn she gave a slight twist of the mouth that ended in a smile, and a little swing of the hips as she spoke. He was tired and bored; it could have been his imagination, or mischievous thinking, or merely nicotine withdrawal symptoms.

  Sir Charles’s mouth tightened. ‘No. No thank you.’ He snapped. ‘Be here at ten o’clock in the morning. All right?’ he said quickly.

  She looked Angel up and down and then flashed a smile across at Sir Charles.

  ‘Goodnight then, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Sir Charles said through his teeth.

  She looked back at Inspector Angel. ‘Goodnight to you, too.’

  The policeman grinned. ‘Goodnight, lass.’

  She disappeared. A few seconds later, the big outside door slammed shut.

  ‘That’s my driver,’ Sir Charles said looking into his glass. ‘I don’t know how she got in. I mean she was supposed to have gone home. She lives in the town ... somewhere.’

  Angel smiled. ‘You don’t have to explain to me, sir.’

  Sir Charles noticed the policeman’s expression. His dark eyes flashed. ‘But I do,’ he replied angrily.

  ‘It’s not at all necessary.’

  The glass in his hand shook. ‘It is. It is. I do. I do,’ he spluttered, and then, more evenly he added, ‘Well, anyway, I want to. I don’t want any misunderstanding. I don’t want you misconstruing anything. Her name is Melanie Bright. She lives with her parents in the town. Her father works in the Town Hall. Very respectable family. She’s just a driver, a chauffeur ... nothing else.’

  ‘It never occurred to me that she was anything else,’ he lied. ‘I deal only in facts, sir. I don’t make assu
mptions,’ Angel said, still smiling.

  Sir Charles was red in the face.

  The policeman deliberately wiped his hand across his mouth.

  Sir Charles’s eyes shone as if they were illuminated with a light source from the back of his head. Then, after a few seconds, he smiled. ‘You didn’t lock the door, did you — when you came in? — I had to dash into the kitchen.’

  ‘I didn’t lock any door, sir. That’s quite correct,’ Angel said quietly.

  Sir Charles’s composure returned. ‘Yes, that’s what happened. She let herself in. Probably came in through the back door. Yes. The outside lights didn’t come on. A buzzer sounds when the outside security lights come on, you see. It didn’t buzz, did it? You didn’t hear it buzz, did you, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She must have come in through the kitchen, by the back door. I must have opened it and left it unlocked. Don’t you see? She came back. And she let herself in by the back door. She came back — to see if I needed to be driven anywhere. Yes, that’s it. She came back and let herself in by the back door.’

  He sighed and forced a smile. He was composed now that he had delivered that explanation.

  Angel flashed his big teeth. But it was not his usual grin: that red, leathery face was hiding more than he intended to admit. His questions would wait. He was tired. He’d had enough of the day. Home was the only place he wanted to be on that cold November night. If it hadn’t been for seeing the pretty smiling face of Melanie Bright, the evening would have been a total bore. And he experienced plenty of boring evenings in Bromersley, especially in the winter. He buttoned up his raincoat.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, Sir Charles.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ the tall man said thoughtfully.

  Angel turned to leave.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a buzzer coming from the hall. It lasted but two seconds. Sir Charles’s eyes shone. He stood motionless in the drawing room glass in hand.

  ‘There,’ he said, as if he had made an important discovery. ‘Someone is on the portico. The outside security lights switch has been triggered. All the lights will be lit.’

  Angel looked across at him wondering whether he was going to open the door. ‘It could be your wife, Sir Charles?’