The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is he still saying he was with Annabell what’s her name, that married woman he’s living with, all that evening and night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if we can break that alibi, have we got him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘Definitely!’

  ‘Right, Ron. Well, you see what you can do. I want you to keep Scott Scudamore there as long as possible. Spin it out. Go over it again. You know what I mean. I know Blomfield will object, but give me as much time as possible, will you?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m going out. I’ll let you know when I’m back. Good luck, lad. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Angel returned the phone to its cradle and reached for his coat and hat.

  Ten minutes later, he was driving his car through a very large estate of red brick, blue slate roof, semi-detached houses in a suburb of Bromersley. Some of the house windows were boarded up. He drove slowly along a street looking out for a particular house. He passed two young girls hopping across squares marked out in chalk on the pavement. A little boy was struggling to ride a small, brightly coloured tricycle in the gutter. Three dogs of assorted sizes and colours bounced playfully together from the pavement to the road and back again. Empty crisp and pizza boxes decorated the street. A tin can flew up from under the car wheel, rattled on the prop shaft and ended in the gutter.

  Angel found the house he wanted and pulled up. He locked the car door and walked down the concrete path. The small area in the front of the house was a mass of tall grass. It was fenced all round but the front gate was missing. There was no number to be seen on the door or on the wall. He knocked on the flaking green painted door. It was opened promptly by a very slim young woman with long hair. Most of her hair was white but it had a wide, jet-black parting down the middle. She moved one side of her body around the edge of the door. Her skinny, nicotine stained, long fingers grabbed hold of the outside doorknob.

  ‘Yes?’ she said in a voice like bagpipes with tonsillitis. If she had been on the Clyde, she would have stopped all the shipping.

  Angel removed his hat and forced a smile. ‘Mrs Scudamore? Mrs Annabell Scudamore?’

  Her jaw dropped. She hung on to the doorknob. And drew her body close to the door edge so that her denim clad knee was slightly bent and wrapped around it.

  ‘Here. I know you. You’re a copper.’ She spoke as if there was something wrong with the drains.

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel,’ he announced, replacing his hat. ‘I wonder if I could have a word with Mr Scudamore, Mr Scott Scudamore?’

  ‘Well he’s not in. Some other copper came up and carted him off to your place to give ‘im a statement,’ she said with a sniff. She began to slide her body up and down the edge of the door like a fidgety child.

  ‘That’s a coincidence,’ Angel lied. ‘Never mind. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to help me.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ she drawled, eyeing him uncertainly. ‘I’m not answering any more questions. I’ve already given your lot a statement. And it was in front of our solicitor, Mr Blomfield, so I know it’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ she replied firmly.

  Angel stroked his chin. ‘You originally came down from Scotland, didn’t you?’

  She looked at him intently. ‘Scotland, Wales, London, Yorkshire. I’ve been all over.’

  ‘You were a dancer at the Can Can Club, weren’t you? Is that what brought you to Bromersley? Is that where you met Scott Scudamore?’

  She looked surprised and then pleased. ‘I was an exotic dancer then,’ she giggled. ‘I ’ad my own act, you know. I ‘ad my own snake. Travelled around.’ She slid up and down the edge of the door again.

  ‘What do you do now, Bella?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You clear glasses at The Feathers six nights a week, don’t you?’

  She shrugged. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘But you have family in Scotland somewhere though, don’t you? Whereabouts in Scotland, Bella?’

  ‘Mind your own business, copper.’

  Angel smiled. ‘It’s Galashiels.’

  She wasn’t surprised. ‘So what? Yes, it’s Galashiels. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Married a Scotsman. Had a baby. A little girl, wasn’t it?’

  Her jaw dropped and she stared at him for a second. That surprised her. ‘What’s it to you?’ she repeated. The thin blue lips of her mouth tightened.

  ‘Nothing at all, Bella.’ He paused.

  He wasn’t sure if his timing was right. He needed to charm her into a pleasant frame of mind. He had to judge the right moment before he could advance.

  ‘Let’s see, how old is your little girl now? Five, is it, or six?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘She’s six, and what’s it got to do with you?’ she replied with a glare.

  Angel wished he was inside the house. There was the possibility she could slam the door on him. He wanted to close in. She wasn’t warming to him. It wasn’t going quite according to plan.

  ‘How do you know about her, anyway?’ She asked.

  ‘Why, is it a secret?’

  ‘No. Why? Should it be?’

  ‘No reason. Do you see much of her, Bella?’

  Her face changed. The ends of her mouth turned downwards. She said nothing.

  Angel persisted. He pursed his lips. ‘Do you see much of her?’

  She looked down. ‘Now and then.’

  ‘She lives with her father in Galashiels, doesn’t she? I hear he’s a nice respectable fella. He isn’t married either. He adores your little girl, doesn’t he? His Mum looks after your little girl in the daytime while he’s at work. He picks her up in the evenings. And he has her at weekends. Every weekend.’

  She shook her head and tightened her jaw. Her long hair rippled over her shoulders. ‘I know! I know!’

  ‘Good, steady job, I hear. No chance of being laid off. Job for life. Brings in a good screw as a farm manager,’ Angel said quietly.

  ‘So what?’ she snarled.

  Angel stroked his chin. ‘He might have you back,’ he added ruefully.

  She stopped the gymnastics and stared at him intently.

  He decided to take the bull by the horns. He put his hand on the door. ‘Perhaps we should go inside.’

  She tightened her bony hand around the doorknob. ‘It’s all right. We can talk out here. It isn’t going to take long. Mr ... er ... ?’

  ‘Angel,’ he prompted.

  Her mood changed again. ‘Oh yes, Angel,’ she said knowingly. She moved her head up and then down very slowly and smirked at him. ‘My husband said you were a smarmy so and so.’

  Angel looked across at the slim figure.

  He smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  She moved closer to him and smirked. ‘You’re cheeky. What are you after? You’re a cheeky monkey!’

  His jaw dropped. He looked her straight in the face. She forced a laugh, throwing back her head and opening wide her small mouth.

  Angel blinked at her proximity. She’d more fillings than Heinz had varieties. But she was laughing. Perhaps this was the right moment. He took a chance. He whisked a sheet of paper out from his inside pocket and unfolded it.

  ‘It’s about this statement, Bella.’

  ‘What about it?’

  He forced a smile. ‘Can I ask you a straight question?’

  She giggled. ‘I don’t promise to give you a straight answer.’ She started slithering up and down the edge of the open door again.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he replied lightly. ‘This is what you said.’ He began to read from the statement. ‘Scott was at home all that evening and night. He did not go out at all. He stayed in with me and we watched television and had a cup of tea.’

  He lowered the paper, then smiled and shook his head. ‘Had a cup of tea?’

  Bella grinned. ‘Yes. T
hat’s right. That’s exactly what happened. Exactly.’

  He decided it was now or never.

  He looked down into her watery, pale, brown eyes, shook his head again and said, ‘Why do you lie for him, Bella? You don’t have to lie for him. He’s not your husband. He doesn’t keep you. He doesn’t work. He never has done. He’s bone idle. He lives off you. He steals and robs. He’s no conscience. And what’s worse, he terrorises little people.’

  Angel waved the statement at her and continued without a pause.

  ‘In this case, an old Pakistani shopkeeper and his wife.’

  She stared at him with a face of stone. He could see a vein down her neck throbbing. He spoke stronger and faster.

  ‘Scott Scudamore isn’t worth a paper frying pan. Why don’t you dump him while you’ve still got your looks? You’ve got a man in Galashiels. A hardworking, reliable, dependable fella. And you’ve a beautiful, adorable little girl. And yet you hang around with this drip Scott, a certain candidate for a long stretch in Maidstone — take my word for it. Yet you know damned well that every Saturday night, he goes to the Can Can Club with his brothers Scrap and Barry, when they’re not locked up, and afterwards, while you’re sweating, collecting glasses at The Feathers, he’s with a tart in Scrap’s flat and — ’

  Suddenly, without warning, Bella let go of the doorknob, slipped inside the house and slammed the door shut with a mighty bang. He heard the key turn in the lock.

  ‘Damn!’ He had been afraid of that happening all along.

  He stood a few seconds looking at the locked door and gave a heavy sigh. He turned around, folded Bella’s statement and put it back into his inside pocket, and licking his lips, walked up the path to his car.

  He didn’t even glance at the house as he started the engine. He slammed it in gear, let in the clutch and it stalled. He bared his teeth and turned the ignition key again. The engine roared into life. He put the car into gear, let in the clutch again and glided quickly through the sprawling estate.

  When he was back on the main road driving back to the station, he opened the glove compartment and started fumbling around inside it. There was a duster, an old AA book, a tyre tread gauge, a pair of handcuffs, a sign with the word ‘’ printed on it for use in certain on duty situations, but no cigarettes. The search was in vain. He closed the compartment door with a bang, and began fumbling in the pocket in the car door. There were none there either.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was back at his desk in the police station. He lifted the phone. ‘Is it a bad moment, Ron?’

  ‘No, sir,’ DS Gawber said. Angel thought he sounded tired. ‘In fact, Mr Blomfield and Mr Scudamore are both ready to leave.’

  ‘I bet they are. Is there anything you can hold Scott on?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel’s voice dropped. ‘Oh. Right. See them off, then come into my office.’

  He replaced the phone. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms above his head and grunted. He arched his back and sighed. Then suddenly he reached forward, picked up the phone again and pressed a button.

  The familiar voice of Ahmed said, ‘CID office. Cadet Ahaz speaking.’

  ‘What are you doing, lad?’ Angel growled.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Nothing! Well, you should be. Where do you think you are? On your holidays!’ And before the cadet had time to reply, he added, ‘Bring three teas and yourself in here pronto.’

  He slammed the phone down.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ron Gawber.

  Angel looked up at him.

  The sergeant didn’t speak and didn’t smile. Angel pointed to the chair. ‘No luck?’

  Ron Gawber pulled a face, shook his head and sat down. He pushed a statement form in front of the inspector. ‘He’s sly.’

  Angel lifted up the paper and without looking at it said, ‘Is it the same as before?’

  ‘Yes sir. I couldn’t move him an inch.’

  ‘Didn’t think you would,’ he replied bluntly, dropping the paper on his desk. ‘While you were having another go at Scott, I’ve been to see Bella!’ he announced proudly.

  Gawber looked up brightly. ‘Aaah!’

  Angel sighed. ‘She wouldn’t let me in. If she had let me into the house, who knows? I should have taken it more slowly. And, just, maybe ...’ He floundered.

  ‘Perhaps give it another go? Tomorrow? Or in a day or two?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No. I should have insisted on going in the house or threatened to leave. If I had handled it like that, her curiosity would have got the better of her and she would have let me in. Then I would have stalled and dithered. She would have offered me a cup of tea. You know, to keep me there. I should have played it out.’

  Gawber watched him closely.

  He went on. ‘Instead, I rushed it. I wanted to get back. Agreed to talk to her on the doorstep. So when I reached the bit she didn’t like, she slammed the door on me. Women don’t tick like men. She got angry with herself — well that’s all right. It’s all right to let them feel guilty. They sometimes like it. It can be a release. But it doesn’t do for them to dislike the one that’s telling them.’

  He had almost forgotten he was with Ron Gawber. It was as if he was talking to himself. Then he looked up. ‘I should have sent you.’ He grinned. ‘You’re prettier. But she is hard, Ron. Harder than Herod on heroin!’

  Gawber shook his head. ‘I didn’t do any good with Scudamore. I didn’t get him to change one word! With Blomfield there, it was almost predictable. They sat in silence most of the time. They let me go rambling on.’

  ‘Of course it was predictable,’ Angel said. ‘But sometimes, you’ve got to go through the motions.’

  There was a slight pause.

  ‘You let him and Blomfield understand that we didn’t believe him, didn’t you?’

  Gawber smiled. ‘You bet.’

  Angel nodded approvingly. ‘There’ll be a bit of a stir going on between Scott and Bella now then! And Scott’ll be getting the rough end of it. You never know. I just might have unsettled their cosy relationship. I might have stirred her conscience. And you might have pressured Scott enough to make him nervous. All this stress might be working on them as we speak. You never know.’

  ‘I hope it happens sooner rather than later, sir.’

  ‘It might, Ron, it might.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed with the tea.

  Angel licked his lips. ‘I’m drier than Chief Constable’s annual review.’

  Ahmed passed the tray round.

  Angel helped himself and then looking at Ahmed said, ‘Sit down over there.’

  Ahmed took the chair by the wall.

  There was a short pause as the three of them sipped the tea.

  Ron Gawber said, ‘Where are we now then, sir?’

  Not seeming to hear him, with a twinkle in his eye, Angel said, ‘Do you know, Sergeant. This cadet has nothing to do.’

  Gawber smiled.

  ‘I am not on my holidays. I have plenty to do, sir,’ he said earnestly.

  ‘You told me you were doing nothing!’ the inspector said.

  ‘I meant that what I was doing would not be more important than whatever you would want me to do for you, sir.’

  ‘Well, what were you doing?’

  ‘Filing, sir.’

  Angel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Filing?’

  Ahmed nodded.

  ‘Your nails?’ Angel growled, hiding a smile.

  ‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said quickly. ‘Police files. The “wanted,” and the daily reports, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Angel sipped the tea.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do with the Patel case.’ He said rubbing his chin. ‘We will have to give the last round to Scott Scudamore. We’ve got Harry Hull, at least. He’ll get at least two years. We’ll have to be content w
ith that, for now.’

  The inspector riffled through some papers on his desk, as he spoke.

  ‘Tell me, who arrived first at Western Beck, did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any sign of tyre tracks?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And who found the body?’

  ‘An angler, out for a day’s sport. I’ve got his name. It’s in my report.’

  ‘And you had a good look round the area where she was found. In the weeds on the bank?’

  The sergeant nodded.

  ‘The divers find anything?’

  ‘No. No weapon. There was nothing only rubbish ... part of an old pram, half submerged, a rubber tyre, an old carpet. The usual junk.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. He turned to face him. ‘An old carpet? An old carpet? That might be the one we’re looking for.’

  Ron Gawber looked surprised. ‘An old carpet?’

  ‘Yes. Get it. Get it now. Let Mac have it. I’ll tell him to expect it.’

  The sergeant’s jaw dropped. ‘Yes, sir.’ He stood up to leave.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Angel quickly looked through the pile of papers on his desk. He pulled out a bundle of pages fastened at the corner with a staple. It was Doctor Mac’s report on the body dragged out of Western Beck. He waved it at DS Gawber.

  ‘Have you read this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My copy is in my office.’

  ‘The body is Lady Millhouse.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Why naked? Mac says there was no apparent sexual interference.’

  The phone rang.

  The sergeant stood up. ‘I’ll get that carpet, sir.’

  ‘Hang on. See what this is.’

  The inspector lifted the receiver. ‘Angel.’

  The girl on switchboard said, ‘It’s Grey’s the Undertaker for you, sir.’

  ‘Aye. Put him through, love.’ He looked up at Gawber, nodded and pointed a thumb at the door. ‘You get off, Ron.’

  Gawber nodded and made for the door closing it quietly behind him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector. It’s John Grey,’ said the obsequious voice down the phone.

  ‘Yes, John?’

  ‘I was wanting to know if we can go ahead with the interment of the remains of the late Lady Millhouse, Inspector?’