The Missing Wife

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel led the way. Susan Millhouse followed.

  There were no seats. There was more furniture carefully wrapped and stacked high all around them. There was a little table in the corner with a kettle, several beakers, a jar of coffee and a part bottle of milk on a tin tray on top of it. A small fireplace with a small electric fire on the cream and brown tiled hearth was conveniently placed to burn the shins.

  ‘This is as private as it gets, Inspector,’ Millhouse said.

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘It won’t take long, sir. I need to know where you were last Friday afternoon and evening — when your stepmother went missing.’

  ‘We were here and then at home.’

  ‘Yes, we were here and then at home, Inspector,’ Susan Millhouse echoed.

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yes,’ Duncan said, and his wife nodded.

  ‘Did anybody see you? Did you have any visitors?’

  ‘No. But Dad phoned.’

  Angel smiled.

  Millhouse licked his lips. ‘I don’t suppose that counts.’

  Angel took out his notebook and pen. ‘What time would that be, sir?’

  Duncan looked at his wife and then at the policeman. ‘I suppose about six o’clock. He was beginning to get worried about Yvette not being there. He asked me if I had any idea where she might be. Of course, I knew nothing, and told him so.’

  ‘When did you last see your stepmother?’

  Millhouse screwed up his eyes.

  Susan Millhouse said, ‘It must have been the previous Friday evening. We often went up to the Hall to see Pa and Yvette on a Friday evening.’

  And you went up last Friday evening, as usual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve no idea, either of you, who disliked, hated even, your stepmother, to have wanted to murder her?’

  ‘No.’

  An electric bell high on the wall started ringing piercingly. Angel looked up at it.

  ‘That’s Tom. Ringing the security bell. Must have a customer,’ Millhouse said.

  The bell stopped ringing as Duncan held back the curtain across the doorway and peered into the shop. When he saw who it was, he bustled quickly through the arch up to the big man, who was carrying a plastic supermarket shopping bag. Duncan spoke urgently and softly to the visitor.

  Angel couldn’t hear what was being said, but Duncan Millhouse clearly wanted the man to leave. The policeman stuck his head through the curtains.

  Angel and the visitor instantly recognized each other.

  The policeman’s jaw dropped momentarily and his mouth tightened. The man immediately turned round and made for the door. The bell started ringing again. The ringing added a sense of urgency to the situation. In a second the man was gone. The bell stopped ringing.

  A red-faced Duncan Millhouse bounced through the curtain into the back room. He was shaking his head. ‘People always wanting to sell you things,’ he said lamely. ‘Er, was there anything else you wanted?’

  Angel’s eyes shone. ‘I thought you wanted to buy. I noticed the signs coming in.’

  ‘We do. We do,’ Millhouse replied quickly. ‘But the right things, Inspector. Genuine antiques, not rubbish.’ He looked briefly back at the closed door.

  Angel nodded. He noticed that Millhouse had not even looked at what the man had wanted to sell him. He was considering mentioning this, decided against it, shrugged and turned to leave. He made for the shop door then he turned back.

  Duncan Millhouse stretched up to his full height of five feet four inches. ‘We know our business, Inspector.’

  ‘I expect you do,’ Angel replied with his hand on the door sneck. ‘I’ll be in touch. Good day to you.’ As he closed the shop door, he wondered what business the Millhouses had with Scrap Scudamore, the eldest, the most intelligent and dangerous of the three brothers!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Detective Inspector Angel did not attempt to pick up the trail of Scrap Scudamore as he left the antique shop. The crook would have moved quickly away and dissolved into the crowd of shoppers around the corner once he had left the shop. He lived in a flat in a run down area of Bromersley. Angel could easily make contact with him anytime he wanted, but he would have relished the opportunity of stopping him to see what he was carrying in that plastic bag.

  The inspector made his way to the private car park and pointed the bonnet through the centre of Leeds and on to the open road to Millhouse Hall, which was on his way back to Bromersley.

  He was soon at the front door talking to Mrs Moore.

  She was in an overall and holding a duster. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. I thought it might be another newspaper reporter. They’re very pushy. They don’t take my word for anything. Sir Charles is in London, I’m afraid. He won’t be back until Friday.’

  ‘It was your husband I wanted to speak to.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Mrs Moore replied. Then she opened her mouth wide and applied a hand to her face. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No. I did say I would need to have a word with him.’

  ‘So you did, Inspector. Come in. I’ll get him. He’s working in the greenhouses this morning.’

  ‘That’s all right. Tell me where he is, and I’ll go to him.’

  ‘Just go round the side. That way,’ she pointed. ‘And on a bit, keeping left, beyond the bushes and you’ll see the glass. You can’t miss it. He’s in one of those greenhouses, or the stables next to them, or round there somewhere.’

  Angel was there in a minute. The area was to the side of the Hall, positioned not to obstruct the view of the lake from the house, and behind a screen of trees and bushes created to conceal the incinerator, compost heap, several greenhouses and a stable block.

  A man in his sixties, wearing spectacles, overalls, cap and Wellington boots was coming out of the stable block.

  Angel called out, ‘Mr Moore?’

  The man stopped and looked up. He was carrying a plastic container with a wire handle, like a small bucket. He wiped his nose on his sleeve as he approached the policeman. ‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley CID,’ he announced as he picked his way along the track to the outbuildings. ‘I would like a few words with you.’

  ‘Oh, yes sir,’ he blinked. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Come on in here, out of the wind.’

  The gardener turned and led him back into a stable, which housed garden tools, lawnmowers and plastic sacks of fertilizer and weed killer.

  ‘The wife said you’d be wanting to see me.’ He put the container down on a bench. ‘I was just going to put this rat poison down in the garages. But it can wait.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Rat poison? Do you get many rats round here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s the birdseed and the compost that attracts them. But you’ve got to be careful of the peacocks and hens, and the ducks and the swans, as well as the wild birds. So I’m very careful with it. I never put it down uncovered. I put it in dry pipes, or I make tunnels with bricks. Birds can’t move bricks,’ he smiled reassuringly.

  Moore pointed to the container he had placed on the bench. ‘I reckon there’s enough poison in there to kill a thousand birds.’

  Angel stroked his chin. ‘Or a hundred men?’

  ‘Eh? Maybe. Maybe.’ He replied as he adjusted his bottle-bottom spectacles.

  Angel glanced round the building. ‘I suppose this was a stable at one time?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And along there, there was enough accommodation for eight carriages and twenty-four horses. Now, of course, they’re only used for storage and for garaging cars.’

  ‘And how many cars does the family have?’

  ‘Two now. There’s Sir Charles’s Rolls and Lady Millhouse’s Citroen. They had a Mercedes but I think they gave that to Mr Duncan. I’ve seen him driving around in it.’

  ‘Does Sir Charles drive?’

  ‘Not these days. He enjoys being driven around, and who can blame him, on these busy
roads.’

  ‘And did her ladyship drive?’

  ‘Yes. She was a very good driver, considering she came from France, where they drive on the other side of the road.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Did you see much of her ladyship?’

  ‘No. Not a lot. I’d maybe see her when she came round here for the car, or if she came down here for any veg or flowers for the house. Otherwise hardly at all.’

  ‘Did you get on well with her?’

  Mr Moore took off his spectacles and wiped some dust out of an eye. ‘Oh yes. She’d smile and wave and call out, “Good morning, Walter.” Or something like that. Or she’d come in here, like you are now, if she wanted something for the house. Or if she wanted me to do anything for her.’

  His tone changed. He looked closely into the policeman’s face. ‘She were a nice lady, you know, sir. But my wife is sickened by it all. She knew her a lot better than I did. And she’s fed up with reporters continually ringing the bell and on the phone. It’s terrible her being murdered like that. And them only been married a few months.’

  He replaced the heavy spectacles and with a dirty handkerchief blew his nose. ‘’Scuse me, sir,’ he said, and as he slowly wiped his nose, he peered directly at the inspector and said, ‘Have you got anybody for it yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But we will, Mr Moore. Be assured, we will.’

  *

  It was another raw November morning when Detective Inspector Angel arrived at his office. There was a pile of post waiting for him. He ripped the envelopes open roughly to see if there was anything of interest, then threw them, one by one, with a grunt back on the pile on the desk. Then he unfastened the cuff button of his shirt and pulled it and his suit coat sleeve up to the elbow. There was a small square sticking plaster on his arm. From his pocket he pulled out a white packet with pink printing on it. The largest words were ‘Nicotine Patch.’ He opened the packet, peeled off the backing and slapped it on a bare area of his arm near to an existing patch. He pressed it well on and muttered some words that included an expletive as he quickly pulled down the sleeve and fastened the cuff button.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Angel.’

  It was the police sergeant on the front desk. ‘There’s a young lady here. A Miss Melanie Bright, sir. She says you’re expecting her. She’s Sir Charles Millhouse’s chauffeur.’

  Angel took a deep breath. ‘Oh yes. Get that cadet to bring her down to my office straight away.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel cleared the post off his desk by cramming it into a drawer. He moved round the desk and placed a chair for his visitor just where he wanted it, and a chair by the wall for Cadet Ahaz.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed with the blonde chauffeur.

  ‘Miss Bright, sir,’ he said.

  She stepped into the room uncertainly in black leather shoes with sparkling silver trimming. She was wearing the same light grey suit and white open necked blouse she had been wearing at Millhouse Hall three days ago. It was business-like and yet showed off a tan that Angel thought might have been recently topped up at a high street salon. Her protruding lips, orange lipstick and lip gloss accentuated a natural pout. Her golden hair was drawn back and then lacquered to stick out in different directions at the rear. A few strands dangled down her face. He observed four colours of make up around her eyes. He reckoned she was older than he had originally thought, now that he was closer to her, and in daylight, and was probably about forty. She carried a small black patent leather handbag.

  Angel stood up and smiled.

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Bright,’ he said indicating the chair positioned to provide him with the best possible scrutiny of every nuance of expression the November light from the window would permit.

  ‘Er, yes,’ she said and moved uneasily to the chair.

  Ahmed hovered by the door looking attentively at the inspector. Angel nodded to the chair in the corner and the cadet closed the door and took up the position.

  Melanie Bright sat on the front part of the chair with her knees together and the handbag on her lap. She was not quite the pushy woman Angel remembered from the brief meeting with her the night he had met her at Millhouse Hall.

  The policeman sat down still looking at her.

  ‘Er, thank you,’ she said suddenly and quickly. Her voice was froggy and with a strong local accent. Then she asked, ‘It’s Inspector, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She coughed. The voice didn’t improve. ‘Sir Charles said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes. I’m glad you came in. Just a few questions.’

  She nodded.

  He opened the leather-backed notebook.

  ‘You’re Miss Melanie Bright, and you’re chauffeur to Sir Charles Millhouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t it unusual for a woman to be a chauffeur?’

  ‘Not these days, Inspector.’

  He slid a finger up the side of his face, and then down again. She certainly was a good-looking woman. The voice was a letdown. ‘Oh, really? And how long have you been in the job?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘And what do you actually do? I mean you’re not a mechanic or an engineer as well, are you? You don’t maintain the car?’

  She smiled and shuffled further back into the chair. She looked very attractive when she smiled. ‘No. I don’t maintain the car. I drive him wherever he wants to go.’

  ‘You drive him to London?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, I drive him anywhere he wants to go. But I come back the same day, usually.’

  ‘Doesn’t he drive himself?’

  ‘No. I believe he used to. But it’s a pig trying to park in London. It’s bad enough taking him to his flat and back.’

  ‘I’m sure. Let me take you back to last Friday. The day Lady Millhouse went missing. What did you do that day?’

  ‘Last Friday? Well, Sir Charles wanted me to pick him up and bring him back home from London as usual. I ’ad to pick ’im up at one o’clock on Marylebone Road, near Regent’s Park.’

  ‘Is that where he lives in London?’

  ‘No, Inspector. His flat is in SW1.’ She stopped and thought for a moment. ‘It was a bit unusual. I don’t know why he wanted picking up on the Marylebone Road, but that’s what he wanted. I’d have had to collect him from wherever he said.’

  ‘Anyway, I left Bromersley at about nine o’clock. I made good time and I picked him up and got back to the Hall by about five o’clock. The drill is that I gives him a ring on the mobile as I’m getting near, to check whether he’s going to be on time or not. I try never to be late. He gets ratty if I’m late. Anyway, he was there, waving his umbrella. And, as I say, I got him home safe.’

  ‘Did he seem in any way different from his usual self?’

  She thought before she answered. ‘He was a bit quieter than usual. Not at all talkative. I thought he was in one of his moods. He pretended to do some work from his briefcase on the way home, but his mind seemed to be on other things. I watched him, when I could, in the rear mirror. He was a bit strange. I thought he might have been ill. He had been ill, you know. Something he ate, I think. He had been to that posh private hospital near Leeds to see a specialist. I took him a fortnight ago. Anyway, I dropped him off at the front of the Hall with his suitcase. He told me to put the car away and go home. Which I did.’

  Angel was particular about the time. ‘And this was five o’clock, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you a car of your own?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  Angel noticed that her forehead was moist and her cheeks red.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ she said and she unfastened the top button of her grey suit coat.

  It was hot in there. Angel wondered if they had turned up the central heating. He pressed on. He tapped the top of his pen on the desktop. ‘I have to ask you a very important question.’
/>
  Her eyes opened wide. Her eyebrows raised, causing the lines of mascara to arc. ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘What time did you get home on that Friday?’

  ‘I came straight home. It would be about five fifteen or so.’

  Angel nodded. ‘I suppose someone can confirm that?’

  Melanie Bright crossed her legs. The light caught her sparkly shoes and twinkled. She considered her reply. ‘No. I don’t suppose there is anybody. I live by myself, you see.’

  He looked her straight in the face. ‘A neighbour, maybe?’

  She shrugged. The bosom moved. ‘Maybe. I dunno. They’re a nosey lot round where I live.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘And you stayed home the rest of the evening?’

  ‘Oh no!’ she hooted loudly. ‘I went out. I always go out on a Friday night. My boyfriend came round after tea and we went out.’

  ‘And where did you go?’

  She sat further back in the chair and relaxed her arms. ‘There’s not a lot of choice in Bromersley, Inspector.’ She sniggered. ‘We ‘ad a few drinks in The Feathers, and then we went to the Can Can Club.’ She grinned as she recalled it. ‘We had a damn good time.’

  ‘And who did you go out with, Miss Bright?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know him, Inspector,’ she said with a smile. ‘He isn’t half a scream!’

  Angel sat with his pen poised. ‘What’s his name, Miss Bright?’

  She grinned. ‘His real name is Hugo. I call him that. Sounds so posh. But everybody else calls him Scrap Scudamore.’

  *

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was DS Gawber. ‘Got a minute, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Come in. Have you seen Mac about that carpet?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve put it in the boot of your car. I thought you’d want to return it, personally.’

  Angel was expecting great things from that special piece of carpet. ‘Fine. So tell me.’

  Ron Gawber shook his head. ‘Mac says that no blood nor any other bodily fluids can be recovered to do tests on. The time in the water has seen to that. But he has recovered quite a selection of different human hair. He can get DNA from that if necessary.’