‘Tell me, Mr Millhouse, how’s business?’
‘Fine.’
‘You’re doing well, are you?’
‘Well enough.’
Angel pursed his lips before he spoke. ‘I thought things had taken a downturn in the antiques trade. I hear the Americans no longer buy the container loads they used to buy. Dealers have stopped coming over in their hordes.’
Duncan forced a smile. He was surprised to hear that Angel knew anything about the antiques business. ‘That’s right, Inspector. But it doesn’t affect me. I sell a lot of stripped pine. There’s still a big market for old furniture that has been reclaimed from old houses, you know.’
Angel nodded and stared at him for a few seconds. Unexpectedly, the man was still smiling. It was a forced smile. It stayed frozen on his lips.
*
The phone rang.
‘Angel.’
It was the station telephone switchboard operator. ‘There’s a woman called Mrs Hannah Moore on the line, sir. She asked for you. She says she’s the housekeeper to Sir Charles Millhouse.’
‘Oh yes. Put her through.’
There was a click.
‘Good morning, Mrs Moore. Inspector Angel. What can I do for you?’
‘Oh Inspector.’ The woman’s voice wailed. He knew something was wrong. ‘Lady Yvette’s car has been stolen from the garage. My husband has just come up from the greenhouse to tell me.’
‘Any sign of a break in?’
‘No. The garage wasn’t locked up. It was in a garage behind the greenhouses. I can’t get in touch with Sir Charles to let him know. He’s not answering his London number. I thought I should report it to somebody.’
‘You did right, Mrs Moore. I’ll come straightaway.’
He put down the phone. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small plastic bag. It was bursting with loose pearls from the necklace he had taken to pieces the day before. He selected several pearls and looked at them gleaming in the palm of his hand. He nodded approvingly. They looked valuable but were worth very little. He carefully put them into his pocket and returned the bag of pearls to the desk drawer and closed it.
Ten minutes later he was stumping through the gravel at the front of Millhouse Hall. Mrs Moore appeared at the big door under the portico. The alarm buzzers and the noise of the car on the gravel would have indicated his arrival.
‘Ooooh, come on in, Inspector. And this time you’ll have a cup of tea,’ she said with a determined nod of the head.
He climbed the stone steps and followed her into the house.
She closed the door and showed him into the drawing room. ‘Sit yourself down, Inspector. I am on my own. My husband is working in the greenhouses. We’ll go down there in a minute. I’ll just make that tea, or would you rather have coffee?’
‘Tea’s fine thank you, Mrs Moore.’
She sailed out into the hall.
Inspector Angel listened to the rapid clickety-click of her shoes on the parquet flooring of the entrance hall. When he was satisfied she was well into the kitchen, he rose to his feet. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the pearls. He selected one and approached the grandfather clock. He knelt down on the thick maroon carpet and carefully pushed it through the cutaway of the clock foot. With one finger, he pushed the pearl through the opening and round to one side. Then he returned to his feet, stood back and surveyed the clock from different angles to make sure it was not visible. He nodded with satisfaction.
A clickety-click of shoes heralded the imminent return of the housekeeper.
Angel was comfortably back in the chair when Mrs Moore entered the room with a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits.
‘There you are,’ she said lowering the tray on to a wine table strategically placed by his chair.
Angel smiled at her. ‘Thank you. Now tell me about the car,’ he said picking up the cup and saucer.
‘Yes. Well my husband went down to the greenhouses at nine o’clock and was clearing out some tomato plants, I think. He wanted something from the garage and noticed the door was open and swinging. He went to see why it was loose and discovered that the Citroen was gone.’
‘How did the thief gain access?’
‘The door is never locked.’
‘Where is the car key?’
‘Her ladyship would have had that.’
Angel recalled that Yvette Millhouse’s handbag had not been found. ‘Was there a spare key?’
‘I don’t know. I never saw it. Perhaps Sir Charles will know.’
‘And you say you cannot reach him by phone?’
‘I have his London flat number. I have tried to reach him several times. He must be in the House or at a meeting.’
Angel sighed. He returned the cup to the tray. ‘I have the car licence number. I’ll put out a nationwide search for it,’ he said as he made for the door.
‘I’ll take you down to the garage, Inspector.’
‘There’s no need. You’ve given me all the information I need.’
The housekeeper’s jaw dropped slightly.
He turned back. ‘Oh, Mrs Moore.’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘Did you know a man called Hugo or Scrap Scudamore? Has he been to this house, as far as you know?’
She put her hand to her face. ‘No Inspector. I can’t recall the name.’
He nodded. ‘That’s all right. I just wondered. Well, I must be off. Thanks for the tea.’
Ten minutes later he was in his office at Bromersley police station.
He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Cadet Ahaz? ... Will you find him and send him to my office, straight away?’
Angel looked down at the correspondence on his desk. There was a tap at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed. He came in breathing heavily. ‘I saw you arrive, sir. I came straight away. I thought you might want me for something.’
‘I do. Where have you been? You’re harder to find than Shergar.’
Ahmed’s eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s Shergar, sir?’
‘Never mind, lad. Never mind,’ he replied impatiently and buried his head in the papers on his desk. Without looking up he said, ‘That Citroen car belonging to Lady Millhouse has been stolen. You have the number?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have it put on the stolen car list. Do you know how to do that?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ahmed turned to go.
‘Report that it will be found locally, somewhere near Bradford Road, I expect,’ he murmured, deeply engrossed in a letter.
‘Bradford Road in Bromersley, sir?’
‘Yes, lad. That’s where they’ll find it,’ he said patiently. ‘Here in this town.’
Ahmed opened the door and then slowly turned back to the inspector. ‘How do you know that, sir?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Come in, Ron.’ Angel said. ‘Sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Gawber said, pulling up a chair.
‘What did Mac say?’ He asked eagerly.
‘He said it looks like Scrap Scudamore was hit on the head and then asphyxiated. He has severe bruising on the throat consistent with a man’s fingers enclosing his windpipe and both thumbs pressing on his trachea. He thought there was some damage to the skull, but you know him, he wanted to wait for an X-ray before committing himself.’
‘A blow to the head before asphyxiation would possibly have rendered Scudamore dazed or unconscious, allowing a less powerful man easily to choke him to death. He’s a big lump is Scudamore. I wouldn’t have liked to take him on single handedly.’
DS Gawber nodded.
‘And Mac says it would be a man?’
‘He seems certain of it. The severity of the bruises, and the space between the bruises.’
Angel nodded. The corners of his mouth turned down. He
leaned back in his chair. He put his arms behind his head and arched his back. After a moment he said thoughtfully, ‘A choker?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The same man who murdered Yvette Millhouse,’ he said quietly.
‘Looks like it, sir.’
‘The choker.’
Gawber nodded.
‘Did Mac give any indication of the time of death?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did he think the body had been moved?’
‘He didn’t say, but I got the impression that he thought it had happened there.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Mmm. I’ll phone him later. Did you get anything out of the house to house?’
‘No, sir. Nothing.’
‘Anything more from the man with the dog who found the body?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What about Scudamore’s movements? Did anybody know anything?’
‘I spoke to several people including the landlord of The Feathers. He had been in there, drinking with his brother, Scott and several others. He’d also been seen in conversation with Duncan Millhouse until about nine o’clock when they left and went up to the Can Can Club together. Nobody seems to have noticed what time Scudamore left but he was still there at eleven-thirty.’
Suddenly Angel leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. He wrinkled his nose and said, ‘I do hate this job.’ Then he asked quickly, ‘Where’s Scrap Scudamore’s car? It’s an old Jaguar, didn’t you tell me?’
‘Yes, sir. He keeps it in the street, outside his house. Mac’s probably going over it right now.’
The phone rang. The inspector reached over the desk.
‘Angel,’ he snapped.
It was the PC on the reception desk.
‘Yes? What is it, lad? ... Who? ... Scott Scudamore?’
Angel and Gawber exchanged glances.
‘What’s he want, lad? ... Well, tell him I’m out, but Detective Sergeant Gawber who is working on the case can spare him a minute. He knows him ... Right, lad. He’s coming out now.’
Gawber stood up and put the chair back by the wall.
Angel replaced the phone. His eyes shone with surprise. ‘Scott Scudamore! Who would have thought it? Anyway, you can deal with him. It’s an opportunity to ask him about last night.’ The inspector looked at Gawber sternly. ‘And Ron, make a point of reminding him that we have got Harry Hull for that off-licence robbery and that it’s only that very fragile alibi provided by his girlfriend, what’s her name — ’
‘Annabelle,’ Gawber said.
‘Aye, Annabelle or Bella, as she likes to be known — that’s keeping him from slopping out in Strangeways.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said with his hand on the door.
‘Lay it on thick. Let him know in no uncertain terms that it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be behind bars. You can’t over state, Ron. Something’s got to make him crack. I want him behind bars.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If it isn’t pressure from Annabelle, then it’ll be pressure from me!’ he bellowed.
There was no reply.
‘And tell him Mrs Patel is still on antidepressants!’ he yelled.
The door was closed. DS Gawber had gone. Angel shook his head and muttered. ‘You need more patience than a zookeeper waiting for Pandas to mate.’
The phone rang.
‘Now what?’ he growled into the mouthpiece.
It was an internal call. It was the duty PC in charge of the cells. Simone Lyon wanted to see DI Angel. Apparently she had been pestering the PC all morning. He had ignored her request but now she was screaming.
Angel’s eyebrows lifted. He had been waiting for Simone Lyon to ask to see him. He recalled the old saying, ‘All things come to those who wait.’ He hoped the wait had been worth his while. ‘Right, Constable. Show her into an interview room. I’ll come down straight away.’
Angel picked up the audiotape from the table behind his chair and made his way down the corridor.
Simone Lyon duly arrived. Her hair not as meticulously groomed as before. Her face was flushed and her lips set as if she had kissed a lemon.
She glared at Angel who glared back at her. He silently indicated a chair and switched on the recording machine.
They sat in silence for a few seconds and then Angel said, ‘Well?’
She said nothing.
At that moment, he wanted a cigarette more than anything else in the world. He had to content himself with merely moistening his lips. ‘The constable said you wanted to see me?’
She looked down and then up. She put her elbows on the table. Her slim, manicured hands were shaking. Suddenly she dropped her hands to her lap and began to speak very quickly. ‘I want to know how much longer you intend keeping me in that dreadful cell?’
‘Well at least until your case comes before a court. That might be a month or two yet,’ he lied, looking her straight in the eye.
She blew out a short gasp. ‘No!’ She shook her head several times. Her long black hair marked with wisps of grey swirled from side to side. There was a moment or two of silence then she looked up and said, ‘What must I do?’
‘Simply tell me why you attempted to poison Sir Charles Millhouse.’
She shook her head. ‘I would convict myself if I did that, Inspector.’
‘No you wouldn’t. Your situation could not be any worse than it is now. Two policemen saw you put poison in Sir Charles Millhouse’s glass. He would have drunk from it if I had not knocked it out of his hand. That evidence on its own will convict you. And the evidence is quite undeniable!’
He waited.
She nodded thoughtfully.
He went on. ‘There might be some extenuating circumstance that would allow me to drop the charge, or enable your counsel to offer mitigating evidence to limit or reduce any sentence you may be awarded by a judge. But the fact is irrefutable.’ He hesitated before speaking further. ‘You know, you really need a solicitor.’
‘That’s all right. I trust you. You have an honest face.’
He looked at the rotating spool of tape and allowed himself a small smile, as he thought how that last comment would look on the witness’s statement.
She went on. ‘As you say, I was caught in the act, so there is no point in pretending that I didn’t put the poison in the glass. There is also no point in suggesting that I didn’t know that the glass belonged to Sir Charles Millhouse. I had seen his photograph often enough. He was never out of the papers. God knows!’
Her hands shook. She began pulling the handkerchief tightly between her hands, then releasing it. Then repeating the operation.
Angel looked at her gently.
She went on. ‘But you have to understand that not only has my daughter been murdered by that man, but that her father was also murdered by him.’
She stopped and swallowed.
Angel noticed his heartbeat was beginning to thump. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said quietly.
‘I will try to tell it in chronological order. I was born in Paris. My father was a baker by trade. My mother helped him in the shop. We were lower class struggling to be middle class. My parents had great ambitions for me. They sent me to a good school. I had extra lessons in foreign languages, notably English, deportment, ballet and so on. I secured employment initially as a secretary in magazine publishing. I met a lot of men, and had several lovers. One of them was very special. He was a lot older than I was. His name was Marcus La Touche. He became the father of my only child, my daughter, Yvette. He was in the banking business. He had liaisons with merchant banks over here, and he spent a lot of time in London. This was twenty-five years ago. In the course of his activities he met Charles Millhouse, as he was then. He had a flat in London. They became good friends. Marcus used to stay with Charles Millhouse in Yorkshire occasionally. They used to have wild parties. Marcus used to say that champagne flowed like water. One night, while they were on a spree in London, Charles drove his powerful spor
ts car into a wall. Marcus was seriously injured. He had a fractured skull. Charles was only slightly hurt and left hospital with a few bandages. Marcus lived for two days. I flew across from Paris. He lived long enough to tell me all about the crash. Charles didn’t admit it was his fault. He didn’t visit Marcus in hospital even though they had been such good friends. All he suffered was a driving ban for life. He’s had to employ a chauffeur ever since. Huh! Our daughter, Yvette was fifteen years old. She adored her father, as I did. Our world collapsed. I was not his wife so I had no claim on his estate. We had a struggling time in Paris. I was trying to find suitable work and bring up my daughter on my own. The years rolled by, as they do. Yvette grew up and vowed she would avenge her father’s death. She came over to England, sought Charles out, discovered he was a widower, forged a relationship with him and in August last they were married.’
She hesitated and lowered her eyes.
Angel said, ‘And then she tried to murder him by poisoning him with rat poison!’
She looked up. Her eyes opened wide. ‘You know?’
‘It wasn’t difficult to work out. Please go on.’
‘Well, Charles must have found out. Yvette did tell me that he had been ill and had been to the hospital, and that she would have to be careful. That was three weeks ago. And that was her last letter to me. I never heard from her again. I became very worried. The next thing I saw splashed across the French newspapers was that the body of Lady Yvette Millhouse had been found in a reservoir.’
Her hands shook. She momentarily pulled the handkerchief between them, and then relaxed the grip. She dabbed her nose and said, ‘Obviously, Charles Millhouse had discovered Yvette’s identity and her attempt to er — ’
She stopped again and breathed out a long sigh.
Angel shook his head. ‘To murder him. So you came over determined to finish the job?’
She straightened up. ‘No!’ she replied emphatically. ‘Certainly not. No. I merely wanted to continue administering the small doses so that no one would suspect Yvette of attempting to murder him. After all, if his illness flared up again, and after her death then obviously Yvette could not have been responsible. It would remove her from the field of suspicion. That is all I wanted to do. I swear it. You will see that I booked my return flight to Paris for today, because, obviously I had intended to return home today. The ticket is in my handbag. You can see for yourself. If I had been intending murdering Charles I would have stayed until he was dead, wouldn’t I?’ Angel did not reply.
The Missing Wife Page 14
