The Wigmaker (16 page)

‘Right, sir.’

He turned away. ‘I must have a word with Lord Tiverton,’ he muttered to himself. His mobile phone rang out. He dived into his pocket and pulled it out. It was DC Scrivens.

Angel took a deep breath. He couldn’t imagine what was coming next. ‘Yes, lad. What’s the matter?’

‘Grainger’s arrived here, sir. He’s wounded and he wants to know where his wife is. He’s acting up. He refuses to go with us. Do I cuff him or what.’

‘What do you mean, he’s wounded? How bad is it?’

‘Don’t know, sir. It’s a gunshot wound in his arm. I reckon he should be seen by a doctor, make sure it doesn’t go wrong.’

‘Right. Take him to the A and E at the General, then. Cuff him if needs be, but make sure he knows that he’s not under arrest. Tell him that we are protecting him. And tell him that his wife is in our custody for her safety. All right? And when he’s had his arm seen to, give me a ring, and let me know what’s happening. All right?’

‘What made you think that Katrina Chancey was buried in the bottom of Lord Tiverton’s lake, sir?’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to be conned into burrowing under Chancey’s gazebo and have egg on my face twice. I knew he couldn’t have moved the body far, so when his lordship told me his wheelbarrow had also been stolen, an idea emerged. I kept it quiet because I didn’t want Chancey to get to know and start making plans to make an early escape attempt. We haven’t enough to book him with yet.’

‘But why was Grainger shot, sir?’ Gawber said. ‘I don’t understand why Chancey wanted Grainger dead.’

‘Don’t you see, Ron? At the moment, we can’t prove that that body just dragged out of Lord Tiverton’s lake is that of Katrina Chancey, but I’d be happy to bet my gas bill with any respectable turf accountant that it most definitely is. However, as we can’t
prove
that it’s Katrina then she, theoretically, is still alive, and if Gabriel Grainger was actually murdered and his body had been buried in another lake or somewhere else, and nobody knew anything about it, then it could be thought that Gabriel and Katrina had run off together for mad, interminable sex. In which case we, the police, would have no need – indeed, no business – to be out there looking for either of them. They haven’t committed a crime, they’re over eighteen and are free to “disappear” with the other three thousand people in this country, who vanish every year and are never seen again. That’s why Chancey wanted him dead and lost. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s called freedom, or liberty or democracy or something like that.’

Gawber nodded. ‘Right, sir. It’s sad though.’

‘
Very
sad … that their lives are so miserable living with their wives, partners, mothers, fathers, children or even on their own, they decide that it’s a better option. Anyway, what we’ve got to do now is prove that that messed-up pile of human meat was originally the body of Katrina Chancey.’

The phone rang. It was Scrivens.

‘We’re at the general hospital, sir. The doctor says Grainger’s arm is nasty, but it’s only a flesh wound, hasn’t touched the bone. As it’s a gunshot wound, he has to report it to the superintendent. I suppose that’s all right. What do you want us to do with him now, sir?’

‘Is he quieter now?’

‘Yes sir. The doctor gave him an injection. Told him to rest. He says he feels sleepy.’

Angel frowned. He had intended interviewing Grainger, but it would hardly be fair to him.

‘All right. Take him up to the safe house on Beechfield Walk. That’s where his wife is. Check him in to WPC Baverstock and leave him there. Tell him that for his own safety he’s not to go out, then clock off.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel replaced the phone. He glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s six o’clock, Ron. Don’t know about you. I’ve had enough of today. I’m going home.’

‘W
hat you doing late, love?’ she said gently as he came through the back door. ‘Been trying to stop it drying up for the last hour.’

Angel blinked. Mary was friendly, considering he was late. That was the nicest she had spoken to him since the saga of the ‘Chippendale’ table had started.

He took off his jacket.

‘Yes. Sorry. Found a body … a murdered body … came in late,’ he said as he crossed over to the fridge and took out a bottle of German beer.

She wrinkled her nose and feigned a shudder. ‘I don’t know why you can’t get a respectable job. Instead of all that mixing with sleazy individuals and messing about with dead bodies and their DUD.’

‘DNA!’

‘DNA? I thought that was a machine that plays recordings of films and things.’

‘That’s a DVD.’

‘No, you’re wrong. I know for a fact they’re called CDs. My sister’s got one in her Jimmy Osmond collection.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Who?’

She didn’t reply. She rattled some plates.

He shook his head. Got a glass from the cupboard and poured the beer while still standing.

‘Well, sit down. I’m serving up.’

Despite all the argy-bargy, Angel identified a distinct thawing in the relationship. In fact, she was so agreeable throughout the meal that he began to be quite worried. He thought there must have been some further expensive development concerning the three legged eyesore in the hall.

It was after they had finished the meal, cleared away, she had kicked off her slippers and before he had sat down in the sitting room and switched on the television, that she began.

‘You know that I have tried all over Sheffield to get a matching leg for that table?’

‘Yes,’ he said, hiding his eyes in the glass of beer, bracing himself for what was coming.

‘Well, there’s a man on Abbeydale Road. He’s an antique dealer. He says he can do it. It’ll cost four hundred pounds.’

Angel’s heart started pounding. He said nothing. Her stories had a way of building up to a climax, then, it was to be hoped, coming back down to reality. The only money available was £106. It was no use her proposing ideas involving a higher figure. There was no question of extending the mortgage. That was definitely out. He sat tight.

‘Yes, love,’ he said mildly, hoping the outcome was less than £106.

‘Well, Michael, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to get a matching leg for this table leg,’ she said. ‘I’ve phoned all the likely people in Bromersley, Barnsley and Sheffield now, to no avail.’

And it’s cost me an absolute fortune in telephone calls too
, he wanted to say but didn’t.

‘And, in view of the fact that you are against this proposal—’

‘I am not against it, we simply can’t afford it.’

‘In view of the fact that you are against this proposal, I have decided to put it into Williamson’s auction, tomorrow evening. That Mr Williamson is such a nice man. He said he’d accept it as a late entry.’

Angel felt his back muscles relax. Mary was referring to a half-baked, gimcrack establishment run by a publican up a backstreet on the outskirts of town. Sending the table to auction would at least get shot of it. Get it out of the house. But she’d get nothing for it in that flea-bitten establishment. She’d be lucky to get a bid of a fiver. That would be £500 down the pan. Timms must be laughing his chrysanthemum-perfumed socks off.

‘With the proceeds,’ she continued, ‘I’ll have to satisfy myself with a table from that very modern shop … IDEA.’

‘You mean, IKEA.’

‘Or the FBI.’

He frowned. ‘MFI.’

‘Yes. Well, anyway, they both sell brand-new modern stuff. Wouldn’t be ideal, but there you are.’

He rubbed his chin. What was there to say? It was a
fait accompli
. It was goodbye to £500. But it had been goodbye two weeks ago, when she had first met the sainted Seymour Timms. Anyway, goodbye and good riddance. He hoped that she would learn from the experience. The gas bill would have to wait until his next pay day. Thank goodness it was summer. He wouldn’t like to be paying late for gas in the winter. Although he didn’t suppose they would cut them off. He wasn’t pleased. He didn’t like Mary being done like that. He wrinkled his nose, then nodded and picked up the
Radio Times
.

‘The thing is…’ she said and waited.

He eventually looked up at her.

‘Would you be a darling and take it round there sometime this evening before eight o’clock?’

His jaw dropped. He sighed, then he stood up. He threw the
Radio Times
on to the chair and said, ‘I’ll do it now.’

Mary smiled.

It was a treat to see her smile. She hadn’t smiled since that cheque had come from Snap, Crackle and Pop.

She stood on the front step and watched him load the tawdry woodworm-ridden three-legged shambles of a table in the boot of the BMW.

‘Take the books,’ she called, ‘and set it up firmly for him. Make the best of it, for me. There’s a darling.’

Things were looking up.

He wrapped the table top carefully with the cloth, then wrapped it over a leg and pressed everything down. He closed the boot lid.

‘Don’t let it wobble,’ she added. ‘Show him how firm it stands and tell him that that nice Mr Seymour Timms from the BBC used to stand his prize chrysanthemums on it. And remind him that it’s a Chippendale piece, around 1780. Could have been in the Nostell Priory collection. No. Perhaps you’d better not say that, as I can’t be sure about it.’

He sighed. The muscles round his mouth tightened. He loved her dearly, but she really was pushing her luck. He got in the car, started the engine and drove away.

It was 8.28 a.m.

Angel put his head round the CID office looking for Ahmed. The young man came in behind him.

Angel looked at his watch.

‘I’m not late, sir,’ Ahmed said, looking wide-eyed.

‘No lad, you’re not. But there’s a lot going to happen today, and I want to be in front of it. I want you to get the Top Notch model agency, London, on the phone for me. I want to speak to a woman called Melanie.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And I want you to find DS Gawber, DS Crisp and DC Scrivens and send them to my office, pronto.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel went into his office. He took off his raincoat and hung it on the hook on the stationery cupboard, just as he had done for the past eight years. As he did it, he began thinking. He liked being a copper and he liked being a DI. Detective inspector was the best rank to be. To be any lower meant you might be on relatively menial jobs, even fetching pet cats down trees, while any higher and you would be forever in meetings, grappling with targets, statistics, reports and kowtowing to visiting hierarchy. No. DI was where he was and DI was where he wanted to stay. He would always be hands on, doing what he liked doing best, catching the worst of all criminals: murderers.

The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was the Top Notch model agency.

‘Ah, Melanie. We are still looking for Katrina Chancey. You will have a detailed physical description of her on your books, won’t you?’

‘Yes, Inspector. Of course we have.’

‘Could you give me her height exactly?’

‘Yes, of course. I have it here. She is five feet eight and a half inches tall.’

‘Blue eyes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did she have any distinguishing marks on her, such as an appendix scar or a scar following a mastoid operation, or a hysterectomy or a birthmark or anything like that?’

‘No. No. Nothing unusual to identify here. But of course, she would be unmistakable. A face like hers … her features were unusual, classical … unique. I would recognize her anywhere.’

Angel hesitated. He was almost drawn into saying what he thought, but he managed to control himself. Good coppers ask questions but never volunteer information. Information is part of a policeman’s stock in trade. And sometimes it is expensive to get hold of it.

‘Have you found her?’ Melanie asked. ‘Has she been seen somewhere?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said, which might not have been the truth, but that was all he said.

‘If you need someone to ID her from CCTV or something like that, I could do it.’

‘Yes. Yes. Thanks very much. I’ll let you know if it becomes necessary.’

He replaced the receiver. His face looked grim. If Melanie could see the body now, the body that he thought was Katrina’s, maybe she wouldn’t have offered to ID it so rashly.

There was a knock at the door. Crisp and Scrivens came in.

Angel turned to Scrivens first. ‘Ted, I want you to go to the safe house and bring Gabriel Grainger here. Don’t bring his wife. I just want him. All right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He dashed off.

‘Now, Trevor,’ he said to Crisp. ‘I need to find out if Chancey is back from wherever he went to yesterday, and confirmation that he spent the night at home and is in his office today as usual. You could go to his offices. He doesn’t know you. You could tell the girl on reception you’re looking for a job. Start from there. And there’s a chambermaid works at the house. Her Christian name is Maria. You might be able to find out her full name. You’ll like this job. She’s very pretty. But there’s a snag. I need to know that info today, so there’s no time for any foreplay, just get on with it. All right?’

Crisp grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

He went out and closed the door.

It was a tall order, but Crisp had always been one for the ladies; he was gifted with the looks and the chat. And was the best on Angel’s team at extricating info with ease and charm.

Angel picked up the phone and tapped in the Bromersley general hospital number. It was answered quickly and he asked for the mortuary. He was soon through.

‘Good morning, Mac. I know it’s early days, but what can you tell me?’

‘Well, what do you want to know?’

‘I want to ID the body, of course. Have you managed to have a look at it? Is it Katrina Chancey or somebody else? I’ve found out she’s five feet eight and a half inches, blue eyes and no surgery or birthmarks.’

‘Well, all that fits this corpse. I can close in on her age a bit. I’d say that she’s between sixteen and twenty-five.’

‘That helps. What about fingerprints?’

‘No chance. Her hands were totally mutilated. As are her face and mouth, which also rules out ID by dental records.’

‘He certainly made an excellent job of concealing her ID.’

‘There’s plenty of body parts: hair, skin, fluids for DNA.’

‘Yeah. But we need something to compare it with. Anyway, thanks, Mac.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin. Things were looking good. Everything pointed to the corpse being that of Katrina Chancey. But it would have to be proved positively before it could be legally accepted that indeed it was her. DNA was looking to be the only way. There was no knowledge of any family. Nobody knew anything about where she came from. Chancey wasn’t likely to assist, even if he knew. Indeed, he had put everything in their way to make it impossible.

There was a knock at the door. It was Scrivens with the tall, handsome dark-haired womanizer, Gabriel Grainger. His arm was in a sling and there was a small sticking plaster above his left eyebrow. He was obviously going to be cagey. He looked sidelong at Angel.

‘Thanks Ted,’ Angel said.

Scrivens went out.

Angel nodded at Grainger, looked at the sling, pointed to a chair and they sat down.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong, Inspector. Not a thing, you know. You need to understand that.’

‘How’s the arm,’ Angel said evenly.

‘It’s OK,’ Grainger said with a shrug, then he winced. The movement produced pain the man hadn’t expected.

Angel almost smiled.

‘Tell me what happened on the night of Friday, the thirteenth of April. That was the night of the mysterious phone call, when you packed a suitcase and left Zoë.’

‘I didn’t leave Zoë in the way that you make it sound. It’s all been very difficult. I’ve been unable to get a job for six months, you know. Everybody wants references. We’ve been living on dole money.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Angel said.

‘Yes, well, a week or so before I left, I had answered an ad in the paper for a smart, young executive, over six feet, dark hair, good physique. I had all the qualifications for the job, and I was interviewed by Frank Chancey in his posh office at his big factory. He was offering three hundred quid a week. It was a short interview. He didn’t ask many questions and he said he would consider me and let me know. I thought it was a brush-off. I had had so many. I was getting used to it, you know?’

Angel nodded.

‘Anyway he rang up in a panic on that Friday night. He said he wanted to offer me the job and told me that it was all hush-hush. He said he wanted to buy the timber rights for a massive area in Cumbria, when they came up on offer. He wanted me to be placed in a strategic position, able to be the first to become aware of the rights coming on the market, and the first, maybe the only one, to put in a bid on his behalf. All I had to do was look as if I was on holiday, tell nobody I was there and ask no questions about timber. I was not to mention his name, because he was so well-known in the timber business he said it might interest other possible purchasers and thereby push up the price. At that money I naturally agreed. He said that he’d heard rumblings that this deal might be coming to a head very soon indeed. If I wanted the job, I was to pack a bag immediately that night, tell nobody and meet him at the end of the street in ten minutes. He would give me five hundred pounds and then send me three hundred pounds each week in folding money by registered post. He told me that there was a train leaving at ten o’ clock for Leeds, then up to Penrith in Cumbria. Then it was about a half hour’s ride by taxi to a little hotel called the King’s Arms at Ridley Stewart. I agreed, of course. I was very enthusiastic about it. I told Zoë what I could earn, being a millionaire’s representative. I thought it was the beginning of a break for me. Anyway, the hotel was in the middle of nowhere. I was comfortable enough, and he was paying the hotel bill, but bored out my skin. The following Tuesday I got another three hundred quid. I was rolling in it. I couldn’t contact Zoë because I’d said that I wouldn’t and I didn’t want to stop the gravy train, now did I? I wasn’t to know what was going to happen. Anyway, yesterday morning, I was in the hotel at Ridley Stewart. I had just come back in from a stroll to a petrol station along the road to buy a newspaper, when a big man in a clown’s mask came in. He was waving a gun.’