The Wigmaker (3 page)

‘Morning, Mac. What you got?’

‘Never been to a wig maker’s before,’ Mac said slowly in a broad Glaswegian accent you could batter with a haggis.

‘No. Neither have I. Is that the man, Peter Wolff?’

‘Yes. It’s him all right. There’s a picture of him in last week’s
Bromersley Chronicle
. He won a prize or something for making a wig for some famous popsy or other on the telly.’

‘I wouldn’t know. But it’s good to be sure whose body we are looking at.’

Mac bent down to his bag, permitting Angel from the archway to see the body of a man still in bed, naked to the waist with dried blood on his chest; he had a bald, domed head and ribs sticking out like a turkey carcass on Boxing Day.

‘Was he shot?’ Angel asked, as he observed the face of the body. It was pasty, thin and white.

‘Aye,’ the doctor continued. ‘One bullet. About a .303. Timing will be a bit difficult. The fire has made a mess of my usual method of calculations.’

Angel nodded. ‘But it’s reasonable to assume that Wolff was murdered before the fire was started.’

‘Aye. That’s logical,’ the doctor said, sealing up a polythene envelope and writing on the front of it. ‘And it’s correct.’

‘I assume then that the murderer would have broken into the premises, made his way up the two flights of stairs to this floor.’ Angel suddenly stopped, frowned, and said, ‘Tell me, Mac, has he got any pants on?’

‘No,’ the doctor said. ‘Why?’

‘I was thinking, he must have been murdered in bed. No man would normally stay in bed if he heard noises of an intruder in the place. If he were naked, he would certainly have felt vulnerable and further disadvantaged. There appear to be no signs of a struggle in or around the bed. I guess Mr Wolff may have been shot while he was asleep.’

‘It’s possible. He hasn’t been moved since death. I can say that for certain.’

Angel seemed satisfied with that preliminary analysis. He rubbed his chin.

Mac leaned over to the little bedside table and picked up his stand thermometer. He gazed at the level of the mercury. ‘You see, Michael. It’s still almost sixty in here and the windows are wide open.’

Angel nodded. ‘So what time do you estimate death?’

Mac pulled an impatient face. He closed the thermometer case and pushed it into his bag. ‘Well, I suppose it would have to be between 2200 hours last night and 0400 hours this morning. It would be difficult to be more accurate than that.’

‘Fair enough. The fire was first reported at 0600 hours. Mmm.’

He was getting a clearer picture.

There were footsteps on the stairs and a figure appeared behind him. It was DS Gawber. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘There you are, Ron. I’ve about finished here for the moment.’ He turned to the doctor. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, Mac,’ he said.

‘Aye. I’ll do the PM this afternoon. Don’t expect a lot from here. The murderer was clean, tidy and well organized,’ the doctor called after him.

Angel wrinkled his nose. He pointed out of the room, Gawber backed out and the two of them moved into the living room area.

‘This is murder
and
arson, Ron. I want you to find out Wolff’s next of kin, then ask around … in the neighbouring shops for any info about him … particularly about any regular visitors … customers, whatever.’

Suddenly they heard a voice from below them calling out: ‘Inspector! Inspector Angel! Are you still up there?’

It was DS Taylor. Angel went to the banister and called back down. ‘Yes Don, what is it?’

‘Young lady to see you, sir. Friend of Mr Wolff.’

Angel’s head went up. That was good news. It might save a lot of shoe leather and time.

‘Right, I’ll come down.’

‘I’ll push off, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘See what I can dig up.’ He made for the stairs. Angel followed behind him.

Taylor met Angel at the shop door. ‘She’s just outside, sir. Didn’t let her in. Says she knows Peter Wolff.’

A
ngel opened the shop door and a young woman of about twenty-five with a doleful face and beautiful eyes greeted him. She spoke pleasantly, with no smile. She held her head erect and stiff, with her shoulders back. Her hair was shiny, thick and black. She had long slim legs, was about five feet tall and she had a handbag on a strap over her very lean shoulder.

‘Is Peter dead?’ she murmured, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

Angel nodded. ‘I am afraid so, miss. Please come in,’ he said, holding open the door for her.

She stepped gingerly into the shop, noticing firstly the water on the floor, then the grimy walls. Her big eyes looked round at the walls and mirrors. Her face reflected how shocked she was at what she now saw.

‘You knew him well?’

‘As well as anybody, I suppose,’ she said. Angel reckoned that her enunciation was exaggerated, indicating that English was not her first language.

‘What was your relationship with him, miss?’

‘My name is Gina Podolsky. I worked for him now and again. What has happened to him? Please tell me.’

Angel was impressed by the genteel presence of the woman. She kept her head down and her eyes lowered.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied quietly. ‘He is dead and the place was set on fire. I am hoping you can help me. What did you do exactly? Were you intending to work for him today?’

Her eyes flashed crossly. She gave a quick jerk at the waist that made her skirt fan out a little way to show more of her legs, she blinked affectedly and said, ‘I am a model. I posed for all Peter Wolff’s pictures for his catalogue. He said I was the best model he ever had.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Today, he wanted to shoot me in some new wigs and hairpieces he had made.’ She suddenly broke down in tears. ‘Oh, this is awful.’

‘Take your time, miss,’ Angel said gently.

He waited a little while, then he said: ‘Did you know him long?’

‘Thank you. I am all right, now,’ she said, finding a pocket in which to stuff the tissue. ‘Three or four years. I live in Sheffield. We had an arrangement … a booking. I was to be here today between nine thirty and ten o’clock for around four hours. He was preparing his spring catalogue. It’s not a big catalogue, you understand. A sort of glorified leaflet that showed around sixty pictures of me in different wigs. He sends it out to his client list and any enquirers, I suppose.’

‘How well did you know him?’ Angel said looking closely into her eyes.

There was that flash of anger again. She thought that Angel might be suggesting something improper. She lifted her chin. ‘I knew him only as a model for his wigs. Nothing more. He was nearly old enough to be my father, I suppose. But he was a very nice man.’

‘Did he have any family? Was he married?’

‘I think that he said he had been married but his wife had died. I do not know if they had had any children.’

‘I have to find his next of kin, you see, Miss Podolsky.’

‘I am sorry. I cannot help you there. I know nothing more about that.’

‘Hmm. Have you any idea who might have wanted him dead? Do you know if he had any enemies?’

‘Oh no. Peter was one of the nicest men you would wish to meet.’

‘Did he have any money troubles … as far as you know?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought so. He always seemed to be busy at the bench. The telephone rang a lot. He only saw customers by appointment. All his wigs, extensions or pieces were individually made to order. He couldn’t do with time-wasters coming in and spending half an hour trying on cheap stock wigs as if they were hats, then leaving with something cheap. He said that they wouldn’t be satisfied long term. The public would know that they weren’t the real thing. You see, he made for the well heeled who wanted to look good close up. He had quite a few customers in the entertainment business, who always had to look glamorous on the screen. You know the sort of people I mean. Those who haven’t time to attend their hairdresser.’

Angel knew what she meant. He wasn’t making much headway.

‘How did he get his commissions? Ads in magazines?’

‘I guess he must get most of his work from the internet. I know he has his own website. I’ve checked it out.’

Angel nodded. That was the way business was going.

‘Did he employ anybody?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. When I have been here I have only ever seen him with customers.’

There was the ring of a mobile phone. It was Angel’s. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He turned away from the elegant Miss Podolsky, dived into his pocket, opened the phone and pressed the button. It was Harker.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you still down at that wig makers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you likely to be much longer? I’ve just had an unpleasant phone call from Lord Tiverton at Tiverton Hall.’

Angel frowned.

‘He’s had a suit of armour stolen,’ Harker continued. ‘He’s making a big meal of it. Get over there and see what you can do to settle him down. He’s a big noise on the all-party Home Office ways and means committee. He can do us bit of good; I don’t want him antagonized by some petty thieving, if you see what I mean.’

Angel knew exactly what he meant. His lordship was another friend of the chief constable and he thought that instructions had almost certainly come down from on high. ‘I’ll call in there on my way back.’

The sun was shining brightly, and Angel was standing outside the outbuildings of Tiverton Hall with his lordship, an elderly man incongruously dressed in brown tweed trousers, pyjama coat and slippers. He was bending forward leaning on a stick. His bald head was white and his face purple.

The two men were just inside the open door of one of the six outbuildings in a block, whose use had changed over the years from accommodating carriages and horses to garaging two modern cars, and storing dusty furnishings, pictures, rolled up marquees, loose tenting, garden furniture and tea chests full of china and assorted bric-a-brac. They were looking at a crude upright wooden structure, which was the means by which a suit of armour had been supported to display it in a standing position.

‘You say it was there, my lord?’ Angel said. ‘You saw it, did you?’

‘Of course I saw it. Dammit! It’s been in the family for two hundred years. Seventy-three years to my own personal knowledge.’

Angel frowned. ‘Why was it not in the house?’

Tiverton pulled a face. ‘Her ladyship got fed up with it staring at her, she said, every time she came through the hall. So when we had the hall painted last year I had it moved here.’

‘And when did you discover it was gone?’

‘This morning. This very morning. I came back from Scotland yesterday, arrived at about six o’clock last night … I didn’t go sniffing up and down the place then. I was damned bushed. Glad to get between the sheets. But I did have a look round this morning. Opened up everything. Good look round. You know. Somebody’s got to do it. Larkin’s all right, but he’s not as conscientious as his predecessor, dear old Plimpton. Now Plimpton would have scouted round the place last night and spotted that it was missing in a trice.’ He stopped and looked back at the house. He leaned over the stick, put a hand to his back and said, ‘Now where the hell is he? I told him to meet us out here when you arrived.’ His face contorted with pain.

Angel said: ‘Do you want to sit down, my lord?’

‘No. No. No. I want to get this matter dealt with then I can go back to bed. Where the hell is he?’

‘Do you want me to go and find him?’

‘No. You’d never find him. Wouldn’t know where to look.’

Angel sighed. ‘Well, how much was the suit of armour worth, my lord?’

‘Irreplaceable. A million? Two million? I don’t know. This wasn’t a Victorian copy, you know. This was the real thing, about five or six hundred years old. Brought back from France by one of my ancestors. All the parts were there, Inspector … both gauntlets. It was made for a small man. My father thought it could have been the dauphin himself. I don’t know.’

‘I suppose it was insured?’

‘What use is that? I couldn’t buy another anything like that with the money it’s insured for.’

Angel nodded. He expected the man was correct.

‘Do you have a photograph of it?’

‘Of course I have. I’ll post one on to you. Shan’t forget. You know, Angel, I have a good mind to sell up the whole bloody shebang and go and live in a bungalow at Filey or somewhere. If it wasn’t for my son, that’s what I would do. The responsibility and the bills would be far far less. The relief of responsibility would be very welcome. And my wife and I would probably live longer. Just take Larkin and a maid for my dear wife. That jumped-up millionaire Chancey next door would buy the damned place in a flash. He’s asked my solicitors twice about it. He’s anxious to buy an acre of the bottom field for some vulgar commercial venture. Ha! Her ladyship won’t hear of it. She still enjoys the pleasure of the lake, the motorboat and the fishing and so on.’

Angel stifled a smile. ‘You have a lake, sir?’

‘Behind those trees. Huge thing. We call it Lake Windermere. Nothing suits her ladyship better on a summer’s day than to be sat on the deck of the boat with paints and an easel, slapping out a Picasso or two. I wish they fetched half his money.’

A slight young man in a morning suit slipped quietly through the front door of the Hall and made his way down towards the coach houses.

Lord Tiverton saw him. ‘Ah! Here he comes, Angel. At last. He’ll be able to answer all your questions.’

Larkin seemed a pleasant enough young man, smartly dressed and brought up in the tradition of the profession, to be totally expressionless.

‘Ah! There you are, Larkin. This is Inspector Angel … come about the suit of armour. Can you tell him when you last saw it … for certain, that is?’

‘Yes, my lord. That would be about five o’ clock on the day before we went to Scotland. That was Monday, the twenty-sixth of May. When I cleared the tea things off the lawn and brought the bamboo table back in here. It was certainly there then.’

Angel said: ‘You are quite sure, Mr Larkin?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘Hmm. Have you had any unusual characters around lately, calling at the door, making enquiries?’

Tiverton jumped in to answer: ‘Can’t think of any,’ He glanced at the young man. ‘Have we had anything like that, Larkin – gypsies or whatever.’

‘I don’t think so, my lord.’

‘Who would know the suit of armour was here?’ Angel asked, looking from one to the other.

It was Tiverton who replied. ‘Anybody and everybody who visits us … in the summer, anyway. This door might well be left open if we were having tea in the garden with friends and acquaintances, which we frequently did when the weather was clement. But I can’t think any of them would stoop so low.’

‘Would they know its value?’

‘Would hardly have thought so,’ his lordship said thoughtfully, then added: ‘No. I think not.’

‘Who knew you were away?’ Angel said.

‘Loads of people … tradespeople … all the staff and their families … my doctor … the bridge club … but you can’t suspect them, Inspector. Dammit, some of them are my friends. They are the cream of the town. Anyway, the house is entirely alarmed. The system, I am reliably informed, is foolproof.’

‘Unfortunately, it didn’t include these outbuildings,’ Angel said.

‘No,’ Tiverton grunted, then angrily muttered something unintelligible, turned and began to stagger back towards the front door of the Hall. Larkin quickly joined him.

‘I’d like to take a look around the grounds if I may?’ Angel called.

Tiverton stopped, looked back and impatiently said, ‘You can poke around out here for as long as you like, if it will help to bring back that armour, Inspector. But I must return to bed.’

‘Right, my lord.’

‘Take Larkin. He may be of service to you.’

The man in the morning suit arched an eyebrow briefly, then remembered himself, nodded dutifully towards Tiverton, turned and rejoined Angel at the door of the garage.

Angel rubbed his chin.

Lord Tiverton, in spite of the pain, soon reached the front door of the house and went inside.

After a moment, Angel turned to the young man and said, ‘Have you any idea how this suit of armour might have been stolen?’

‘Not really,’ Larkin said. ‘It was quite heavy and awkward. It wouldn’t have been easy for one man to carry away. It was in about six pieces, you see.’ He spoke in a more normal and relaxed voice out of the presence of his lordship.

‘Yes. And how was the garage broken into?’ Angel asked, turning round and looking for the lock.

‘It wasn’t locked, Inspector. It’s never been locked. None of the garages is locked. It’s not a problem. Well, it’s never been seen to be a problem until now. Strangers or unsavoury people do not frequent this area and certainly not as far down Creesforth Drive as this. We are well off the beaten track. Even the post is delivered by van. We are aware that the occasional person walks their dog on the old path between the grounds and the farmer’s field on the west side, but there’s an eight-foot wall most of the way down. And the neighbours on the east side are the Chanceys, a very respectable family. They have that big modern house with the swimming pool and the tennis court. Frank Chancey owns that big chain of timber merchants and DIY places. You must have heard of Chancey’s Timber Merchants? Branches all over the place.’

Angel raised his head. Of course he recalled the name, the signs and the persistent, annoying and repetitive advertisements on television. He made a mental note of where the rich man lived.

‘Where is the lake, Mr Larkin?’

‘It is just beyond the trees,’ he said pointing behind the garages. ‘I’ll show you. This way.’ He began striding out on the gravel down a path that led through a curtain of trees and bushes to a pleasing sight beyond them of a small blue lake with a grey carved stone pillared bridge, decorated with potted flowers across it, and a small motorboat moored to a short wooden quay. They stood there a few moments. Angel was taking in the view. He was quietly surprised that such a delightful outlook could be hidden in the backwoods of Bromersley.