The Wigmaker Page 12

  Harker pursed his lips. ‘No. No. Can’t do that. Not without specific permission.’

  There was a pause. Angel looked across at Harker.

  ‘Will you get me that permission, sir?’ he said, nodding at the phone.

  ‘He’s in Bournemouth at a conference. Can’t interrupt him for that, lad.’

  Angel turned the bonnet of the BMW through the open gates of Chancey House, down the drive, through the bushes to the front of the house. The first thing that met his eye was the spray of water from the mouth of the statue of a water baby or whatever it was, reaching over eight feet high from the huge marble fountain in front of the main entrance to the house. He gazed at it for a few seconds. It was truly magnificent. With the foundations, the marble figure and surround must weigh ten tons or more. It must surely impress Katrina Chancey and make her count her blessings and reflect upon her husband’s great wealth when she returned. If she ever did return.

  Behind him came the SOCO van with DS Taylor driving it. He parked it next to the BMW and joined Angel at the main entrance as he rang the bell.

  Shortly it was answered by Mrs Symington.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Did you want to see Mr Chancey? He’s at the office, you know. Not expected back until much later this afternoon.’

  Angel feigned surprise. ‘Oh? It’s about having all Mr Chancey’s footwear checked over. Is it not convenient?’

  Mrs Symington frowned and blinked several times.

  He looked at Taylor. ‘We’ve made a fruitless journey, Sergeant. It’s Friday. You won’t be able to get back until Monday at the earliest, will you?’

  ‘No, sir. Be three weeks at least, sir. The equipment has to go back.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Oh yes. Pity. A lot can happen in that time.’

  Taylor shook his head and looked down.

  Mrs Symington said: ‘What exactly do you want? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s a matter of hygiene,’ Angel said. ‘Radio activity and gamma rays.’

  ‘And computer viruses,’ Taylor added.

  Mrs Symington’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ Taylor said.

  ‘So easy to pick up on one’s shoes,’ Angel said. ‘I was going to check over Mr Chancey’s footwear to check that he wasn’t carrying any of those in the form of computer spam around and infecting the house and the carpets.’

  Taylor said: ‘It’s so easily picked up in the dirty streets, factories, offices and places.’

  ‘DS Taylor has the equipment here in the van,’ Angel added.

  Mrs Symington looked him up and down. ‘There’s no infection in the carpets, here, Inspector. They have all just been dry-cleaned.’

  ‘I know, and he wants to keep them like that,’ Angel said. ‘And I don’t blame him. He wants everything to stay spotless.’

  ‘You can’t see it, you see, Ma’am. Like BSE, mad cow disease.’

  Angel glanced at Taylor. He thought that might have gone too far.

  Mrs Symington frowned.

  There was a pause.

  Angel said: ‘If you think Mr Chancey would be happy to wait a month or whenever…?’

  ‘No. No,’ she said. ‘What exactly needs to be done, Inspector?’

  Angel and Taylor exchanged glances.

  Angel explained that he needed all Mr Chancey’s footwear for checking and that the whole business would take ten or fifteen minutes only at the most.

  Mrs Symington quickly disappeared and returned to the door a few minutes later with three large plastic bags containing twelve pairs of shoes, three pairs of slippers, a pair of flip flops, two pairs of tennis shoes and a pair of deck shoes.

  Angel eagerly took them from her, went round to the back of the SOCO van and handed them up to Taylor who was inside, now wearing white paper overalls and thick rubber gloves.

  Angel climbed in and sat on a fitted hinged seat opposite him, hoping for a positive result.

  Taylor wiped the sole of each shoe separately with methylated spirit to remove any oil or grease; then dipped a one-inch brush into a glass jar, which contained a dangerous liquid comprising a concentration of two parts of hydrochloric acid to one part nitric acid, with a thimbleful of potassium nitrate. He quickly applied a thin coat of the highly corrosive stuff to the sole of the shoe, carefully avoiding any destructive splashing. After each application he examined the shoe sole closely. In the presence of any gold and platinum and palladium dust, there would have been an instant bubbling in response to acid working on metal. The bubbling would have been in a colour that would have indicated the particular precious metal and its purity. There was no reaction at all, so there was no metal present. The shoe sole was instantly doused in water and wiped dry, to stop the acid continuing to act and eat into the leather.

  Taylor was not having any luck. He applied a coat of the acid on to the last shoe and held it up to the light. A wisp of white vapour drifted upwards, but there was no other reaction from the sole. That was it. There had been no sign of a precious metal on any of Chancey’s shoes. He quickly doused the last shoe in cold water, wiped it vigorously with cotton waste and passed it to Angel.

  ‘That’s it, sir. Nothing.’

  Angel was disappointed. He sighed loudly. His belly felt as hollow as a conman’s promise. He had thought it possible that Chancey was the murderer of Peter Wolff. The nonsense of the shoes of different sizes for Katrina somehow triggered something subconsciously in Angel’s mind. But he must have been wrong. Chancey didn’t have a motive. It had not been a good idea. It could not have been him.

  ‘Could be the pair of shoes he’s wearing now,’ Taylor said as sort of consolation.

  ‘Could be,’ Angel said. But he didn’t really think so. He agreed though, that as a matter of proper scientific thoroughness they should be checked.

  He put the last shoe into the plastic bag, alighted from the SOCO van, crossed to the house entrance and rang the doorbell.

  Mrs Symington appeared.

  He forced a smile as he handed her the bags of shoes.

  ‘Were they all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely perfect clean,’ Angel said. ‘Nothing to worry about there, Mrs Symington.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, beaming.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he lied.

  The door closed.

  He turned. He was facing the new fountain. He gazed at it again for a few seconds. It was truly magnificent. With the foundations, it must weigh ten tons or more.

  Princess Diana had a water feature built in her memory he recalled.

  He wondered where Katrina Chancey was … whether she was alive or dead. If she was dead, where was she buried?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  It was Saturday, 5 May.

  The sun was shining. Birds were singing. Rottweilers were barking. It was the first day of the weekend. The day Angel would normally have looked forward to. It should also have been a welcome relief from the tedious job of searching for the murderer of Peter Wolff, an investigation with nothing to go on and for which, as yet, there seemed to be no motive. It should have been respite from the peculiar business of looking into the disappearance of missing glamour girl Katrina Chancey, whose husband was a friend of the chief’s, and all the complications that that had made, and searching for missing glamour-boy, mister handsome himself, Gabriel Grainger, every housewife’s comforter and friend. The last two, he accepted, might simply be missing persons, who could be ensconced somewhere, together or separately, safe and happy as pigs in the proverbial. He didn’t know that for certain. He knew nothing for certain. Everything led to a dead end. He had spent all week hard at it, and made little progress.

  It should have been a day of rest and relaxation, but he had promised to take Mary to Harrogate to collect the Chippendale table, for which she had paid £500. He had made the promise reluctantly and under duress, but a promise is a promise. And Mary always got her own way.


  They had an early lunch and Mary had pulled out some dust sheets, old sheets and blankets to wrap the table in to protect it from further damage on the journey back. From her description, Angel thought that it would fit satisfactorily in the closed boot of the car and so off they went.

  He had driven the BMW through Harrogate on the Ripon road and Mary was directing him. There were some complex twists and turns before they reached the leafy country lane with more potholes than needle-marks on a junkie’s arm. The gates to Mr Seymour Timms’s house and garden were open, so Angel drove straight in and up to the house. His heart sank when he saw the neglected state of the fence, the gates, the house and greenhouse.

  ‘What a dump,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. It doesn’t matter to him. All he’s interested in his chrysanthemums,’ Mary explained.

  She got out of the car. ‘Come on. Can you see him anywhere?’

  Angel muttered something unhelpful, got out of the car and locked the door with the remote. There was no sign of life. He looked round. And then suddenly through the gap in the bushes, he saw the huge show of bright colours reflecting the bright May sun. It was a strikingly colourful display of row upon row of chrysanthemums. It lightened his heart. He took in the colours and the smell. Even from that distance. He stood there with a smile on his face. The first proper relaxed smile since he’d heard that the Met had arrested two of the men wanted in connection with the London bomb plot. He breathed deeply. Then, from where he stood, he swivelled around the entire 360º to survey the site to find the whereabouts of Seymour Timms.

  ‘Where is the old codger, then?’

  An elderly voice behind them said, ‘Good afternoon, I suppose I must be the old codger, sir.’ He said dryly, then he doffed his hat and replaced it. ‘Seymour Timms is what most people call me,’ he added with a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  He must have dodged out of one of the greenhouses behind them and they had not noticed.

  Mary looked surprised. ‘It’s Mrs Angel, Mr Timms. I bought that table from you.’

  His pale face brightened. ‘Ah yes, of course.’

  ‘And this is my husband.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. You’ve come to collect it. Of course. Of course. It is assembled the best way it could be by the carpenter … behind the conservatory. Come this way. But first, you must come and see what the carpenter has done for me.’

  They followed Timms towards the conservatory, tacked on to the nearest side of the tumblety house. The door was wide open and he put an arm out to show a number of shelves of different heights from the top to the bottom, with a large table surface below, all in new unpainted timber. Mary could see that he had more than twice as many pots there now and she also noticed the blue-and-white Wedgewood bowl placed in the familiar position on the corner nearest the door.

  ‘Your brilliant idea,’ Timms said with a smile, looking at Mary. ‘I was very worried at first, but the local carpenter turned out to be first class. He fitted me shelves just how and where I needed them and I got a little bit of change out of the cheque you paid me for the table. So I hope everybody is happy.’

  Mary smiled. ‘I’m very happy, Mr Timms, thank you.’

  Angel looked at her and frowned.

  Timms went round the back of the conservatory to the far side. They followed behind.

  ‘Here’s your table, Mrs Angel. I put the hose on it … removed most of the earth off it before I got the carpenter to set it up here.’

  As they followed Timms, Mary grabbed her husband by the arm and whispered in his ear, ‘Look, Michael, it’s old, it’s antique and it’s made by Thomas Chippendale. You may not think much to it, but it’s a work of art, it’s a bargain and I’ve bought it with my own money.’

  Angel looked at her and frowned.

  ‘So I don’t want you making a scene,’ she added. ‘All right?’

  He shrugged.

  Then he saw it. He stared at it dumbstruck.

  It was a plain straightforward table, four feet long by two feet deep, with a heavily scratched top set on three tapered legs. At the corner where the fourth leg should have been it was propped up with a pile of thick, musty and very old books.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Timms,’ Mary said with a big smile.

  Angel gasped. ‘There’s a leg missing,’ he grunted. ‘Where is it? A table’s no good with a missing leg. I mean to say …’

  Mary glared at him with a face like a judge with piles. ‘Leave it, Michael. I said, leave it. I bought it with three legs, as it is. The deal is done. Will you put it in the car, Michael, please?’

  ‘Can I assist with the loading, dear lady?’ Timms said touching his hat.

  ‘You must be off your head,’ Angel muttered. ‘I knew there was some insanity in your family. Your mother was never right … she went a bit funny in the end. It’s in the genes—’

  Her face was scarlet. ‘Will you shut up and put it in the boot?’

  He picked up the table from the column of books and carried it easily the twenty yards or so to the car, shaking his head and muttering all the while. He wrapped it, pointlessly he thought, in the sheets she had brought and lowered it easily into the car boot.

  Mary followed behind him angrily, stamping her shoe heels into the ground.

  Timms followed a few moments later with the books in a wheelbarrow.

  Angel looked at the old man strangely as he packed them into the boot. He then looked at Mary who sniffed and stuck her nose in the air.

  When the wheelbarrow was empty Angel closed the boot and, without a word, unlocked the car doors. He got into the driver’s seat and put on his seat belt.

  Timms and Mary shook hands, said their goodbyes, then she got into the car.

  Angel started the engine, turned the car round to face the gate. The last Angel saw of Seymour Timms was in his rear view mirror. The old man was trudging towards the greenhouses, pushing the wheelbarrow.

  There was a difficult silence in the car all the way home. In fact, there was almost total silence in the Angel house the entire weekend.

  It was 8.28 a.m., Monday, 7 May. Angel drove the BMW determinedly along Creesforth Road, down Creesforth Drive then left through the open gates of Chancey House, and along the drive up to the magnificent fountain in the gravel square at the front entrance of the great house. He got out of the car and turned to look at and listen to the water display. Water spewed in a beautiful form out of the mouth of the cupid character on a pedestal in the centre of the big round marble edging that formed the wall, which contained the water. He walked up to the edge and looked downwards into it. It was about two feet deep. The sound of it shooting up then trickling down was pleasant, repetitive, almost hypnotic.

  It certainly made the entrance to Chancey House most imposing.

  Katrina Chancey would surely be impressed, if she was ever coming back to see it … wherever she was.

  He meandered round the perimeter of the fountain rubbing his chin. He wondered where Katrina Chancey was at that moment… even if she was alive. Although a lot of searching and enquiries had been made, it had not actually been possible to determine that she had ever left the house for Rome that Saturday morning. There were positively no witnesses of it. They had enquired everywhere. He intended going through Frank Chancey’s evidence again. There must be something he had overlooked or perhaps there was something he simply wasn’t revealing.

  He turned away from the fountain towards the main entrance to the house when he heard a mobile phone very faintly. He reached into his pocket automatically, although he knew it wasn’t his ring tone. No, it wasn’t his phone. He looked around. It was very faint and was near the fountain. He walked up to the fountain to try to home in on the sound. He thought it came from the middle of the fountain, if that was possible. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped.

  His narrowed his eyes. Had he really heard the ring of a mobile phone coming from the centre of the fountain, so early on
a May morning? It was hard to believe. There was nobody else around. And then a horrific thought crossed his mind.

  At that same moment, the handsome figure of Frank Chancey appeared at the entrance of the house. His eyebrows shot up when he saw Angel hovering over the fountain.

  ‘What brings you to admire my lovely fountain at this early hour, Inspector?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Chancey. Strange thing, you know. I just heard a mobile phone ring. It came from underneath the fountain.’

  ‘What?’ Chaney said with a smile. ‘It must have been the birds, old chap. It is the beginning of May, you know.’

  A burgundy Rolls Royce drove up from behind the house to the front entrance and stopped.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘Sorry. Not just now. Appointments all morning. Give my secretary a ring.’

  The chauffeur wore a nebbed hat. He looked in Angel’s direction and waved. Angel recognized him. It was Lyle. He acknowledged the wave.

  ‘Must go. Excuse me,’ Chancey said. He stepped into the limousine, the car pulled away and was on its way up the drive while Angel stood there rubbing his chin.

  Angel stared at the fountain, his ears straining to hear the mobile phone ring tone again. He stood in front of it listening to the fall of the water for ten minutes or more, then he turned away. He meandered round the fountain one more time then he suddenly stuck his hand into his jacket pocket for his own mobile. He opened it and dialled a number.

  ‘Ahmed, I want you to look in the file on my side table, labelled Katrina Chancey. I want her mobile phone number.’

  Two minutes later, he was tapping out the number on his mobile. He pressed the send button and waited expectantly by the fountain.

  The sound of a mobile phone rang out again. His pulse raced. He could hear it faintly. There was no doubt about it. It seemed to come from under the centre of the statue. It definitely emanated from Katrina Chancey’s missing mobile! How had it got there? The question had to be asked: was the body of the missing woman underneath the fountain also?