The Missing Wife Read online

  Before he could reply, there was the clatter of the front door opening, the voice of a man calling out, followed by the bang of the heavy door being closed.

  Sir Charles put his glass down on the wine table near the fireplace. He looked past Angel to the drawing room door leading from the hall. A burly, muscular man of around thirty years, strode quickly into the room, closely followed by a slim, attractive brunette wearing a tight skimpy red dress.

  Sir Charles’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, it’s you two.’

  They brushed past Inspector Angel and Sir Charles and made a straight line for the fire.

  ‘Has Yvette turned up then?’ The young man asked.

  ‘No,’ Sir Charles replied bluntly. He stared from the man to the woman and back in quick succession. Then looked across at Angel. ‘My son and his wife, Duncan and Susan.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Ah, yes. The antique dealer?’

  Duncan looked up briefly. ‘Yes.’ Then he looked at his father sourly.

  Both Duncan Millhouse and his wife leaned towards the fire and put out their hands to warm them. Then the pretty young woman left the fire briefly and came across to Sir Charles. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Hello, Pa.’

  ‘Hello Susie,’ he said quietly with a very short smile.

  ‘Sorry about Yvette,’ she said and returned to the fire.

  ‘I expect she’ll turn up,’ Sir Charles said, shaking his head and then biting his lower lip. He then looked at Angel.

  Duncan stopped warming his hands and turned round for a chance to warm his back and legs. He had long, thick arms filling out a dark lounge suit, was much shorter than his father, and more athletic. He glanced at the podgy policeman and said casually, as he straightened his coat collar, ‘Who’s this then?’

  ‘Inspector Angel.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Angel grunted.

  ‘Police, eh? Good evening. I hope you’re going to find my stepmother soon,’ he said coolly.

  ‘We will. We will,’ he replied, trying to sound confident.

  ‘A lovely woman.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  The policeman didn’t take to the brashness of this young man. His voice was loud. His jaw stuck out. He moved with short, jerky actions. His father could teach him a lot about personal charm and presentation. Angel then looked across at Susan Millhouse. He observed her glistening, short, black hair and trim figure. How elegant she was in contrast to her husband. Surely, he thought, she could have found a more presentable partner.

  ‘I’ll be off, then, Sir Charles.’

  He turned to the door, then turned back briefly. ‘Good evening, everybody.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Sir Charles said. ‘You will let me know if you hear anything.’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know, sir,’ he grunted.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Goodnight.’

  Angel heard the door close behind him and the heavy bolt slide across. It was dark, late, and he was tired. He stood under the covered porch in the glare of the outside lights and looked out into the November mist. He shook his head in thought. What people!

  He looked down at the assembly of cars standing on the gravel frontage. There was the Silver Cloud, the Citroen, a black Mercedes and his own car. So which car had Sir Charles’s driver gone home in? It wasn’t the Citroen. That was still there. Duncan Millhouse presumably owned the Mercedes. Inspector Angel rubbed his hand across his mouth. Would the glamorous chauffeur still be around with Sir Charles’s son and daughter-in-law in the house? She might. A bit risky? Maybe she walked home? It was a long way on foot to anywhere from here.

  Without thinking, he slapped the pockets of his coat feeling for a packet of cigarettes. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped. He knew he hadn’t any. It was another of those habits he would have to break. But there were times when a man needed a cigarette, he reckoned — and this was one of them.

  It was not easy being a policeman: you start looking for a crime and then for a suspect! After twenty years on the job sometimes you find a suspect first and then start looking for a crime! But this was simply a case of a missing person; and she’s only been missing about thirty hours. There are hundreds of missing persons. Why is a detective inspector involving himself in a run of the mill enquiry like this? There was a detective sergeant, Ron Gawber, chasing after an armed robber, and he, Angel, a detective inspector, involving himself in what might finish up being simply a case of a runaway wife! The chief constable might have him over the coals if he knew what he was doing. Wasting time, he would have said, and delegate, delegate, delegate, he would have yelled.

  Angel was about to pick his way down the stone steps, when he heard the angry, muffled voice of a man through the stout door behind him. He moved round behind the nearest pillar as the door rattled open.

  It was Duncan Millhouse.

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that any more,’ he was shouting.

  Sir Charles Millhouse replied in a restrained voice. ‘Come back in, you fool. That policeman may be still around.’

  Duncan replied quietly. ‘I don’t care. I’m going. Come on, Susan.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. This is a time for us to stick together. Talk to him Susie. Talk some sense into him.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Duncan Millhouse replied, more calmly.

  ‘Come back in, for God’s sake. Let’s talk about this like adults.’

  There was a short silent pause, then the door slammed and peace reigned once more.

  Angel stepped forward into the light. There was a smile on his face. He got into his car and drove out of the tall iron gates on to the main road. The low mist required him to weave slowly along the country road. It was a direct straight way to the station now. He peered through the screen wipers as they swept across the rain spots. He wondered why a big cheese like Sir Charles Millhouse MP himself stopped and called in the police station, when he would know that a telephone call to the station would have had Bromersley Police rushing over to his mansion to do a bit of bowing and scraping. Millhouse was an educated man, not an academic, but an MP. He was an image maker. A maker of public opinion. A mind changer. A mind bender. A maker of spin. Spin? Yes. He puts a slant on events to make them seem different to what they really are. Yes. But all MPs do that. That’s their job. But that about sums him up.

  His son, Duncan, was a very different character. He had the charm of a fridge. No manners. Perhaps a bit of a bully. Probably be good at breaking his friends’ toys. A good rugby prop forward. A weight lifter. An athletic lump. He had no charm though. He wouldn’t favourably impress Daddy’s friends, would he? Angel grinned. And how would he make out with the girls? Of course, Daddy’s money would be a big attraction. Or even Daddy himself. Marrying the son would put a woman nearer the father; and nearer the money. That might be important. Susan Millhouse was a bit of a bobby dazzler. She was lovely to look at, and she carried herself well. She had given Daddy-in-law a dutiful peck on the cheek. He wondered what her background was. She wasn’t your common or garden tart. Angel pulled himself up short. He had seen very little of her. He should reserve judgment. Her presence in the family probably didn’t matter a hoot. She was probably only there to ‘dress the set.’

  The more serious matter was the missing Lady Yvette Millhouse. He had only the physical description of her. He knew nothing of her personality, her likes and dislikes, or the causes, reasons and explanations for her disappearance. Finding her was going to be tough, he reflected. There’s nothing to go on. No obvious discord, no rows, no obvious hatred, jealousies or third parties. Not yet, anyway. Give it time, he mused. Give it time.

  *

  It was eight twenty-five the next morning. There was no sun. It was still gloomy that November day as Inspector Angel drove his car past the blue illuminated sign bearing the words ‘police station’ yet again. The area at the rear was still illuminated by powerful halogen lights, casting a yellow shadow on the half dozen or so
parked cars in the yard.

  He parked up and went through the glass door into the station.

  The constable at the desk saw him wave, nodded, and pushed the release button to allow him through the security door. He peered into the CID office. The glaring strip lights suspended from the ceiling were all on, but there was no one there. He looked up at the clock. It was eight-thirty exactly. He grunted loudly, switched off the lights, closed the door and made his way to his own office. He flopped into the chair behind his desk and picked up the phone. He pressed the button for the reception desk.

  ‘Constable, do you happen to have any cigarettes out there?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Right, lad,’ he replied with a loud sigh. ‘Hmmm. Where is everybody?’

  ‘They’re out on traffic, sir, some of them anyway. There’s been a big pile up on the M1. The late shift and the early shift are out there.’

  ‘Right, lad. Thank you.’

  He returned the phone to its cradle and dug into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet containing the photograph of the missing woman. He switched on his desk lamp and looked at it carefully. It was a studio posed photograph of postcard size, showing a beautiful smiling woman, aged about thirty-five, with short blonde permed hair and wearing an off the shoulder dress, sitting with her hands delicately positioned one upon the other on the lap. She was also wearing long earrings with prominent green stones in them and encrusted with what appeared to be diamonds; she wore a ring on the third finger of her left hand which had a large green stone in the centre of it, also surrounded by what appeared to be diamonds. On the back was the rubber stamp of the name, ‘Marcus La Touche.’

  ‘Foreign,’ Angel said aloud. ‘Probably French?’

  There was a knock on his door.

  ‘Yes?’ he called without looking up.

  It was Cadet Ahmed Ahaz.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said brightly. ‘I am sorry — ’

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  ‘I was about to explain, sir. I am sorry I am late, but the buses are all over the place with the timetabling. They are exceedingly late because of the fog.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied still looking down at the photograph. ‘You haven’t mentioned the big pile up on the M1.’

  Ahmed nodded. ‘I was about to mention that to you as well, sir.’

  ‘I know you were. You should have left home earlier,’ Angel growled.

  ‘I did, sir, but — ’

  ‘Never mind. Don’t do it again.’

  Ahmed’s jaw dropped. His big eyes opened wide. ‘Don’t do what again, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be late again!’

  The cadet’s jaw tightened. ‘I can’t help it, sir, if the buses do not run on time; nor can I stop accidents from happening on the roads.’

  ‘No, you can’t. Fetch me a cup of tea,’ he said abruptly.

  Ahmed closed the door sharply without a word.

  Angel looked up and grinned, then he dropped the photograph of the beautiful Lady Yvette Millhouse wearing the extravagant jewellery on the desk in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms above his head and closed his eyes. He stayed in that position for a few seconds, then, suddenly, lowered his arms and dived into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a telephone directory. He bounced it loudly on the desk top in front of him and flicked open the business section to ‘Antique Dealers.’ There was only one in Bromersley. He dialled out the number.

  ‘Hello. Is that the antique dealers?’ he enquired deliberately vaguely.

  ‘Yes. Bromersley Antiques. How can I help you?’ a man with an oily voice enquired.

  Inspector Angel spoke deliberately severely. ‘I’ve a complaint to make. Is that Mr Millhouse speaking?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. There’s no Mr Millhouse here,’ the man replied attentively.

  ‘Oh,’ Angel said, not a bit surprised, but trying to sound taken aback and angry. ‘I must get in touch with Duncan Millhouse straightaway. It’s about those things he sold me,’ he lied.

  There was a short pause. The owner of the oily voice was thinking. Eventually the man said, ‘I can tell you where there is a Mr Millhouse in the business, though.’ The antiques dealer was delighted to pass trouble on to a competitor. ‘It may be the gentleman you’re looking for,’ he added craftily.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied the policeman, knowing full well it would be the man he was seeking.

  ‘Yes. There’s a Duncan Millhouse at Northern Antiques in Leeds.’

  ‘Northern Antiques in Leeds.’ Angel smiled broadly. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘It’s on North Main Street. A big, mock Elizabethan building opposite a petrol station. You can’t miss it.’

  Still smiling, he replaced the telephone. There was a tap on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed with the tea.

  ‘Put it down there, lad,’ he said pointing to a coaster he swiftly pulled out of a drawer. Ahmed turned to go.

  ‘Have you seen DS Gawber?’ Inspector Angel said as he picked up the plastic cup, took a sip of the hot tea and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said quietly.

  ‘He’s harder to find than a thre’ penny bit in a Scottish Christmas pudding.’

  The telephone rang. Angel smiled.

  ‘This’ll be him.’

  Ahmed turned to go. The inspector signaled him to wait. He picked up the receiver. ‘DI Angel.’

  It was the chief constable. The smile left his face. ‘Yes, sir,’ Angel replied urgently ... ‘Yes, sir.’

  His voice changed. He spoke in a steely quiet tone and stood up.

  ‘Western Beck? Yes, I know it, sir ... What about Scenes of Crime, sir? ... Is it male or female? ... Right, sir.’

  Ahmed felt his pulse beat faster and louder.

  The inspector nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He quickly put the receiver down. Without a word, he picked up his raincoat and stuffed an arm into a sleeve as he reached out for his hat.

  Cadet Ahmed Ahaz stared at him with his mouth partly open. ‘What is it, sir? Is it a murder?’

  Angel looked him straight in the face. He recalled the horror he had experienced on his first murder case as a young constable twenty years back. He put his hand on the young man’s lean shoulder and spoke to him deliberately and softly. ‘Ahmed, we don’t know. I want you to find DS Gawber for me. Tell him to meet me at Western Beck.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the young man replied quietly.

  The inspector then returned to buttoning up his coat as he bustled towards the door. ‘Tell him, I don’t know any details; a dead body has turned up there.’

  Ahmed felt a cold, tingling sensation all the way down his spine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Twenty minutes later, Inspector Angel arrived at Western Beck: the black, cold reservoir a few miles out of Bromersley. Fog shrouded the hills surrounding the water. Spots of icy rain dropped from the dark sky. On the bank, irregularly parked was an array of police vehicles, some with blue lights flashing. There was the Scenes of Crime plain black van, a black van from the mortuary, another two larger vans from Leeds Police Sub Aqua Squad, the surgeon’s car, and DS Gawber’s car.

  Blue and white ‘Do Not Cross’ tape was entwined around the police cars and anchored on stakes in the reservoir bank. They flapped noisily in the breeze. A man in diving gear was standing on the bank talking to DS Gawber.

  DI Angel slammed shut his car door against the wind, turned up his coat collar and picked his way along the soggy bank. He took one hand out of his pocket briefly to lift the tape to reach Ron Gawber.

  ‘What you got then?’

  Ron Gawber turned away from the diver, who promptly progressed to the bank and took a short jump into the weeds on the edge of the water.

  ‘Oh. Hello, sir.’

  ‘Well, what have you got?’ Angel said irritably, sheltering his eyes from the wind and rain.

  ‘Looks like a young
woman.’

  ‘Can’t you tell?’

  Gawber paused. ‘Naked.’

  ‘Well that should make it easier then, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’s about all I know, sir. The doc’s seeing to her. I haven’t been here long myself.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the back of the mortuary van.’

  With the nod of his head, Angel indicated that that was where he was headed. Detective Sergeant Gawber followed. The police surgeon carrying a bag, and another man came out of the back door of the black van as the DI reached them.

  The white-haired pathologist looked up at Angel as he pulled down his hat as a protection against the wind. He spoke in a broad Glaswegian accent you could cut with a claymore. ‘It’s you, Mick?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Who were you expecting? Elvis Presley?’

  Doctor Mac shook his head. ‘I thought you’d be chief constable by now.’

  ‘If there was any justice in this world, I would be. But when I have to depend on duff information from doddery old pathologists who ought to have been put out to grass years ago, I just can’t get the convictions I ought to get.’ He looked round to Ron Gawber. ‘Do you know, sergeant, he’s so old that when he’s ill, they don’t send for a doctor, they send for an archaeologist!’

  DS Gawber smiled.

  The surgeon didn’t smile. He shook his head. ‘Still as cocky as ever.’ He turned away from the cold wind, turned up his coat collar and made for his car. ‘What’s the matter, laddie? Haven’t your Prozac kicked in yet?’

  ‘Come on, Mac. You’re slower now than when it’s your round in The Feathers. Give.’

  The white-haired man’s mouth tightened. He stopped walking and pulled out a small notebook from his raincoat pocket. The information was delivered in a cold, husky, Glaswegian accent. ‘Female between the ages of thirty and fifty. Naked. Blonde. Blue eyes. About five feet four. Contusions on her neck. No other obvious signs of violence.’

  The doctor closed the notebook and put it back in his inside pocket.

  Angel made a slight gesture in the air with a hand. ‘Is that it?’

  The surgeon nodded. ‘For now.’ He turned to make for his car.