The Wigmaker (6 page)

‘There is the leg,’ he said. ‘With that leg wedged in there, I can now open and close the door,’ he said proudly and gave her a demonstration. ‘There you are. I couldn’t do that before. So you see, it could not possibly be removed. It could unsettle the structure of the greenhouse and the whole thing could come shattering down on to all my plants and seedlings.’

Mary’s face dropped. She realized that what he said might well be true.

‘Now, my dear lady, you see that the table could not possibly be repaired and is therefore not for sale.’

Her face dropped.

‘I hope that you see that,’ he continued. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my hoeing.’

He looked down at her and awaited her response.

Mary Angel was thinking. The wheels and cogs whizzed round at great speed. At length she said, ‘Very well, Mr Timms, I will buy the table from you with just the three legs.’

He smiled. ‘Ha. And what would you do with a table with only three legs? No. No. No,’ he said and laughed as he walked away.

‘Two hundred pounds, Mr Timms,’ she called.

He stopped, turned, and still smiling, said, ‘No. No. No. Dear lady. The table as it is is more useful to me doing the job it does, even if it is Chippendale.’

‘I am
certain
it is Chippendale, Mr Timms.’

‘Well, so be it. It is probably full of woodworm and beyond restoration. I’m sorry. Now I must get on.’

‘Three hundred pounds,’ Mary said boldly.

He wrinkled his nose. ‘You really are most persistent. Please put your money away, dear lady. Chippendale or not, in that condition it is worth far more to me as a humble pot stand than to you as an antique table. I would not dream of taking your money under false pretences. And frankly, I am not at all certain it is Chippendale.’

‘Five hundred pounds, Mr Timms,’ she said determinedly. ‘I can’t afford any more.’

Timms’s face creased with dismay. ‘Do you not see, dear lady, my predicament. I do not want the money. If I could buy time with it, maybe I would, but alas I can’t. I cannot be bothered to find some other table to fit all those pots back in there. I am tired, weary. I am not a do-it-yourselfer. For me, it would just be more work for me, changing things around. I cannot do with change. Change is the bugbear of my life.’

‘Mr Timms, I am very keen to have that table. Do you not see that with a bit of planning, you could get a joiner in to build you some really sensible shelving. With a bit of careful thought you could get a lot more pots in that conservatory if it were planned out and shelving put exactly where you want it. Now a joiner could do that for you in no time at all and it wouldn’t cost you five hundred pounds.’

He blinked and cocked his head to one side.

‘H
ow much?’ he bawled. ‘Five hundred pounds?’

‘Don’t shout,’ she said. ‘You’re always
shouting
.’

‘But five hundred pounds … I mean. For a table to put a telephone on. It’s ridiculous!’

‘It’s an antique. It’s an investment. In years to come it will be worth thousands. And it’ll make the hall look really smart.’

‘That means there’s only a hundred and six pounds of that windfall left towards the gas bill.’

‘That’s not going towards the gas bill! And it’s not a windfall. It’s a legacy. And I’ve got plans for that hundred and six pounds.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair.

‘Plans. What plans?’

‘That hundred and six pounds is needed for something important.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Mary. What’s the use of a hall table when we have a gas bill to pay? And what’s the something that’s important?’

‘It needs a bit of restoration?’

His jaw almost dropped to the floor. ‘What does? Your little Chippendale table costing five hundred pounds needs a hundred and six pounds worth of restoration?’

Mary turned round from the sink. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Look here, Michael Angel. That money was left to
me
by a relation of
mine
, an uncle.’

‘A great-uncle.’

‘And I want to buy something useful to remember him by.’

‘You’ve never even seen him.’

‘That’s nothing to do with it. It’s a legacy! And it is not going to go into the communal housekeeping pot. The table is paid for. I’ve given him a cheque. The deal is done.’

‘He must have seen you coming.’

‘Now will you take me to collect it on Saturday or not?’

The argument was lost. He knew it.

‘Of course I will,’ he grunted. ‘But your father was right.’

‘What about?’

‘He said you’d never have any money as long as you had a hole in your backside.’

Harker sniffed and pulled a face like a bag of rhubarb. ‘I hope you didn’t upset him?’ he said. ‘He’s an important man in Bromersley.’

Angel frowned. He didn’t care if he had upset Chancey. And he wasn’t important, just rich. ‘There is no hard evidence to indicate foul play, sir: there’s no ransom letter and no witnesses. Just Chancey’s statement that she has disappeared, together with his instinct based upon what he claims is his intimate knowledge of his wife’s behaviour.’

‘What’s your take on it?’

‘There might very well be a case there, sir. He’s in his thirties and has money to burn, and she’s an active twenty-two-year old model, been married two years and busier than rabbits in a hutch. She wears next to nothing and wears it very well. Chancey says she’s a highly successful international model. If she is, she could be making more money than he is, so his money might count as nothing to her. I think until a ransom note arrives, a body turns up or a witness talks we should let him make his own enquiries. Let him waste his own money.’

Harker’s bushy ginger eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s that? What’s that about his own enquiries?’

‘He said that if we don’t start looking for her within a couple of days, he’ll engage his own private detectives.’

Harker pulled a face more revolting than a Strangeways slop bucket. ‘We can’t have a load of amateurs under our feet, Angel. Better go back there. Assume the Chancey woman has been … abducted.’

‘It’s more likely she’s run off with a new bloke, sir.’

‘I daresay, but he wouldn’t like that.’

‘He wouldn’t like murder any better.’

Angel returned to his office. He really didn’t like this tiptoeing around Frank Chancey the way Harker wanted him to do it. He wanted to get into Wolff’s filing cabinet. Who knew what evidence there might be stashed in there about the murderer? If he could get this annoying preliminary enquiry into the missing Katrina Chancey out of the way, he could get back to the real business of solving a murder case.

He reached out for the phone.

‘Ahmed, get me Ron Gawber and Trevor Crisp ASAP. And get me the number of a model agency … it is called “Top Notch”. They’re in London.’

‘Right, sir.’

A few moments later he was speaking on the phone to Melanie.

‘Are you wanting a model or do you want to be on our books?’ she said.

‘Neither. I’m Detective Inspector Angel from the Bromersley force. I’m making enquiries about Katrina Chancey.’

‘Oh yes.’ She exploded with concern. ‘Katrina. Yes. I see. Now what has happened to her, Inspector? She has let me down terribly. And I have not heard from her. There are jobs lining up for her. I have clients waiting and they don’t like waiting. They want her and won’t take substitutes. I really need to know what’s happening.’

‘Can’t tell you that, Miss Melanie. I wish I knew.’

‘Just Melanie, Inspector.’

‘Right. I am looking to you to fill us in, Melanie. I need to know about her whereabouts from Saturday, the fourteenth of April.’

‘So do I. I don’t know. Her last job for me was on Tuesday the tenth of April with the Milo Advertising Agency, a photograph for the cover of a magazine. That went well, I understand. She had nothing then until Sunday the twenty-ninth, when she should have been at Heathrow at noon. She had an arrangement to meet up with a photographer and Max Peppino, to go on a shoot to the Maldives for three days for Elmer’s Fruit Squashes. But it was a disaster. She didn’t show up and she couldn’t apparently be contacted. The client didn’t know what to do. It was costing him his time and the photographer’s time, which he valued at twelve hundred pounds a day! Huh! He was screaming down the phone at me. Anyway, I tried to contact Katrina on her mobile, but she wasn’t answering. I tried her home number at various times through Sunday afternoon and evening, but couldn’t make contact. I tracked down her husband’s office number and managed to speak to him just after nine o’clock on Monday morning. He was very surprised and worried that she had missed the shoot. He told me he had thought she was in Rome, on holiday. He said that he would get her to contact me when she returned. But I haven’t heard a word from her, or him. I don’t know what Max Peppino did. I expect the shoot was abandoned that day. He must have used some other model from another agency and done it later without Katrina. And I fear I may have lost a client.’

‘Sorry about that, Melanie. But thanks for the information. If you hear from her, or hear anything about her, it’s imperative that you let me know at Bromersley Police. Will you do that?’

He gave her the station number and ended the conversation politely and quickly. After he had replaced the phone, he pulled a face. He had learned nothing that would be at all helpful in finding Katrina. Melanie had simply confirmed everything that Chancey had said, but that was all.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Ron Gawber. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘This woman, Katrina Chancey, husband of Frank Chancey, millionaire in the timber business, friend of the chief constable, has gone missing. Here’s her credit-card numbers, bank account and mobile. See what activity there’s been since the fourteenth of April, the day she was supposed to go to Rome.’

Angel stopped his BMW at the front entrance of Chancey’s House. He got out of the car and looked around. The area in the middle of the square, where the concrete foundations of the marble fountain were being laid the day previously, was covered over with two canvas sheets like tenting and held down by eight house bricks. Also he noticed that a smart new red Ferrari was parked on the gravel where the ready-mix vehicles had been. He reflected on it briefly as he bounced up the four steps and pressed the doorbell.

He had to wait a few moments before the young man, Lyle, arrived at the door. He smiled down at the policeman. ‘Back so soon, Inspector Angel? You’ll be wanting to see Mr Chancey?’

‘If you please, Mr Lyle.’

‘I’ll have a looksee. I do know the boss is going out imminently. Come in, please and wait yourself there.’

Behind the doors was a pillar projecting from the wall from the floor to the ceiling, boxed in with dark oak panelling. He pulled open a panel and inside was a phone. He unhooked the handset and tapped in a number. Angel heard a click and a distorted voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘There’s Inspector Angel at the front door for you, boss.’

‘Oh. All right, Jimmy. Just a couple of minutes.’

There was another click and Lyle put the phone back in its cradle and closed the panel door. He turned to Angel. ‘Please follow me, Inspector. The boss said he’s sorry, he’s only got a couple of minutes because he’s got a meeting at the office.’

Angel nodded. That was all right. It might suit him very well. They passed the big oil paintings again. They mostly showed ugly, elderly men with hunting rifles posed standing either on their own or with a handsome, sometimes buxom, woman. The artist had caught none of the subjects smiling; in those times, in the US, they were usually painted scowling or glaring aggressively.

‘These Mr Chancey’s ancestors, Mr Lyle?’

The young man laughed. ‘Sure. They look funny old coves, don’t they, Inspector? Did you know Mr Chancey can trace his ancestors all the way back to before the gold rush of 1848 in the United States.’

‘Really?’ Angel said. Suddenly he could smell paint. He remembered he could smell paint yesterday. It was irritating.

Lyle ushered Angel into the room.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Chancey said. ‘You must excuse me. I have to dash.’

‘Indeed, sir. I wondered if you have heard anything at all about your wife?’

Chancey frowned.

‘No, Inspector. If I had I would have contacted you straight away. Now I must go.’

Angel said: ‘In your absence, perhaps I may look round the house.’

Chancey hesitated, then said: ‘Yes, of course. Wherever you like, old chap.’ He turned to Lyle. ‘Jimmy, tell Mrs Symington, and let’s get off.’

‘Right, boss,’ Lyle said and rushed out of the room.

‘One more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have a recent photograph of your dear wife, Mr Chancey. That would help us in our searches for her?’

Chancey breathed out impatience, but he pulled open the desk drawer and took out a photograph in a silver frame. ‘Will that do? Taken three weeks ago, for a calendar for next year, I understand. Rather special. I’d like it back.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Angel glanced at it. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

Chancey then turned the key in the middle drawer of his desk and put it in his pocket. He picked up a briefcase from the kneehole of the desk and made for the door.

‘Must be off, Inspector. Glad to see you on the case. If you will wait there, I will send Mrs Symington, my house-manager to you.’

He was gone.

Angel looked carefully at the picture of Katrina that Chancey had given him. It was rather different from the racy photographs around the study walls. It was the sort of photograph you used to see in glass showcases outside theatres, to advertise the play being performed that night. It was a close-up, glossy print showing the young woman in a smart suit of immaculate appearance. Pencil-thin eyebrows, thick black eyelashes, clear blue eyes, pearl and diamond earrings, short blonde hair – and not one hair out of place; hands showing perfect fingernails and a big diamond solitaire ring on her right hand.

He stared at the photograph and rubbed his chin.

He heard the rustle of movement of clothes and the very lightest of footsteps on the carpet behind him. He turned round to find a sour-faced woman approaching him from the open door.

‘I’m Mrs Symington, house-manager to Mr and Mrs Chancey. You must be Inspector Angel. I’ve been instructed to show you anything you want to see. You’ll have to make it quick as I’ve a lot on, I can tell you. I didn’t bargain on all this extra work and then playing the part of a guide to his visitors. I am a house-manager, not a flaming hostess.’

He turned and smiled at her.

‘Thank you, Mrs Symington. I hope not to be a problem to you. But we all have our jobs to do. I would much rather be at home with my feet up, but I have to be here looking for a missing woman. I have to find where Mrs Chancey’s got to. I am sorry if my job in any way inconveniences you. If you haven’t the time to spare to show me what I need to see, I could, I suppose, manage on my own.’

Mrs Symington’s face changed. Her mouth dropped open and then quickly closed. ‘Oh, Mr Angel. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I don’t know what got into me. But I have so much to see to, you wouldn’t believe.’

‘I would. I would, indeed. Now, Mr Chancey has gone. Please sit down, Mrs Symington. Rest those legs. I will only keep you a few minutes.’

She smiled. It looked as if she hadn’t smiled for a long time. Angel found an easy chair and sat opposite her.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s more civilized, isn’t it.’

‘I haven’t sat down since I had my breakfast at half past seven.’

‘Now, what is the trouble? Tell me all about it.’

‘Well, I didn’t say there was any trouble. I’ve been in this job for nearly a year, Mr Angel, and it pays very well, I must say in fairness. Else I wouldn’t stick it. It has been all right, until about two weeks ago. Mr Chancey called me in here and said that he wanted the house cleaning from top to bottom, that Mrs Chancey would be away for a fortnight or three weeks and in that time he wanted all the rooms repainting, all the carpets dry-cleaned, all his and her clothes laundered or dry cleaned. The kitchen and the bathroom tiles and surfaces had to be washed down with bleach. And the list went on. He said I could get extra staff in, if I needed them. Of course I needed them but I couldn’t get any. Not for a temporary job. And what sort of people do you get as temporaries? He didn’t seem to understand that. This house has been turned into a travelling circus. He says he wants everything spotless for when she returns. He misses her dreadfully, you see. I can tell. It’s all for her. He’s even had her Porsche taken away and a brand new hundred and sixty thousand pound Ferrari delivered. It’s at the front entrance. Nothing is too good for her.’