The Wigmaker (15 page)

‘Was there anything else you wanted me for, Inspector?’

‘No. Take it steady now, Zoë. There’s no solid reason to believe that Gabriel is dead. Any day, any time now, he could come walking back into your life as large as—’

‘If he does, I’ll kill him,’ she bawled angrily. ‘I
will,
I’ll
kill
him. Putting me through all this.’

Angel smiled. ‘All right, Zoë?’ he said gently. ‘All right?’

She simmered down. ‘All right, Inspector,’ she sighed. ‘All right. And thank you.’

He replaced the phone slowly, still holding on to it. He shook his head thoughtfully as he considered where Gabriel Grainger might really be. He had told Zoë that he had thought her husband was all right, but he didn’t really know. He had nothing to go on. He simply hoped that he was somewhere safe. It sounded as if the death of that pretty useless husband of hers would hardly be possible for her to bear. He had seen this situation many times before. And telling someone that their loved one was dead was one of the saddest parts of the job. He only hoped to goodness that there had not been another murder, that Gabriel Grainger was safe, and that it was not long before he had the murderer of Peter Wolff safely under lock and key.

He was still brooding over this when there was a knock at the door. He looked up. ‘Come in.’

It was Taylor. He bustled in waving a scrappy piece of A4. ‘The results on Katrina Chancey’s mobile phone that you were chasing, sir.’

‘Ah yes. Sit down, Don.’

‘Yes, sir. They’re only handwritten. I’ll tidy it up and let you have a typed-up copy later.’

‘Any prints on the outside case, Don?’

‘The case had been wiped clean, sir, and of course we rinsed the sludge off carefully, slowly with a fine spray of chilled water so as to save any prints, but there simply weren’t any.’

Angel nodded. ‘Yes. And what did you find out?’

‘She was a very busy on the phone. Mostly calls to her agency in London, Top Notch.’

‘Yes I know of it. Any messages?’

‘No, sir. There were calls to a dressmaker in Leeds. One to her husband.’

‘Any to Grainger’s number. I’m interested to know if there was any contact between Gabriel Grainger and Katrina Chancey.’

‘No, sir. Not on this phone. And no calls were made from it after Friday, April the thirteenth. The latest calls were made to it from her agency, from her husband and lastly from you, sir.’

‘Mmm. The last two were made when the phone was buried under the fountain. The call ring that I heard was the result of Chancey dialling her number from his study as he was observing me through his window admiring the fountain. It could only have been he who dropped her phone, with malice aforethought, under the foundations of the fountain.’

S
uperintendent Harker looked up. ‘I’ve a lot on. What do you want?’ he bawled as he shuffled some of the papers on his littered desk.

Angel stared across the office at him as he closed the door. He thought what a horrible spectacle Harker looked in his off the peg Netto suit, two sizes too big, the Victorian waterspout nose, the white bald head and the big ginger eyebrows. He could see him in Jim Henson’s Muppets orchestra playing the double bass.

‘Just heard from SOCO, sir. Their findings from Katrina Chancey’s SIM card from her mobile show that Frank Chancey dialled his wife’s mobile phone deliberately so that I would hear it as I passed the fountain.’

‘So what?’

‘So … that’s why … obviously I had to dig up the fountain, expecting to find Katrina’s body.’

‘But her body wasn’t there. You made a bloody fool of me! And the chief constable, and the force. It was an embarrassment all round. It was in the papers, you know. “Police ruin eighty-thousand pound Fountain”. “Singeing In The Rain.” I’ve read all the tabloid headlines. They don’t do the force any good.’

‘No, sir. It was Chancey. Chancey who made a fool of all of us. And I’ve worked out his reason for doing it. He reckoned that we would be so embarrassed at not finding his wife’s body there that we wouldn’t dig anywhere else for fear of any more embarrassment.’

Harker lowered the big eyebrows. ‘A man can phone his wife whenever he wants to, can’t he? He doesn’t need the permission of a particular detective inspector of police, does he? If it unfortunately rings as you happen to be passing by, it hardly makes him into a murderer.’

‘Under these circumstances, sir, it might. Because once he had made a fool of us by inciting us to dig up the fountain, he could safely hide his wife’s body almost anywhere close by, confident that we dare not risk being embarrassed by a second futile excavation. Don’t you see?’

‘No, lad. I don’t see. You didn’t
have
to dig up the fountain in the first place.’

‘Well, it—’

‘Look here, lad. You were only briefed to cast an eye over the disappearance of this woman. It is not a murder case. It will never be a murder case. Frank Chancey is a highly respectable business man, gives to charity, pays his taxes, doesn’t chase women, keeps his nose clean. His flighty, pretty, nay beautiful, wife runs off, with or without a younger man. That’s all there is to it. He is not master criminal Peter Sutcliffe. You are crediting Frank Chancey with a mind as devious and crackpot as yours is. You’re always coming in my office with these ridiculous nutcase ideas. I don’t know where you get them from. You went to local schools, didn’t you? Had local teaching, didn’t you? You weren’t over-educated. Didn’t suffer the disadvantages of a modern university education, get stuffed up with modern idealistic tripe, and outlandish political ideas invoked by long-haired weirdos. There’s no insanity in your family that we don’t know about, is there? I know you’ve had the odd success with a difficult case in the past, but this is getting ridiculous.’

‘All I wanted to ask, was—’

‘I suppose you want permission to knock Chancey’s house down. I suppose that’s what all this preamble is leading to. Or sink a mine shaft in his garden.’

Angel tramped up the pea green painted corridor back to his office, his mind in a whirl. Trying to discuss a case with the super was nearly as difficult as convincing Mary that paying the gas bill was more important that buying an ugly battered table with three legs for the hall because there’s a slight chance that it might be a Chippendale masterpiece.

The phone rang. It was the woman civilian on the switchboard who curtly told him that DS Maroney of Leeds SA team wanted to speak to him. He blinked, looked up and asked her to put him through straight away.

‘Yes, Sergeant, have you found something?’ he said urgently.

‘It’s not a body, sir. It’s a heavy metal thing, like a metal suit. It showed up on the scanner.’

He grasped what he meant. ‘Is it a suit of armour?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s it. A suit of armour. Right in the middle of the lake, at about the deepest point, well covered in mud.’

Angel smiled. It wasn’t what they were looking for, but it was a welcome find. Lord Tiverton would be pleased. ‘Can you get it up?’

‘Oh yes, sir. I just wondered if it mattered, whether we should leave it or not?’

Angel smiled. ‘Oh no, bring it up, please. And don’t damage it. It’s supposed to be worth millions.’

Maroney grunted. ‘Millions? Really?’

Angel replaced the phone and rubbed his chin. He hadn’t expected to see the missing suit of armour again. He expected it would have been sold abroad somewhere and would be in somebody’s private collection, possibly in some exotic millionaire’s penthouse. It seemed ridiculous for thieves to steal it from Lord Tiverton’s outbuilding like that simply to dump it 200 yards away in the middle of his lake. What was the sense in that? And to steal a wheelbarrow, presumably in which to wheel it. He scratched his head. He recalled that the robbery took place while the Tivertons were away. They were in Scotland that Saturday, 14 April, when Katrina Chancey went missing.

Suddenly Angel’s mouth dropped open as the ball rolled along into the hole, the light went green and the bell rang. He dashed out of his office, down the corridor, past the cells and out of the back door of the station to the car park.

He was at Tiverton Hall in a matter of minutes. He saw the Range Rover with the words Leeds Police Sub Aqua Team on the door by the outbuildings and parked the BMW alongside. He made his way down the crazy paving to the little quay, past the sub aqua team’s trailer, to where the motor boat was moored. He could see DS Maroney and another frogman in the water winching the suit of armour into an inflatable in the middle of the lake. He called out to them and waved. They were too busy to respond. A few minutes later he heard their outboard start up and splutter its way towards the little jetty. It arrived with its gruesome burden.

Their faces told the story.

‘There’s a dead body inside this suit of armour, sir.’

Angel nodded. He had known it.

The phone rang. He picked it up. It was Crisp. There was something very wrong. He sounded anxious.

‘What’s the matter, lad?’ Angel said, his hand shaking.

‘I’ve lost him, sir. I am at Scotch Corner on the A1. I don’t know whether he went straight on or turned off on the A66. He’s in a red Ferrari, sir. He’s been doing a hundred and forty. I tried to keep up with him. I don’t know how far you want me to go. And I shall need some petrol soon.’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth.

He was a very worried man.

‘All right, lad. Come back here, pronto.’

He replaced the phone, reached into his inside pocket for an old envelope, found a number on it, replaced it, picked up the phone and tapped the number in.

The deep, breathy voice of Zoë Grainger said: ‘Yes? Who is that?’

‘Inspector Angel here,’ he said trying to sound bright and breezy. ‘Just wondered how you were getting along.’

She stiffened. ‘You don’t have to be gentle with me, Inspector. Something’s happened. Have you some news about Gabriel?’

‘No. No. Nothing.’

‘You can tell me. I can take it.’

‘There’s nothing. I just think that for your comfort and peace of mind, you should move to our … police house for a couple of days, that’s all.’

Her voice hardened. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happening? You think
I’m
in danger now. What is it? You
must
tell me.’

He licked his lips. ‘Just a precaution. Yes, it is possible that Gabriel might be having … a difficult time. If you come to our safe house, we can at least make sure that—’

‘I want to know what’s happening, Inspector. No more of this prevarication. What the bloody hell’s going on?’

He would have to tell her. There was no wrapping it up. ‘Your husband may be in danger, Zoë. As we have no idea where he is we can’t protect him. Now, he may be perfectly safe. In any event, I am sure he will return home quite soon—’

‘I’ll stay here. I need to be here. If he’s on his way home, I need to be here … to welcome him.’

‘That’s not possible. He may be followed. I intend to have a welcoming committee waiting for the man following him.’

‘What would anybody want him for? Settle an old score? He can handle himself, Inspector. He does regular workouts. Who is this man?’

‘It’s serious, Zoë. Very serious. It may only be for a day or so.’

‘When did you say you expect him back?’

‘I can’t be sure. But soon, I think. Very soon.’

‘Oh God!’

He managed to calm her down and terminate the call. He immediately summoned WPC Baverstock. He instructed her to go to Flat 4, Jubilee Close, help Zoë Grainger pack some things for one night, leave the flat door unlocked and transfer her to the safe house on Beechfield Walk, and to stay with her a while and settle her in.

She rushed off.

He then summoned DC Scrivens.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Yes, lad. Do you know Gabriel Grainger?’

Scrivens frowned, then looked up. ‘Tall, bronzed, athletic, black hair, sir? Defrauding a woman out of money? Is that him? I was one of the arresting officers who brought him in, a couple of years back.’

‘It was five years back. Yes, that’s him. Time is short. I want you and John Weightman to draw handguns and six rounds each, and go quickly round to his home at Flat 4, Jubilee Close. Go in an unmarked car and keep out of sight. There should be nobody in and the door unlocked. Go inside, leave it unlocked and find places to hide. If Grainger turns up, for his safety I want you to bring him straight here. Also, he may be followed by a man, who may be armed; if he turns up, arrest him and bring him in. I warn you, you must defend yourselves and Grainger against him at all times. He could be extremely dangerous. All right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Scrivens went out. The door closed.

Angel could feel his blood pumping round. A tight pain in his chest came to him at times like this. He stood up, took a few deep breaths then reached out for the phone.

‘Ahmed. I’m going down to Lord Tiverton’s place, Tiverton Hall, if anybody wants me. I’ll be on my mobile.’

‘Right, sir.’

He arrived to find the whole police circus in full sway: the white marquee set up on the side of the lake near the jetty, the Range Rovers with their flashing lights, the blue-and-white tape, the big white SOCO van, Dr Mac’s discreet silver-grey car, the Leeds police sub aqua team’s vehicle and trailer, the police dog handler’s van and the hospital’s black body-wagon.

Angel parked his BMW further away from the concentration of activity, in front of the outbuildings, and walked swiftly down to the marquee. A dog barked excitedly. A PC threw up a salute, he responded, dodged under the DO NOT CROSS tape, pulled open the flap on the marquee and went in. The smell was appalling. There were three men in whites, boots and masks. He recognized the shortest man. It was Dr Mac. Nobody spoke. Mac was closing his bag. Next to him, on a stretcher-bed on wheels, was a naked chalk-white assemblage of most of a once human body comprising long legs, skinny arms hanging from a torso; where a head had been was an horrific blue and red mishmash half-covered in straggly wet hair.

Angel’s jaw dropped. He turned away.

One of the men pulled a sheet over the corpse.

Mac caught Angel’s eye and pointed to the flap, indicating that he was going out.

Angel preceded him and held open the flap. Outside the air smelled of gardenias. They walked up the rise, under the tape and along the path to the outbuildings.

Mac pulled his mask down under his chin and said, ‘Nasty. I fear I might never find the actual blow that killed her. There are so many. Face and mouth area severely damaged, finger-ends and thumbs removed …’

Angel sighed. ‘Presumably to conceal the identity.’

‘Aye. Long time since I saw anything as extreme as this.’

‘Female.’

‘Age, at a guess, between sixteen and thirty-five. I’ll get more exact after examination. Blonde, of course. Blue eyes. Tall. About five feet eight or nine. No obvious signs of drugs. No obvious signs that she put up a struggle, either. One severe blow to the temple or crown and out she would be.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity.’

Angel nodded. They had both seen this many times before. Angel knew he’d never get used to it.

‘We’re taking the victim to the mortuary now, Michael, unless there’s anything more you want to see?’

‘How was the body put in to the suit of armour?’

‘Easily enough. Back opens up on a hinge. Murderer would simply thread the arms into the sleeves, push the torso in and close the back … like a cupboard. The legs, each into a steel leg. They weren’t fastened to the top bit. The head simply put on from the top. The gauntlets and bits that cover the feet weren’t used, or they fell off. The divers pulled them out, and a wheelbarrow. Being steel it showed on the scan.’

Angel nodded. ‘Mmm. Did they pull anything else out? The weapon?’

‘No.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘Most probably a ball-pane hammer.’

Taylor came rushing over to him.

‘Sir. Sir. We’ve found some bloodstains on the jetty by the boat.’

A handsome springer spaniel stood on the jetty, his eyes bright and tail going like a helicopter propeller. A proud handler stood by.

Angel went up to him, looked down at the Tarmacadam. There was nothing to see. ‘Blood did you say, lad? How do you know?’

‘It’s Kim, sir. Blood trained. He’s never wrong.’

Kim barked. Angel stroked his ears and back.

‘It’ll be the rain as flushed it away, sir. There’s been quite a lot.’

Angel straightened up and rubbed his chin. ‘Ta, lad.’ He looked at the motor launch and called out to Taylor. ‘Have you swabbed the boat, Don?’

Taylor came up to him. ‘No, sir.’

‘Give it a careful seeing to,’ Angel said leaning over it. He admired the gleaming brown varnished wood and white painted aluminium bodywork. ‘He must have used it for transporting the body and the suit of armour to the middle of the lake.’