The Wigmaker (5 page)

Angel appreciated the point.

‘What was the name of the agency, sir? And who spoke to you?’ Angel said.

‘The agency’s called “Top Notch” and the woman who phoned me was called Melanie something or other.’

Angel nodded smiled and with a gesture invited Chancey to continue.

‘So when the agency phoned me and told me she was not answering her mobile and that she hadn’t been in touch with them for some weeks, I naturally became concerned. I immediately phoned the hotel in Rome, discovered she had not booked in and that the suite had not been occupied for the last fourteen days, also the airline had by this time sent the unclaimed ticket with the bill to my office address and yesterday morning it had filtered its way to me. I got Jimmy to check on her car, and it was here, parked up in the garage. I have no idea where she is.’

‘Can we sort these dates out, sir? When did you book the hotel and so on? When should she have gone, and when did her agency phone you?’

‘Friday, the thirteenth, we had the row. That was also the same day that I booked the hotel, the airplane and a car. All by phone. The arrangements were made for early the next day, the fourteenth, of course. The agency phoned yesterday morning to say they hadn’t heard from her.’

‘So it’s clear that your wife didn’t go to Rome then, sir. Is it reasonable to think that these past two weeks she stayed in this country?’

He hesitated. ‘I think it is, Inspector.’

‘Hmm. Have you any children?’

‘No.’

‘Have either of you been married before?’

‘No.’

‘Very well. Is there some particular place, relative, friend, lover, whatever, where you consider she might be or has been these past two weeks?’

Chancey’s mouth tightened. ‘No.’

‘It would be a big job to trace every friend, relative or acquaintance of your wife, people she may have struck up a relationship with in her lifetime. And believe me, Mr Chancey, we do that, most thoroughly, but it’s time consuming. And we would only undertake such an action if there were some fact to indicate that a crime has been committed. Ten thousand people go missing in this country every year: over three thousand are never traced. I have to ask you, have you any such evidence?’

‘Not specifically,’ Chancey said quietly. ‘I have told you all I know.’ His hand went to his face. He rubbed his hand across his chin. He spoke quietly, confidently. ‘No. But I’m nevertheless getting very worried, Inspector. Very worried. She has been missing for two weeks. We did not part on the best of terms. Something has happened to her.’

‘You may have to face up to the possibility, Mr Chancey, that Katrina … may have left you of her own free will.’

‘I have already considered that and dismissed it, because if she had, Inspector, I tell you she would still have kept her appointment at the shoot, wherever it was, chatted on her mobile phone, she couldn’t keep off the damned thing, and used her credit cards. But she hasn’t done any of those things.’

Angel raised his head. These facts, if that was what they were, were greatly significant, but not conclusive. Many women, particularly those of independent means, could and have told their overbearing husbands where to stick their money.

‘You’d better give me her mobile, credit card numbers and bank details. It won’t take long to do a check on them.’

Chancey broke off, opened desk drawers, consulted address book and bank statement folder and supplied Angel with numbers which he wrote on the back of an envelope taken from his inside pocket. He then considered carefully his next question.

‘Are
you
suggesting that she has been abducted, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or murdered?’

Chancey’s face tightened. He looked shocked. He swallowed and said, ‘I don’t know.’ He stood up, turned away from the desk and walked over to the window.

Angel rubbed his chin as he watched the handsome, athletic figure standing framed in the window, his back to him. He was looking out at a long lawn and then the foothills of the Pennines. He saw him fumbling with a handkerchief. After a few moments he seemed to end whatever he was doing with it. He stuffed it in his top pocket, turned back to face the policeman and said: ‘Inspector Angel, I think we have danced around the disappearance of my wife for long enough. You must institute a search for Katrina or I will.’

‘I need something to indicate foul play, sir. We don’t know why she didn’t go to that hotel in Rome. Maybe she simply didn’t want to go there. Was it you who suggested that particular hotel?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact it was, but she has stayed there before. She loves it there. She’s mad about Rome. We stayed there together for a few days last year. She adored it.’

‘We have to assume there is no foul play unless there is something to suggest the contrary. I assume that there has been no communication directly from her since she went, nor have you had a ransom note or a phone call about her since?’

‘Not yet.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. Seemed he was expecting one.

‘I’ll speak to my super, sir. If he believes a search should be made, then that’s what we’ll do.’

Chancey slumped down in the chair. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold back for two more days. If the police cannot help and there is no change or news, I will instigate my own private team and begin an independent search.’

Angel frowned. He hoped he wouldn’t do that. Crime solving these days was a highly professional job. He wouldn’t enjoy tripping up over amateurs.

‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we can take this any further. I’ll get back to you very soon.’

He stood up to leave.

Chancey rose, pressed a button, then came round the side of the desk and up to him.

‘Thank you, Inspector Angel. It has been really good meeting you. I like you, and you are a really tough negotiator. I like that in a man.’

Angel enjoyed the words, but he didn’t believe them for one moment.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Angel said. ‘One more question I would like to ask. Idle curiosity, nothing more. What is all the activity outside? I was nearly swept away by a bulldozer as I came in your front gate.’

‘I am sorry about that,’ Chancey said. ‘I am making lots of changes to the homestead for when Katrina returns. The bulldozer is building a banking that will support a short pathway. On the top of it, I am going to have a sheltered walkway built that will lead to a gazebo. It will be sited at the highest point of my land, and give us a magnificent view of the countryside to the south-west whilst being sheltered from the rain. In addition, we had been talking about building a marble fountain at the front of the house. She thought it would be a fabulous improvement to its appearance and could also be soothing. I must say, I agreed with her. So I am pressing on with building of it in her absence. The stonemasons are flying in from Capri tomorrow. It will be a terrific surprise for her when she comes back. It’s costing a pretty penny, best part of eighty thousand pounds, but she’s worth it.’

Angel nodded. And then, he suddenly thought of the unpaid gas bill. He was still about £60 short.

T
he sun beat down on the Tarmac surface causing shimmering waves of hot air to rise on the road ahead. The bus turned off the A61 road north of Harrogate and rocked its way along a leafy unmade country lane, shaking its payload of twenty-four ladies, aged from forty to eighty-two years of age, all members of the Bromersley Women’s Guild. They were off on their regular Tuesday afternoon excursion, and this was the long-planned trip to Seymour Timms’s famous chrysanthemum garden.

Terry Shaw, their regular driver, addressed the ladies through the driver’s microphone.

‘Sorry about the bumps, ladies. Please keep in your seats until we get there. It’s the only road in and out of the place. Seymour Timms’s garden is in the middle of nowhere. But we’ll be there in a couple of ticks.’

The ladies seemed pleased, even excited at the prospect of seeing and meeting the famous man. They remembered his many appearances on the television and radio on Gardener’s Question Time, Chelsea Flower Show and the like in the eighties and ninties, and they wondered how the years had treated him.

Mary Angel was on the front seat with another lady from the church. They held tightly on to the chromium tubing round the top of the stairwell throughout the bumpy journey down the country lane. Eventually the bus stopped as it reached a big double gate that was falling to pieces. Beside it there was a scruffy old man in boots, corduroy trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and a yellow boater. He had a pipe in his mouth but it didn’t seem to be lit. He had opened one part of the gate and dragged an oil drum in front it to stop it swinging to, and was now struggling to push open the other. He had suspended his walking stick on a rail on the gate while he lifted and heaved the old gate open wide enough to admit the bus.

Mary stared through the window at the scene and at the patched up fencing at each side of the gates. Looking beyond she could see a large old grey house looking very sad and in need of attention, repair and paint. She exchanged glances with the lady in the next seat. They both looked dismayed. There were sounds of disappointment and comment at the dowdiness of the place from some of the other ladies behind them.

At a wave from the old man, Terry Shaw let in the clutch and the bus moved forward through the gates on to a short track towards the ramshackle house, then it turned sharp right and went along for about a hundred yards, eventually stopping on a hard earthy patch.

Through the front window of the bus could be seen the most magnificent show of flowers – all chrysanthemums – planted in long rows of various colours like a Fair Isle pullover almost as far as the eye could see. The ladies were overjoyed. This was a great surprise. Their faces changed and their eyes glowed in anticipation. They gasped, laughed and chatted excitedly. Some began to get to their feet.

Through the mike Terry Shaw said, ‘Now then, ladies, isn’t that a wonderful sight?’

There were various excited cries of ‘What a surprise! Magnificent! What colours! Wonderful!’

Terry smiled. ‘Will you please keep your seats, ladies? Mr Timms himself will be along directly to speak to you.’

They looked about everywhere for the great man, but there was no sign of life anywhere. Behind them next to the house were six huge greenhouses. Some had glass panes broken and seemed to be standing at unsafe angles; all needed a good coat of paint. They turned back and enjoyed looking at the many rows of colours and marvelled at how regular the formation was and were wondering if there were any plants to buy or mementoes to take back. Some needed the loo and others wanted a cup of tea. Suddenly, they heard the bus door slide open and up the steps came the same old man who had struggled to open the gates for them. He smiled and nodded at Terry, who reciprocated, unhooked the microphone from its holder and passed it over to him.

The old man took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Terry.’

Then he looked down the bus at the cheerful, curious faces and said, ‘And good afternoon, everybody. I am Seymour Timms. And thank you for coming to see my garden.’

He had a warm, friendly, confident speaking voice and smiled frequently throughout, waving the pipe around now and again for emphasis. Although old and angular with a thin sad face, the ladies were fascinated by him and listened attentively to every word.

‘Now, some of you may remember me from years gone by?’

There were some calls of, ‘Yes’ and at least one lady clapped her hands.

He smiled, showing his teeth; one was missing to the side of his jaw. He must have seen more than eighty summers.

‘You are very kind. Well, all that is behind me now. As I have grown older, I hope I have also grown wiser. And instead of being a gardening jack of all trades, I have specialized in the growing of one particular species. I have retired completely from the uncertain world of TV and radio, seeming to mesmerize audiences with clever answers to routine questions, for the more sober life of cultivating chrysanthemums up here in the backwoods. For twenty years now, I have done very little else. That’s why today in my garden you can see over seventy-two varieties of the humble chrysanthemum in innumerable colours and colour permutations, from bonsai to large exhibition varieties, also incurved, reflexed, pompons, spiders, quills spoons and so on. And I am still going on … until every variety can be propagated in every colour. It has become my lifetime ambition. To achieve it, I have had to make sacrifices. The greenhouses are not in the best of condition and it is not safe enough for you to go anywhere near them. The house needs fixing here and there. It is comfortable enough for an old man who lives on his own, but it is not smart enough to entertain elegant ladies. So those two areas, I fear, must be out of bounds. And the fences and gates also need renewing. I hope to attend to all these things in due course, but at the moment I simply haven’t the time. I have no staff. Everything that is done here in my garden and in my house I have to do myself. Nobody will come out here and work alongside me, the way I would like, so I am resigned to attending to everything myself. I don’t mind this. I am not complaining, just explaining why things are as they are.’

He paused a moment, sucked on the unlit pipe, pulled it out again and continued: ‘Now that I have explained all that, I am very pleased to welcome you into my garden, and, of course, there is absolutely no charge. Now, if you wish to buy any plants, there are only chrysanthemums, I’m afraid. Everything in the nearest two rows can go, but positively no others. Please help yourselves and put your money in the blue and white dish in the conservatory. I am sorry, I have no time to be a shopkeeper. You may use my loo free of charge. It is through the door at the side of the conservatory. Please leave it clean and tidy. I regret that there are no facilities for making cups of tea or sandwiches or any catering, but no doubt Terry will take you on to Betty’s café in Harrogate, if time in your programme allows it. I close the gates at four o’clock prompt. So please be out by then. And please be kind enough not to make me any work. If you drop anything, move anything or break anything there is only one person to pick it up, put it back or repair it, and that’s me. I hope to use the limited energy and time I have left into generating new varieties and colours of chrysanthemums. I am an old man and frankly, come five o’clock I can work no more, my energy is spent. Lastly, I hope you will receive great pleasure from looking round my garden. Feel free to enjoy the flowers, the colour and the fragrance. Now I must leave you. I have some forty rows to hoe by Friday. Lovely to meet you all, and I hope you will come back again sometime. Thank you for your patient attention. Good afternoon.’

He raised his hat to show an almost bald head, replaced it, put the pipe in his mouth, handed the mike back to Terry, recovered his stick and stepped down the bus steps and out into the sunshine.

The ladies muttered excitedly to each other.

‘Please be back here by half past three,’ Terry said into the mike. ‘If we get away promptly we will have time to call at Betty’s for a quick cup of tea. Half past three then, ladies. Thank you.’

The ladies bustled off the bus and swarmed down the path to see the many different types of blooms at close range.

Mary Angel rushed up the path to the furthest point of the garden and worked her way back. All the visitors gawped in wonderment at the differently shaped petals and the amazing range of colours and combinations of colours. There were not many plants to buy and the rare varieties were not among them, but Mary chose a nice pink one in a pot and then crossed to the big house to the conservatory to find the blue-and-white dish in which to leave her money.

The conservatory was crowded out with flowers; every possible space and ledge was occupied with chrysanthemums in pots on boxes, window ledges, the floor, even on a rickety table partly covered with earth which had spilled out of the pots and never been cleared up. Mary found the blue-and-white dish easily enough; it was on the congested table. She recognized it to be a beautiful old Wedgwood fruit bowl, which she thought must be quite valuable. She noted that there must be about a hundred pounds in notes and coins in the dish as she dropped her money into it to pay for her plant. As she did so, she observed that the edge of the earth-covered table was scalloped in a particular way. She took a coin out of her purse and gently scraped some of the soil off the table top. As she did do, her heart beat increased. She then kneeled down and looked underneath it. Her pulse began to race even faster. She sighed loudly, though, when she saw that the table was propped up at one corner by a pile of old, thick books. A leg had been removed or broken off, leaving the four-legged table with only three legs. She stood up and shook her head. She saw what she felt was a calamity, a disaster, because she instinctively knew that that table had been made by none other than master craftsman, Thomas Chippendale!

She ran out of the conservatory and up to the bus to see if she could see Seymour Timms. She looked in every direction, but he was not to be seen. Then she spotted him a long way away in the middle of a row of flowers, his hat pulled well down on his head for protection from the sun, pipe in mouth and hoe in hand pushing and pulling weeds from between the plants. She ran up the path and carefully picked her way through the row towards him.

‘Mr Timms,’ she called.

He didn’t seem to hear her first call. His mind was concentrating on the job in hand, his brown, bony arms and elbows pushing and pulling the hoe backwards and forwards deftly through the soil.

‘Mr Timms,’ she repeated, almost upon him.

He looked up. ‘Oh.’ He wasn’t pleased, but he doffed his hat and said, ‘You wanted me, dear lady?’

Mary flashed her best smile, which melted him briefly.

‘How can I be of service?’

‘Mr Timms, I am sorry to disturb you. I have bought a plant and put the money in the dish in the conservatory as you requested.’

‘I am very grateful, I am sure,’ he said, but he didn’t mean it, and Mary knew it.

‘Did you know the dish is an old Wedgwood fruit bowl, which must be quite valuable?’ she said.

‘Yes, I believe it is. It does the job admirably though, don’t you think? I do not use a fruit bowl myself. I leave any fruit that I have in its bag until I want to eat it. Saves time and washing up.’

Mary was struck momentarily dumb.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on,’ he said looking down at the soil and pushing away at the hoe.

‘The table it is on is Chippendale,’ she blurted out. ‘Thomas Chippendale, I believe.’

‘Really?’

‘It has a leg missing.’

‘Really?’

‘Do you know where the missing leg is, Mr Timms?’

‘No. I don’t think I do. Does it matter? It does its job admirably well, don’t you think?’

‘It would be worth a lot of money if you knew where the other leg was.’

‘Well, thank you very much for that information. Now, if you would excuse me, I want to finish this row before five o’clock.’

‘Oh. Yes,’ she stammered. ‘The thing is, I would like to buy the table.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said wearily. ‘That’s not possible, I am afraid, dear lady. The table is not for sale.’

‘I think you know where the missing leg is, don’t you?’

‘Well … erm, I might do, but what is the point? I really could not be bothered with it, dear lady. Besides, the table is not for sale.’

‘If the leg was put back on the table, Mr Timms, it could be a very beautiful piece of furniture.’

‘I daresay, but I am a horticulturist, not a carpenter.’

‘But by neglect, you are throwing away history. Chippendale furniture is extremely rare. It should be nurtured. It’s your and my heritage. It’s a legacy handed down by our fathers. Antiques are being slowly wasted away, Mr Timms. They are too valuable to be neglected. Everybody should have at least one antique piece in their house.’

‘Oh dear.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe you are right.’

She thought he was weakening.

‘Could you tell me where the missing leg is, Mr Timms?’

He shook his head. He wasn’t pleased. ‘I think it is being used to support the doorpost of my main greenhouse. Now perhaps you would permit me to press on with my work?’

‘Will you show it to me?’

‘What for?’

She looked into his eyes and gave him her best smile. ‘
Please
,’ she said drawing the word out persuasively.

He rubbed his chin, pulled a face with the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Oh. Very well,’ he said resignedly and stabbed the hoe in the ground. ‘Come with me, dear lady. Very quickly then. You will see that it cannot possibly be moved.’

Seymour Timms strode boldly off the growing area. Mary Angel turned round and picked her way carefully between the rows of plants back to the path. She followed him to the rather overgrown area of the greenhouses. The edges of the pathways to the doorways were covered in nettles and dandelions. The biggest greenhouse was huge and as they approached even Mary could see that the uprights were not vertical and that it was not a safe area to be. It was just as Timms had said. It was decidedly precarious. The door was open and held there by a brick. He pointed down to the face side of a shapely piece of wood sunk in the earth and wedged tightly between the two doorjambs.