Free The Wigmaker by Roger Silverwood

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