Free The Wigmaker by Roger Silverwood Page A

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.’
    Angel rubbed his chin. It explained why he could smell paint. ‘And has everything been done?’
    ‘No. He’s building a gazebo in the