The Wigmaker by Roger Silverwood Page B

the address book in his desk drawer, found the number he wanted, picked up the phone and dialled the number. It rang out. It kept ringing out. It seemed to be ringing for an interminably long time. He looked at his watch. It was 6 a.m. He cast his eyes round the office and then beyond, out through the window. As he listened to the monotonous brrr brrr, brr brr, he noticed the early morning sunlight dancing lightly on the yellowy-green leaves of the silver birch in the garden of the insurance company offices next door. He suddenly realized that maybe winter was really over, and that that day promised to be sunny, maybe the actual beginning of a glorious summer.
    There was still no reply and he was about to drop the phone back in its cradle when there was a click and a half awake man’s voice from out of the side of his mouth, the other side being covered in pillow, grunted, ‘Yeah? Yeah? What is it?’
    ‘Good morning, Matthew. Michael Angel, Bromersley, here. The Fox is dead, Matthew. I thought you’d like to know.’
    ‘What? The Fox is dead?’
    ‘Yes. And it’s a beautiful May morning. The sun is shining. The birds are coughing. Summer is on its way.’
    ‘Have you seen the bloody time, Michael?’
    ‘I have been up half the night.’
    ‘You’ve not rung up about that suit of armour, have you? Did you say the Fox was dead?’
    ‘Yes and we have found its lair. A thumping big safe overflowing with precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, gold, a diamond tiara—’
    ‘Where?’ the interruption came quickly. ‘Where?’
    Angel knew he had the man’s full attention. He was talking to DI Matthew Elliott, head of the Antiques and Fine Art squad, Scotland Yard. He had known him for years. Elliott would be able to assist him in trying to identify the victims of the Fox’s robberies, which might, he hoped, lead to his murderer.
    ‘I’ll come up this morning.’
    Angel smiled and replaced the phone.
     
    ‘That’s all very well, but we are still no nearer knowing who murdered him,’ Harker said with a sniff.
    ‘But it opens up a wider field of suspects, sir.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Motive, sir,’ Angel said. ‘I had not been able to find a motive. I mean, who would want to have murdered Peter Wolff, a humble, quiet, apparently respectable wig maker? What harm could a wig maker do to a customer? What threat does a wig maker pose? What double-dealing could a wig maker get up to? Nothing that I can think of. I can’t think of anything that would motivate a man to break into his place, creep up the stairs, shoot him while he was asleep and then set fire to his place. Now that we know he’s the Fox, it’s an entirely different proposition, isn’t it?’
    Harker sniffed. He seemed to agree but looked unenthused by it all.
    ‘Well, sir,’ Angel continued, ‘there are all the jewellers he robbed; there’s the competition from other thieves who may have been casing a shop just as he cleaned it out before them; there are the bullion dealers, stone dealers, auctioneers and jewellery manufacturers he may have sold to; there are the insurance companies who had to pay out millions in clients’ claims; lastly, there is the fence he may have sold stuff through. Any one of them might hold a grudge against him.’
    Harker sniffed. ‘Maybe. That means you’ve plenty to be going at then, lad?’
    Angel took it as his cue to leave. He stood up.
    ‘Before you go, you’d better tell me how things stand with you and the search for Frank Chancey’s wife?’
    Angel’s head shot up. ‘You agreed I should leave it, sir. Yesterday you were going to tell the chief constable that there were no—’
    ‘I know what I was probably going to do. I am asking you where the enquiry has got up to?’
    ‘It has moved on no further, sir. No ransom note, no direct information of her abduction, no witness of foul play, no emergence of her actual dead body. You agreed yesterday, she was just a …