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looking for a killer? She’s probably run off with the chauffeur or the milkman or somebody, for a change of pace.’
    ‘Don’t get smart, lad. The chief constable is still my boss and I’m still yours. And you know that the chief wouldn’t be pushing an order through without good reason, and he’s not obliged to tell you or me everything he knows. Now he wants it looking into by us, and that’s as much as you need to know.’
    Angel felt properly put in his place. He nodded and said: ‘Right, sir. I’ll fit it in the best way I can.’
    ‘There’s an appointment been made for you for nine o’ clock tomorrow morning, at Frank Chancey’s home.’
    ‘I might have to be somewhere else,’ he said, just to be awkward.
    ‘Cancel it!’ Harker snapped. ‘You’ll need his address.’
    ‘I’ve got it, sir.’
    He went out and closed the door.
     
    It was 8.58 a.m. on Tuesday, 1 July.
    Angel had put on his best suit and new shoes; he was going to see Frank Chancey, multi-millionaire and allegedly a big number in the town. He drove the BMW along Creesforth Road, turned down into Creesforth Drive, a narrow private road. He passed Tiverton Hall on the left, then travelled alongside a red brick wall for 250 yards until it curved into a short entrance. The words ‘Chancey House’ were fashioned out of wrought iron and cemented into the wall. He turned the wheel and saw a pair of black wrought iron gates, which were wide open. He drove between the stone gateposts but had to stop abruptly as a big yellow bulldozer reversed across his path in front of him. The driver, a young man, shirtless and wearing a hard hat waved his thanks, then stopped, lowered the dozer blade and began to push forward a mound of soil. He seemed to be in the process of building some sort of an embankment. As soon as the bulldozer had moved out of the way Angel let in the clutch and followed the drive between several strategically placed conifers and clusters of evergreen bushes located to make for privacy, round to the front of the house.
    The drive opened up into a large square area of silver-grey gravel directly in front of the main house entrance. In the middle of the square a circular hole about twenty feet in diameter had been excavated, and two men in hard hats were leaning on large shovels watching a ready-mix vehicle discharge its heavy load into the cavity. There were two other ready-mix wagons behind them, their cylinders noisily revolving, apparently awaiting their turn to unload.
    Angel wondered why so much was happening when the lady of the house was apparently missing. He drove around the workmen towards the front entrance and stopped. He got out of the car and locked it. He walked briskly across the gravel to the front door, climbed up the four steps and found the bell push. It was promptly answered by a smartly dressed young man in a morning suit. His accent showed he was from the Dublin area.
    ‘Yes, sir? You’d be the police inspector?’ he said with a smile.
    ‘Detective Inspector Angel, to see Mr Chancey.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Please come in. Mr Chancey is expecting you. Please follow me.’
    The house was magnificent. He was glad he’d put on his best suit. It looked as if Chancey had bought a piece of Buckingham Palace and had it towed up to Bromersley. He strode out on the plush carpet behind the smart young man. He could smell fresh paint. He looked round. Why could he smell fresh paint?
    ‘My name is Lyle, sir. Is there anything I can do for you before you go in to see Mr Chancey?’
    Angel frowned. It was probably his euphemistic way of enquiring if he needed directions to the bathroom.
    ‘No thank you, Mr Lyle.’
    They marched down a corridor, passing a dozen or more big oil paintings on the walls, of ugly, bald men, possibly Chancey’s ancestors, until they reached double doors at the end.
    ‘Here we are,’ Lyle said. He knocked loudly on one door, opened it, put his head in and said, ‘Inspector Angel,