Angel Hunt (13 page)

They must have been waiting in a car, as neither wore an overcoat and both were suddenly there smack in front of me, blocking the pavement, tantalisingly close to home.

Even in my befuddled state, I could see they meant trouble. It wouldn't be a fair fight either; there's no such thing, as far as I'm concerned. If just one of them had sent one of their grandmothers,
and
I could have come out of the sun,
and
if I could have had a silenced chainsaw, then maybe it would have been fair. But then, thinking about Mrs Cody at Zaria's rest home, I still wouldn't have put money on me.

Zaria. That must be it. They were her brothers or cousins or similar, just trying to find out where she was. Like me. There was absolutely no reason why I shouldn't be straight arrow and honest with them.

‘You Angel?' said one, the older one, who wore a black pointy beard but no moustache.

‘I'm sorry, who?'

‘Angel,' he repeated.

‘Sorry, never heard of him.' I shook my head and edged closer to the steps of No 9.

‘It is. I've seen him here,' said the other one, without taking his eyes off me.

‘Yes, I live here,' I said, looking nervously from one to the other. ‘My name is Goodson, Flat One. I don't quite know what this is all about, but I'm sure I've never seen either of you two gentlemen …'

When in doubt, keep talking. But it wasn't going to work.

‘Sunil wants to see you,' said spiky beard.

Sunil?

‘About some stolen property,' said the other, who, I'd decided by this time, had shifty eyes. ‘Missing from his home.' And dandruff.

I had got my back almost round to the steps by this time, but I knew I'd never get my parka open and the front door key out unless I had an edge.

‘You're coming with us. Now.' And as he said it, Shifty-Eyes-With-Dandruff (and I'll throw in bad breath) put out a hand for my arm.

I had my trumpet case in my left hand and my Esmonde special take-away in a paper carrier and my coffee in a Higgins' bag in my right. What the hell. I could always get another horn out of hock, and Esmonde stayed open to 1.00 am.

I smiled broadly at Pointy-Beard and yelled ‘Catch!' as I threw the bags up in the air in front of his face. I do believe he almost tried to catch them, but I was too busy by then, swinging up the trumpet case and trying to use it as a battering-ram into Shifty-Eyes' midriff, or private parts if I was lucky.

I wasn't. He grabbed the end of the case before it hit him and stepped backwards using my momentum to take me forward and off balance, then he shoved back. He was stronger than he looked, and I stumbled back into his partner. Both of us went down and rolled off the hard, wet pavement into the gutter, but it was me who cracked the back of his head en route and me who got a boot in the stomach that even my US Navy parka did little to cushion.

I had the good sense to let go of the trumpet case and try and keep rolling out of range. Then my head hit something else and I realised it was one of Armstrong's rear tyres. I had just time to think what a help he was being when another boot landed in my guts and I gasped for air. When I found some, it had a strange smell – of sweet and sour sauce – and it seemed to be very moist.

If Esmonde ever asked me how I enjoyed the evening's ‘specials,' I could always say I'd found them warm and soft; comfortable to land on.

I grabbed Shifty-Eyes' foot as it landed again and hung on. Pointy-Beard was somewhere underneath me and was trying to roll me out from under Armstrong. We probably presented quite an obscene picture, and suddenly we seemed to have an audience.

I heard the pounding of rapid footsteps and I knew straight away that it wasn't a policeman (they wear rubber soles these days), and then somebody yelled, ‘Hey, you!'

Actually, it could have been ‘See, you!' – and I've even told people since that it was ‘See you, Jimmy' – but then and there, lying flat on my back looking up at Shifty-Eyes and still holding his foot, all I really registered was that the ‘you' came out as just ‘U.' It was the war cry of the Scottish male in full flight.

And I do mean flight.

Inverness Doogie was actually in mid-air when I realised it was him. Instantly. I also realised I was going to be okay. In fact, I was going to win a fight without landing a punch. (My kinda fight.)

Doogie went straight for Shifty-Eyes' face with his forehead, launching himself like an American footballer going over the opposition for a touchdown. Shifty-Eyes couldn't do much about it, as I was hanging on to his foot. The impact was sickeningly loud, even to me. God knows what it felt like from the inside. I let go of his foot and he just kept going.

By this time, Pointy-Beard was out from under me and on his knees. Doogie allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as Shifty-Eyes hit the road, then he turned and grabbed Pointy-Beard's tie. That was all he did. He didn't physically touch him, just grabbed his tie.

Then he ran down Stuart Street.

Pointy-Beard never did make it to his feet. He just followed Doogie as best he could on his knees. Well, he had to really; the alternative was strangulation.

Doogie left him about 20 yards away, then walked back to me, dusting his hands off as he came.

‘You okay, son?' he asked, helping me up.

‘Think so,' I said, checking the pockets of my parka, which gave off the odour of Hoy Sin sauce mixed with Mocha-Mysore coffee (filter-ground).

There seemed to be Chinese food everywhere. I kicked a pile of rice off the pavement in the general direction of Shifty-Eyes, who was beginning to moan, his hands clasped to his face.

‘Is he?' I nodded, and Doogie took a pace forward and looked down. ‘He's fine. I saw his eye move.'

Well, that was all right then.

Pointy-Beard was trying to stand and loosen the knot (by now probably no bigger than a square centimetre) in his tie. He was doing fine too.

‘Ah nivver could stand someone with a beard but no moustache,' said Doogie.

‘I know what you mean,' I said admiringly. ‘They're usually religious nutters.'

‘Or sociologists,' mused Doogie.

I suddenly felt we had a lot in common and maybe I'd misjudged him.

Miranda appeared in the doorway of No 9 and said, ‘Are you coming in now, darling?' like other wives would say, ‘Had a nice day at the office, dear?'

‘Aye. We're finished here, my numptious one,' said Doogie.

Numptious
? I realised we were still worlds apart.

‘You coming in for a nightcap?' he asked.

Maybe not that far after all.

‘Sure. Got a microwave?'

He looked affronted.

‘Ahm a chef,' he said proudly. ‘Ah don't need …'

I held up the intact bottle of rice wine I'd finally recovered from the depths of my parka.

‘Thirty seconds on defrost?' he said professionally.

‘Let's do it.'

 

 

 

 

 

Rule of Life No 77: if you should ever have to attend an inquest or similar official/judicial function: make sure you don't have a hangover.

Rule of Life No 76: sometimes there are exceptions.

To be honest, it was relatively painless. But then, so would be nuclear fusion in the state I was in.

I turned up at Queen's Road mortuary, parked Armstrong on a single yellow line, and followed the signs to the Coroner's Court.

Like a dutiful citizen, I checked in with the usher, and he looked at his clipboard and said there would be about a 15-minute wait, so why didn't I take a seat? I did, and soon learned to distrust ushers as a species. He was telling everybody who turned up that there would be a 15-minute wait: even two guys I knew who were self-employed window-cleaners looking for a contract.

Then Prentice took the seat next to me in the corridor and I just knew the day wouldn't get any better whatever the weather forecast.

‘Hello, there, Roy,' he shouted loudly. Well, maybe he didn't actually shout; it just felt that way as my brain recoiled on its springs. But he was loud. ‘How ya doing?'

I tried to inch away from him, but there wasn't another seat to move to.

‘Surviving. Just.'

‘Any news for me?'

Why was he talking so loudly? I realised that the previous night's rice wine, followed by Doogie's steak cooked in Glenfiddich and then more Glenfiddich, had left my cranial suspension system shot to pieces, but he was definitely going over the top.

‘Being a bit ... obvious … aren't we, Sergeant?' I whispered.

He leaned towards me and whispered: ‘Just in case there are any of Billy's animal friends here.' He stroked the side of his nose with a forefinger, then winked.

‘You bastard! You're setting me up.'

Instinctively I looked around the corridor to try and spot the lurking animal activist. Not a likely-looking suspect in sight, but then they don't all wear T-shirts like Lucy had.

Prentice came over all innocent.

‘But I thought you were more than happy to help clear up the unfortunate Billy's death. Incidentally –' he patted me on the knee ‘– we're calling it the Infenestration of Leytonstone back at the shop. Get it?'

‘Oh, highly droll,' I said sarkily. ‘I'm surprised you haven't had the window-frame shipped off to the Black Museum.'

‘Ah-ha,' he started confidently, ‘that would happen only if it had been a
defenestration.
A murder. If he'd been thrown
out
of a window.'

‘I know what it means,' I snapped. Then, a bit more politely: ‘Or is that a subtle hint that you really believe it was an accident?'

He plunged his hands into his leather jacket pockets and crossed his feet, dead casual.

‘Gotta be honest, Roy, there's not a sniff of anybody else being on that roof or near that window.'

Like they say in the movies: it was quiet. Too quiet.

‘Except you, of course.'

‘So you're on my case now, eh?'

‘Now and for the foreseeable future, old son.'

He was pleasant about it, I'll give him that. But should I let myself be intimidated this way? He had nothing on me. I did the noble thing.

‘How about a deal?' I suggested.

‘I'm all ears,' he said, totally unfazed.

‘I have a name,' I offered.

‘I know, Fitzroy, and it's a corker!'

‘My, but we must have got up on the right side of the interrogation cell this morning.'

He held out his hands in surrender.

‘Okay, okay. It's serious now. What's the name?'

‘What's the deal?' It was my turn to lay back.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want?'

‘Out of this. No tricky questions, no suspicion, no “helping with enquiries”, no more court appearances, no officialdom of any kind.'

‘Difficult...' he drawled.

‘Bullshit,' I said.

‘Okay, can be done; will be done. I'll see the Coroner's Clerk before we start. Now who've you dug up?'

I smiled. Beamed, actually.

‘Let's wait until the hearing's over, shall we?'

His eyes had gone to positive slits by now. He straightened himself up.

‘I've been checking on you, Angel,' he started, quietly but firmly. ‘No regular job, but doesn't draw social security or benefits from the unemployment office –' I knew that
was a con for a start, as the cops rarely liaised with the Social Security people, let alone with the income tax ferrets, thank God ‘– and yet no known criminal source of income. Background sketchy, certainly no criminal record. Educated – oh, yes. University, well we know that – you were there with Billy. Haven't gone much further back, but I'd lay odds
on a comfortable, middle-class upbringing; don't know for sure, though. Definitely a perennial student who never grew up. Never accepted responsibility. No wife, no kids, no
mortgage repayments. Probably no income tax, no nine-to-five routine.'

He paused, but it wasn't just for effect.

‘Lucky little bleeder, aren't you?'

‘Jealous?' I asked innocently.

‘Damn right.'

 

I spotted Billy's mum as soon as I entered the court. Apart from extra weight, the years had not been unkind, although she wouldn't get away with lying about her dress size for too much longer. She sat quietly through the proceedings, which the Coroner conducted in a dull monotone, occasionally sniffing into a balled-up frilly handkerchief firmly gripped in her right hand. In her left hand she held the arm of – I presumed – Mr Tuckett, a short, wide, ruddy-faced man with white sideburns. He could have modelled John Bull for a Victorian Toby jug painter.