Angel on the Inside (21 page)

‘Bloody hell.'

‘The only black mark on Mr Clean is this business with Amy May's divorce. I mean, it's odd the papers never got hold of that, as Amy May's quite a well-known name in the fashion business, isn't she?'

Given the way she dressed, I was amazed she'd even heard of Amy, and I didn't like the way she was referring to her in the abstract.

‘How did your sources find out about the divorce?'

‘Public knowledge; well, public record. Keith Flowers was from Cardiff, and that's where he filed. Just ring the right bit of the Magistrates' Court and they tell you all the gory details.'

I sat back in the seat and fumbled for a cigarette.

‘I don't like smoking in my car,' she said.

Good. I flicked ash on to the floor and pretended I couldn't work out how to open the window. By the time I had, I'd finished the cigarette and there were at least two burn holes in her upholstery.

I needed the nicotine as it had come as quite a shock to learn that Amy had been married to a Welshman. Still, it had all happened a long time ago in a small country far away.

‘Can your sources down in Taffy land come up with anything else on this Rees?' I asked, smearing my face against the sliding panel again.

‘Such as?'

‘Where he lives, who is clients are and any connection with a family called Turner.'

‘Who are these Turner people you keep on about? He never mentioned them.'

‘Having met them, I don't blame him, but he was the go-between. They were the ones you were really working for.'

‘I could check them out. My dad ... I've got good contacts down there.'

‘Do it from a distance.'

‘Can do, but does this mean you're hiring me? I mean the firm.'

‘Not in a financial way,' I said in measured tones. ‘Let's just say my credit with Stella is good for a while yet. So yes, go ahead, see what you can dig up. And I'd like a copy of the report you sent to Rees and a set of the photographs you took. And the negatives.'

‘That's not possible.' She shook her head as she said it and almost clipped a passing Mazda.

‘I think Stella will go along with it. You can ring her tomorrow morning, about 11.00, if you want to check.'

I could tell she was fuming. It felt good to make her fume. It was a start.

‘When Rees briefed you,' I went on, ‘did he mention any names other than me and Amy?'

‘No.'

‘Not at all? He didn't give you any other leads?'

‘No, he didn't, and he was really apologetic that he couldn't give me more to go on.'

‘Not even an address for Flowers?'

‘No. He didn't have one. I was the one thing I couldn't find out.'

I allowed myself a smile, because I knew that and she didn't. But then I realised that if she'd still been on the case this morning she could have followed me out to St Chad's in this damned Tixilix and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

It also confirmed that Rees certainly wasn't representing Keith Flowers now, even if he had in the past. A defending solicitor would have access to his prison files, not to mention access to the prisoner himself, even if he was in a padded cell and wearing a paper suit.

‘You're sure he mentioned no other names?'

‘Yes, of course I'm sure.' She sounded irritated.

Irritated was good as well, but still not enough.

So did that mean that Rees didn't know – and therefore the Turners didn't – about ‘Mr Creosote', as Spider had called him? Then again, what the hell did I know about him?

The circle was coming round to Keith Flowers again, except there was a big gap where, somehow, Amy fitted in. But where was Amy? And why had I left my to-do list on the floor of Armstrong back in Soho?

Steffi was indicating right, and I realised I was back on home turf in Hampstead. Right outside the house, in fact.

The house that had a Freelander parked outside.

‘Looks like Amy's home,' said Steffi.

 

 

 

 

 

I was quite prepared to shout ‘Honey, I'm home!' but as the rest of the house was dead quiet, I could hear her in the upstairs shower.

At the foot of the stairs, just where I could have fallen over them even had I been sober and not wearing sunglasses indoors, were her laptop and a big black document case with a shoulder strap. There was white printing on the flap of the bag, which was the standard freebie you get at conferences these days, but when I tried to read it, I realised my eyesight had been irreparably damaged either by alcohol or by close contact with a capsule wall on the London Eye.

It just didn't make any sense. It was probably upside down.

I took my glasses off and bent down to get a closer look, almost overbalancing in the process.

‘Wythnos Ffasiwn Cymru.'

What the hell was that? It wasn't English, unless it was a gimmick and you had to hold it up to a mirror to read it. Or was that Swedish?

Then I noticed the circular sticky-backed badge that somebody had slapped on the fabric. That showed a smiling woolly sheep and had the legend: ‘Cool Cymru: The Welsh Aren't Sheepish!'

That gave me a much-needed clue, and I so I read the second line of printing.

‘Welsh Fashion Week.'

It looked like all roads, not just the M4, were leading to Wales.

I climbed the stairs, making as much noise as possible so as not to give Amy a
Psycho
moment in the shower. I needn't have bothered, as she had locked the bathroom door, which was unusual.

‘Have you eaten?' she yelled, turning the power shower down but not off when I announced my presence outside the door.

‘I grabbed a snack on the way home,' I said slowly, framing each word carefully in advance.

‘Good, so did I. I'm knackered and I'm hitting the hay pronto. You okay?'

‘Yeah, fine,' I said. ‘I could do with a shower myself.'

It was true. In fact I could do with a complete range of Stain Devils judging by my clothes. On my shirt alone I could identify beer, peanut sauce and blood, and I probably reeked of smoke, stale perfume and Stella. (Not that we'd managed anything really naughty; it was just that Amy would
know
I'd thought about it.)

She hadn't answered me or rushed to open the door, so I shouted: ‘Tell you what, I'll go and clean up downstairs. See you in a bit.'

‘Right. Good thinking,' she said, and if she said anything else, it was lost in the blast of the shower.

I congratulated myself on a lucky escape. I had forgotten about my bruised and blackened face, which even Amy might have noticed, so the least I could do was try and reduce the swelling.

I dived into our bedroom to retrieve the towelling robe hanging behind the door, the one she was always reminding me I'd forgotten to put on, and kick off my trainers. Amy's Gucci overnight bag was lying on the bed, the front panel unzipped. A few pieces of paper had fallen out on to the duvet cover. I didn't touch them, but I did lean in close enough, almost falling over in the process, to see what they were. The bits of paper were till receipts from a bar in the St David's Hotel, and one was a ticket stub from the Health Spa at St David's. There was also a plastic-coated badge on a neck ribbon saying it was a ‘VIP Pass' for Wythnos Ffasiwn Cymru, but there was no personalised name or photo ID on it.

I sneaked downstairs as quietly as I could and turned the TV on, flipping the channels until I found an imported US sitcom with a loud laughter track. It wasn't difficult; it was Friday night. Then I went to the ground floor bathroom, turned the shower on full and stripped off my clothes.

The shirt would have to go. I was in no fit state to even try and get the stains out if it, so I scrunched it up between my hands and nipped into the kitchen, pretty sure that there was enough background noise to cover me even if she turned off her shower.

From the cupboard under the sink I took a black bin liner and stuffed the shirt to the bottom, then looked around for rubbish to throw on top. There was nothing to find except some pizza cartons, an empty carton of orange juice, some egg shells, a carton of milk I'd forgotten to put back in the fridge two days before, a pile of junk mail, two empty wine bottles, the contents of three full ashtrays and four used coffee filters. It was like nobody had lived there for days.

I tied a knot in the top of the bag and opened the back door quietly (that is to say, checking I hadn't set the alarms). The small rectangle of lawn outside the back door is what passes for our garden but in fact provides a sheltered living space for our dustbins. Neither Amy nor I had ever found any other good reason to go out there. Both plastic bins, typically, were full, but that was probably because I hadn't put them out for collection whenever it was the bin men came to empty them. And there was another plastic bag, just like the one I was holding, tied at the neck with a twisted-over rubber band, crammed behind the bins.

I knew I hadn't put it there and I hadn't noticed it before, though that wasn't saying much as I rarely ran security checks on our garbage, unlike most of the neighbours.

The lights were still on in the upstairs bathroom and I could hear water trickling down the outside pipes. She was certainly having a good hose down, and hopefully it would last while I opened up the bag by undoing the several dozen twists she'd put in the rubber band.

The bag contained only one thing, or rather, two. A light blue wool two-piece suit that I'd never seen before and would have sworn in court wasn't part of Amy's wardrobe. Had it not been for the fact that kindly old Len Turner had shown me a picture of her wearing it as she climbed into the Freelander.

I rubbered up the bag again and kicked it behind the bins. She was probably putting it out for recycling or to give to Oxfam, that was it. Nothing sinister.

‘And if you believe that, sunshine,' I said quietly to myself, ‘you've had far too much to drink.'

Which was, of course, true, so I spent the next 20 minutes trying to shower the alcohol out of my pores and then another 20 minutes holding a pack of frozen peas from the freezer over the bridge of my nose whilst watching anxiously in the downstairs-bathroom mirror to see if the swelling would go down or the bruises paled back to flesh colour. Neither happened, so I crunched on a couple of Paracetamol, turned off the TV in the lounge (even though it was now on to the Friday night soft porn movie) and crept up the stairs to bed, fingers crossed, numerous explanations at the ready.

My luck held. Amy was already in bed and the light was off.

I pulled the hood of the bathrobe up over my head like a boxer and slipped under the duvet alongside her but so we were back-to-back. She was breathing deeply and rhythmically, but you can never be sure with women, as feigning deep sleep is a natural talent for them. I slipped over an exploratory hand and discovered she was wearing a night shirt of some sort, though I wasn't aware she possessed one. It was a long one, too, reaching well below the knees. Which was unusual.

Now was not the time. Explanations could wait until the morning.

The best ones usually can.

 

Saturday started as it usually did, but once I had remembered where I was, I swung into action.

First thing was to check where Amy was, and an exploratory hand minesweeping down the far side of the bed confirmed she was up and about. Second thing was to check how I looked. So far, a fairly normal Saturday.

The bedroom mirror was kind to me for once.

There was an egg-shaped brown, green and blue bruise arcing from the bridge of my nose over my right eyebrow, but fortunately it was only the size of a wren's egg. In a strange way, I felt rather disappointed, as it had hurt a lot more than it looked, but at least my nose didn't click or bend out of shape when I wiggled it.

I could pass muster, or at least think of some good excuses. A wet shave and some clean clothes and Amy would never know the difference.

But I never got the shave, because Amy was in the shower.

Again.

 

I made do with a battery-operated shaver after taking four more Paracetamol with some orange juice to counteract the noise it made. The shave wasn't perfect, but at least I didn't draw any more blood. Once I'd brushed my teeth I felt almost presentable.

Amy was in the kitchen making coffee. She was wearing a long black shirt over wide white trousers – the sort Marlene Dietrich had been fond of. I could smell the shower gel on her even over the warm, damp coffee grounds in the cone filter, but her hair was dry and brushed, so she must have tied it up in the shower.

She had the radio on, so she didn't hear me immediately, and then as she glided to the fridge for milk, I noticed that she wasn't quite limping, but she was definitely not putting all her weight on her right leg.