Angel on the Inside (28 page)

‘Tell you what,' I said, ‘let me buy you a pint on the way back to St Chad's and I'll give you a couple of addresses.'

 

As the rush hour traffic slowed me down, I called Debbie Diamond on the mobile.

And almost immediately regretted it.

After an earful about how I hadn't told her anything and what the hell was going on, she admitted that Amy did appear to be alive, well and back at work. Or at least back at work in Madrid, as she hadn't actually seen her in the flesh.

‘That's okay,' I said cheerily, ‘I have. Has she made it to Madrid?'

‘Yes, she rang me half an hour ago. Her plane landed on time. That's why I was still in the office, waiting for Her Master's Voice to tell me what I had to do before I could go home. Now I've also talked to Her Master's Voice's echo, I suppose I can get a life of my own.'

‘Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction here, Debbie?'

‘I'm a mushroom, that's what I am. Covered by shit and kept in the dark.'

‘Chill out, Debs. What exactly is Amy doing in downtown Madrid?'

‘Doesn't she talk to you either?' she said bitchily. ‘It's her latest all-purpose presentation; the four basic food groups of fashion. Uptown Girl, Screen Siren, Boho Chic and Glam Goth. Which will survive? Discuss. Use one side of the paper only. Have you any idea what I'm talking about?'

‘Of course. Uptown Girl is the white or cream trouser suit with matching fedora whilst trying not to look like an extra from
Our Man In Havana
; a Screen Siren wears satin, backless gowns with spaghetti straps and only goes out at night; the Boho Chic chick shops at flea markets and goes for the mix'n'match look with a compulsory element of something South American – Inca or Andean llama-herder, that sort of thing; and the Glam Goth is the modern day
femme fatale
, not the gloomy teenager vampires with two tons of black make-up. How did I do?'

‘You're weird,' she said, and hung up.

 

I wasn't going to let her depress me. For the first time in days – weeks – I had something definite to do and I was going to do it. If I did it right, Amy could stop hiding from her past, the lounge would remain un-creosoted and Len Turner wouldn't take me to any more tourist attractions. And thinking about what he could do on the Eye, I would make a point of not going anywhere near the London Dungeon.

That was all assuming there would be no further complications, such as getting arrested in the process. Or, say, running across Steffi Innocent again.

There was a black London cab parked in the driveway of the Hampstead house and it wasn't Armstrong. I was driving him. I parked next to it, giving it room to reverse, and giving Steffi Innocent room to get out and march round to confront me before I had switched off the engine.

‘You conned me! There was nobody following Amy, she just needed a free ride to the airport, you bastard!'

‘No, I needed a diversion,' I said, supremely confident, as I climbed out. If I could survive Mr Creosote in prison, handling Steffi would be a doddle.

‘A diversion? What for?'

She almost stamped her foot in frustration. She'd probably missed lunch and had been waiting for hours. I was surprised the Neighbourhood Watch hadn't arrested her.

‘So I could go and sort out the mess you've landed me in,' I said haughtily.

She stood there, hands on hips, cheeks inflating as she took deep breaths to keep her temper, whilst I took the two frozen pizzas I had stopped off and bought at the local 7/11 from the back seat.

‘Mess? What mess? How
dare
you say that?'

I looked at my watch without saying anything, which is a good way of making anyone nervous. It was 6.30 and Cardiff was 150 miles away. I should be able to do that before the pubs shut, even in Wales. Just time to get a few things together and eat some pizza on the hoof.

‘I asked you how you think I got you into ...'

‘Your client's a scuzzbag,' I said. ‘Garlic chicken or pepperoni supreme?'

 

I showed her into the kitchen, pointed to the oven and the cupboard where the baking trays were kept and handed her the pizzas.

While she was still reading the instructions, I put my mobile on its charger and made a mental note to take the charger with me, then I packed a bag with the essentials I might need for a short summer break in Wales: thermal socks, a couple of fleeces, two sweaters and a shirt in case I went anywhere posh. I added a rubber torch and a pair of leather gloves and then an unopened bottle of Italian brandy, just in case. I checked that I had cash and that the credit cards in my wallet were in my real name (Keith Flowers wasn't the first to think of that one), and while I was upstairs in the bedroom I used the phone to get Directory Enquiries.

I asked for the number for the St David's Hotel, Cardiff, and for an extra 45p they connected me. What the hell, I wasn't counting pennies now. A very nice lady with a Welsh accent told me they had only Suites free, and only one of them as they were very busy, and I said that'll do nicely, told her to book me in for two nights and read her a credit card number.

I collected shaving gear and toothbrush from the bathroom and was back down in the kitchen before the pizza crust had burned.

Steffi was more or less where I had left her, leaning against the kitchen units. She'd been worrying, and I could tell she'd been chewing her fingernails from the way she snapped her hands down to her jeans pockets as I came in. Either that or she was hungrier than I was.

‘Get the pizzas out then and let's eat. I'm afraid I've got to run.'

‘What did you mean ...?'

‘Plates,' I said, pointing to a cupboard as I took a large knife out a drawer and ran it through the wall-mounted sharpener a couple of times.

She didn't even flinch.

I got the pizzas out and onto a chopping board and cut both into four segments, ground some black pepper and sea salt over the pile and offered her first pick. She took two slices without hesitation.

‘You said ...'

‘Haydn Rees is a scuzzbag,' I said as I ate. ‘I have it on very good authority, trust me on that. He must be one of the dodgiest solicitors around, and I don't say such things lightly, because it doesn't narrow it down, but take it from me he has been involved in money laundering and fraud and just happens to represent one of the biggest hoods in South Wales. He also thinks nothing of stitching up former clients if the need arises and has, so I'm told, some personal habits that are probably still illegal in 40-plus states in America.'

She took a bite of pizza and waved the remains of the slice at me.

‘You think he's gay, that's what it is!'

It was my turn to stand back in amazement.

‘What?'

‘Mid-thirties, bachelor, still lives with his mum. Of course that's what
you'd
think. And he's Welsh, so you've probably been making sheep-shagging jokes about him as well. Amy didn't think he was gay, though, did she?'

I did some serious chewing to keep my mouth occupied. God knows I had reason enough to hate this prickly little bitch, but now wasn't the time. She deserved something special.

‘You've got it so wrong, Steffi. I don't for a minute think Haydn Rees is gay. Gay would be good, gay I could handle. Well, you know what I mean.' Maybe she didn't. Oh, what the hell. ‘The basic point is, this guy is iffy, bent, a wrong ‘un, a nasty piece of work, call him what you like. He's used you to gather information on me and on Amy and he's passed it straight on to a Welsh thug called Len Turner. You might try running that name by your contacts in the Leek Squad.'

‘I can do that,' she said seriously.

‘In the meantime, you can tell me where this Rees character lives and works.'

‘Most of the solicitors in Cardiff have offices in Park Place or the Boulevard de Nantes near the law courts, but Rees has gone all upmarket with a place down near the Bay. He has a house in Pontprennau, which is where the young professionals live, and his mother's installed there. His father died ten years ago, by the way.'

‘Oh,' I said, like I cared.

‘Then he's got a place in the country, somewhere called Tregaron, which he bought for the fishing rights.'

‘Fishing rights? That would be on the coast, right?' I played dumb.

‘No way. It's up in the hills somewhere. He's into trout fishing, or wild trout fishing, I think they call it, big time.'

‘A man of many hobbies,' I said, then added: ‘If you include the model building, the charity work and the air pistol shooting.'

‘So what's your point?' She picked out another two slices of pizza.

‘Nothing. Listen, sorry to throw you out, but I've got to go.'

‘You're going to Cardiff, aren't you?' she said, but not like it was a sudden revelation to her.

She'd been listening in on the downstairs extension. She really did deserve something very special in the revenge market.

‘That's for me to know and you to wonder. Your job's finished.'

‘No it isn't,' she pouted.

‘I thought you'd done your final report for Rees. Has he hired you to do extra stuff?'

‘Well, no ...'

‘Has Stella asked you to ... Oh, no, of course she hasn't. She would have told me, us being such good friends and she being your ... what's the word? Oh yes – boss, that's it .'

‘But if Rees hired me – us – the agency – for something illegal, and I've only your word for that, then it's up to me to find out what really is going on.'

‘You don't want to do that.'

‘When it's my reputation at stake I do!'

She tried to look angry, but it didn't really come off with her holding a piece of pizza in each hand. I fought the urge to smirk.

‘Did Rees pay for your services? The agency's, I mean.'

‘Yes.'

‘Did the cheque bounce?'

‘No.'

‘So your point is what? You're done,
finito
, out of it. Your conscience is clear.'

‘But that's just not
right
!' she shouted.

I thought for a moment that she was going to throw the pizza slices down and storm out, but instead she checked herself, held on to the pizza and then stormed out towards the front door.

She was wearing a suede jacket with vents up the back, but cut long so I couldn't see what the dolphin tattoo was doing above her waistband. I sort of hoped it was drowning, though I've nothing against dolphins
per se
.

I did have a lot against her though. Driving a delicensed London black cab so nobody spotted you was sneaky enough. Taking photographs of you and listening in on private telephone calls was downright naughty. Finding things out about your partner that you didn't know, and then making assumptions – that was well out of order. Accusing you of being homophobic and anti-Welsh – well, all right then, homophobic – that was the pits.

But saying ‘Me – who loves cats?' with a straight face after what she'd done to Springsteen.

That was serious.

I could wait.

 

I parked Armstrong in the garage and remembered to lock it, and the house, and set the alarms. I piled all my gear into Amy's Freelander and set off towards Golders Green to pick up the North Circular, then dropped down Hanger Lane to the Chiswick Roundabout and the M4 motorway heading west into the bright, slowly setting sun, which was still so bright I had to fumble in my bag for my fake Ray-Bans.

It wasn't until I stopped to fill up with petrol at the service station outside Reading that I was sure it was Steffi's TX1 following me. Even as far out as Reading you're not surprised to see a black London cab on the motorway. It's really only beyond Swindon that they become rare.

I paid for my petrol and bought a bottle of mineral water and a pack of cigarettes as emergency rations, though I was pretty sure they had such things in Wales by now, got back on the motorway and put my foot down.

There was no way the TX1 could keep up with me, but then she knew where I was going and she'd find me. After all, she was the detective, and I had a feeling that she may have some small part yet to play in all this herself.

 

It had been a while since I had been to Wales, but some things never change. For instance, the spectacular toll bridges across the River Severn charge you to get
in
to Wales, but going
from
Wales into England is free, presumably on the basis that they think you've suffered enough.

The weather too is always reliable. Halfway across the bridge, I took off my sunglasses and threw them on the passenger seat, reckoning I wouldn't need them again for a while. And before I reached the outskirts of Newport, I was fumbling for the windscreen wipers.