Angel on the Inside (39 page)

‘So you think I should look for a new solicitor?'

‘If you think you might need one.'

‘Don't be a smart alek.'

‘If you can sign one up tonight, do it. And send an e-mail to Rees's office right now cancelling all your business. Do it so you can prove you did it before the news breaks.'

I saw something in his cold, old eyes that I hadn't seen before: respect.

‘That might be good advice,' he said. ‘Why are you giving it? Why did you bring back my mon … investment?'

‘I'll be honest, Mr Turner,' I said, showing as much respect for him as I could without throwing up in his lap. ‘Anything that stitched up Hadyn Rees got the thumbs up from me, but there's no reason you should be out of pocket for that. I don't want you coming to London debt-collecting.'

‘You show wisdom beyond your years,' he said, and I half expected him to add ‘young Jedi'.

‘Not wisdom, common sense.'

‘What about our mutual friend in Belmarsh?'

‘Now that's a bit more problematical.' He raised his eyebrows at such a long word. It was probably even longer in Welsh, with four ‘g's or more, not that he'd know, being from the south. ‘There's no doubt that our mutual friend's prime objective was to screw you around. I'm afraid he doesn't like you much, Mr Turner.'

I couldn't think why.

‘What's between my brother-in-law and me is private. We'll keep it that way.'

Brother-in-law
? And I thought I had the Oscar for dysfunctional families that year.

‘Whatever you say. But I think it would please our friend to think that you were deprived of your merchandise, you lost your investment, and shall we add that you were thrown into a flat spin when you heard about your solicitor helping the police with their enquiries for the first time when it was on BBC Wales tomorrow morning? Wouldn't that satisfy him?'

‘That might work, but he wouldn't believe it if he heard it through me.'

‘I'll tell him,' I volunteered.

‘You will?'

Well, maybe I'd write.

‘If I have to, sure.'

‘Do it. Now, you said you wanted something from me. Better make it quick. I've got phone calls to make.'

I licked my lips, because they had suddenly dried up.

‘When we were in London, you said I didn't really know about Amy and Keith Flowers, and something about her being “the old gang” or something. What did you mean?'

‘I knew you didn't know,' he said, and his face cracked into a grin. ‘No, I shouldn't laugh, I suppose. Your Amy was a student here in Cardiff for a time. Keith Flowers was with a firm of accountants. I came across them because they'd rented some of my property down the docks. That was the old docks, not the tarted up new one nobody can afford to live in.

‘They'd got a nice little scam going with a company supposed to be making sundials.'

‘Sundials?'

‘Yes, sundials using recycled materials – bits of brass from the old collieries, Welsh slate for the bases.'

‘Did they sell?'

‘I dunno, ‘cos they never made one, it was all a con. They got their start-up money from the Common Market or the European Union or whatever the fuck they call it these days. Said Wales was a Third World country and needed aid. People were quite affronted by that at the time; didn't like to think of themselves as Third World. Now they call it “inward investment” and everyone's at it. Amy and Keith were among the first to get a grant, and they had a good solicitor.'

‘Rees.'

‘Spot on. When the company went belly-up, they never found the cash, about £72,000 as I remember. It had been well squirreled away. Young Amy had ambitions, you see. Needed some seed capital for a move to London. Rees did whatever she told him to, and they sort of cut Keith out of the loop.

‘He was always a bit unstable, was Keith, but that tipped him over the edge. He threw a wobbler when two Inland Revenue investigators turned up and started asking nasty questions. He went for them, big time. Beat the living crap out of them. Both were hospitalised and took early retirement.'

‘Two Inland Revue inspectors? Maybe I've misjudged Keith Flowers.'

‘Not funny, Mr Angel. They were both women. I don't like, nor do I approve of, violence towards women. That's why he got such a hefty sentence.'

‘I didn't know,' I said contritely. ‘Thank you for that.'

‘She didn't tell you?'

‘Not in so many words.'

‘No,' he said with another sigh. ‘She wouldn't. Women are such bitches.'

I didn't know whether to agree or not.

‘Tell you what,' he said suddenly, ‘I'll make a few calls, sort things out my end. You have a night in Cardiff on me. See some of the nightlife. Don't worry, I won't be with you. You don't want an old git like me cramping your style.'

What was going on? Any minute now he'd be adopting me.

‘I hadn't planned ...'

‘Won't hear a refusal.'

I got the impression he never did.

‘This wouldn't involve Barry and Huw would it?'

‘Not unless you wanted them to buy you a drink. I'd've thought you could find your own entertainment.'

‘I can, I can. It's just I wasn't thinking of Cardiff for tonight.'

‘I'll put you up at the St David's, the best in town.'

‘They're probably fully booked,' I tried.

He gave me a look that said they were never fully booked for him.

‘You do what you want. Make a night of it on the town or go to the health spa. It'll all be on my tab. Then you and I'll have breakfast together in the morning. How's that?'

‘Do I have a choice?'

He wrinkled his nose as if thinking hard. ‘Not really.'

‘And if I just kept driving back to London, you'd come and visit me there? Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but some time, and I'd always be looking over my shoulder?'

He looked partly impressed, partly surprised.

‘Good God almighty you've got a vivid imagination on you. You don't realise how valuable you are to me, Mr Angel. I would wrap you in cotton wool if I could.'

‘You would?'

‘Of course I would. You're going to see my psycho brother-in-law in Belmarsh and tell him how I almost had a heart attack thanks to his cunning plan. That way he'll stay cheerful for a while and give me a bit of piece. I don't want my living room creosoted. I've spent thousands on my living room. The wife would fucking kill me.'

 

I don't know how he did it, but there was a Master Suite waiting for me at the St David's. I only wished I'd had luggage to take up to it.

I didn't know why I was doing this. My hands shook as I raided the mini-bar. I should be a good proportion down the M4 by now. Len Turner was checking out my story, keeping me in town so he could put his hands on me if he needed to. I was being held on suspicion, albeit in a mink-lined prison. And it did have a health spa.

I charged a pair of Speedo swimming shorts to the room, hired a towel and relaxed in the pool, the sauna, the jacuzzi and then the pool again. When in Rome visiting the Emperor, it's always best to enjoy the decadence while you can. Tomorrow you might find yourself in the arena.

Back in my room – suite – I used my mobile to ring home and see if there were any messages. If Len Turner was getting the bill, I didn't want to give him any itemised phone numbers I cared about.

There was one message for me. Amy asking me not to forget to pick her up at the airport.

That made me think of the confrontation that was coming round the corner and coming fast.

To hell with it. If I was going to be depressed, I'd be depressed on a full stomach, and the hotel's restaurants were good. From the
Information for Visitors
brochure I decided on lobster, as it was the most expensive thing. I'd have it for starters, then see what I felt like for a main course.

I was putting on my least grimy T-shirt when there was a knock on the door, which was odd, because I hadn't ordered anything for nearly 15 minutes.

I glued my eye to the security spy-hole – the prisoner spying on the jailers – and there was a young, straight-haired blonde in the process of taking off a pair of octagonal wire-framed glasses and feeding them into a case in a small leather handbag.

I opened the door.

‘Hello,' I said, making it upbeat and innocent, not fruity and lecherous like a bad Leslie Phillips impersonation.

She wore a white TALtop. Who'd have thought it? They had actually made it to Wales. And she'd set it off with a black leather waistcoat, a short red suede mini skirt, black tights and Victorian ‘granny' ankle boots with three inch spiked heels.

‘Mr Angel?' she said politely.

‘Probably,' I said.

‘I've been told to keep you company for the night, do anything you want.'

She stood there with her hands on her bag, holding it to her stomach. Not nervous, not overly tarty as she could have been by putting her hands on her hips. Quite demure, in fact.

‘Anything?' I said. It was pure reflex. Old habits die hard.

She nodded, dead serious. ‘Anything.'

I thought carefully about what to say next.

‘Mr Turner sent you.'

‘Yes.'

‘And he'd be offended if I said no?'

It was her turn to think carefully. ‘I could be in trouble if I didn't appear to come up to expectations, though I could order a replacement.'

‘No, no, no problems in that area, it's just ... Look, have you had guys say they just want to talk, you know, just sit and talk. And it usually turns out to be about their wives and how they don't understand them?'

‘Y-e-s,' she said slowly, then she saw me grinning. ‘All the time, actually. Sad fuckers, most of them.'

Oh, I had a feisty one here.

‘Well, let me tell you ...?'

‘Julia.'

‘Let me tell you, Julia, that you are in the presence of one of those sad fuckers, whose wife
does
understand him, but he's alone, in Cardiff for one night, and is really, really hungry.
But
he's on expenses. So, the question you've got to ask yourself is, do you like lobster?'

She was struggling against the smile, which was a pity, because she had a nice face that hadn't had much to laugh at.

‘Let me get this right. You want to take me to dinner? That's all? No afters? It's okay, the afters are paid for. I just like to know where I stand.'

‘Not quite correct. I want to take you for the
most expensive
dinner you've ever had, with the finest wines in Christendom. After which, you can come in here and put your feet up – oops, bad choice of words there – what I mean is, you can make it look like you stayed, if you think you need to, or you can get a taxi home at my expense. Well, not mine, but on expenses. Alternatively, we can sit and watch the Discovery Channel, because I'm pretty sure you can get that in a Master Suite, and we can annoy Room Service until the wee hours.
Or
we could do the mini-bar, shelf by shelf, seeing who finishes ...'

‘You're weird,' she said, smiling now. ‘I think I'll take the expensive dinner option.'

‘A wise choice, madam, you won't regret it,' I said, giving her a low bow.

It was the least I could do for the girl on tape 6.

 

By the time Len Turner showed up at breakfast, I was on my third cup of coffee. I had restricted myself to couple of pastries after the blow-out of the night before. (There had been a minor fuss about me demanding fresh raspberries with shredded mint leaves to go with the
iles flotant
, and the chef had been called for and had finally agreed, after the better part of bottle of cognac, that they did complement one another.)

‘I can't stop,' he said, not bothering to sit down. ‘Got to go and sell a few shares to pay your fucking bill.'

‘It was your idea,' I said nervously.

‘Remind me not to have any more.'

He was dressed for business: three piece suit, shirt and tie, clutching a briefcase. Well, one of his businesses.

‘Going for an interview with my new solicitors, aren't I? Note that. They're interviewing
me
, see if my business is worth having.'

‘They'd be foolish to refuse,' I said. Foolish? Bloody suicidal.

‘Oh, they'll see sense when the cheque book comes out.'

Or when they see son Ron in dark glasses and leather jacket lurking at the entrance to the dining room, like I could.