Just Another Angel (21 page)

‘Scamp?'

‘Or one of his heavies. Scamp had an airtight alibi, naturally, but then again, young Leakey never said who exactly had done it. When he got out of hospital, he left the Force. Only walked properly about three months ago. They had to keep ripping the knee-caps apart and rebuilding them. Scamp broke his bones and his mind. His nerve went totally, and now his own shadow scares him shitless.'

‘So you feel guilty and you've made Scamp your personal crusade. Is that it?'

He put his face in his beer and finished the pint in one go. I wondered if I was expected to buy the next round as well.

‘Well, I don't think of it as a crusade, more a cleansing operation. And, like I said, it is personal.'

‘You felt responsible for what happened to Leakey,' I said soothingly. Maybe I'd put in a consultancy bill.

‘Oh, I got over that. It's personal because when I heard what had happened to young Leakey, I lost my rag. You should never do that. I went round to Scamp's lock-up warehouses – he had a couple down in Woolwich in those days – and he wasn't there, so I torched ‘em. Helluva blaze. It turned out he was storing paint, among other things. Of course, Scamp gets to claim about 20 grand on some dubious insurance policy, and I resign myself to the fact that I'll never get beyond Inspector. Oh yeah, I've been told as much. My career finished, just because I lose control and take it out on a
piece of shit like Jack Scamp.'

He rattled his empty glass, and I half stood to go to the bar.

‘So I'm determined to get my own back,' he continued. I sat down. I didn't want another drink anyway. The sod would probably breathalyse me after he'd made me drive him home. ‘Some philosopher said revenge is the best way of getting your own back, didn't he? Well, I feel like that. So I've been biding my time. I thought we had him last year when he lost his rag in a pub down in Kent and tried to push a glass through the landlord's face.'

‘He sounds a real charmer,' I offered. Malpass's eyes had misted, and I was talking just to remind him I was there.

‘Oh he is, sonny, he is.'

‘So what happened about the publican?'

‘We nicked him, all right. Scamp got two years for assault, grievous bodily, so on, so forth. Pathetic, really, for someone with his record. He could have got away with 14 months with remission.'

‘Could have?' I asked quietly, my stomach having suddenly acquired a large ice cube.

‘If he hadn't escaped from Her Majesty's Pleasure.' Malpass looked at me, then at his empty glass. ‘Last Saturday night, just about the time you were with his wife at that party in Fulham. Didn't you know? It's your round.'

 

I told Malpass he could find me at Stuart Street and, for a couple of streets, I did head that way. Then I did a couple of dog-legs and turned towards Trippy's squat.

I'd lost my appetite, I didn't want a drink and I was playing Frankie Goes to Hollywood (am I the only one who bought their second LP?) very loudly on Armstrong's in-cab sound system. My mind wasn't on my driving, and for the first time I almost collided with another taxi. It was one of the new, five-seater Metro-cabs, though, so that doesn't count. I realised why people confuse them with hearses.

Malpass had told me a few more bits of the story; not enough to know what was really going on, but just enough to make me feel uncomfortable. It's a knack only policemen, solicitors and builders doing estimates have.

Jack Scamp had drawn a two-year plate of porridge for the assault on the Kent licensee and, as Malpass had said, would have been out with remission, if he'd kept his nose clean, in three months' time. But our Jack hadn't kept his nose clean, being the sort of bloke who was born with somebody else's silver spoon in his fist if not his mouth.

No, our Jacko had thrown a wobbler and gone over the wall. Not a very high wall, at a low-security, semi-open prison in Buckinghamshire. You know, the sort where they do classes in ballistics and Open University degrees in SAS tactics.

The reason he'd gone over the wall was simple. He'd had some bad news brought to him in the nick by his mother, the Wicked Witch of Woolwich. She'd told him that his wife, young Jo, had been carrying on with other men, other women, nuns, rapists, ex-Nazi war criminals, you name it. Jack had, to use a medical expression, gone ape-shit.

Just as he had last year in the pub in Kent when he'd glassed the landlord – when the landlord had chatted up Jo while Jack was in the bog.

You see, Jack Scamp was absolutely stark-staring red-mist fucking paranoid jealous when it came to anyone messing about with his wife.

And he was out of prison.

And he broke bones like other people collect stamps.

And I was supposed to sleep nights?

 

My mission, should I decide to accept it, was to find Jack Scamp for Malpass before Nevil found me for Jack Scamp. This taxi will self-destruct in ten seconds. Mission-bleeding-Impossible.

The trouble was, it wasn't impossible. I could stake myself out and let Nevil come for me, relying on Malpass and the boys in blue to arrive in the nick of time.

Alternatively, I could find Scamp myself, then stand back and let the cavalry come. Just as dangerous, probably, but at least it might get the whole affair over with and, to some extent, I would be in charge of my own destiny.

Wishful thinking, I thought. Still, the only other option was to disappear off the face of the Earth, and that could involve leaving London. I couldn't do that; I mean, I had responsibilities, and if I had time I'd remember what they were.

I suppose, if the truth was known, I was narked at being pushed around. And you should never do things just because you're angry.

The first move was to set up a meet with Jo.

I wanted her to fill me in on the blank spots, and wanted to hear it from her, not anybody else. There was also the small matter of 250 smackeroos outstanding. And I was looking for real ones this time.

So, into action.

Firstly, I needed a woman. More specifically, I needed a woman's voice, and Trippy's place would have to do.

Plan A almost fell at the first fence, as Trippy and the rest of the squat seemed to have been having an end-of-season sale in Trippy's medicine chest.

They were all sat on the floor of one of the sparsely-furnished bedrooms, the curtains drawn, watching
EastEnders
on a black-and-white telly, and they were eating Greek yoghurt out of a communal, family-sized Sainsbury's tub. That combination would have softened my mind without recourse to proscribed substances.

There were five of them, I think; it was difficult to be precise in the gloom. I found Trippy by stepping on him.

‘Hey, man … easy. Tread soft.'

I knelt beside him and put my mouth as close to his ear as my nostrils would allow.

‘This is Earth calling Starship Trippy,' I said. ‘Please respond.'

‘Hey, Angel. What's your prob? Wanna snort? Oh, I forgot, you don't, do you?'

‘Trippy, I need a woman.' And I wished I'd bit my tongue off.

‘Hey – I remember them. They're the curved ones …'

‘To make a phone call for me.'

‘Well, all right,' he laughed. What could he have suspected?

‘Is anyone in the house straight?' I used the term loosely, but Trippy knew what I meant.

‘Nicola is,' Trippy slurred. ‘Well, fairly. That's why we're having a party; she's got a job.'

I felt a hand on my knee. An attractive young blonde I hadn't seen before was offering me a joint. I smiled and shook my head. I hadn't noticed, but the room stank like a Lebanese spice rack.

‘That's Nicola,' said Trippy, so I smiled again. ‘She's worried about keeping her works clean, and we don't have any spare, so she's staying low.'

Well, that was fairly straightforward. Nicola had no clean works – i.e. a fresh hypodermic (the Aids scare has a lot to answer for) – and so was staying on the dope: ‘stay low' coming from one of the Government's laughably ineffective drink/driving campaigns.

‘Hi, Nicola.'

‘Hi.' Nicola sat down on the floor and slowly rolled over onto her back. With more hair, she could pass for Springsteen being playful in the dark.

‘So you're the odd one out, eh? The one with the job.'

‘Yeah.' Nicola exhaled with her eyes closed. ‘Start Monday.'

‘Doing what?'

‘Social worker.'

I should have guessed.

‘You wouldn't like to do a bit of social work for me, would you?'

‘What did you have in mind, big boy?'

‘Make a phone call for me.'

A tall, thin guy I had seen in the house before crawled on all fours in front of the television to get at Nicola's joint. One of the other zombies threw a shoe at him.

‘What's it worth?' said Nicola, ignoring the guy, who was creeping back across the room with her joint in his mouth. Well, I think it was his mouth. It was dark.

‘A tenner?'

‘I'd settle for a Big Mac.'

‘One call and I'll make it a quarter-pounder with fries.'

‘Sold – to the man in the Biggles jacket.'

I took stock of my fur-lined leather jacket, which I had prized for years, and I didn't see any problem. George Michael could have got away with it, but then he can get away without shaving. I decided not to rise to the bait.

‘Where's the phone, Trip?'

Trippy took an age to sit upright.

‘Problemmmmm,' he sighed. ‘It's in the basement flat, and our friendly local councillor is out for the night. Flat's closed and locked, man.'

‘Yale lock?'

Trippy nodded, then smiled.

‘Well, that's never stopped us before, has it?'

 

I've never trusted Yale locks unless you remember to hit the dead switch, which few people do. You can't blame the manufacturers. Likewise, I've never trusted anyone who says he can turn one over with a piece of plastic or a credit card. In the old days, before machine-made doors and draught-excluders, maybe, but not these days.

I use an old and trusted nail file, one of those ones with the curled end for digging deep into the cuticle. It's well-worn now, mainly due to being pushed in and out of locks, but you can't be arrested for carrying it. And if you have the knack and a light enough touch, you can just about ease back the spring enough to release the tongue. But why am I telling you all this? Just take my word for it.

It took us about two minutes to get into the basement flat, about five minutes for Nicola to shake off the giggles, and about another five for me to brief her as to what to say.

‘Now remember, if a man answers, say you want to speak to Jo. If he says she isn't there, say you'll come round and wait. Just bluff him out.'

‘But if this Jo answers, I'm to stick to the script, right?'

‘Right.'

And give her her due, she did.

‘Hello, is that Jo? ... Good, listen, I've got a message from Carol … Yes, Carol Flaxman. She wants to see you tomorrow … No, it has to be tomorrow … Seymour Place baths … Swimming baths … Swimming baths, tomorrow at 5.00 … She says she knows it's difficult to get away, but this is really important and if you don't come, then I think she'll gatecrash your place ... I know, I know, but you know what she's like … No, I'm just a friend ... No … Just be there, five o'clock … No, in the pool, she'll be waiting … Okay, goodbye.'

Nicola hung up the local councillor's phone and ran a hand through her hair.

‘How was that?'

‘Oscar-winning. What did she say?'

‘Well, she didn't like the idea much, but she said she'd try.'

‘Great. I owe you a hamburger.'

Trippy began to sniff and hop from foot to foot. He was anxious to get out of the basement and back upstairs. Whether it was because he was a lousy burglar or because he was wasting valuable brain-damaging time, I couldn't tell.

‘Let's go, kids,' I chirped.

‘Er … I'd better get back upstairs ...' Trippy began.

‘Sure, sure,' I said, waving him away. ‘Thanks for everything, it was a great help.'

‘Oh, yeah, right, good.' He nodded to himself as he climbed the stairs, wondering what he'd helped with.

I didn't have the heart to tell him or Nicola that I was worried that Jo's phone would be tapped. He wouldn't remember, and I hoped she wouldn't ask nasty questions.

‘I'll get my coat,' she said.

I must have looked blank.

‘So we can go for a Big Mac,' she said as if talking to an infant.

‘Right. Great. Let's go.'

She took a couple of minutes to get her coat, wash her face and comb her hair. It really was a pleasant shade of blonde now I looked at it.