Just Another Angel (28 page)

‘On holiday.'

‘So what do you call this one?'

‘I was thinking of Bormann maybe, but I'm not sure yet. Fancy a spin in him?'

She opened her mouth in an excited Oooh, but before she could say anything, Lisabeth's podgy hand gripped her shoulder and she was yanked out of the room.

 

As I dressed, I turned the radio on to BBC Radio London. It's the best station for London news; a pity nobody listens to it. There was nothing about dead bodies or homicidal taxis in Soho. So far, so good.

I opened up Brogan's
History of the USA
and replaced my building society book, driving licence and passport, which Nevil had left in the bottom of my bag. I couldn't get all the francs in there; they'd have to stay in the crisp box for the time being. But some of them would have to go straight away, as I was right out of folding money. I even owed Bunny a fiver, although for picking me out of the gutter, so to speak, I owed him a lot more. Maybe I'd get him a present.

I stuffed about a thousand francs into my pocket and retrieved the JJ pendant from my leather jacket. My personal bureau de change and pawnbrokerage wouldn't ask too many questions, and it was open all day Saturday.

Mr Cohen's Exotic Pets was only just round the corner, so I decided to walk. Taking the Merc – and letting Mr Cohen see it – would also insure a lousy rate of exchange.

I thought at first that the Merc had got a parking ticket, but it wasn't, it was a printed fly-sheet stuffed under the wiper blades. It read: THIS CAR IS A SYMBOL OF SOCIAL DIVISON – YUPPIES OUT! CLASS WAR LTD.

Bloody cheek. The amount they cost, they ought to be socially divisive. I didn't know who Class War Ltd were, but it was a good name for a band. I replaced the leaflet under the rear windscreen wiper of Frank's Golf.

There weren't many exotic pets on show in Mr Cohen's emporium: a macaw and a parrot and the usual collection of hamsters, rabbits and small unidentified furries. But then it wasn't as if selling pets was Mr Cohen's main source of income. He dabbled. In this and in that. Mostly that, if money was the bottom line.

I'd often meant to ask him why he bothered with the pet shop front, as most of the animals seemed to give him asthma. I'd also meant to pluck up the courage and one day ask him why he was called Rajiv Cohen, but not today, as there was business to be done.

Mr Cohen looked over the top of his half-rims at me when I asked him if he'd like to buy some francs.

‘Just come back from holiday, have we?'

‘You could say that, Mr Cohen.'

He produced one of the new currency calculators that all the whizzkids in the City have clipped to their identity bracelets, and began punching buttons.

‘The rate is 9.62 to the pound. I can give you 6.50.'

‘That's some commission, Mr Cohen, but I'll take a thousand's worth, because I want your advice on something else.'

‘Oh yes? And what would that be?' he asked as he counted out 65 quid in fivers in exchange for my wad of thin, brown French notes.

I dropped the pendant on the counter in front of him, and as if by magic a jeweller's eyeglass appeared in his eye. I'll swear his hands hadn't moved.

‘Of course the inscription devalues it,' he started, establishing the right bargaining atmosphere. ‘But it's a nice stone, I'll give you that.

‘I'm told it's worth over three grand, Mr Cohen,' I lied.

‘Well, I don't know about that, son, but I can ask my brother in Brick Lane. He's the gems man of the family.'

Over Mr Cohen's shoulder, I could see into the back room of the shop, and through the window there I spotted Springsteen jumping up on to the fence. Once balanced there, he looked over his shoulder to check that the coast was clear. It must be a family trait.

In his mouth was a white, furry creature. Maybe it was a coming-home present for me.

I kept Mr Cohen arguing and haggling for a good five minutes before agreeing to leave the pendant with him until Monday. Well, I had to give Springsteen enough time to get clear. He'd do the same for me.

 

Stan at the off-licence looked pleased to see me, even though I interrupted him checking his pools coupon against the football results on the radio. I ordered a couple of packs of Red Stripe Crucial Brew and a bottle of Bull's Blood, a real headbanger of a Hungarian red wine, and forty Gold Flake.

‘Another party tonight, Roy?'

‘No way, Stan. Feet up, telly on. That's Plan A for tonight.'

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Anything good on the box?'

‘Probably not, but after this little lot, it won't matter.'

He nodded wisely.

‘Still, it's a pity you're not going to a fancy dress do. You could've put a glove on and gone as Michael Jackson.'

He was still chuckling as I left. In another era, Stan would have been the one in the air raid shelter who tried to keep everybody's spirits up during the Blitz. No wonder the Luftwaffe had a go at East London.

On the way back to Stuart Street, I worked out my menu for the evening. I had some steaks in the freezer compartment of my fridge and I could scrounge some garlic from Salome and some potatoes from Lisabeth. A hefty chunk of protein, a glass or three of wine, maybe a good book, and then ten hours' solid kip. That should just about set me up for my return visit to the hospital, and I was trying to remember what time Ruth had said she went on duty on Sundays, so I hardly noticed the Renault 5 parked behind my new Merc.

I had another life and death struggle with the lock of No 9, but managed to get the door open without dropping anything or damaging my right hand.

‘Here he is,' I heard Lisabeth say.

She was sitting on the stairs next to a very attractive, curly redhead who was showing long lengths of red, diamond-pattern stocking between a pair of red-and-black high heels and a short, red-leather mini. Across the mini-skirt lay Springsteen, on his back, allowing the redhead to tickle his chest. He opened one eye at me as if to say, ‘Now get out of this.'

‘Hello,' said the redhead, ‘I'm Tracie Boatman.'

Oh knickers.

‘Tracie's been after you for days, Angel,' said Lisabeth primly. ‘So I'll leave you two together.'

For once, I wished she wouldn't go, but I put a brave face on it.

‘Yeah ... er ... sorry. I did get your messages but ... er ... I've been busy. You'd better come up to the office.' I nodded towards my flat.

She stood up, and Springsteen, the rat, went limp with an audible sigh and allowed her to carry him up the stairs like an over-indulged Roman emperor. I wondered what he'd done with the hamster or whatever it was.

‘I didn't know the National Insurance office worked Saturdays,' I said resignedly.

‘Oh, we don't.' She smiled. ‘In fact, we try not to work Monday to Friday. Can I give you a hand? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. What on earth have you been doing to yourself?'

‘Road accident,' I said bravely. ‘Pulling an old man out from under a bus.'

‘Really? What a hero.' She looked as if she believed me about as much as Springsteen did.

‘Can you get the keys out of my pocket, please?'

I swivelled my right hip towards her and, without batting an eyelid, she dug deep into my trousers. If she was going to do me for non-payment of National Insurance, then I was going to get my money's worth.

She let us into the flat, and Springsteen jumped out of her arms and scampered into the bedroom. If he'd left his present in the bed, he was dead meat.

I dropped my shopping in the kitchenette, she plonked herself on the sofa.

‘So, what can I do for you, Mrs Boatman?'

‘It's Ms actually, I'm divorced.'

You know when you're getting old; the divorcees look younger.

‘I understand you put bands together,' she said, looking round the flat.

‘Yes,' I said slowly. ‘Usually just for friends who want to play together.'

‘Can you get me a trad jazz band for next Thursday?'

Was this a trick question? ‘Where?'

‘A pub called the Chiswell Street Vaults. Do you know it?'

‘Yes.' It was the sort of pub you left only when you needed a change of clothes. ‘What's the event?'

‘A hen party for one of the Inspectors in our office. She gets married next Saturday and we want to give her a good send-off. We've hired the back bar for a party and we need some music and we know she's a jazz fan.'

‘We?'

‘Oh, there are about 40 of us. It's a big office.'

Forty women on a hen night in a pub I knew was good value. Mmm.

‘I'm sure I can do something, Ms Boatman.'

‘Call me Tracie. Do you mind if I smoke? So many people don't these days.'

‘Not at all,' I said, and remembered the cigarettes I'd bought. ‘Try one of these.'

‘Oh, I like them,' she said greedily. ‘They're good and strong.'

Mmmm.

‘What would a band cost?'

‘Well, I may be out of it,' I said, holding up my hand. ‘But I can easily get a drummer, pianist – if there's a piano there – bass man, and of course you'll need a sax player.'

That was Bunny's debt paid off.

‘Maybe 80 quid plus a few beers. How's that sound?'

‘Fine. We might even have enough left in the kitty for a kissogram, you know, a Tarzanogram or similar. The girls like to let their hair down.'

I slipped a Eurythmics tape into the stereo.

‘I might be able to help you there as well,' I said. And that would put me in Simon the Stripping Sexton's good books. He never turned down work.

‘Fancy a drink? I was just going to have one.'

‘It's a bit early,' she said half-convincingly.

‘Well, the truth is, I might need some help with the corkscrew.'

‘Oh, of course, your poor hand. Where is it? Do let me help.'

This splint could come in useful, I thought.

I brought the wine and a pair of glasses through from the kitchen. She'd slipped off her jacket and had curled her legs under her. Her eyes widened when she saw the bottle.

‘Bull's Blood! I haven't had that since I was at university.' She set to it with a will and the corkscrew.

I popped back into the kitchen and took two steaks out of the freezer, putting them in the oven out of Springsteen's way.

‘You know something?' I asked gaily. ‘I felt sure your visit was a professional one.'

She smiled and poured the wine.

‘You behind on your NI stamps, then? Don't worry.' She winked an eye. ‘Your cat didn't grass on you. And anyway, this isn't my area. You must be naturally lucky,' she said, laying it on a bit.

‘Yeah, I think I am. I always say I am; it's my Rule of Life Number One.'

She raised her glass in a toast, then slipped off her shoes and recurled her legs under her.

‘What is?'

‘It's better to be lucky than good.'

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Ripley is the author of 16 novels, including the
Angel
series which have twice won the Crime Writers' Association Last Laugh Award for comedy.  He was the co-editor of the legendary
Fresh Blood
anthologies, a scriptwriter for BBC TVs
Lovejoy
and served as the
Daily Telegraph
's
crime fiction critic for ten years. He currently writes a regular column for the popular 
Shots
crime and thriller e-zine (www.shotsmag.co.uk) and regularly talks on crime fiction at libraries and festivals.

After 20 years of working in London, he decamped to East Anglia and became an archaeologist. He was thus one of the few crime writers who regularly turned up real bodies.
In 2003, at the age of 50, he suffered a stroke and regained the use of his left hand and arm by bashing out a book on an old portable typewriter on the kitchen table. He now works part-time for the charity Different Strokes and is the author of
Surviving A  Stroke
(White Ladder Press, 2006).