Angel Confidential (35 page)

‘As a detective?' I said carefully.

‘Yes. I might even make Albert an offer for the business. You never know, he might feel guilty about just going off like he did. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.'

‘You're learning, kid. And that's a good idea about Albert. He might just feel guilty. Have you got a number for him?'

‘Back at the office, yeah. He's staying with his daughter in Exeter.'

‘Give it to me, let me ring him. I'll tell him what a great job you did. It's always better coming from a third party.'

‘You think so?'

‘Positive. And one other thing, a word of advice, if you'll take one.'

‘You're the one with the wheels; you're driving. Go ahead.'

She
was
learning.

‘Think of a new name – if you stay in the detecting business. I'm sorry, but “Block and Blugden” just doesn't cut it. Think of something neutral and conservative, or something catchy.'

‘You mean like “Veronica's Angels”?'

‘No, definitely not. What about your name? Do something with that.'

‘Like what?'

‘Well, like the Americans do. Use your middle initial or – I've got it – do like that female private eye in the books, she just uses initials. You know, V I Warshawski.'

‘Who?'

‘Never mind. Have you got a middle name?'

‘Yes, Daphne.'

‘Forget it.'

 

She gave me Albert's number when I dropped her off, and I rang him the next day. His daughter eventually got him to the phone, and it took two or three goes before he finally remembered me visiting him in hospital.

‘So what's it to me?' he said tetchily.

‘I've got some news for you,' I said, trying to keep calm. ‘Simon Buck is dead. His wife killed him.'

He was silent, but I could hear his breath rasp down the line.

‘There's been nothing on the news,' he said eventually, in a dull monotone.

‘If you're lucky, Albert, there won't be.'

‘What do you mean by that?' he came back quickly.

‘I reckon there's enough circumstantial evidence in your filing cabinets to link you with Buck's little property scams, maybe even to a house on Lennard Street in Islington. Serve papers on anyone there, Albert?'

‘Hey, that's all I did. Just doing my job. There were lots of places. I can't be expected to remember every one.'

‘You might have to remember this one.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because it's where they'll find Carrick Lee if they look.'

‘I didn't know anything about that,' he whispered nervously. ‘I never saw the kid. It was nothing to do with me.'

I actually believed him, in part. If he had known how deep Buck had got himself into things, he would never have let Veronica near the case. He was an ex-copper, he knew how dangerous amateurs were.

‘Mud sticks, Albert.'

He was an ex-copper. He knew how to do deals.

‘Unless what?'

I told him what he had to do.

 

The deaths of Simon and Caroline Buck only made a paragraph in two of the quality Sunday papers. The bodies had been discovered by the postman the following morning, and the local police had been quick to issue a ‘no suspicious circumstances' statement. But then, what did they know?

In the following weeks, however, most of the tabloids ran picture stories about the vandalism at the Classic Car Museum. Sir Drummond was pictured holding a steering wheel, standing in what was made to look like the middle of a scrapyard.

Vandals had broken into the museum, it seemed, and wrecked 11 classic cars, including a rare Lincoln Continental. What was the country coming to? This was the Yob Society in all its horror, and hanging was too good for them.

Never mind the arithmetic, think of the publicity. And sure enough, about two months later, when he auctioned off his entire collection including the wrecks, Sir Drummond did very well out of it.

He made far more that way than the insurance company would have given him.

 

Of course, it took me days to explain everything to Lisabeth and Fenella, and even then I didn't tell them everything. In fact, I told them as little as possible.

All they really wanted was reassuring that Veronica was safe and Stella was happy. No matter how many times I said they were, it took a phone call from Veronica promising to come and visit before they were satisfied.

I was actually in their flat when she rang. Fenella had gone to answer the communal phone and had yelled excitedly up the stairs for Lisabeth, who had gone lumbering to join her. Fenella insisted on giving me the gist of the conversation as it happened, repeating or paraphrasing everything and shouting up the stairs.

‘It's Veronica, Angel. She says the phone's been reconnected.'

I let that one go as a lesson in the blindingly obvious.

‘Angel! She says she's going to stay on as a detective. Isn't that exciting?'

‘Brilliant!' I shouted back. ‘Tell her that is absolutely brill.'

Out of boredom, I wandered into their kitchen.

‘She says Albert has offered to sell her the business and the lease on the office,' shouted Fenella. ‘That's nice of him, isn't it?'

‘A most pleasant surprise,' I said drily, though not so she could hear. ‘He'll be giving her his files next.'

‘And he's handed over all his case files.'

‘My, my. Good old Albert.'

I was playing with the wall-mounted scales they had fixed near their cooker. A half-litre, square glass bottle of Virgin Olive Oil weighed in at just over two pounds.

I hefted it like Lisabeth had hefted it against Connie's boxing disciple Julian, and made a mental note never to be left alone in a kitchen with her.

 

Then I had to go over everything again for Miranda's benefit, but at least she and Doogie had the good grace to invite me to dinner to do it.

I took along a couple of bottles of New Zealand Chardonnay to break the ice, which turned out to be a good choice as Doogie had liberated half a salmon from the hotel where he worked and had poached it with a lemon and dill sauce.

‘So what happens now?' Miranda asked after I had sung for my
supper.

‘Nothing,' I said, pouring the last of the wine.

‘Nothing? What about Carrick's body?'

‘That's up to his father.'

‘It's for the best that he decides,' said Doogie. ‘It's up to him what he can live with.'

‘And what about Stella's father? He ripped her off.'

‘And I suppose he's paying for it,' I said, looking to Doogie for support.

‘Aye, that one can look after herself,' nodded Doogie.

‘I just knew you'd say
that.' She slammed plates together in a pile. ‘I'll get the dessert. Do you like white chocolate mousse, Angel?'

‘Love it.'

‘I thought it was supposed to be a bit naff these days.'

She flounced out without looking at Doogie.

‘Sorry about that,' I hissed at him.

‘Ach, man, never mind her. Listen, I want to ask you something. That stuff you got from Crimson's mum ... The fish drug.'

‘The anaesthetic?'

‘That's the substance. Still got it?'

‘Yeah, as a matter of fact I have.' I narrowed my eyes. ‘Why?'

‘Well, you see, I've got this cousin back home in Scotland who lives right next door to this salmon farm and ...'

 

About two months later I found myself up west near Shepherd's Bush Green. In fact, I had just been for a lunchtime drink with Crimson, who had unfortunately left behind a packet of white powder in the pub. All I had done was put it into a large envelope and post it to just west of Inverness.

‘I don't want to know,' Crimson had said.

Which was fine by me. Keep it confidential, that was the way. I didn't even tell him that Springsteen really appreciated the end product.

Just for the hell of it, I drove round by Albert's office. The door Dod had put in was still there, but there was a sign on it, a printed sign, about a foot square.

I pulled over and parked, then strolled back to take a look. It read:

 

RUDGARD and BLUGDEN

Confidential Enquiries

 

R & B Investigations, eh? Not bad, I thought, not bad. There was a push button intercom on the door frame. I pressed and held, and when a disembodied voice said ‘Hello?', I said: ‘It's Angel. Just a social call.'

The door lock buzzed and I pushed it and looked up the stairs. The stairwell had been painted bright white. It looked bare, but at least it was light and clean.

‘Estelle is out at a meeting and our new operative is out on a job. Will I do?'

It was Veronica's voice, but I wasn't sure that the figure at the top of the stairs was Veronica.

She had lost about 15 or 16 pounds and looked well on it. She had had her hair cut short and back off her face and had new glasses, with round, black Armani frames. She was wearing a black suit, the skirt knee-length, with a silky black scoop-neck top, black stockings and black patent shoes with an inch heel. She wore a single piece of jewellery, a sliver brooch in the shape of a sprig of flowers, on the lapel of her jacket.

‘I was just passing,' I said. ‘Saw the sign on the door and rang the bell. Throw me out if you're busy.'

She made a play of looking at her watch.

‘No, that's okay. Come into the office.'

I followed her in and she walked around a new, black tubular steel desk and sat down. The office had been painted white too, and the furniture and chairs were black.

‘You seem to be doing well,' I said chattily. ‘Business good?'

‘We can't complain. Did you want to see Estelle?'

‘No, no, really,' I protested, ‘I was just passing your door, that's all. Thought I'd drop in.'

‘Ah yes, the door,' she said businesslike. ‘We still owe you for that.'

‘That wasn't …'

‘It's not a problem,' she said, reaching into the top drawer of the desk. She produced a cheque drawn on a joint account and signed by both of them. There was no payee name and no date on it. The sum payable was £40.

‘We didn't know what name you used for the bank. Do you have a bank?' she asked calmly.

‘The door cost £120, I seem to remember,' I said.

‘Yes, but you lost a pair of Estelle's shoes, remember? They were very expensive to replace.'

‘I'll bet they were.'

I decided not to argue and folded the cheque into the breast pocket of my shirt.

‘So things are working out?' I tried.

‘We are on course for our first six-month business plan, yes. We're small but we can grow.'

‘And you have a new operative, did you say?'

‘That's right. A Mrs Delacourt. She knows you.'

‘What? Crimson's mum? A detective? Get out of here.'

She gave me a glassy stare.

‘And why not? We've placed her in an office, in charge of the cleaning staff. She's uncovered two petty-cash fiddles and a software theft in the first week. She's perfect in that situation.'

‘But she's so ... so ... she's not, with the best will in the world, she's not …'

‘What? Streetwise? Like you? That's your trouble, Angel,' she said, gazing out of the window. ‘You can't envisage people in jobs, in offices, on buses, stealing stamps, embezzling their employers, lying and cheating on a daily basis. That's the world we're going to get our business from. That's where crime is; that's where we're needed.'

She finished her pitch. For a moment, I thought she was going to ask me to invest in the business.

‘But you don't know that world, Angel. That's your trouble. You really should get out less.'

 

 

 

 

 

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).