Angel Confidential (17 page)

‘See you around, Angel,' said Crimson.

‘Yeah, sure,' I said.

So I wasn't going to be asked to join the party. That meant I could either hang around the pub and force myself on Crimson's party or hang around outside until the party broke up. I chose the latter, partly because Crimson was a sociable guy and if he'd wanted me in he would have said, and partly because the seats in Armstrong were more comfortable than those in the pub.

In fact, they were so comfortable, I almost fell asleep. I'd been there the best part of an hour when they emerged. As cars had come and gone, I had manoeuvred Armstrong into a better position so I could see the door of the pub in the mirror. I had spotted Crimson's big BMW bike and put as much distance as I could between it and me. I had tucked Armstrong into the kerb in front of a small Ford van. Unless he was looking for me, he ought not to notice me at the other end of the street.

When they did show, it went like a scene from a movie. A movie directed by Buster Keaton, that is.

Crimson and Chase appeared on the street together, and in best film noir tradition, I caught their act through Armstrong's nearside wing mirror. They stood there for a moment, back-lit with yellow light from the pub's window, both hunched into their jackets, both scanning the street to make sure it was empty, whispering to each other out of the corners of their mouths. If it had been raining, or a cat had disturbed them, or Orson Welles had stepped out of the shadows asking if the pub sold sherry, then the picture would have been complete.

Chase, the short one, took something from his back pocket and handed it to Crimson. Crimson took a white envelope from his jacket and handed it to Chase. Chase put a finger to a point between his eyes and flicked a salute. Crimson put his crash helmet on and walked away,
out of view
of my mirror.

If I'd been a real detective, I thought to myself, I would have had a camera with really fast film that would have caught all that. And then I could casually drop some glossy ten-by-eights on the desk in front of Mrs Delacourt. But what would she do with them? Frame them? Then again, one of today's super-discreet surveillance experts would probably be a quarter of a mile away with a laser microphone or similar, taping their conversation. And, of course, a really smart private eye wouldn't have parked six inches in front of Chase's small Ford van.

 

I flipped the dashboard mirror down in an attempt to see something, then I squeezed down as far as I could go in Armstrong's driving seat. Unless he actually walked up and looked in, Chase wouldn't see me, but then again, I hadn't left his van much room for an exit, and if he was worried about clipping a corner as he pulled out, he might just come and take a closer look.

He didn't give it a second thought. As his lights came on full beam, flooding Armstrong's interior, I breathed a sigh of relief. It probably was a company van and he was not responsible for minor cuts and bruises to it. Thank heavens for the code of irresponsibility that all company van drivers have to sign before they're given the keys.

He reversed about a foot then swung out into the street. From my position I couldn't tell, but I was willing to bet you couldn't have got a cigarette paper between the nearside wing of his van and Armstrong's rear offside wheel arch. No respect for paintwork, some people.

I let him get to the end of the street before I started my engine, and he had turned right into Finchley Road before I put my lights on. That was something else they did in the movies, though God knew why I bothered, as the streetlights were more than adequate if he was going to spot me. I was banking on the fact that he wasn't expecting to be followed, and that seemed to me to be a good enough reason to follow him. I didn't have many other reasons. It is almost impossible to follow a motorbike rider, especially one as good as Crimson, in London unless you are on a bike yourself, added to which, Crimson had seen me in the pub and knew about Armstrong, so that ruled him out. And although the detective's credo was always to ‘follow the money', I had a good idea where the money was going – straight back to Crimson's gaff. What I didn't know was where the white envelope, which I guessed contained more of the white powder Crimson's mother had given me, was going. So that was my logic: follow the white powder.

The van turned off into Golders Green Road and picked up speed along one of the longest residential streets without a pub in London. (That's not strictly true, it just feels like it.) Then it suddenly turned left without indicating and I slowed as I drove by the side street, deciding to risk it and swinging in after him.

There was no other traffic here, so I let him get eight or nine car
lengths ahead. He did a left then a right, finally slowing and parking in among the Volvos and small Peugeots that seemed to be obligatory for the area.

All the houses had front gardens, with walls, hedges and sooty trees forming the first line of defence in keeping the street out. Such considerations didn't seem to worry Chase with the house he chose; he just got out of the van and walked in through the gateway of a short gravel drive.

I had parked on the opposite side of the street, way down from him, and killed Armstrong's engine and lights. I wasn't going to see much from where I was, so I climbed out, easing the door shut as quietly as I could. Maybe this wasn't what I thought it was, but then, with the best will in the world, Chase didn't look like your average resident of this part of Golders Green.

Come to think of it, a house on a street like this in an area like this, didn't exactly strike me as Drug Central, west London, but these days you never knew. Maybe somebody's parents were away and the kids were having a party and had decided to send out for something more interesting than pizza.

I was crouching behind one of the new Volvo 850s when I heard a doorbell ring across the street. Funny, though, there was no sound of a party in progress. I eased round the
bonnet to get a look up the driveway and saw Chase walking towards me. I registered that there were no lights on in the house before ducking down and, crablike, scuttling back behind the bulk of the car.

My big worry was someone emerging on my side of the street to walk the dog or something. There are some parts of town where if you saw someone almost on their knees in the gutter, you would quietly walk around them. There are other parts where you would get down and join them. This parish was neither of those.

I sneaked a look around the rear of the Volvo, not wanting to touch it in case it was alarmed, as some alarms go off in a stiff breeze.

Chase had gone to the rear doors of his van. He looked up and down the street once, then at his watch. Then he opened the doors and reached in to pick up what I at first thought was a large toolbox. It was light from the way even he hefted it, and it was blue with a white lid. He put it down to close the van doors quietly, and when he reached for it again, he snapped the carrying handle secure with a plastic click. Only then did I realise it was a cool box, the sort you take on picnics that are supposed to keep your beer chilled. He picked it
up and entered the driveway again.

I switched positions, running across the road in a crouch and hiding behind a Renault Espace parked 50 feet behind Chase's van. I was convinced that
if anyone had seen me, they would have called the cops by now. I was acting far more furtively than Chase was.

He emerged from the driveway again, opened the van doors and carefully placed the cool box inside. Then he got in and drove away.

I walked down to the house and took a clear look. It was a detached, 1920s suburban house, in total darkness. It had a garden mostly laid to lawn, with a fish pond and, down the side, a little summerhouse. No sign of a rave party, no suspicious characters hanging around except me. No sign of a break-in, no burglar alarms going off – and I could see they had one.

I did what any self-respecting detective would do. I said sod it and went home.

 

At home, I found the self-respecting detectives had been holding a seminar – or maybe that should be coven – to decide what to do next. I found this out from Inverness Doogie from upstairs, who came banging on my flat door before I'd managed to prise the top from my first beer.

I let him in and thrust the beer into his hand, going back to the fridge to get myself another, even as he spoke.

‘Angel, just what the fookin' hell are yer doing wi' ma wife?'

I looked around, astonished, then opened the fridge and pretended to look in there. Doogie caught sight of the massed ranks of bottled beer.

‘Miranda!' I yelled into the fridge. ‘It's all over between us. He's found out. You might as well take your anorak off and come out. It was never meant to be.'

‘Stop pissing about, Angel, you know what I mean.' He took a swig of his beer. ‘Are these duty-frees?'

‘I don't know what you mean at all, Doogie. And yes, they're sort of duty-free. Fancy a case?'

‘This detective business, that's what I mean. Yeah, put me down for two cases, so long as it works out no more than 14 pence a bottle.'

‘What do you mean, this detective business? What's your problem?'

‘She's obsessed wi' it; canna talk of nothing else.'

I had noticed before that Doogie's accent thickened like porridge whenever he was worked up about something or drunk. I had long since learned that the best way to deal with it was to give up trying to understand the words and try and judge the sense. It was the old stand-by: just keep smiling and don't turn your back.

‘Obsessed with what, Doogie?' I said to show him I was with him thus far.

‘With this Stella bint and how you and Ronnie and–'

‘Hang on, Doogie, who's Ronnie?'

‘Veronica, or whatever you call her. The fat tart. Sorry, the kilogrammatically challenged, I should say.'

‘The
what
?'

‘They use kilos and grammes now at Weight Watchers, so I'm told. Anyway,
her
.
Ma Miranda is spending an awful lot of time downstairs with her and her two soul mates.' He used a finger as if pointing the way to hell to a curious Jesuit. ‘And they're plotting, Angel, plotting how they should handle things, because they don't think you can do it on your own.'

‘Do what?' I handed him the bottle-opener as he helped himself to another beer.

‘Look after Ronnie – watch her back – while she rescues this Stella bird from the Addams Family or whoever it is who's holding her against her will and twisting her mind.'

‘Steady on, Doogie. I don't think things are that bad …'

‘Well, all I know for sure is that my wife is spending a lot of time down there with them two, and she's never done that before. It's not ... it's not … natural.'

‘Oh no, Doogie, you're not telling me you think Miranda's on the turn?'

‘It's been known before. In marriages, I mean. In happy marriages.'

‘Get real, Doogie, she's just in it for the gossip. All girls together proving they can do better than a man. Novelty value, that's all. They'll get bored, just you wail and see. And don't you worry about Miranda. You two are a couple. One of the most coupled couples I've ever come across. You two go together like … er ... like …'

‘A horse and carriage?' he said with a sneer.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of Smith and Wesson,' I said cheerfully.

 

Doogie took an armful of beer back to his flat with him, I took my emergency bottle of Tequila Gold out of the salad crisper compartment of the fridge (the only use I'd ever found for it) and rummaged around in my bedroom until I found a half-empty packet of Sweet Afton cigarettes and a disposable lighter that actually worked.

The tequila was because I knew I was going to need a drink. Nothing was more certain in my mind. The cigarettes were because I was almost certain I was going to need one, but more because it would give me an edge in a room full of non-smokers.

Thus armed, and ready as I ever would be, I strode down the stairs and knocked on Lisabeth's door.

 

‘Ooooh, that's good. Try it, Fenella, go on, take a pull.'

Miranda put an elbow on Veronica's shoulder and they began to lean dangerously to starboard. They giggled.

‘Let me try, Binky,' said Lisabeth, resorting to her pet name for Fenella Binkworthy, for that really was her surname. ‘And try not to cough so much.'

‘C'mon, Angel, tell us what's in them,' drawled Miranda.

‘I want another tequila smasher,' announced Veronica.

‘It's just tobacco,' I said. ‘They're just plain cigarettes. Irish, actually, but just cigarettes. I'll show you the packet.'

‘Packet of three, by any chance? Not enough!' Miranda cracked up at this one and made a strange throaty sound I'd never heard before. She was laughing.

‘Why's that funny?' Fenella asked Lisabeth, handing over the cigarette like it was a Roman candle and the blue touch paper was fizzing.