Angel Confidential (22 page)

I shook my head. Do I look like an Albert?

‘I'm a consultant on the case,' I decided grandly. ‘How did you know about Albert?' The card only had Veronica's name.

‘Everything upstairs is addressed to Albert Block and, anyway, apart from ones you see on TV, he's the only detective I've ever heard of.'

‘How did you hear of him?'

‘From Carrick.'

‘How did Carrick come across him?'

‘While he was working for Simon Buck.'

‘The solicitor.'

Bobby nodded. ‘It seems Albert was Buck's enquiry agent, if he ever needed one.'

‘What did Carrick do for Buck?'

‘I don't know. That's what I was hoping to find out by coming here. I couldn't get a sniff out at Antique Alley and Buck's place is like a fortress. You two turning up gave me my only lead.'

I considered how much to tell him. We were, after all, a
confidential
enquiry service. But what the hell.

‘There's supposed to be a file on Buck upstairs.'

‘There is. It's under “B”,' he said sheepishly.

‘That's a relief,' I said.

 

The file didn't tell us much. It contained mostly badly-typed carbon copies of invoices to Buck's practice, Kay, Morgan and Williams, and all of them seemed to be for the ‘delivery of petition and writ' type of process-serving. They referred to individuals, sometimes named but usually ‘the tenant' or ‘the occupier', at addresses all over north London, but with a particular concentration in the Essex Road area of Islington. The dates stretched back nearly two years, but the latest one was no more recent than three months ago.

There was one carbon that had been amended in pencil. It referred to a writ served on somebody called Davies at an address on the Balls Pond Road, only the address had been struck through with a single line. The words ‘check with C' were scrawled at the side.

‘What is it?' asked Bobby when I pulled it out of the file and held it for him to see. I thought for a moment that he was saying he couldn't read.

‘It's a carbon of an invoice …'

‘Carbon paper? I've never seen that before.'

I realised he was genuinely curious. Photocopiers and then word-processors had made his generation about as aware of carbon copies as they were of quill pens.

‘“Check with C.” You think that means Carrick?'

‘Why not?'

‘Look at the date,' he said. ‘That was a year ago, before Carrick ever went to work for Buck or Sir Drummond. I thought you were the detective.'

‘If you want the job, its open.'

I glared at him and put the file down on top of the cabinet, then started to flick through the suspended file pockets until I reached the letter ‘L'.

‘There's nothing under Lee,' said Bobby cheekily. ‘First thing I looked for. Well, not the right Lee. There is a file on a bloke called Lee from Dartford who had his wife followed, but it's no relation.'

I narrowed my eyes at him and kept flicking the files until I got to ‘S'.

Bobby put his head over the drawer to read off the files, as if he was worried about the strain on my eyes.

‘Shepherd, Sherwood, Sickert, Smee, Strong, Symonds,' he read. ‘Who are you looking for?'

‘Smith,' I said, but there was no such file.

‘Funny that. I would have bet on a Smith or two.'

‘Maybe only people being followed by private detectives ….' Then I stopped, because my fingers had found something that was not a file, and I pulled it out. It was an A5-size leaflet, amateurishly produced by photocopying onto coloured paper. On the front cover was a crude drawing of a door, doorstep and surround. On the door itself was a cross done in two broad strokes. In grainy type blown up by the photocopier, the title read: ‘You Have the Key to the Church of the Shining Doorway in Your Heart.'

‘Is that a clue?' Bobby asked.

‘It's a connection,' I said, ‘and they seem to be mounting up.'

He took the pamphlet from me and scanned it.

‘This is crap. Listen to this: “A sin shared is a sin uncommitted.” My da would call this gobshitey tripe.'

‘What does your father do, Bobby, apart from being an archbishop, that is?'

Bobby grinned.

‘He's Romany, man, he doesn't do anything. Well, nothing I'd tell you about. What's this got to do with Carrick?' He waved the Shining Doorway leaflet in front of my face. ‘And why are you after him anyway?'

‘I'm not. We were looking for Estelle Rudgard. She was looking for your brother.'

‘The old git's daughter? Was Carrick humping her?'

‘I believe they had some sort of ongoing relationship of mutual respect and affection. And yes, it probably involved humping.'

‘He was good at that, was Carrick. Well, he always said he was.'

‘Was?'

He wrinkled his nose. ‘You know what I mean. We haven't heard from him for nearly two months now, and that's not like him at all just to disappear like that. What's the connection with these loonies?'

He placed the leaflet on top of the Buck file and tapped it with a forefinger.

‘Carrick had mentioned them to Stella – Estelle. It was her only lead, so she joined them to see if she could find a trace to him.'

‘Did she?'

‘No, not as ... Wait a minute. You didn't know about Estelle and Carrick?'

‘No. Well, we knew he had a bit of skirt down here, but no names. Certainly didn't think it was the daughter of the lord of the manor. The way he talks about her, you wouldn't think butter would melt in her … wherever. She's at university somewhere, isn't she?'

‘She was, until she decided to go looking for Carrick. Didn't you know she'd gone runaway?'

He was genuinely bemused.

‘Nope, nobody said a dickie bird at Sandpit Lodge. When I found out that you and your partner–'

‘Associate. Loose associate. Passing acquaintance.'

‘Whatever. When I found out who you were, I just assumed you were asking the old codger about Carrick. You know, the old man accusing him of running off with the family silver. Not that there is any. Any worth nicking, that is. I checked. But I thought it might be something like that.'

I closed the filing cabinet drawers slowly and moved the Buck file and the pamphlet to Albert's desk, then I perched on the edge.

‘You look like you could use a cigarette,' Bobby said.

I patted my jacket pockets just to prove to myself that I had left my emergency pack of Sweet Afton in Armstrong.

‘Then how about one of these?'

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a spliff no longer than a king size and as tightly rolled as a prison cigarette. He lit it with a cheap Bic disposable and inhaled. I watched him take two good draws, then he blew on the end and his fingers reversed it in his hand and he offered it to me like a duellist returning a sword.

I took a pull. My Rule of Life No 74 was that you could work most things out if you gave yourself enough thinking time.

‘That's good kif,' I said, going for seconds.

‘Best quality Kabul Bazaar,' said Bobby.

‘Afghan Black, eh? I'm impressed. Don't see
too much of it these days.'

‘No, you're right,' he said, taking back the joint. ‘Most of the stuff in London is rubbishy Jamaican compress like those black kids retail. Most of that has been pulled out of the sea by the US Coast Guard, then stolen, then re-exported.'

‘Yeah. Save the Bales, man,' I said, and he laughed. ‘I had a T-shirt with that on once ... Hold it. What black kids?'

‘The gang out back. There's three or four of them. I saw them earlier when they were catching some kids coming home from school. Thought about doing a deal, but they're strictly amateur.'

‘Out back?' I said vaguely, reaching for the spliff.

‘You can see ‘em from the window.'

He was right. They weren't there, or course, but you could see where they made their headquarters. Looking down from Albert's office, the network of back yards and fences ended in a narrow walkway that probably ran the length of the street and was no doubt used by honest citizens, kids going to school and mothers pushing prams as a cut-through to Shepherd's Bush Green. The pathway wasn't parallel with the street; it doglegged through two right angles forming a lazy Z shape right outside Albert's parched and sparse five-feet of back garden. It was an ideally private spot that could not be seen from either end of the path and only observed from above from Albert's office. The lower angle of the Z shape was littered with cigarette butts, empty Coke cans and the odd empty bottle of strong cider. The ideal alfresco office, with very
low overheads.

Three or four black kids dealing in cannabis and who knew what else. Most of
their customers younger than themselves, but safe from prying eyes while still on a path they had every right to be on if anyone did find them there.

No worries, unless you think some dull ex-copper turned private eye is using a camera on you from an upstairs window. Then you have to take steps to protect your turf and your business interests. And you haven't got time to ask why
the old fool was taking passport photographs of his equally divvy and unobservant assistant and apprentice. Much easier just to bust the place up and persuade him to leave. As an added bonus, you frighten him into a heart attack.

‘You okay?' asked Bobby.

I was still staring out of the window.

‘I think I've just solved my first case,' I said, or I think I said. Yes, I felt my lips move.

‘What?'

‘Skip it.' I turned to face him. ‘Anyway, how did you get in here?'

‘Through the front door,' he said seriously. ‘That lock's a piece of piss. Have you ever thought of putting on a new one?'

 

‘You're late,' said Zoe, putting down her copy of the
British Medical Journal
and pointing to her empty glass.

‘You waited,' I said, trying out the teeth on her.

That didn't work, so I fought my way to the bar of the Fitzroy and ordered a beer and, after sniffing her glass, a gin and tonic for her.

‘So, come on,' I said, back at her table. ‘What's the stuff?'

She reached under her seat into her shoulder bag and produced a new, sealed brown envelope, which she casually tossed onto the table in front of me.

I covered it quickly with my forearms, almost spilling my beer.

‘Hey, watch it,' I hissed, looking round furtively, ‘they'll all want some.'

She threw back her head and laughed. ‘I doubt it.'

‘What? What is it?'

‘Go on,' she taunted, her tongue between her lips, ‘sprinkle some in your beer. It won't do you any harm.'

‘If it doesn't do you any harm, what's the point? It's not drugs?'

‘Oh yes, it's a drug,' she giggled, ‘but it won't affect
you
.'
She was enjoying this. ‘There are one or two men I could think of where it might have an effect. A beneficial effect, maybe. It would certainly make saying goodnight to them a lot easier.'

‘Zoe, darling,' I said, gritting my new teeth, ‘what
is it
?'

She pulled herself together and leaned forward so that her face was six inches from mine.

‘I told you I wanted to see your face.'

‘Zoe,
get on with it
.'

‘It's a fish anaesthetic.'

She collapsed in hysterics.

 

‘Crimson?' I yelled, plugging one ear with a finger to try to cut out the noise from the bar.

‘He ain't here. He's out. As usual.'

‘Oh hello, Mrs Delacourt, it's Angel here. Roy Angel. You asked me to …'

‘I know what I asked people to do. Have those people done it? That's what I want to know.'

‘Actually, I think I have, Mrs D, and what's more, I don't think you've got anything to worry about. That – er – stuff you gave me, the stuff you found in Crimson's garage …'

‘Yes, yes, I'm not senile yet, though I will be by the time you finish at this rate.'

‘Well, it's harmless. Don't worry about it. It's not even illegal. Trust me.'

‘Then what is it?'

‘Look, let me talk to Crimson and then I'm sure he'll tell you himself. But honestly, you don't have to worry.'

‘Well, he's out with his big pal Chase again. Seeing him for a drink after work, he said.'