Angel Confidential (25 page)

‘Bobby's been watching Buck this morning. He thinks something is going down. Buck went to the office as per usual then left about 9.30 and went home, where he sounds as if he's having a bit of a bust-up with his old lady. He wants to know what he should do.'

How the hell would I know?

‘Tell him not to get involved in a domestic; stay clear.'

That was safe enough, it was standard police instruction. ‘But try and see where Buck goes if he leaves.' And that sounded as if I knew what I was doing.

Lee relayed this, then said to me: ‘You could call in at Great Pardoe on your way back to London.'

‘Tell Bobby I'll call in and see him on my way back to London,' I said decisively.

He did so and snapped the phone shut.

‘I'd better give you Bobby's number,' he said, handing over a white visiting card.

The card was blank except for three 0831 mobile phone numbers running in sequence.

‘The top one's me, the bottom one is Bobby. We got the three phones job lot.'

‘Is the middle number Carrick Junior's?'

‘Yes, and before you ask, I've tried it every day for two weeks.'

I looked at my feet and wished I were somewhere else, anywhere else, but preferably somewhere with concrete and buildings and people and lots of distractions. Anything except fields and sky, sky and fields.

‘Mr Lee, do you really think I can find Carrick Junior?'

He put his hands in his pockets and stared at where the main road was, the road we could hear but not see.

‘Not alive,' he said quietly. ‘His grandmother knows. She's eighty now, but since her seventy-seventh birthday she's known when someone close has died days before we've been told. She knows this time it's Carrick.'

‘Hey, come on, you're …'

‘Being irrational?'

I was going to say ‘scaring me' but it hardly went with the gumshoe image.

‘Exactly. You're not thinking of doing anything irrational, are you?'

‘What, a blood feud? Get the old lady to put a curse on whoever did it? Come on, we're almost in the 21
st
Century.'

Yes, I thought, and you're living in a field and breeding ponies for illegal street races. What's your point?

‘Look, Mr Lee, I'm in this only until Stella Rudgard is sorted out one way or another. If that involves finding out what happened to your son, I'll pass it on. I can't say any fairer than that, okay?'

‘Do you need a sub – cash upfront?' His hands remained in his pockets.

‘No. I'm not sure I can deliver, Mr Lee. If I do, we'll settle up afterwards.'

‘Gentleman's agreement, is it?'

‘Please – no-one's ever accused me of being a gentleman.'

‘Me neither. I won't shake hands. Grandmother'll be watching, and if she sees a handshake, that means a bargain, and if you can't cover your end of the bargain, she'll curse you.'

I wasn't worried. He didn't know the women I knew. I've been cursed by professionals.

 

Halfway to London, I pulled off the A1 and found a pub that served me a jumbo sausage in French bread and a pint of Adnams bitter in excellent condition. And I got change from a fiver. Maybe the country does have some advantages.

If the theory was that I would think better on a full stomach, then it didn't work. I rang Stuart Street from the pub's pay phone and got no answer, so no ideas there. I rang Bobby Lee's mobile number, remembering to put extra coins in the pay phone. (It costs about twice as much as normal to call a mobile from a land line, but they don't tell you until you've tried.)

‘Hello?' he answered after two or three rings.

‘Bobby? It's Angel. Where are you?'

‘At Buck's place. Hey, man, this is better than soap opera. You wouldn't believe what's been going on here today. Where are you?'

‘On my way. Be with you in about an hour. Is Buck there?'

‘He was, he is. He's coming and going, in and out in the car, then back. Man, these two have had a fight and a half this morning.'

‘Fight? With his wife?'

‘Yeah, the Bitch Queen. She's really pissed off about something. You can hear her in the street.'

‘Where exactly are you?'

‘Just hanging about, man. Waiting for a bus, out for a walk. You can get right up to their windows if you sneak through the back garden.'

‘Don't get caught. How do I find you?'

‘It's called Old Mill Cottage. White place, thatched roof, on the left about one mile down the road from Sandpit Lodge, set back in a field. Access is easy.'

‘I thought you told me it was a fortress?'

‘Oh yeah, the house is. Alarms everywhere, double locks, chains. But you can approach it easy enough. No cameras, no dogs.'

And his father was worried about him being out of his depth?

‘Stay down, I'll be with you after I've called in at the Lodge.'

‘What're you going to see the old man for?'

‘I'm not sure, Bobby. Stay lucky.'

I pressed the Follow On button and dialled my own number again. Still no answer from Stuart Street. Typical. Here I was doing all the work and they were out enjoying themselves.

 

There were six or seven cars in the car park at Sandpit Lodge. The retired schoolmistress, Miss Rocket, as Bobby had called her, was taking the money.

‘Oh, hello again,' she said from her sentry box. ‘I didn't know Sir Drummond was expecting anyone else this afternoon.'

‘Is he around?' I smiled at her.

‘He's in the museum doing a guided tour for the local Tourist Board. Is there something wrong with your mouth, young man?'

‘No, it's fine, but thanks for asking. So many don't these days, you know.'

‘I don't think he can …' she started, but she was saying it to my back.

 

Sir Drummond was halfway down the right-hand side of exhibits, extolling the virtues of a 30-year-old Austin A40, his ball of a head nodding enthusiastically. There were two women and three men in a group listening to him. One of the men looked vaguely interested, the two women were, I think, awake.

I stood in the doorway of the hangar until he caught sight of me. It didn't seem to interrupt his flow, but after a minute he waved his arms as if to say carry on without me and then strode towards me saying ‘Won't be a tick. Don't be frightened to touch the paintwork while I'm gone,' over his shoulder.

As he got near to me, his expression changed. The genial host disappeared and was replaced by not an angry face, but a blank.

‘Are you trying to see me?' he growled. ‘Because I don't believe we had an appointment. I don't actually know that we have anything to discuss, do we?'

‘I'm glad you remembered me, Sir Drummond.'

‘Of course I did. Maclean, isn't it? Came with that detective woman.'

I was grateful that one of us had remembered which name I'd used.

‘That's right.'

‘Well?'

He was impatient but not that keen to get back to his guests.

‘I've seen Estelle, talked to her. Yesterday in London,' I said.

‘And?' he said, his face a wall.

‘And I thought you might be interested, that's all.'

The first twinge of red appeared in his cheeks.

‘Interested enough to pay you money? Is that it? I was warned you might show up. Well, forewarned is forearmed. I won't pay you a penny. My daughter is perfectly all right and will be coming home. Just how many times do you have to be told that your services are no longer required?'

‘Have you spoken to Estelle?'

‘No and ... Look here, whether I have or I haven't, it is simply no business of yours. I would be grateful if you would leave now. Leave my property.'

I was tempted to say ‘Or what?' but there's no point going looking for trouble. It's usually around when you need it.

 

 

 

 

 

I found Old Mill Cottage easily enough, at the other end of the village, but I was damned if I could find Bobby Lee. I was on my third drive-by and feeling highly conspicuous, when he just materialised out of the hedge surrounding Buck's house and held up a hand in the universal ‘Taxi' gesture.

It always used to irritate me when people who knew me and Armstrong thought it was funny to hail me instead of just getting in and being grateful for the ride. I once had a job for a week driving a certain professional lady to appointments in some of the better parts of Knightsbridge, and on the first night, she hailed me just like you would a real cab. After a couple of times, it wasn't amusing, and I told her so. She told me that one of her clients – female clients – was into serious masochism. (The professional lady in question didn't normally do fem/dom but she was filling in for a friend on maternity leave.) The client – they call them Janets – asked for the full works, no holds barred, but had, as is the custom, a ‘mercy' word for when the pleasure turned to pain. Her Janet's mercy word was, very loudly, ‘Taxi!' After she told me
that, I never really bothered about being hailed anymore.

Bobby stuck his head in my window. His breath smelled of chocolate.

‘You're missing the floor show, man. Come see.'

‘What floor show, Bobby? Where's Buck?'

‘He's out. Got a phone call five minutes ago, jumped in his BMW and shot off down the road. You must've passed him. But it's the wife you've got to watch. Man, this you have to see!'

I parked Armstrong 400 yards away outside the village church. It was the best place I could think of where he would be least noticed, though with Sir Drummond's crazy car collection down the road, maybe the locals were used to unusual vehicles. Perhaps no-one would give him a second look. I hoped so.

By the time I had walked back to Buck's house, Bobby Lee had disappeared again, but I found the gap in the hedge he had used and, after checking the road both ways, I squeezed through. On the other side, the garden was laid to lawn with islands of rose bushes and dwarf conifers. I was at the side of the house, which had once been a brick and tile cottage but had now been expanded to three times its original size into an executive residence. Bobby Lee was crouched behind a rose bush ten feet away, staring intently at the French windows.

I joined him in a crouch.

‘So what's this movie premiere you wanted me to see?' I whispered.

Bobby's eyes shone. ‘Well,
I've
never seen anything like this before. This has got to be better than dirty movies.'

Sadly, Bobby was right.

I would have guessed she was mid-thirties. I didn't have to guess that she kept herself in shape. Even from that distance, I could see that her muscle tone was fine and her skin was polished light brown by an all-over tan. And I mean all over. She was wearing some sort of black choker around her neck and a pair of shiny black leather over-the-knee boots, the sort you only normally saw in Yves St Laurent adverts and that cost about 200 quid per leg.

And worth it too, from the leg she was showing. She moved around the living room as if there was music playing, swaying and stretching in time. Using the arm of a chair, she would stretch out first one leg then the other behind her like a ballet dancer limbering up. Then she tried to pirouette, but the boots weren't made for that and she stumbled slightly.

Regaining her balance, she stomped across the room and out of our line of sight. Then she stomped back, this time with a large cut-glass tumbler held to her face. She drained it, put it down on a surface I couldn't see, and bent over, reaching out a hand. It must have been the stereo controls as we could suddenly hear the thump and hiss or distorted music out in the garden.

She didn't stop to listen, but strode out of the room.

‘To the left,' hissed Bobby. ‘Watch.'

I was ahead of him. A large sash window to the left of the French windows showed on to the open-plan staircase, giving us an excellent view of her buttocks swaying upstairs. Naturally, I scanned the upstairs windows, but all had Venetian blinds in pastel shades.

‘Wait,' said Bobby in a croaky sort of voice.

‘For what?'

‘She's getting changed.

‘Changed?' I noticed my throat was dry too. Must be a bug going round.

‘That's the fifth outfit so far. I liked the one with the dog lead best.' He read my expression. ‘No, honestly. Could I make this up?'

‘Probably not.'

‘She's an exhibitionist, isn't she?'