Angel Confidential (26 page)

I looked around the garden and the gravel driveway over to our right.

‘No,' I said, ‘it's not that. You can't see in the French windows except from here. She's pulled the blinds upstairs, so no-one in the street is getting an eyeful. This isn't a public show. I think it's for her benefit alone.'

‘But–? Hang on, cop this one.'

She was coming back downstairs now, and carefully, in black high heels. She wore bright red tights and an outline of a black uplift bra, the sort that simply positioned the breasts, not concealed them. As she descended the stairs, she rubbed her breasts with the palms of her hands.

She disappeared, then emerged into the living room, picking up her glass as she crossed the room. Again, she went out of our line of vision for a minute, re-emerging with a full glass of clear liquid and a long cigarette dangling from her lips.

With either the cigarette or the glass in front of her face, she half weaved, half danced back and forth in front of the windows. Occasionally she would pause as if looking at herself in a mirror or her reflection from the glass in the French windows. Then she would stop and sit astride the arm of a chair as if posing for a girlie calendar. Once she disappeared into a seat and all we could see were her shoes, her legs spread and in the air. But most of the time she prowled back and forth like a caged animal, occasionally bumping into furniture, caressing it lewdly with her body in time to the music, which could have been playing or was perhaps just inside her head.

‘It's like watching a video with the sound turned down,' Bobby hissed.

‘Yeah, the constant complaint of the Peeping Tom; no volume control. Have you got your mobile on you?'

He looked at me suspiciously, then nodded. ‘Yeah.'

He pulled it from his jacket pocket, extended the plastic aerial and switched it on for me while I rooted in my wallet until found the card Buck had given Veronica. When I had used it to ring his office, I had made a note of his home number, and I remembered his secretary's off-the-wall comment about his wife keeping him on a tight rein or something.

‘What are you doing?' asked Bobby as I punched the numbers.

‘Trying to break the spell,' I said.

We couldn't hear the phone ring in the house, but we saw her react
to it. Sitting up with a start, then shaking her head as if to clear it. It rang five times before she moved, and then she hesitated as if reassuring herself that it was a telephone and she knew how to answer one. When she did pick up, it was on ring 11 and she had moved out of our sight line.

‘What's her name?' I snapped at Bobby.

‘Caroline,' he said, just as she answered.

‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Buck? Mrs Caroline Buck?'

‘Yes?' Wary now, as if expecting a cold-call double-glazing salesman.

‘My name is Maclean, Mrs Buck. I work for the Albert Block Enquiry Agency.'

‘My husband's not here at the moment, but he'll be back soon.' She was keeping her voice level, but dressed as she was, she was probably grateful that videophones hadn't caught on yet.

‘It was you I wanted to see, Mrs Buck, not your husband. It's about your husband.'

That got a pause, then: ‘What about my husband?'

‘I'd rather not discuss this over the phone, Mrs Buck. As you can probably tell, I'm on a mobile, and you never know who's listening in, do you? I'm in the area, though. I could be with you in ten minutes if it's convenient.'

‘About Simon, did you say?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you're from Block, the detective agency?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Very well, then. Do you know the house?'

‘I can find it,' I said. ‘I'll be with you in ten minutes.'

She hung up and we watched her run through the living room and up the stairs, pausing after the first one to remove her spiky heels. Then she disappeared into the bedroom.

‘A gentleman would have given her 15 minutes,' said Bobby.

 

She seemed more concerned about Armstrong parked outside the front door than she did about my turning up out of the blue.

‘Did you come by ... ?'

‘We use it for undercover work,' I said, because it seemed easier.

She looked as if she was wondering where the driver was.

I was wondering what she was wearing under the red wool dress she had thrown on. Why was I wondering? I knew. She had changed her shoes, though, to some sensible, black patent square-toes.

‘You'd better come in,' she said, leading the way into the living room, swaying more than a little.

She'd done a good job of tidying round. I spotted only one fresh cigarette burn in the white carpet, and though there were no glasses in evidence, the door to a small mahogany cocktail cabinet was half open and I could see
where a bottle of Smirnoff had fallen over. Next to the cabinet was a similar cupboard housing a midi hi-fi system with its red Power On button still lit. There were two or three CD covers on top of it and I tried to guess to what music she had been performing her own kinky fashion show. I couldn't decide, but for sentimental reasons I favoured
Jukebox Dury
, figuring she would be about the right age.

‘You said you wanted to tell me something about Simon,' she said, sitting down just that telltale bit too heavily in one of the armchairs.

She waved an arm listlessly for me to sit, and I noticed that two of the fingernails on her right hand had snapped.

I took a seat away from the French windows.

‘I wanted to ask you about your husband, Mrs Buck,' I said slowly.

‘What? I don't get it.'

I
bit back the obvious, and easy, retort.

‘I
wanted to ask you a few questions,' I said carefully, ‘if you wouldn't mind, that is. I haven't come here to tell you anything specific.'

‘Hah!'

She slapped her hand on the arm of the chair and looked around the room as if for a weapon.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Oh, don't you be sorry,' she said vehemently. ‘I'm the one who's always sorry. When you said you were a detective and it was about my husband I thought that – finally – someone was going to tell me what he's been up to. Or should I say who he's been up? Damnation!'

Now I know you can't actually jump to your feet from a deep armchair, but I'll swear that's what she did. She walked by me, then back again, heading for the drinks cabinet.

‘You think I
don't know?' she muttered under her breath. ‘You think I
didn't guess a long time ago? All I want to know is who she is. Not too much to ask, is it? Not after eight years of behaving myself?'

She bent over and pulled out the vodka bottle.

‘Mrs Buck,' I started, more to remind her I
was there than anything.

‘And don't tell me I can't have a drink in my own house,' she snapped, the pitch of her voice rising sharply.

She plonked the bottle on top of the cabinet and looked up and into the mirror on the wall above her head. I was sure she couldn't see herself. I wasn't sure she could see me. Emotionally, she was running on empty.

It was more than a tad scary. She was a very attractive woman, even with her clothes on, but something had obviously snapped in her head somewhere. Her eyes said the lights were on, but there was nobody home. I knew enough to know that you had to deal with such people carefully and considerately.

‘Can I get you some ice?' I asked.

She placed her hands flat on the top of the drinks cabinet and dropped her head. She couldn't see me in the mirror and I
couldn't see her face. I noticed that her short brown hair had been cut to a perfect point in the nape of her neck. She had a nice neck.

‘Ice in fridge, through there,' she said without turning, ‘and tonic and glasses in cupboard. You'll see.'

I stood up and found the kitchen easily enough through an alcove dining room. I wondered how much Bobby had seen and what he'd made of it so far. Probably as much as I had.

I found the glasses, big fat tumbler ones, and the ice. I knew to look in the freezer for that. Well, I was supposed to be the detective. But there was no sign of tonic water. There wasn't much of anything in the fridge, food wise, but there was an unopened carton of cranberry and raspberry juice. I knew that had lots of Vitamin C in it, one of the highest concentrations, in fact. And I reckoned she needed a dose if anybody did.

‘What's
that
?'
she said, scaring me half to death.

‘Try it. Trust me.'

I ripped the corner off the carton and poured juice over the ice I had put into two glasses.

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. The bottle of vodka dangled from one hand. She had another cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Her legs were crossed at the ankle and her hips rubbing against the doorway had hiked her skirt up more above the knee than the designer, if not God, had intended.

I wondered if she'd been here before. I felt as if I had, but I wasn't fooling myself. I'd just seen an awful lot of black and white movies. She was no Veronica Lake and I had no intention of being Alan Ladd.

She handed over the vodka and took the cigarette from her lips. Squinting from the smoke, she flicked an inch of ash into the sink with deadeye skill.

I put vodka in the glasses and handed her one.

‘So, what did you want to know?' she said, then without pause: ‘Do I frighten you? I do most men.'

‘I wanted to ask you about somebody called Carrick Lee, a young guy who used to work for your husband. He's disappeared. And, yes, I think you could frighten me if you put your mind to it.'

‘My, my,' she drawled, like she was trying sarcasm for the first time. ‘A man who comes to the point and is honest as well.'

‘I'm working on both,' I said.

‘Sorry I can't help you. Never heard of him. Who did you say?'

‘Carrick Lee. Worked for your husband, and at Sandpit Lodge perhaps, for Sir Drummond. Sir Drummond Rudgard.'

She screwed up her face as if in concentration, then took a massive gulp of her drink. In a straight race, the vodka was miles ahead of the Vitamin C.

‘Lee, did you say?'

‘Yes.
Carrick Lee.'

‘No ... means nothing ... wait, just a minute .. yes, I do ... Shall we sit down?'

She turned on her heels, making a decent fist of it all things considered, and led me into the living room. This time I sat in full view of the French windows, just in case I needed a witness.

She took the chair opposite, but no sooner had she settled in it than she reached over the side to pick up an ashtray from the floor, the whole exercise resulting in her dress riding up again against the fabric of the chair. It was as if it had a mind of its own. I just knew that if I said anything in the next ten seconds, I'd get ‘legs' in there somehow.

‘You're really a disappointment,' she said to my relief. ‘I was sure you were here to tell me who my husband's been bonking. Is that the right word these days? I lose track.'

‘“Fucking”
is the most widely understood, and “shagging”
always gets a laugh at the coarser end of the market, but “bonking”,
though more than a tad retro these days, will do.'

I think I finally had her attention.

‘You're not a real detective. What do you want?'

‘I want to find Carrick Lee.'

‘Why?'

‘I've been paid to.'

‘I can't help you. My husband doesn't talk to me about his work. Huh – he doesn't talk to me about anything. There was somebody … months ago but … I know he doesn't like boys. That I do know, so it's not as if I worry about things like that. Am I shocking you, Mr Whateveryournameis?'

‘Not yet, but I'm young, I've got time.'

She stared at me then, making eye
contact for the first time since she had let me into the house half a year ago or so.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Trying to ask you questions about your husband.'

‘He didn't send you here? Are you sure? I know you said you came from … Block, that's it. Albert Block. Simon used to use him to serve all his writs. So now he sent you, is that it?'

‘Why should your husband send me, Mrs …?'

‘As a test …'

‘Well, he didn't, okay? He doesn't know I'm here. You said your husband used Albert Block to serve writs. What sort of writs?'

‘Oh, property stuff, eviction orders, notices to pay, small claims for back rent, that sort ... Wait. He used somebody ... a ... gypsy ... was that …?'