Angel Confidential (7 page)

Arsenal made a swipe at me, and though I knew he was still out of range, I reacted by trying to fend him off with the tripod. I had taken my eyes off Raider and he made his move, grabbing the camera and holding it down on the desk. He swung the hammer once and brought it down, smashing the camera casing and scrunching the lens.

They both laughed at that, and they didn't seem to mind that I was still holding the other end of the tripod. I pulled it away and held it in front of me again. They thought that was funny too.

‘No more snoopin' now,' laughed Raider.

‘The old pig and the white gash – think they got the message?' I wasn't sure if Arsenal fan was asking me. He decided to be more direct. ‘You clear in your fucking head, man?'

Clearer than you are, sonny, but I didn't say it. Whatever they had taken had started to kick in with the adrenaline rush of smashing the camera. There would be no pulling them round now until they came down off their high. I decided not to bother to try to reason with them any more. Face it, it hadn't exactly paid dividends so far.

I swung the tripod in an arc just to keep them at bay. I was almost backed up to the wall, with the desk and the two of them between me and the door. On the other hand, one of them would have to come over the desk to get me, so I might get a swing in at their legs.

Raider feinted towards me and smashed his hammer down on the desk top. All noise, miles away from me, but heavy on the nerves.

Arsenal fan sensed my fear and jabbed like a swordsman at my arm. Again, he
missed by at least a foot, but it seemed much closer.

Raider smashed the hammer into the desk again, laughing as I flinched at the sound. But maybe the only way to deal with them was to be as crazy as they were.

I smashed the tripod into the desk two, three times, yelling: ‘That's it, man! That's enough!'

It stunned them for about a second and a half and then they started laughing again. And I joined in, because behind them I could see Dod's immensely welcoming bulk filling the doorway.

‘Having trouble, Angel?' he growled.

‘Not any more, Dod,' I said cheerfully.

Raider swung around, saw Dod, and didn't give me a backward glance, just headed for the doorway, which was really stupid as Dod was blocking it. I don't know what he had in mind; probably not much. He raised his masonry hammer and yelled and just ran at Dod, expecting him to get out of the way, as most normal people would have done. Dod just stood there though and, at the last minute, raised his right arm. He was holding a blue metal toolbox and Raider just sort of ran his face into it, like a cartoon character getting whacked with a flat iron.

His legs kept going while the rest of him stopped dead. He pitched backwards onto the carpet, leaving a splat of blood on the bottom of Dod's toolbox.

Dod said, ‘Shit,' and then looked at me.

‘Angel, he's only a kid …'

Arsenal fan was staring at his poleaxed mate. He hadn't noticed me coming round the desk at him.

‘So call his social worker,' I said as I swung the tripod.

I only hit him the once. It was enough to make him drop the Stanley knife and clutch his arm and ribs, but there was nothing broken.

I dropped the tripod with some difficulty. I had been clutching it so hard my hands hurt. Using a handkerchief, I picked up the knife and retracted the blade, then put it on the desk. On the floor, Raider groaned and began to feel for his nose with both hands, not understanding why they came away sticky and red. Dod, helpful as ever, bent over him, but only to wipe the bottom of his toolbox on Raider's T-shirt. I bent over him to check his eyes. I reckoned the lift was working, just not getting to the top floor yet.

‘Whaddyawanna do with ‘em?' asked Dod in a stage whisper.

I picked up Raider's hammer by the iron head and put it on the desk next to the knife.

‘I'm keeping them, okay,'
I said to Arsenal fan. He glared at me. ‘Now, we could give you a good kicking, but we won't. Just remember we could have.'

Arsenal fan giggled. He hadn't meant to, and he bit his bottom lip to stop it spreading.

At least he was trying.

I put my face in his.

‘And you get something clear in your fucking head, man, okay? We're just here minding the shop. There's no snooping going on that concerns you and yours. Got that? There's nothing here for you to worry about. No pressure. Absolutely no sweat. Got that clear, man?'

He stared me out, then nodded once.

‘Then get out of here and tell your brothers you've sorted it, okay? There'll be no more snooping from the old man. You've done that, you've got a result.'

He didn't take his eyes off me as he crossed the room to help Raider to his feet. He did look at Dod once as they reached the door, but it was like he was sizing him up. There was no fear there.

As they clumped down the stairs, Dod moved to the window.

‘Do you want me to go and keep an eye on Armstrong?'

‘What for? They know that if they turn over a black cab that's the last black cab their granny'll see in this neighbourhood for a month of Sundays.'

He nodded. ‘You got a point.' He put his toolbox on the desk and pointed at the masonry hammer and the Stanley knife. ‘Want these?'

‘Nah, help yourself. And, by the way, thanks for being here.'

‘It'll be on the bill. What was it all about anyway?'

I took a minute to summon up all my reserves of deductive logic.

‘Buggered if I know,' I said.

 

I helped Dod put a new lock on the front door and then rehang the door again when the lock turned out to be slightly out of true. I agreed with him that the door must have warped overnight. It seemed churlish to criticise his carpentry.

Most usefully, I popped out for a couple of burgers for lunch and then tried to rustle up a pot of tea. I was in Veronica's kitchenette trying to find a tea bag not scented with anything other than tea when Dod yelled up the stairs.

‘Angel, you've got a customer.'

‘What?' I yelled back, convinced I wasn't hearing him right.

‘Lady here wants to know if you're open for business.'

‘What sort of business?'

‘Detective business, she says. Says she knows ya as well.'

‘Get a life, Dod, I'm trying to make the tea.'

‘Get a secretary, then. She's on her way up.'

I didn't know what to expect. Knowing Dod, it could have been someone from the local council, a Jehovah's Witness or a double-glazing salesman. It turned out to be a middle-aged black woman weighed down with a carrier bag of groceries in each hand.

She stopped on the top stair to get her breath, looked at me, then into Albert's office, then back at me and the teapot I was holding in my right hand.

‘Jus' what I need, mister. The cup that cheers but does not inebriate.'

I looked down at the teapot and realised why I didn't like tea.

I motioned her into Albert's office and returned her smile.

‘Sugar?'

I found her a chair and she parked her shopping and unbuttoned her raincoat.

‘Just two,' she said. Then, to make sure, ‘Sugars. If you please.'

I was still holding the teapot.

‘Yeah, right. I'll ... er ... get a cup,' I said decisively.

I sloshed a mugful for Dod and sneaked by the office door to take it down the stairs to him.

‘Who the hell is that?' I whispered.

‘A customer. That's what she said,' shrugged Dod.

‘What does she want?'

‘How should I know? You're in charge here.'

‘No, I bleedin' ain't.'

‘Well you're paying the bills.'

‘Yeah, well, we'll talk about that later.'

I crept back upstairs and into Veronica's kitchen. She only seemed to have two mugs, so I decided that family had better hold back.

‘Here you are, Mrs ...' I said limply. ‘The cup that ... whatever.'

‘You could do with a cleaner here, you know,' she said, clocking the office shambles.

‘We had a break-in yesterday,' I offered lamely.

‘Know who did it?' she came back like a whip.

‘No,' I said, knowing I'd regret it.

‘Huh. Ain't much of a detective then. In fact, I never knew you was a detective at all. When I asked around, I was told to come here and see a man called Albert. Not you.'

In a room of two people, that made two of us.

I sat down opposite her in Albert's chair. There was nothing on the desk except for some masonry hammer dents. I put my forearms on the desk top and linked my fingers, trying to hide the worst of them.

‘Do you know me, Mrs ... er ... ?'

‘Delacourt. Mrs Delacourt. And I can't rightly say
we're
on sociable terms.' .

She looked down into her mug of tea as if I'd poisoned her.

‘But you know my son.'

I sat back rapidly to put more distance between me and the hand holding the steaming tea.

‘Er ... about 16, wears a Raiders bomber jacket ... ?'

Probably has a broken nose and eight brothers who do weights.

‘No, that's not my Crimson.'

‘Crimson?'

‘Crimson Delacourt.' Her expression said she was having doubts about people like me being released into the community.

‘The bike rider?'

‘That's him. Worked for a motorcycle dispatch company, like you used to. We used your cab once to do my Christmas shopping, remember?'

‘Sure,' I sighed with relief. ‘Yeah, Crimson. Good guy. Nifty rider. One of the best. Just never knew his last name.'

I bit my tongue. What a thing to say to somebody's mother.

‘Well, we got us a problem with Crimson. She nodded wisely.

We?

‘I haven't seen him for a few months, Mrs Delacourt, and I don't work the dispatch any more.'

‘I suppose that was just a cover, eh?'

‘I'm sorry ... ?'

‘Undercover, for the detective work. Were you working a case? Isn't that what they call it?'

‘Er, look. Mrs Delacourt, there's been a misunderstanding. I'm only looking after the office until the real detective gets back.'

God, that sounded bad.

‘What you mean, real detective?'

Good question. The one in hospital or the one with three days' on-the-job training?

‘Actually, it's a Miss Blugden who is the senior partner now–'

‘That nice white girl I saw you with last night, when the police were here?'

‘I suppose so–'

‘She's no detective. She looks sweet and gentle like she couldn't curdle milk. No, yo' having me on. You're the main man, don't try and con me. What's the matter, my money not good enough?'

‘It's not that at all. I'm sure Miss Blugden will be very happy to take your money – I mean, your case. But you'll have to see her.'

Mrs Delacourt put down her mug and pointed a finger at me like a gun.

‘But she's no good ‘cos she don't know my Crimson and you do. You probably know his good-for-nothing partner Chase, too.'

‘Chase? No, I'm sorry, I don't ... Chase who?'

‘My Crimson's new friend, Mr Chase, Mr Can't-Do-No-Wrong Chase. That boy gonna get my boy in trouble, nothing surer, but Crimson won't listen to me. That's why I want you to find out what they're up to of an evening and where they're getting all this white powder from.'

‘White powder? What white powder?'

I just had to ask, didn't I?

 

 

 

 

 

Tucked away in Bloomsbury, in a side road off Gower Street, is a little bit of London University you won't find on any normal campus map. And since the animal liberationists turned actively violent ten years ago. it hasn't appeared in a phone book either. It's a combination of zoology and veterinary research departments and I don't know what its proper title is. All I know is Zoe works there.

I had known Zoe for about five years. For two or three months, we had known each other very well, and we'd managed to remain friends afterwards. So much so, I'd even been invited to her wedding a year or so back, but maybe she'd forgotten about the reception by now. She was doing some sort of research into animal psychology, having somehow managed to survive the cuts in funding at both the university and London Zoo. More than once I'd volunteered Springsteen for testing, but she'd always said there wasn't enough anaesthetic. I was paying her a call not because I wanted her views on
felix sociopathus
but because she was the only person I knew who had access to a laboratory. A legal one, anyway.