Ugley Business (2 page)

“Thought I recognised that hair,” he teased, twirling a lock of my hair, which was currently a darkish blonde. I had to dye it a while ago when I was in disguise, and so far every time Harvey has seen me it’s been a different shade as the dye gradually washes out. “Haven’t seen you in weeks. How’ve you been?”

I grinned. “I’ve been great. You?”

“I’ve been great too. Thought I’d stay in Britain long enough to see the sun.”

“Well, here it is. And it’ll probably be gone tomorrow, so make the most of it.”

He smiled. “How’s your leg?”

Ah, yes. My leg. Two months ago, on the same night Harvey saved my life and Maria nearly lost hers, the person I was trying to capture slammed a piece of splintered wood into my thigh. It hurt like nothing on earth, but it got me off work (Ace work) for a few weeks while Luke hindered my recovery in bed. As far as Angel and everyone at Ace is concerned, I fell down the stairs at my parents’ house. My parents think it happened at work. Christ knows what would happen if Angel and my parents should ever decide to discuss the topic.

“It’s fine,” I said, but refrained from slapping it for proof, as Luke was in the habit of doing. It still wasn’t perfect and when I put in an appearance at the airport, I made a show of hopping around on crutches. It wasn’t that bad, but I liked the sympathy.

Harvey was glancing between me and Evie, and I nearly smacked my head again. Of course. Harvey has perfect corn-fed Ohio manners and was waiting to be introduced. Evie, pretty starved of good-looking men, was slavering for a mention.

“This is my friend Evie,” I said, “Evie, this is Harvey. He’s, uh, a friend of Luke’s.”

Some of the warmth vanished from Harvey’s face at that. “Luke? That still on between you?”

“Very much so,” Evie answered before I could. “Angel walked in on them in bed together this morning.”

I closed my eyes in embarrassment. Something very nearly happened between Harvey and me, but, well, Luke sort of got there first. At the time I was too distracted by people trying to kill me, but now I can’t believe I had two such gorgeous men in competition over me.

“And who’s Angel?” Harvey asked politely, not looking at me.

“My friend,” I muttered. “From the airport. She’s…” I waved a hand, “…around somewhere.” I cleared my throat. “So Harvey, what are you doing here?”

He shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “I’m here with a girl.”

We both looked around, Evie with an expression of disappointment. “Where is she?”

“She went to the bathroom.”

“Must be some girl to get you to come shopping.”

“She didn’t tell me it was shopping. I thought Lakeside was like a country club or something.”

I laughed in delight. “Harvey, you’re adorable.”

“Yeah, that’s what she said.” He glanced over at the ladies. “There she is. I’d better go.”

Evie and I zoomed in on the girl in question. Blonde hair, black roots. Dark lip liner with too much gloss. Heavy makeup. Tight white tracksuit and platform trainers.

“Oh, Harvey,” I giggled, “she’s such a Shazzer!”

“A what?”

“An Essex girl.”

“You’re an Essex girl,” he replied, confused.

“No, I just live in Essex. I don’t have shares in lip liner.” I shook my head. “Go and have fun with her, looking at white knee-high boots.”

Harvey gave me a mock-glare, but he was smiling as he walked away. He’s just too sweet to be offended by anything.

We attacked the shops again, Evie’s theory being that you shop better on a full stomach. If this was true then I was going to shop incredibly, because I’d eaten rather more noodles than I’d thought and needed to walk at quite a speed to burn them all off. I bought some teeny tiny little skirts and shorts, to make the most of the unexpectedly hot weather (it was the end of June, but still Britain. I began every day in the expectation of clouds and rain, just so I wasn’t disappointed) and got changed in the ladies. When I came out Angel was wincing.

“What? Are my legs too fat for this skirt?”

She shook her head. “They look great, except for that big scar and all the bruising.”

I checked in the mirror. Actually I thought it made me look pretty cool, a talking point. Scars are sexy.

Besides, it wasn’t that big. Only a few stitches where the splintered wood had rammed in.

“I didn’t realise it’d been that bad,” Evie said, coming out and washing her hands. “You never said there were stitches.”

Hadn’t I? Surely not. I’d told everyone about the stitches and all the painkillers I was on. I’m a glutton for attention, okay?

But not this much attention. I didn’t want to have to tell them all the details. I couldn’t remember them all: after all, they’d been totally made up. I averted my eyes and they fell on a newspaper lying on the counter. The headline read “Top-up fees too much? Tenth prof found murdered.” Tenth? What about the other nine?

Oh, well. There are too many professors in the world anyway, right?

We made our way home, dropped Evie off and started back to my village, but on the way Angel casually asked, “Do you want to come back to mine? We could have some wine and watch DVDs all night.”

“You mean stay over?”
What about Luke?
My body panicked, but my mind said,
Take a damn day off. You can survive one night without him.

Ah, but could I? Time to find out.

“You’re not working, tomorrow, are you?” Angel asked, and I shook my head.

“No. I’ll stay. Sounds fun.”

We went back to my house to pick up my things and feed Tammy, my tiny baby tabby cat, who was sitting by her food bowl, looking plaintive, doing her best to convince me that, contrary to my memory, I hadn’t fed her in at least a week, so could I give her about three pounds of food to make up for it?

“Nice try, Tam,” I said, dropping Go-Cat into her bowl, “but you’re too glossy for the waif look.”

Tammy gave me a dirty look and inhaled her food. I poured out some milk for her as compensation for being left on her own (not that she’d even notice), and she demolished that, too, before disappearing through the cat flap to go and find a nice juicy mouse for dessert.

I pressed the play button on my answer phone and my mother’s voice rang out. “Hello, love, it’s me. Just wondered if you were going to put in an appearance this week. We haven’t seen you in ages. We’re having tuna for tea tomorrow. And it’s always nicest the way you cook it.”

This was true, but also rather blatant. I made a mental note to call her back later, before I got too smashed, and carried my sleeping bag out to Angel’s car.

“I’m sorry, Ted,” I said as I passed him, “I’ll take you out tomorrow, I promise.”

I swear he gave me a reproachful look.

“You really talk to your car that much?” Angel asked doubtfully, putting my bag on the backseat.

“He gets cranky if he’s ignored,” I said, patting Ted’s khaki flank reassuringly.

“That’d be the battery,” Angel cracked, and I wondered where she’d learnt so much about cars. She had to ask me for advice when she bought the Mini, and I was tremendously flattered that she bought what I recommended. Well, what my brother Chalker helped me to recommend.

We drove up to her house playing No Doubt at top volume, but I had to switch it off out of respect when we pulled up in her driveway. Because, appropriately for someone with such a name, Angel lives in a converted church; well, more of a chapel, really, with a small spire and everything. Her bedroom is in the semicircular apse, her bed on the dais where the altar used to be. Her guest room is in the Baron’s Gallery, a relic from when the village still had a baron back in the sixteen hundreds. She’s not entirely sure how old the church is; presumably it says so somewhere on the deeds, but Angel has never seen the deeds, because she just inherited the place from her mother who renovated it as a charming little getaway.

My mother won’t go near the place. She thinks it’s creepy, and I suppose sometimes at nights it can be. She says it’s like a set in a horror film, but she never listens when I point out to her that, really, a church is likely to be extremely safe from the unholy creatures of the night. When you think about it.

I chucked my sleeping bag on the floor where the choir used to be and went out to the kitchen, which is in the north transept and has the original font as a sink. Angel was unpacking all the crap we’d bought at Tesco on our way home—ice cream, doughnuts, Pringles and dip, large packs of Smirnoff Ice which I’d have to mostly decline, because I wasn’t allowed to get drunk in case there was an SO17 emergency.

I got a text message from Harvey just as I put the Pretty Woman DVD in the player.
Who was that girl you were with? The blonde,
he’d written, no preamble, so he must have been serious. I glanced over at Angel, who was beheading Jelly Babies, and wondered when Harvey had seen us together.

But before I could send a reply, my phone rang and Angel looked up. “Miss Popular,” she teased.

“It’s Luke,” I apologised. “You watch the film, I’ll only be a second.”

I slipped through the intricately carved screen that separated Angel’s bedroom from the rest of the church, and sat down on her four-poster bed. Her mother did several hammy horror films, and Angel loves the theatricality of her house. She has velvet drapes and everything.

“What’s up?” I said into the phone.

“Where are you?”

Nice to hear your voice, too,
I thought, but said, “Angel’s. I’m staying over.”

“Oh,” said Luke. “Right.” Then there was a little silence. “How come?”

I frowned. “Because she’s my friend and she asked me, and because I haven’t had a girlie night in for months.”

“Oh,” Luke said again. “You’re not going to get drunk, are you?”

I sighed heavily. Ever since I got really drunk this one time ages ago, and nearly gave the game away to Harvey (before I knew he was CIA), Luke has had a thing about me drinking. He says we should have one unit a day so we don’t turn into complete lightweights, but can still operate a car totally legally.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to get really, leglessly, tearfully, stupidly drunk. And I’m going to throw up.”

“Ha ha.” He paused again, and when he came back sounded persuasive. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a night in with me?”

“Yeah, ‘cos that’d be a change,” I said.

“Come on. We can watch films and eat ice cream and stuff.”

“Can we do face masks and talk about orgasms?”

“We can do better than talk about them,” Luke said silkily.

“Yes, well, so can me and Angel. We’re going to have pillow fights,” I said airily. “In our underwear.”

“Where does Angel live?” Luke wanted to know, and I smiled.

“I’m not telling you.”

“I could find out.”

“No doubt, but you’re not coming over. She has very secure locks on her doors and she’d be really pissed off if you broke one of her stained glass windows.”

“Heartbreaker,” Luke said.

“For Christ’s sake, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, but secretly I was pleased, really pleased, that he missed me that much.

“No,” he said, “you won’t. You’re rehabilitating Maria and I’m fetching coffee for Karen Hanson.”

Bollocks. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” I said, and he sighed disconsolately. “If it helps, I’ll talk about you all night,” I offered, and he laughed.

“Nothing classified.”

“Is our sex life classified?”

“No, in fact I’m rather proud of it. Tell Angel every detail.”

I hung up smiling. It was hard not to feel smug when I thought about a god like Luke actually wanting me in return.

I came back into the nave, where Angel has a sitting room set up, but she was kneeling in the window of the south transept, peering hard through the wobbly glass. She has secondary glazing set up inside, but on the outside the windows are hundreds of years old. Preservation orders and all that.

“Angel?” I said, and she jumped. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, but she looked white. “I just…I thought I saw someone out there.”

“Not another misplaced Christian?” She’s always getting people wanting to come and pray in her house.

“No.” She didn’t smile. “No, I…” She sighed. “Sophie, if I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

I nodded. “Of course not,” I said, and then got confused with myself.

“I think I have a stalker,” Angel said, and I didn’t laugh, because Angel is prime stalker material. She’s always getting wacko fan mail from people who see her and think IC is still alive, and occasionally some mad fan tracks her down and knocks on her door. Angel usually hides until they go away, occasionally calls the police. She’s never had any big problems before. But that doesn’t mean she’ll never have any.

“Have you seen him before?” I asked, because the fans are nearly always male.

She nodded. “Well, I think so. I’m not sure. It’s just that sometimes when I leave the house, I just get this feeling that someone’s watching me. And last week I came home and,” she dropped her eyes, “it sounds ridiculous, but a pair of my knickers had gone missing from the washing line. I looked in the bushes and things in case they’d got blown away, but I couldn’t find them.”

“You think someone took them?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be paranoid. It’s probably nothing. I’m just getting jumpy, what with the Trust Ball coming up and everything. It always attracts some nutcases.” She shook herself. “Let’s watch the film.”

I followed her into the sitting room, but I wasn’t convinced.

It was later, much later, after we’d lounged around talking about the crappiness of work and the unreliability of men and how impossible it is to get a date these days—somehow managing to avoid telling her how Luke and I met, and that we’ve never actually been on a date—after the lights had gone out and I eventually settled into sleep, lying on a spare quilt with the sleeping bag open over me like a blanket, because it was too hot to snuggle down inside a ten tog…it was as late as this when I was nearly asleep, that I thought I heard a noise and ignored it.

I know, I know, bad spy behaviour. But I live with Tammy, who’s a noisy bugger when she wants to be, and my flat backs onto the car park, and the boiler makes odd noises in the middle of the night, and I thought it was probably a tree tapping against the window.

But then I heard Angel calling my name in a panicked whisper.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Tapping on the window.”

“Thought it was a tree.”

“There aren’t any trees at this end.”

“A bird?” I suggested hopefully.

“I think there’s someone out there,” Angel whispered, frightened, and it suddenly struck me how lonely it must be to live out here, totally alone, no neighbours for a mile in either direction, not even any parents to run to when you got scared, like I always did.

I had my gun in my bag, and the thought crossed my mind that I could go out there and shoot the bugger if I wanted to. I was allowed.

And then I thought, it’s probably just some drunk who’d got lost. Or some kids out for a smoke.

“It’s probably nothing,” I said, “but do you want me to go and check?”

Angel shook her head rapidly, sitting up in bed surrounded by a halo of blonde curls. “You can’t! All on your own? Sophie, he could be dangerous.”

Well, so could I. In the right circumstances.

“I’ll be okay,” I reassured her, pushing back the sleeping bag and looking for my sweater as we heard another tap.

“I won’t let you go outside,” Angel said, and then there was a flash, like from lightning, from the window nearest me, and I jumped. It wasn’t lightning weather. That had been a camera flash.

“How about we call Luke?” I suggested.

Angel’s church was on the outskirts of a tiny little village, a couple of miles up the road from where I lived. Luke’s flat was not half a mile from my own, he could be here in ten minutes. Less if he ignored the speed limit, which he usually did.

But, “Soph, it’s the middle of the bloody night,” he mumbled when he picked up.

“This is important.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes—”

“Is Angel okay?”

“Yes—”

“Then it can’t be that important.”

“It bloody can be, you stupid fuck,” I hissed, just to get his attention. Also because we’d been watching
Heathers
and the language always rubs off on me. “There’s someone outside.”

“Is that illegal?”

“It is if we can hear them. Angel owns the acre around her house. We keep hearing taps at the window and it’s not a tree or a bird and she won’t let me go out to see. So can you come over to see? Please?”

Luke sighed. “What do I get for this?”

I glared at the phone. “Oh, for God’s sake,” and I cut him off.

“Is he coming?” Angel asked meekly.

“No,” I said. “Not now or for the conceivable future.”

“Oh,” Angel said, as my phone started ringing again. Luke.

“Where are you?” he asked, and I smiled, and ten minutes later saw him creeping round the outside of the church. He’d parked at the end of the drive so the intruder wouldn’t hear the car, he was dressed all in black, and he was stealthy and incredibly sexy.

“So, what,” Angel asked as we watched him disappear round the north transept and we crept up to the pulpit to watch, “does he do this often? SAS training or something?”

“Mmm,” I agreed, “something,” because Luke had SAS training. Eton, RAF, SAS and now secret services. Actually, that much on its own is a turn-on.

“So how do you—” Angel began, and then my phone started to vibrate. I’d been clever enough to switch the volume off, so as not to alert the intruder.

“There’s no one here,” Luke said, “except me. And I’m fucking freezing. Let me in.”

“He says it’s clear,” I told Angel. “Can he come in?”

She nodded and fetched the keys from the entry hall to let Luke in. He raised his eyes warily to the gargoyles and ancient stone, and stepped over the threshold.

“Seriously,” he said to Angel, “a church?”

She nodded. “With a name like mine it’s sort of a given.”

He smiled, spied me and came over. “Was there really someone out there, or was that just an excuse to see me?”

I rolled my eyes at Angel. “It’s a good job you have vaulted ceilings, or his ego wouldn’t fit in here. Yes,” I said to Luke, “we definitely heard someone. And I think I saw someone, too. Out on the south side. In the bushes where the crypt is.”

“The what?” Luke said.

“The baron’s crypt,” Angel said, unconcerned, going over to the kitchen and switching the kettle on. “Don’t worry, it’s been empty for centuries. Ever since the church stopped being used and they relocated all the bodies to the cemetery in the village.”

Luke looked doubtful, but he nodded anyway. “You get a lot of people wandering around your garden?”

“Yes, but not usually at night,” Angel said. “Tourists and hikers. People taking pictures.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, and told Luke about the camera flash.

He sighed. “Police,” he said. “You need to tell them. Write down everything that happens as it happens, anything unusual, but don’t confront anyone, even if you think you’ll be okay.” He paused. “You want me to stay?”

Angel nodded shyly. “I don’t want to trouble you…”

“Hey, I’m already here. And Sophie owes me anyway.”

Sophie did not owe him anything.
I frowned distrustfully. “We’re sleeping in Angel’s room,” I told him. “She’s the one who needs protecting.”

Luke looked mardy, but he nodded anyway. “You are going to owe me big time when we get back to yours,” he said, and I nodded tiredly.

“In the morning.” I yawned. “Save it for the morning.”

“I intend to,” Luke said, and took the mug of hot chocolate Angel offered and followed us into the bedroom with a wolf-like grin.

I woke alone, wondering why my arm was numb and my bed was empty. And then I remembered that under the quilt and the carpet was a stone floor, and that when I’d drifted off to sleep Luke had been there with his arms around me.

I sat up. Angel’s bed was rumpled but empty, and I could hear voices through the carved screen. When I peered through the gaps, I saw Luke lounging at the big oak table, and Angel clattering around in the kitchen.

“Nice of you to join us,” Luke said when I shuffled out in my shorts and camisole. “Coffee?”

I took the cup from him and inhaled the contents. “More.”

Angel refilled it, smiling, and I drained it in seconds. Now I felt I could speak.

“Better,” I said.

“Two syllables,” Luke said admiringly, peeling an orange. “That must be strong coffee.”

“Shift-strength coffee,” I said. “You get up at three-thirty in the morning and see how many cups you need to stay coherent.”

“So this is what passes for coherency?”

I glared at him and picked up one of the hot croissants Angel had just put on the table. “Don’t you need to be going?”

“Ouch,” Luke said. “I don’t need to be there until ten.”

“It’s half nine now.”

“Yes, and it’ll take me fifteen minutes to get there.”

I stared. He was wearing yesterday’s black T-shirt and jeans. He looked edible, but not very professional.

“You’re not going like that?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you want to look…” I searched for a word. “Smarter?”

“I’m smart enough, thanks,” Luke said, popping a piece of orange into his luscious mouth.

“Do you have a big day at work?” Angel asked politely.

“New boss,” I said quickly.

“And what is it that you do?” Angel asked, and Luke narrowed his eyes at me.

“I’m a roofer,” he said, because he lives above a roofer’s yard. And it might explain the muscles. “Long hours. All weathers. Very strenuous.” He stood up. “And now I’m going to go. Make myself look smarter.”

“Don’t you be late now,” I said.

“Or you,” Luke replied, eyebrows raised. Oh, bollocks, yes, Maria.

I saluted him. “Sir, no, sir!”

“See, that’s the kind of obedience I like.” He grinned, running sticky orange-juiced fingers through my hair and kissing me. “I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll call you,” I agreed.

“Just not in the middle of the night this time.” He thanked Angel for breakfast and loped out, looking sexy, while I stared longingly after him. Our first platonic night together. It’s all downhill from here.

Angel was watching him go, too. “God, you’re a lucky cow,” she sighed. “Not sure whether I should offer you a pain-au-chocolat or not, now.”

“What did I do?”

“Got a sexy boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could have fooled me,” Angel said, and I thought
, yeah, me too.

I washed the orange juice from my face, despaired of my hair and got dressed, leaving on the pretence of an unspecified family obligation, and Angel drove me home.

“If you hear any more funny noises…” I said as I got out of the car, and she smiled.

“I’ll call you. Or maybe I’ll just bypass you completely and call Luke,” she winked.

“Careful.”

“Thought he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“He’s not…”

“So what is he, Soph?”

I sighed. Beats me. My partner. My mentor. My lover. But not, for some indefinable reason, my boyfriend.

“He’s just Luke,” I said, and even to my ears it sounded stupid. “See you, Ange.”

“See you.”

I let myself into my lovely little flat where Tammy was wailing, looking hungry, despite the lacerated squirrel that lay, headless, by the washing machine.

“Did you bring me a present?” I said, and she gave me a suspicious look. “Or is it a private trophy? Well done, baby.”

She looked pleased with herself. I know I shouldn’t encourage her, but a) squirrels are noisy buggers, b) they’re about twice her size so that’s quite an impressive feat, c) they’re going to get squashed by a lorry even if they’re spared by Tammy, and d) she’s a cat, and doesn’t understand me anyway.

I fed her properly, marvelled at how much food a tiny little body like that can hold, wished I had the same metabolism and stripped off to take a shower and get the damn orange juice out of my hair.

And when I was halfway through washing my hair, got the fright of my life (well, one of them) when something slammed against my bathroom window.

I switched off the shower and, mildewed curtain pressed against me, peered cautiously at the window. Nothing.

Heart hammering, I reached out and opened the window.

There was a stunned pigeon wandering around on the ground.

“Stupid bird,” I muttered, then looked up to see one of the guys who I think lives upstairs, watching me, and hurriedly shut the window. What was this, a free show?

Hair washed, as clean and fresh as the weather would allow, I got dressed, collected my keys, locked the million different locks on my doors and windows, including the metal shutters that turn the flat into a furnace, and left. Paranoid? No. Someone threw a firebomb through my window a couple of months ago.

I drove up to the hospital and went straight to Maria’s ward. SO17 doesn’t stretch as far as private healthcare, so she was in a room with a teenager who had appendicitis, a woman swathed in bandages who had crashed her car while talking on a mobile phone, and an old lady who had something indefinable and distinctly smelly wrong with her.

“Thank God you’re here,” Maria said loudly when I turned up. She hates hospitals and had got more and more belligerent since she woke up in ICU. She was dressed, lounging on her high bed, reading a magazine and looking horribly bored. “They wouldn’t let me go until someone came to collect me.”

“Well, here I am.” I picked up her bag. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for about a month,” she grumbled, swinging to her feet and only wincing slightly. She was hit with a bullet in the abdomen and had to have her wrecked appendix yanked out. She also had to have a patch of hair at the back of her head shaved off so they could sew up the bloody wounds she got when her head slammed into a wall.

I, of course, have felt almost Catholic guilt ever since it happened, despite that I’m officially C of E. I still feel like it’s all my fault, even though Maria and Macbeth, the other agent involved, have repeatedly told me that they knew the risks when they took on the job.

Sometimes I wonder who told them about these risks, because they didn’t tell me. The nearest I got was Luke telling me he’d have to kill me if I ever breathed a word of SO17’s existence to anyone.

We wandered out of the hospital and Maria gratefully breathed in lungfuls of fresh air. “God, I hate hospital air,” she said. “It makes me feel ill, and I didn’t need to be ill on top of everything else.”

Trying hard not to grovel, I put her bag in the back and asked if she needed a hand up to the high cab.

“No,” she said with slight scorn, “I’ve been working out while they weren’t looking. I’m as fit as I was before. Well,” she amended, wincing, “nearly.”

Ted is a rather basic model of car with no stereo, electric windows or alarm, but he has a ghetto blaster under the passenger seat, and Maria managed to get it tuned to something decent as we chugged on home. She lives in town in a huge old house that she bought before starting on her crippling SO17 salary. Maria used to be in the SBS and is as tough as they come.

She is also really annoyingly beautiful. She has dark hair so glossy you can see your own, less glamorous reflection in it, huge dark eyes and skin that would make a makeup artist redundant. She has a perfect figure that must have prompted the invention of the word “svelte”, perfect teeth, hands, legs, everything.

I glanced at her hands. Messy cuticles. Hah!