Angel Hunt (16 page)

‘Who had, Iris?'

‘The girl who came yesterday.'

‘What girl, Iris?' I asked patiently.

‘The foreign one. More than a tint of the tarbrush there, if you ask me.'

I hadn't, but never mind.

‘I think she fancies you, Mac. She kept calling you “Angel” all the time.'

‘Did she leave the package, Iris?'

‘What? No, she took it with her.'

‘Any message?'

‘No, she just went when I said you didn't actually live I here. Though the way some people treat this place, I might as well be running …'

‘Thanks a bunch, Iris.'

I hung up and rested my forehead against the wall in despair. Then Fenella tapped me on the shoulder and I almost had a heart attack.

Our communal phone is on the hallway wall by the front door. Fenella, Lisabeth's younger, slimmer room-mate, had sneaked down the stairs from their flat without making a sound. I suspected she was taking lessons from Springsteen.

‘Oooh, sorry, Angel. Did I make you jump?'

‘It's your natural static electricity, Binky, my dear. You just gave me a shock. Has anybody ever suggested plugging you into the National Grid?'

‘Is that rude?' she asked, frowning.

‘Only if you want it be,' I said wearily. For some reason, Fenella thought most of what I said to her was rude. ‘Now, what can I do for you?'

She thought about that one for a second, then decided to give me the benefit of the doubt.

‘I've a message for you.'

I held up a hand. ‘I know. From a guy called Prentice.'

‘Well, actually, no, Mr Clever Boots, so there,' she pouted.

‘A girl? A girl called Zaria?' Although I'd no idea how she'd got the number.

‘Zaria.
What an unusual name. Quite nice, though.'

‘What did she say, Binky?' I didn't actually take her by her shoulders and shake her, but it was close.

‘Oh, it wasn't her. I just said I thought it a nice name. Why are you grinding your teeth? No, it was Mr Tomlin …'

I squeezed the bridge of my nose with forefinger and thumb. It didn't seem to ease the pressure.

‘Who is Mr Tomlin, Fenella?'

‘The man who lives down the street at No 23. He has Siamese cats.'

‘So?'

‘So he said that if he caught Springsteen in his back garden again, he would heave a half-brick at him. You don't think he would, do you? I can't stand people who are cruel to animals.'

Me neither, but it seemed to be open season on Angels.

 

I tried the Aurora Corona Rest Home again, because I couldn't think of anywhere else. But this time I asked for Nurse Sally, the hyperactive Mrs Cody's minder.

The woman who answered said she thought Sally had gone off duty but would put me through to the staff quarters. Then a younger female voice with a thick Irish accent came on.

‘Sally's gone out, oim afraid. Yer've just missed her.'

‘Sally used to be good mates with Zaria, didn't she?' I tried, as I didn't have anything to lose.

‘Zaria? The one who left this week?'

‘Yeah, that's right.'

‘Maybe she was, I don't know. I've only been here a month meself, and I'm on nights for the extra money. Even when I'm on days, I haven't the cash to go gallivanting up West every night.'

‘Sally goes up West, does she?' I oozed innocence.

(Rule of Life No 83: approached in the right way, anyone will tell you anything, and it will usually be true.)

‘Sure she does. She goes window-shopping up Oxford Street, then meets her cronies in that dreadful French Pub in Soho.'

She said it like it was somewhere south-east of Sodom.

‘Well, give her my regards when you see her.'

‘I surely will,' she said, and I hung up before she could ask my name.

It wasn't much, but it was something to go on. Whatever it was I'd taken from Sunil's house – and I'd only done it as a favour to him, after all – he couldn't have said anything to Nassim about it. If he had, my furniture would have been out on the street by now and Springsteen and I would have been queuing down the night shelter. But whatever it was, he didn't think twice about sending his heavies to see me. Maybe I should go and meet him and explain. Maybe there was a Santa Claus after all.

I rang Prentice, as I couldn't think how to put it off any longer, and got him at the second number he'd left. While it was ringing, Lisabeth appeared on the stairs and said, very pointedly I thought: ‘You are logging all those calls in the book, aren't you?'

‘Of course,' I lied, and cursed to myself for not remembering to put a pencil behind my ear like I normally do when I use the phone.

Prentice came on, and I said who I was.

‘You have a name for me,' he said. ‘I was getting worried we'd have to send out a search-party.'

‘Call off the dogs, I have three names for you, and two facts.'

‘Oh, we have
facts
as well? I'm impressed.'

I hate sarcastic policemen. I think they all take a course in it during basic training. Prentice must have been near the top of the class.

‘First, you tell me you've called off the dogs.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I give you the names and that's it. Goodbye. Don't call me; I won't call you. Okay?'

He paused just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable, then said: ‘Very well.'

‘Got a pencil?' In the hope that he hadn't, I went straight on. ‘First thing, I think you can cross Lucy Scarrott off your hit list. I don't think Billy has even seen her in over a year.'

‘Did Mrs Tuckett tell you that?'

‘Not exactly. I don't think Mrs T had any idea what Billy was up to. Now, the names. Firstly, there's a Peter. A friend of Billy's, and Billy used to stay with him some nights.'

‘Gay?'

‘I've no idea and never thought to ask. But here's fact one: Peter drives a red Ford Escort van and lives in Islington. Actually, that's two for the price of one, come to think of it.'

‘Get on with it.'

‘Okay, name two is Geoffrey Bell. The
Reverend
Geoffrey Bell, would you believe. Until last year, a vicar in Romford.'

‘Rector,' said Prentice.

‘What?'

‘He's a rector, not a vicar, and he is currently incumbent in –' I heard paper rustle as if he was turning pages ‘– the parish of West Elsworth near Cambridge. I wondered if he'd turn up again.'

‘If you knew all this –' I started angrily.

‘I didn't know it, I just have a good memory. And I wouldn't miss having you on the payroll for anything, Angel.'

‘Payroll? What payroll?'

‘I was speaking figuratively.'

I might have known.

‘Okay, well I'll just confirm that Bell is definitely worth a look. And that's from stuff in Billy's room and also his mum, who thinks the sun shines out of his rector.'

‘Now, now …'

‘Last one, and then it's bye-bye. Professor Brian Bamforth is the name, and the fact is a date. New Year's Eve.'

That shut him up completely.

‘Prentice? You still there?'

‘Yes. Fucking hell, you save the best till last, don't you? Fuck-ing hell,' he said again, slowly.

‘I hope they do,' I said. And hung up.

 

He rang back, of course. In fact, I hadn't even got to the first stair before the phone went. And I had to answer it. Lisabeth would have appeared to cut off my retreat if I hadn't.

And I had to give Prentice full marks for cheek when I did.

‘Listen, Roy –' so it was ‘Roy' now? ‘– I've been thinking.'

And you've had all the time in the world it takes to dial seven digits.

‘If you could make contact with Bell, it might give us an in we've never been able –'

‘Hold it! No way, José. I've said it once and I'll say it again: it's bye-bye.'

‘Now wait a minute. Think about it. You could say you were a friend of Billy's and –'

‘Bye-bye.'

This time, after I'd hung up, I laid the phone down at an angle to the receiver tits so he'd get an engaged tone if he tried again.

It was an old trick. But I'd never done it to a policeman before.

It felt strangely satisfying.

 

It was still early, not yet eight o'clock.

Back in Flat 3, I changed out of my court appearance gear and into civilian clothes. In other words, I took off my tie and transferred money, keys and a pack of Piccadilly No 1 cigarettes (only three gone in a week; I was winning) from my one, half-respectable navy blue blazer into my fur-lined leather bomber jacket.

I found Springsteen sitting on the draining-board gazing out of the kitchen window, which I have to open for him so he can come and go as he likes. I'd built a cat flap in the flat door so he could get into the rest of the house and one more in the back door so that he could get out into the square yard of concrete that our landlord Nassim called our patio. But he still liked to use the window, maybe just to maintain the impression that we mere humans were here to serve him.

He was gazing up at the stars, probably communing with the mother ship and receiving new instructions. There was a full dish of cat food on the kitchen floor.

‘No appetite, huh?' I asked him. ‘Been pigging out down at Mr Tomlin's, I suppose?'

He didn't even curl a lip in my direction, and he didn't howl when I playfully cuffed him behind the ear. (Well, he does it to me.) Perhaps he was off-colour.

‘You're in charge,' I said, and turned the light off on him.

 

Everybody knows the French Pub, or at least they say they know it if you prompt them with ‘You know, the one in Dean Street,' though it's not in many of the guide books. Thank goodness.

Let's face it, there wouldn't be room for any tourists, so why advertise?

After about 30 years with a genuine French landlord who only sold beer in half-pints, among his other idiosyncrasies, the brewery bowed to public opinion and renamed the place the French Pub. It had officially been called the York Minster, or similar, but that had been too
passé
for Soho's artist colony. Nowadays, most of that set had moved on one way or another, though the odd one still dropped in occasionally. Today, the French was the place to be seen in. No-one went there to enjoy themselves.

I parked Armstrong on Soho Square and hoofed it round the corner into Dean Street, keeping an eye out for the fly-posters to see if anyone interesting was playing in the vicinity.

Once in the French, I elbowed my way through the crush to the bar and ordered a lager. I didn't get any say in the matter of how big or which brand it was, but the barmaid smiled sweetly and said ‘
Merci
'
when I paid her, because they all pretend to be French even if they aren't.

I scouted the surrounding faces over the top of my glass. There were no world-famous painters or film stars, but a lot of people trying to look like them. I did spot an up-and-coming bass guitarist I'd once played with, and in one corner, drinking champagne, was the author of what was supposed to be the definitive guide to the beers of the world. Apart from him, I was pretty sure I was the oldest person there.

I treated myself to a cigarette and did another scan.

Nothing. No sign of Nurse Sally or anyone looking remotely like her. Then I felt a pressure on my arm, and a soft female voice asked me for a light.

She was dressed in funereal punk: all black and chains. The tight wool mini just wider than the belt that held it up, ended where the ripped black tights began. She also wore black, spiky, button-up ankle boots, a baggy black cardigan and enough stainless steel jewellery to make a dinner service. Her face was a white powder mask with black eye make-up and black lip gloss. She offered a black Balkan Sobranie for the light I offered, and only then looked up from under the wide-brimmed black hat she wore.

‘Thanks.' She blew smoke at me. ‘Glad to see you've recovered from being goosed by Mrs Cody. We call her Buffalo Belle.'

I did a quick triple-take, and having made sure there wasn't a ventriloquist anywhere, I said:

‘Sally?'

She nodded.

‘I didn't recognise you,' I said stupidly.

‘I should bleedin' well hope not. This is my night off.'
She stared at me and then flicked ash with a black fingernail.