Bootlegged Angel

by Ripley, Mike

  ‘And some bread? And orange juice? Oh, and you haven’t got any Corn Flakes, have you? I’ve got a distinct touch of the munchies. I must have missed dinner.’

  From the bedroom she shouted:

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  Ooh. Sharp.

  She was getting good and I felt a twinge of pride. It had been me who’d taught her everything she knew.

  The pieces began to fall into place but it wasn’t the sort of jigsaw you’d give your aunty for Christmas.

  I remembered being in the Sampling Cellar down in Seagrave and suggesting to Murdo Seton that as he’d always wanted to drive a real, live London taxi (or as near as damn it) and he was going ‘up to town’ that evening, why didn’t he drive Armstrong back – as I sure as shooting wasn’t in any fit state to do so.

  Naturally, he’d loved the idea and said it was perfect because he could finish briefing me on the way, but would I mind staying in the Sampling Cellar for an hour or so while he nipped home to change into his dinner jacket? I had agreed to this, reluctantly of course, I convinced him that I could work my way through the rest of the Powerpoint presentation on his laptop while he was gone, so I could get up to speed. (For some reason, bringing yourself ‘up to speed’ really impresses people in business.)

  He hadn’t been gone five minutes before I was into his Jazz Jackrabbit 2 program and, fuelled by another pint of Seagull Special or whatever, had made it to Level 3 before the killer tortoises cornered me in a treasure cave and zapped me to pieces. Or at least I think that was what happened. Either way, I managed to shut down the laptop just as Murdo returned, fairly confident that he would have saved his economic presentation somewhere in the memory.

  Murdo, thankfully, didn’t ask what I thought of his presentation. He wanted to continue the briefing as he drove and could he have the keys, please, as he was really looking forward to this?

  So was I. I’d never been driven by a man in full evening dress before.

  Somewhere between the Sampling Cellar and Armstrong, I acquired a crate of bottled beer which fitted neatly on the floor of the cab while I stretched out on the back seat. Murdo even gave me a metal opener embossed with the legend ‘Seagrave’s Seaside’. I do remember asking him why the word ‘Ales’ seemed to be missing and he muttered something about it being faulty stock, but I didn’t mind: it worked fine.

  I was grateful for Murdo’s souvenirs of my visit for the way he drove I certainly needed a drink. I began to work my way through the crate as Murdo talked, keeping my head down so I didn’t have to see either the road or the speedometer.

  Amazingly, some of it went into my fuddled brain and stayed there, because even the morning after, with four out of the five voices in my head telling me to call in sick, I could still remember the gist of it.

  Murdo was obviously the moderniser in the family firm. Not only was he getting the business computerised but he was trying to be environmentally friendly along the way. Where possible, he had enrolled his pubs in a scheme called Bottleback, which basically involved a large plastic bin in the carpark so that people could recycle their empty bottles. Country pubs helping to keep the countryside tidy was the tag line and it made a lot of sense, with a truck coming round once a month or so to take away the full Bottleback bin and leave an empty one.

  Some bright lad down at the local waste recycling plant (though I remember when they were called rubbish tips) noticed that one of the Bottleback bins was crammed full of small, French lager bottles and nothing else. When it happened again he phoned the brewery and reported it, having checked which collection route it had come from. Murdo investigated and identified the actual pub where the bin had been parked, one of his small country tenancies called the Rising Sun at a place called Whitcomb about ten miles south of Canterbury.

  Finding empty French beer bottles in recycling bins wasn’t, of course, that unusual. As Murdo pointed out rather ruefully, the biggest selling beer in Kent was now French and it was one which was not officially imported. But finding nothing else, not even a jam jar or an empty sauce bottle, was unusual, especially when it was happening once every ten days or so since the brewery started monitoring it and when all the bottles came from the same batch.

  I failed to see why Murdo needed an undercover detective, and I said so, shouting from the back of Armstrong trying to make myself heard over the screaming engine. It was an exercise in the blindingly obvious: the Rising Sun was flogging smuggled French beer instead of Seagrave’s Stunning Ales but at least had the decency to recycle the empties or just assumed that once in the Bottleback bin they were out of sight and out of mind.

  That was the easy explanation, Murdo had said, and I think he was a little disappointed in me for suggesting it. But he knew that the landlady of the Rising Sun would never do that. It was just unthinkable. In any case the bottles all had French labels and even one of his brewery’s regional managers would have noticed if the pub had them on display. But just to be sure, Murdo had checked back on the pub’s orders and deliveries and there was no obvious drop in the amounts it was buying from the brewery. So either the pub had found some new customers and a new sideline in French lager or someone was dumping the bottles in the pub’s Bottleback bin as a bit of a sick joke.

  And I was supposed to do – what?

  Go down to the Rising Sun and hang around keeping my eyes open. Go and see some people in Dover, people who were experts on the smuggling industry. Find out who the main runners were these days – that’s what they called them in Dover, beer-runners. Keep an ear open, as well as an eye. Listen to the gossip, spot the drivers and the ‘mules’ – the innocent ferry passengers who were carrying booze and cigarettes for the smugglers. Be prepared to write it all up in a report, from the front line so to speak.

  But why me? What on earth could I bring to the party?

  Because I was an outsider and in Dover, a town swamped with transients, I would fit right in. And I obviously didn’t look like a Customs officer or a private detective, did I? And, anyway, I had a Heavy Goods Vehicle driving licence, didn’t I? Miss Blugden had said I had.

  I admitted she was right there and then it dawned on me. Murdo wanted me to become a runner – infiltrate a gang and find out where the booze was going.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do anything to break the law,’ he had said. ‘Could I?’

  ‘He seemed like a really nice man,’ Fenella said as she spooned scrambled egg on to my plate.

  ‘I introduced him to you? Pass the Tabasco, would you?’

  ‘Oh yes, when we had to come down and let you in because you’d forgotten how to use your key. Mr Seton was sort of holding you upright. Then he brought all that beer in for you, so we had a little chat. Where’s the Tabasco?’

  ‘Cupboard above the fridge. How did Murdo get to his dinner party?’

  ‘Banquet, actually,’ she shouted from the kitchen. ‘He was going to a banquet at the Brewers’ Hall. It’s in the City, near St Paul’s.’

  ‘I know where it is, it’s just behind Love Lane police station. How did he get there?’

  ‘You phoned for a minicab for him.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Well, Lisabeth actually spoke to them, but you dialled the number all by yourself. Is this it?’

  She held a small red bottle in front of my face.

  ‘No, that’s Kickin’ Ass Salsa, but it’ll do. So, you had a nice little chat with Murdo, did you?’

  ‘Not for long. It was a bit difficult with you playing the music that loud.’

  I paused between forkfuls.

  ‘Music?’ I flashed a look to where my ancient B-flat trumpet was still in place, balanced on top of one of the hi-fi speakers.

  ‘No, you didn’t play,’ she said, ‘you spared us that. But you wanted Murdo to hear one of your old CDs – some African stuff about a taxi driver.’

  I noticed the green light blinking on the CD-player where I had left it on all night.

  ‘Turn off the st
ereo, would you?’ I said, pointing with a piece of toast.

  ‘Hey, don’t ask me to touch it. You know Lisabeth won’t let me, not since you used her Chris de Burgh record as an ashtray.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do it myself,’ I said wearily. ‘So what did you and Murdo talk about?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ she said coyly. ‘But only for a few minutes, really, whilst I got him a bandage.’

  ‘Springsteen?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Murdo said he had three dogs at home and the secret with all animals was that if you treated them like humans, they would respond like humans.’

  ‘Poor Murdo, but it’s a common error. Dogs think they’re human, but cats believe they’re God.’

  ‘To err is human, to purr divine.’

  I looked at her in amazement.

  ‘That was very good, Fenella.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve been thinking about that one.’

  I wondered for how long.

  ‘So where did Springsteen get him?’

  ‘Back of the hand. There was quite a bit of blood but he was very brave. Tell him I hope it’s healed up.’

  I didn’t like the way she said that.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, suspicious.

  ‘You have checked your messages, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Well, I had responded to Amy’s pager call, only to get a recorded message saying: ‘Not going to make it home tonight and one of our Italian buyers wants me in Milan tomorrow so if I get a flight I’ll just pick up a few things on the way to Heathrow. Should be back by Friday. See you when I see you.’

  ‘Your messages from Veronica,’ Fenella persisted like she was talking to someone whose IQ test had come back negative.

  ‘Oh, them.’

  ‘Yes, them. All the messages she left this morning about your meeting.’

  ‘Meeting? What meeting?’

  ‘This afternoon at her office at two o’clock, with Murdo.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ It was 1.15 p.m. by my fancy new watch and I didn’t think I could make it to Veronica’s office before Murdo did.

  ‘I told you she’d left messages. I just assumed you were ringing her while I was forced to make you lunch.’

  ‘Look, I told you, I needed the protein. Strewth, you just can’t get the staff these days, can you? Where’s my jacket?’

  ‘Behind the sofa, where you threw it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ I said, resigned to the fact that if I wanted anything done right, I would have to do it myself. I just couldn’t rely on Fenella for anything.

  ‘Where are Armstrong’s keys?’ I asked, going through my pockets.

  ‘In the freezer compartment in the fridge,’ she said smugly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You wanted to put them out of temptation’s way in case you fancied nipping out for a curry later. Even you said you weren’t in any fit state to drive.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was then and this is now. Make sure Springsteen’s got some food before you go, won’t you?’

  I was half-way down the stairs before I had to stop, about-turn and march back into the flat. Fenella hadn’t moved, had just stood there looking at her watch, timing me, tapping her foot impatiently.

  ‘Fenella, sweetie,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where exactly is Armstrong?’

  I found Armstrong at the end of Stuart Street and he seemed to be intact although the fuel tank was nearly empty. By the time I’d filled up with diesel and cut all the way across town to Shepherd’s Bush, I was running at least half an hour late and I had to suffer the full wrath of Mrs Delacourt’s pursed lips and eyes which made a shark’s look compassionate as she waved me through into Veronica’s office.

  Veronica didn’t seem to mind, though. She was getting on with Murdo almost as well as Fenella had, in fact she seemed a bit annoyed that I had turned up at all.

  ‘Nice of you to make it, Angel,’ she said, all businesslike in a pin-stripe trouser suit.

  ‘Absolutely amazed you made it,’ said Murdo with a grin.

  He stood up and towered over me. I had forgotten how tall he was and it gave me altitude sickness just making eye contact.

  ‘Oh, your driving wasn’t that bad,’ I said, shaking his hand – the one without the gigantic sticking plaster.

  He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Actually, I meant I was amazed at how much of our ale you managed to put down yesterday. That was quite impressive for someone not used to it.’

  ‘You should have stuck around last night,’ I said confidently. ‘Fenella and I finished off the crate you left.’

  ‘Really? I got the impression she was a game on sort of lass –’

  ‘Could we get on, Mr Seton?’ Veronica interrupted. ‘Find yourself a chair, Angel, we’re just finalising the details of your surveillance operation.’

  I dragged a chair in from Mrs Delacourt’s office, avoiding her killer look and making as much noise as possible. The effort of doing it almost exhausted me and I was relieved to sit down, but I was determined not to nod off as I might miss something.

  ‘Surveillance,’ I said knowledgeably, as if I knew what I was talking about. ‘You want me to watch a pub, or rather the litter bin in the pub car-park.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simplistic as that, Angel,’ Murdo muttered. ‘We need a fresh pair of eyes and ears on this one, on the ground in this country. We’ve never done that before.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Brewers, pub operators, publicans, farmers, suppliers – all of us in this country who are losing out to the beer-runners. Oh, we’ve complained to the government and we’ve complained in Europe and we’ve had people in Calais watching the trade grow for five years now. Did you realise that one in five beers drunk at a party last Christmas were smuggled?’

  ‘Good heavens,’ I breathed, thinking of what was in my fridge back at Stuart Street. ‘They’re probably stocking up for the Millennium New Year parties already.’

  Murdo turned towards Veronica and grinned broadly.

  ‘I told you he was on the ball, Miss Blugden.’ Murdo turned his teeth on me. ‘That’s exactly what I suspect they’re doing and there’s a man down in Dover, a Customs and Excise man, who thinks the same.’

  ‘So why isn’t he doing something about it?’

  It must have come out stronger than I had intended as Veronica hissed: ‘Angel . . .’

  Fortunately, Murdo came to my rescue.

  ‘No, Miss Blugden, that’s a good question. The Customs man is called Lawrence, Nick Lawrence, and he’ll explain things to you personally, but his main problem is he has other fish to fry. If you think about it, it’s quite ridiculous that Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise should be chasing booze-runners on the eve of the twenty-first century. The Customs men should be watching out for drugs and guns, not nasty French lager. They’ve doubled the number of Customs officers in Dover in the last year or so but they’re still only dealing with the tip of the iceberg. Go down there, talk to Nick Lawrence and see for yourself. It’s rife down there, quite rife.’

  ‘And the connection with this pub, the Rising Sun?’ Veronica asked to prove she had been listening.

  ‘Nick Lawrence has a theory about that, but I want him to tell Angel himself. I’ve given you his number, haven’t I?’

  Veronica nodded and held up a business card to show she hadn’t lost it.

  ‘And you’re sure it couldn’t just be that the pub is on the fiddle and is selling the stuff?’ It still seemed the obvious answer to me.

  ‘Oh no,’ Murdo said emphatically, ‘no way. It simply isn’t in character. Once you meet Ivy you’ll see why.’

  ‘Ivy?’

  ‘The landlady of the Rising Sun. She’s a diamond. An absolute diamond. You two will get on famously.’

  Why did that sound bad?

  6

  Amy rang me from Milan the next morning to say that her Italian job would
take longer than she expected and involved a return at the weekend via Paris after a photo-shoot there on Saturday. And did I fancy joining Nigel the photographer and three of the TALtop models on the Eurostar to make a party of it? What she meant was would I chauffeur Nigel around, get him on the right train and to the right location without him losing any of his cameras or any of the models, as had happened in the past.

  When I said no, I was going to be busy, there was a deathly silence at the other end of the phone then she said OK, if that was my attitude.

  I didn’t like to remind her that not only did I have attitude, but I knew how to use it.

  Before leaving the Hampstead house I packed an emergency sports bag with some clean clothes and a British Airways First Class toiletries pouch. (I get Amy to steal them for me. Their razors are excellent and the revitalising foot spray is almost as effective as a Mace spray if you get close enough to the eyes.)

  I also took a camera and a dictaphone recorder because I figured no well-dressed private eye should be without such things. The camera was an Olympus 2000 Zoom and the dictaphone was a Grundig. Both were Amy’s, but she wasn’t using them. She also wasn’t using either of the cars and I ended up juggling three sets of keys trying to make the right choice.

  The Freelander I ruled out almost immediately as it looked like a posh company car version of a Land Rover, which is what it was. Down in Dover I would look like a Hampstead reject nipping over to Calais for some cheap Chablis and a camembert for a dinner party. In Armstrong, I’d probably get beaten up by genuine Dover taxi drivers who thought I was a London musher stealing their trade. I didn’t know if they ran Austin black cabs down there but I didn’t want to risk it. (Manchester and Birmingham, I could blend in and one or two other places too, but black London cabs were still a specialised beast most suited to their natural habitat. A bit like a mole, really; supremely at home tunnelling under a suburban lawn but at a bit of a loss swinging through the canopy of a rain forest.)

  The BMW, a Series 5 convertible, therefore chose itself. It was a respectable four years old now and thus had slipped down the Most Wanted list of cars stolen to order in London. Being a convertible, it had suffered the odd knife slash to the roof proving that amateur thieves still fancied it even if the professionals no longer considered bending a coat hanger for anything less than a brand new Series 7. And it hadn’t been washed or valeted for a couple of months, so the ashtray was full and the passenger seat and floor were littered with screwed-up tissues and empty Diet Coke cans. Just the sort of image I wanted to project.