by Mike Ripley
However, every silver lining has a cloud, and she decided to stay in the big city because she’d become really, really good friends with her landlord. Now she lived above the shop, so to speak. Not that she’d ever thought too seriously about having an ‘enquiry agent’ on the floor below. She just knew him as Mr Block, paid the rent on time, borrowed cups of sugar and got him in to change an electric plug when one needed changing.
It was rather nice having a man about the place, but don’t get her wrong. This was a nice man, an ex-policeman, ex-river policeman actually, who was really, really friendly, who had daughters her age except they all lived way away now they were married and he was widowed. And we have to suppose he felt sorry for her, as you would, and offered her a bit of work tidying up the files in his office and even doing the odd bit of typing of reports, because she was good at presentation. That’s what Mr Block said right from the word go.
Well, one thing just seemed to lead to another. As it does. No, honest, it was nothing like that. Like she said, he was old enough to be her father. But, anyway, Mr Block had this really, really important client coming to see him about a very confidential matter, and Albert – Mr Block – had thought it a good idea if she sat in on the meeting, not that she actually did shorthand, but she could look as if she did. And what did you know, but the client himself suggested that she might be helpful to the enquiry as well. I would understand that she couldn’t tell me too much more because of Client Confidentiality. (And the way she said it made it sound like a medical condition.)
And that was how she got her first job as a private eye, or Confidential Enquiry Agent as she was learning to call them. Of course, she was a long way off it ever becoming Block & Blugden Investigations (which was just as well as Block & Blugden sounded like rhyming slang for some unspeakable sexual practice). And her first job hadn’t exactly gone off without a hitch, had it? Ha ha. But thanks to me, she had a lead to take to Mr Block and she could follow it up in the morning. Life, after all, was sweet.
‘So Stella Rudgard’s dad thought you’d be good for the job because you and she are about the same age?’ I asked, more out of devilment than interest.
‘Who said anything about her father?’ she spluttered.
‘A guess. Men don’t hire anyone to follow young women unless their motives are pure, which usually means paternal.’ If it’s for fun, they do it themselves, up and down Oxford Street, every day. ‘And runaways are one of London’s growth industries. But not many go to the expense of a private eye. That smacks of worried parents.’
She leaned forward, closer to the glass partition at the back of my head.
‘Hey, you won’t tell anyone I told you this, will you? I mean, it’s supposed to be client confidential, and that’s a number one rule in our business.’ She paused. ‘Just a minute. I didn’t tell you any of that. You just guessed.’
‘Deduced. Simple deduction, my dear Watson,’ I said smugly.
‘Who’s Watson?’
‘Oh … nothing. It’s just something I say to my cat.’
‘I like cats,’ she said instinctively.
‘Not mine,’ I said under my breath.
‘And cats really, really like me.’
‘Not mine.’
‘I’ve been on at Albert – Mr Block – to get an office cat. I’m sure I saw a rat in the back yard last week. Here we are, by the way.’
She pushed a hand through the partition to wag a finger at a side road, and I had to cut across traffic to make the turn. In anything other than a black Austin taxi, I would have drawn hoots of anger from the rush-hour traffic.
‘Down here, then right. It’s number 13.’
It was hardly the sort of address to inspire confidence in the bona fides of a burglar, let alone a confidential enquiry agent. I wondered how the estate agent had sold it. Conveniently placed, between Shepherd’s Bush and Wood Lane, an area honeycombed by BBC production facilities and all the intrigue that implies. Well, no shortage of scandal and clients there. Or he could have hyped the mean streets angle. Just the place for a private eye, sir. One of the fastest rising rates of urban crime without the expense of a Los Angeles zip code. And the drive-bys aren’t actually that violent because the gangs don’t own guns yet. (No, they rent them from the villains in south London.) Or maybe just the purely aesthetic: offering sublime views, especially at sunset, over the old Central Line railway depot and repair yard.
Veronica was still talking, though I’d stopped listening, ‘I really do owe you a big thank you, you know.’
I knew, and I also knew that having her out of Armstrong and earshot would settle the bill.
‘I suppose you could say you saved my bacon today. It’s just here, on the right. Now that’s what I call service; right to the door.’
‘Does the door usually hang off its hinges like that?’ I asked.
‘So you’re not actually a relative of Mr Block, then, miss?’ the policeman asked for the third time.
‘No, I’m his partner – sort of,’ Veronica sobbed, burying her face in a handkerchief.
I was staggered. I thought all decent mascara was waterproof these days.
‘So you lived with Mr Block? Is that it?’ The copper tried to hide the surprise in his voice. I was sure he’d heard and seen much worse in his career, but I thought I’d put him out of his misery.
‘Er ... I don’t think she means partner as ... er ... other people do.’
‘And you are who, sir?’
Typical fuzz; turn an offer of help into an interrogation. If I’d told him the time, I’d probably have got stitched up for perverting the course of justice.
‘He’s my …’
‘Friend,’ I said quickly. ‘Just giving her a lift. That’s all.’
Veronica looked up at me from the bottom stair where she had plonked herself down at the horror of it all. I thought she was upset because I had cut her off, but I didn’t want to give any of our wonderful policemen the idea that I was impersonating a real cab driver. That bit, of course, she hadn’t noticed.
‘What do you mean, partner like other people?’ Quick as a brick, this one.
‘Just tell the officer where you live,’ I hissed.
‘I live upstairs,’ she said innocently. ‘The flat above Al – Mr Block’s. I –’ Somewhere in her brain a ratchet released a cog. ‘Oh, no. I’m his business partner, well, training to be. I don’t live with him. Well, not live. I live in his house, but in a different flat. I just work with him and I really only started that ... I mean. he’s old enough to be my father …’
The uniformed constable gave me a look; 50-50 disbelief and pity. I screwed my face into a wince, much the same as a cat puts its ears back.
‘I’m done up here,’ came a voice from above us. ‘Not worth the overtime, mate.’
A civilian in a khaki anorak and carrying a large metal briefcase, rather like a photographer’s case, was coming down the stairs.
Veronica turned her head around almost enough for me to call an exorcist, to get a look at him, then said to me: ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’ll be the SOCO,’ I said. Too quickly.
‘That’s right, sir,’ said the constable suspiciously. Then to Veronica: ‘Scene of Crimes Officer, miss. You can get into your flat now and tell us what’s missing.’
He gave me a funny look as I made to follow her upstairs. I smiled at him but it cut no ice. Damn these teeth. If things didn’t improve, I was going to ask for my money back.
There had been two policemen inside the house, one in what I presumed was Albert Block’s office on the ground floor, who broke the news to us, and one upstairs in his flat.
The news, once he had established that we, or at least one of us, had a legitimate excuse to be there, was that Mr Block had disturbed some intruders about an hour before. (‘Late afternoon, miss, prime time for break-ins. Bound
to be kids, probably on their way home from school. Nothing on the telly, mum probably out working till six or so. Quick jolly with the mates, pick up some loose change and maybe a video or so. More common than you’d think.’)
What hadn’t been so common was that whoever had done Mr Block’s place hadn’t worried too much about being seen (it was not yet dark) or heard, as they had used what must have been a sledgehammer on the front door. And on the internal doors, even the ones without locks. And on the television in Albert’s flat. And on the toilet bowl in the bathroom. And on the microwave oven in Veronica’s flat. (‘I don’t need a cooker just to cook for one, so that did me perfectly. Some of the microwave meals are really very good, but the portions are a bit small. It says for two, but …’ ‘Shut up and find your insurance policy.’)
Just to make sure that this was the most ham-fisted burglary not actually caught on video, the intruders had picked a time when Mr Block had been there. And, wouldn’t you just know it, he must have tried to stop them or scare them off, and instead they had scared him into what had appeared to be a heart attack. Or at least that was what the ambulance driver had said before they carried him off to Queen Charlotte’s hospital down the Goldhawk Road.
Not that it was a bad heart attack. (What’s a good one?) Well, it couldn’t have been, as it had been Mr Block who had rung for his own ambulance and then the police, though the medics had got their hands on him first so he hadn’t been able to tell them much. Still, he’d be sedated for a while and somebody from the morning shift would go and get a statement. Meantime, I’d better do something about that front door, hadn’t I?
Why me? I thought. Then I realised that not only was the copper looking at me, so was Veronica.
‘Do you know any local builders?’ I asked forlornly. She shook her head. I tried to appeal to the policeman. ‘He was one of yours, you know.’
‘Who was?’ The young PC was getting better at giving me the lazy eye.
‘Mr Block. He was in the River Police until he retired recently. Ex-Superintendent Block,’ I tried, not knowing anything about ranking among the Thames cops. He could have been a chief petty officer for all I knew.
Veronica put me right.
‘Sergeant. He used to be a Sergeant.’
Thanks, Veronica.
The constable drew himself up to his full height. Was it me, or were the policemen in the Met really getting smaller?
‘Mr Block will get treated just like anybody else, miss, but if you hang on, I’ve got something in the car that might help.’
He disappeared down the stairs, passing the other PC on the way, and they exchanged raised eyebrows. The second copper glanced over the wreckage of Veronica’s flat, which was actually just a bed/sitting room, but anything bigger than an empty dishwasher carton gets called a flat in Shepherd’s Bush these days.
‘Are you sure nothing was taken, miss?’ he asked politely.
‘Not that I can see,’ sniffed Veronica. ‘It’s just ... just ... damage.’
‘Kids,’ he said, disappointedly, as if he’d been looking forward to a bit of grand larceny. ‘What sort of business was the old ... was Mr Block in?’
‘He was an enquiry agent and security consultant,’ Veronica said primly.
I held up my hand to the copper so Veronica couldn’t see, and gestured that, yes, we’d be doing all the jokes, he needn’t bother.
‘Kids, you reckon?’ I said for the sake of something to say.
‘Bound to be. Didn’t expect to find the old man here. Maybe they threatened him then did a runner when he choked his rig.’ He caught Veronica’s silent sob and heaving frame and added: ‘Sorry.’
‘Kids with sledgehammers and a really bad attitude?’ I pressed.
‘I’ve seen worse. This is getting to be a bad area.’
‘How about some more community policing on the beat, then?’ I pushed it.
‘Get me a flak jacket and some CS gas and I’ll think about it.’
His partner returned holding a sheet of paper. He offered it to me.
‘Here’s a list of 24-hour builders, glaziers and general repair merchants who’ll come and fix things so they’ll hold for the night.’
The sheet of paper was a photocopied list of about 30 names and phone numbers, arranged by postal area.
‘Give many of these out?’ I asked, scanning the list.
‘More than parking tickets these days,’ the PC said wearily. ‘Saves time usually. People can’t get it together enough to use the Yellow Pages at times like this.’
He looked at Veronica, who had her back to us, staring out of the grimy window.
‘Yeah, okay, I’ll get something organised,’ I submitted.
‘If you use one of them’ – he pointed at the list – ‘then get a proper builder in tomorrow. Half of them are real cowboys.’
Good; in that case I might know some of them.
‘If there’s nothing in Shepherd’s Bush, there’ll be somebody over in Kilburn. Bound to be.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said, spotting somebody I knew on the list. ‘I’ll get it sorted.’
He looked at his mate, who reached for the radio at his collar. They were ready to sign this one off.
There was nothing more for them to do really. It was now down to Albert Block and Veronica and their insurance company and one more notch on the petty crime statistics. The shorter of the two coppers did try though.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right, luv?’ he said as if he meant it.
Now, most women I know would have made him eat his own truncheon for his patronising tone and the word ‘luv’, but I thought for a moment Veronica was going to hug him.
‘It’s kind of you to ask. I don’t really know, I must go and see if Albert is all right.’
‘They won’t let you see him tonight, dear. Wait ‘til tomorrow. Is there anywhere you can go, if you don’t fancy staying here, that is?’
Veronica inhaled hugely. ‘Not really. I can’t think of anywhere, so I suppose I’ll have to make do and sort something out, but I really, really don’t like the thought of staying here. Silly of me, isn’t it? What a goose I am.’
Goose? Where was this woman coming from?
Then I realised that all three of them were looking at me. Oh, shit, no.
Chapter Three
Before they left, the cops offered Veronica the use of some ‘POLICE AWARE’ stickers and some of their crime-scene tape, to put on and around the smashed-in front door. I turned them down on her behalf, explaining that she had been burglarised once already today and she no longer needed to advertise.
Once the uniforms had gone, I asked Veronica for the use of her phone. She said it was in Albert’s office, and we found it on the floor behind a wastepaper bin. I didn’t need the list the police had left as I knew Dod’s number already. I knew Dod. We were old mates.
‘Who?’
‘It’s Angel. Roy Angel.’
‘The horn player?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The one what drives a cab?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The one what still owes me 40 folding from that jazz night in Pub Week?’
‘Exactly the reason I’m belling you, Dod,’ I said quickly, ‘plus the chance of a bit of added value in the shape of a call-out insurance job.’
‘Oh yeah? Your place?’
‘No. Shepherd’s Bush. I was on my way to deliver your dosh. I’ve been a bit strapped of late, but I had the cash, so I thought of you. Then I hit on these old friends of mine having a spot of bother with a break-in.’
‘Shepherd’s Bush? That’s not on the way to Bethnal Green.’
‘Depends where you start from, Dod.’ That baffled him. ‘Need an overnight front door; proper job tomorrow changing the locks.’
‘Any windows forced?’
<
br /> I looked at Veronica. She just shrugged uselessly. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Good. I ‘ate fucking windows.’
‘So you’ll come over?’
‘There’s a £65 one-hour call-out charge, plus materials.’
‘Do I get a receipt for the taxman?’
‘All right, call it 50 plus the 40 you owe me.’
‘Fair enough.’
I gave him directions and hung up.
‘It’ll cost £120,’ I told Veronica, ‘but you’ll probably get it back from the insurance company.’
If she had looked distraught up to now, she was suddenly on the final approach to Stress City.
‘I don’t think I can raise that much. There’s about £90 in the petty cash box,’ she quivered. ‘Plus ten pounds for the milkman tomorrow.’
‘Take each day as it comes,’ I soothed. ‘Forget about the milkman, he’ll understand. And I’ve got a few quid on me. You can owe it me.’
Dod’s arrival hardly instilled Veronica with confidence, no matter how many times I told her that Dod Dodwell was one of the best traditional jazz drummers in London. Well, Bethnal Green, anyway. And he had the great advantage that he ran an ancient Transit van (well over-insured in the hope it would be stolen) so he could transport not only his drum kit, but most of the rest of the band as well.
Not that I had actually played with Dod for a while. A combination of things had kept me off the Sunday lunchtime pub jazz circuit in recent months. For a start, it was getting so popular it just wasn’t fun any more. At one time there had been a strange kudos from playing totally unfashionable music, but now it looked like authentic Dixieland was making a comeback. Some pubs were even into marching bands, with middle-aged East End housewives decorating their own umbrellas so they could swirl and twirl along. Some Sundays it was just like New Orleans down in Canning Town. Or it would have been if the weather had been different. And the food. And the drinks; especially the drinks. Somehow a strawberry hurricane served in a straight pint glass loses something.
