by Mike Ripley
‘So why are you home in time to cook dinner, then?’ she asked Doogie as she collapsed into a creaking wicker armchair.
(Their taste in furniture was eclectic to say the least, and I suspected Doogie acquired a lot of their pieces from bankrupt restaurant sales.)
‘Actually, ma sweet, we’ve eaten, but I’ll gladly whip something up for you.’
Doogie said all this whilst holding his breath so that the words came out roughly in the right order and the whisky fumes didn’t strip the paint off the walls, and he exhaled slowly all the way to the kitchen. Miranda watched him go, her brown eyes no more than slits, then she turned to me with her head on one side.
‘And what are you doing here, Angel? Has Amy finally thrown you out?’
‘No she hasn’t! Why does everyone assume that?’
‘Do they? That’s interesting. Why do you suppose that is?’
‘Oh per-leese!’ I said in a tone which meant she wouldn’t argue as I helped myself to some more of Doogie’s whisky. ‘Do you want to hear my story of how we had to rush Springsteen to Cat Casualty or not?’
By the time I had told her, Doogie had presented her with a glass of white wine and a perfect smoked salmon soufflé. She put the wine on the floor and balanced her plate on her knee, waiting regally for Doogie to give her a fork (which he polished with a white cloth) and to crack black pepper for her through a large wooden mill.
‘I got beans on toast,’ I said.
‘You don’t have to sleep with him,’ said Miranda.
That seemed fair, and anyway, Doogie had said that beans on toast was what all professional chefs ate when they got home and put their feet up.
‘So you suspect this Valuation Officer who came round with Mr Nassim this morning?’ she said between mouthfuls.
‘Had to be somebody in the house,’ I said, ‘as he couldn’t have got back inside the flat with that injury, probably couldn’t have got up the stairs, so more than likely it happened in the flat. You haven’t been in the flat, the naked chef here hasn’t. Mr Goodson downstairs just wouldn’t. Fenella was the one who found him. Who else is there?’
‘Lisabeth?’
Doogie and I exchanged looks.
‘No way, pet,’ Doogie said. ‘She’d defenestrate Angel soon as look at him, but not a dumb animal.’
‘Easy enough mistake to make,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘But I think you’re right, Angel.’
‘I am?’
‘Right to be suspicious. I mean, where do you think I’ve been all day, dressed like this?’
I bit back the smart remark that it couldn’t have been hanging around Shepherd’s Market, even on a slow day.
‘Been for a job interview?’
Miranda worked for a local newspaper that was part of a larger group and was always on the look-out for promotion to the bigger-circulation titles.
‘No, guess again.’
‘You’ve been in court?’
The idea of Miranda as a court reporter was pretty scary. I would have ‘fessed up to anything if I’d seen her glaring into the dock at me from the press benches.
‘No such fun. Think really, really dull.’
‘Annual General Meeting of the Hackney and Islington Civil War Re-Enactment Society?’
‘Now you’re being silly. I was covering the Council.’
Doogie tried to look proud of her. I must have just looked blank.
‘And ...?’
‘I’m the local council specialist and a stringer for Greater London related matters,’ she said.
Doogie still tried to look smug, but I knew he couldn’t keep it up for long.
‘Which means ...?’ I offered.
‘Which means I know about rates and precepts and business rates and exemptions and all that shit,’ she snapped. ‘And I can tell you there’s no rating revaluation going on in Hackney at the moment. Too many votes at stake to tell people they have to pay more taxes. So your phantom Valuation Officer was ...’
‘Totally bogus,’ I completed.
Doogie waved his glass at me.
‘Och, yer wee dipstick. Has she not been trying to tell you that for the last five minutes?’
Miranda insisted that Doogie made me a pot of coffee, and I agreed to drink it only if she would go downstairs and ask Lisabeth about our suspicious visitor. As soon as she was gone, I laced my Golden Jubilee souvenir mug with more of Doogie’s Scotch. Doogie didn’t mind. He held the same view that I do: coffee doesn’t sober you up, it just makes you a more awake drunk.
When she returned, I asked her if she’d thought to look in on Springsteen on her way back upstairs. She gave me a killer look and said no, she hadn’t – but Fenella had.
‘And she’s okay?’ I asked, genuinely concerned.
‘She got out alive, if that’s what you mean,’ said Miranda, ‘and that unwholesome beast of yours is resting comfortably, so she says.’
I secretly thought Fenella was getting into this caring business and with a bit of training could be pinning daily bulletins to the front door.
‘And what did Lisabeth have to say?’
‘Not much. She said she only ran into the woman on the stairs as Mr Nassim was bringing her in. About my height, mousy blonde shoulder length hair pulled back off the face with a wide purple scrunchy band, very light blonde eyebrows, blue eyes, hardly any make-up but bright red fingernails. No rings. Wore a Burberry raincoat over a short skirt and a polo-neck ribbed sweater. As Lisabeth said, she only got a glimpse. Hardly noticed her at all.’
‘Did she get her dress size?’
‘Twelve,’ said Miranda without batting an eyelid.
Doogie let out a low, quiet whistle. He was impressed.
‘But did she get a name?’
‘Give the girl a break. We’re talking complete strangers here passing on the stairs for maybe a few seconds.’
Doogie and I stared at her all innocent, though I knew Doogie wouldn’t have the nerve to say it, so I had to.
‘And your point there is ... what?’
‘Isn’t it time we got you a cab?’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘He’s already got one!’ Doogie giggled.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Miranda said to him, and he cowered in his chair.
This, the man who listed ‘football hooliganism’ on his CV; the man whose favourite line at parties when someone was between him and the bar was ‘Pick a window, you’re leaving’, actually cowered.
Miranda suddenly had a mobile phone in her hand, as if she’d had it up her sleeve like a derringer on a spring clip.
‘Any preference in mini-cab companies?’ she asked, waving the phone at me so I knew what it was. I might have trouble focusing, but I knew a Nokia at six feet when it was pointed at me.
‘Wait a minute. You’ve got to ring Mr Nassim first,’ I said reasonably.
‘I have?’
‘To ask him if this Phantom Menace had a name or any credentials,’ I explained patiently.
‘Why me?’ she argued.
‘Because you’re holding the phone, you’re a valued tenant of his, you have the Power of the Press behind you, it’s your job to ask questions and you’d like to know if the Council is up to something you don’t know about, you’d like to know if he showed her into this flat while you were both out, and if you do it I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘The last one’s the clincher,’ she said.
It was the nearest I’d ever heard her get to a joke.
Of course I had to stand at her shoulder and listen in just to make sure she asked the right questions, though she deliberately turned her head away from me and preferred to repeat Nassim’s answers out loud.
‘So you didn’t show her into our flat, I see,’ she said loudly, giving a thumbs up to Doogie, who tried t
o look suitably relieved, though I don’t know what those two were worried about. They didn’t have a cat.
‘Just Flat 3? That was the only one she wanted to get into. I see.’
Well I don’t, I pantomimed, standing in front of her. Why?
‘Because you might be eligible for a reduced rate rebate on rented property not occupied throughout the year? Oh yes, of course.’
As she said this she put a finger to the side of her head and made a turning, crazy-man motion. I put a hand down below my waist and made the sort of gesture monkeys do whenever you take your parents to the zoo. Miranda looked away, pretending not to know what I meant. Then again, she was Welsh, so she might not know.
‘And she definitely did come from the Council? Oh, I see, she had a card. Yes, please.’
She covered the phone with her hand.
‘He’s gone to get her business card. A rate rebate? From this Council? Is Nassim dopey?’
‘I think the word is bhudu – it means “slow” – but don’t call him that to his face,’ I said, just to show that I could insult people in several languages.
Then she was back in listening mode.
‘Alison George, I see. And is there a phone number? Yes, that’s the number of the Council. No, I was just curious. We’ve been doing a series in the paper on fake gas meter readers and the like, conning their way into people’s houses ... No, of course nothing like that happened here ...’
Ask if he left her alone at any time, I mouthed, pointing at the phone.
‘And anyway,’ she went on fluently, ‘you were with her all the time, weren’t you? I bet you never let her out of your sight, did you? Not even for a few seconds ...’
Miranda made eye contact with me.
‘Except when the phone rang downstairs? I see. Yes, wrong numbers are a pain, aren’t they?’
I shook my head and drew a finger across my throat to end it.
‘Actually, I don’t think we really need that house phone any more. We all have mobiles these days, even Mr Goodson in Flat 1. It only gets used when somebody has to take a message for Angel, and he’s never here these days ... No, of course I will ... I’ll give him your love next time I see him ... Very well, then, not your love, just your best wishes ... Okay, I’ll just wave to him. ‘Bye.’
If I hadn’t know better, I would have said she had enjoyed that. And she had another surprise for me.
‘Alison George my arse,’ she said as she closed her phone.
‘What?’ I pleaded.
‘There is an Alison George works for the Council; I know her. She happens to be the Tourist Development Officer, and she’s on six months maternity leave just at the moment. You know what that means.’
I slumped into a chair and the blood must have drained from my face, such was Miranda’s look of near concern.
‘Angel? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I said quietly, humbly holding out my glass towards Doogie’s Scotch. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘I know,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s an invasion of your private space. An intrusion. It’s like finding out that ...’
‘No, no,’ I said, aiming the now-full-again glass to my lips. ‘It’s finding out that Hackney has a Tourist Development Officer. Bloody hell, what will they think of next?’
Chapter Four
‘Of course I’m not paranoid! I’ve every right to be suspicious!’
If it hadn’t been for the muscle-relaxant qualities of alcohol, I could have got quite worked up about the suggestion.
‘An unidentified, totally bogus female wangles her way into our house by conning the landlord – who must have been enjoying what they call “a senior moment” these days to fall for it – and once in, doesn’t nick anything, just makes sure she’s alone in my flat and then kicks seven kinds of crap out of my flat-mate. Cause for concern or what? I think at least a severe furrowing of the brow is called for here.’
‘Was he badly hurt, your flat mate?’
‘You should see the bill from the vet.’
‘The vet?’
‘Well he is a cat. But the point is, my personal space has been invaded and with malice aforethought. It was only my flat she looked at – wasn’t interested in any of the others. And she put a bit of thought into it. Once in, courtesy of our senile landlord, she waits for him to trek downstairs to answer the phone so she’ll be all alone in there ...’
‘How did she know the phone would ring right on cue?’
‘Easy-peezey. She’s got her mobile in her pocket with the number programmed in and she just presses the call button. Keeps it ringing until he gets to the phone, then hangs up as he answers. She’s left on her own.’
‘She wouldn’t have long, though, would she?’
‘Well, no,’ I admitted. ‘But long enough.’
‘Long enough to do what?’
Now that, unfortunately, was a good question.
‘To snoop, to pry, to invade my privacy. She’d gone to a fair bit of trouble to get into my flat, if only for a few minutes.’
‘How did she know the phone was downstairs?’
‘What?’
‘How did she know,’ he said patiently, ‘the phone was a flight of stairs away?’
‘Fucked if I know. Point is, she did.’
Damn. Another good question.
‘Sounds a bit thin.’
‘A bit thin? Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘No, mate, I can say we’re ‘ere and that’ll be 14 pounds, please.’
‘Fourteen quid?’
‘Hackney to Hampstead, this time of night, guv .... A black cab would have cost you more.’
But the advice would have been better.
I hoped none of the neighbours saw me arrive home by mini-cab.
I couldn’t have cared less if they saw me weaving towards the house swaying, ever so slightly, in the breeze, which strangely did not seem to be affecting the trees or flowers in the local gardens. But a mini-cab: that was letting the side down. When I first started parking Armstrong in the driveway, some of the neighbours probably tried to get a rate rebate. Not that I gave a hoot. I didn’t know any of them and was happy to avoid the rota of Christmas parties we were no longer invited to. Well, not since that first one.
It was odds-on I hadn’t been seen anyway. It would take a bomb going off in the street to arouse any interest once they had settled down behind their burglar alarms and closed circuit TV cameras for the evening, even though all the latest surveys showed that good street lighting was more of a deterrent to people on the naughty than CCTV. In fact in some boroughs, street crime had gone up when CCTV was installed.
Which thankfully made me remember our burglar alarm, which had been repaired at vast expense after Anthony Keith Flowers – the ex-Mr Amy – had nobbled it with ridiculous ease when he broke into the house and garage and made off with Amy’s BMW. (I was having as much success with the house’s insurance company about that as I was about the car, my first claim form having been returned as ‘frivolous’. Bloody cheek.)
Whilst one part of my brain was trying to remember the combination as I struggled with the door, another part – the part that was prone to wandering to a land where the sun and women were warm but the beer and the music stayed cool and all were free – was thinking that Amy wouldn’t have set the alarm if she was home and I wasn’t. Especially not given my track record of setting the thing off by accident.
Therefore, I was home first, which meant I didn’t have to be quiet or creep into one of the spare bedrooms and maybe there was time for a nightcap or I could get into bed and pretend I’d had an early night after a pretty stressful day.
It never occurred to me that Amy had come home and gone out again.
Not until the next morning.
And i
t looked as if she’d gone for a while.
I didn’t twig that right away, of course. It was only when I checked the shoe racks at the bottom of Amy’s wardrobe and I realised that her Manolo Blahnik flat red sandals, her Sigerson Morrison green high heels and the lime green strappy sandals by Gina, along with her favourite Jimmy Choos, had all gone, that I knew something strange was going on.
Even later, I checked the garage to discover the Freelander had gone, which sort of confirmed things. I suppose I should have looked there first, but I’ve never been hot on garages. You don’t have to be if you drive a London cab; the kerb is your garage.
A month before, when Anthony Keith Flowers had burgled the house and also helped himself to Amy’s new BMW, I hadn’t thought to check the garage then, so I didn’t actually get to report it stolen until I had hit it with a bulldozer. Over such technicalities lawyers can argue for years.
Once I had the immediate priorities out of the way – orange juice, coffee, shower, breakfast and a couple of games of Free Cell on the computer with some downloaded Ry Cooder on the speakers – I began to wonder where Amy was.
I could have phoned her, of course, though that would have put me on the back foot immediately.
Where were you last night?
Where were you all day yesterday when I was trying to get hold of you to tell you I had to fly to Tierra del Fuego at really short notice?
I was ministering to an injured cat.
Yeah, right.
No. Too weak.
So I did what any caring, sharing partner would do: I hacked into her computer.
Or rather, took a deep breath and tried to.
I’ve seen computer buffs who carry cans of compressed air in specially made holsters on their belt, and when all else fails, they will do a quick draw and shoot a couple of blasts into the keyboard. In my opinion, that’s simply not punishment enough – in fact, I think the computers quite like it. My instinct, when I lose my temper, is to go for a fast southpaw combination of feint then slap to the monitor followed by the heel of the hand on the processor bit that goes beep when you turn it on.
