Angel Touch (21 page)

‘Oooh, I love it when you talk dirty!'

‘Not you, you Fenian oik, her!' I turned back to Sorrel and leaned forward so we eyeballed each other. ‘Now listen very carefully ...'

‘I shall say this only once,' she completed, moving closer so our noses almost touched. She had good teeth too, I noticed.

‘What – and think carefully before you answer – is your surname?'

‘McInnes,' she said, dead straight. ‘Big M, small C, big I.'

‘So your father is called –' I paused dramatically – ‘Mister McInnes.'

‘Correct!' she squealed, and leaned over a millimetre and kissed me quickly. ‘Go to the top of the class.'

‘You get any closer to him, my lass, and he'll have to stand in the corner till he cools down,' said Werewolf, draining the last of his wine.

‘Oh, is that a salami in his pocket?' she said, all innocent, with eyes as wide as a Volvo's sidelights. ‘And I thought he was just pleased to see me.'

‘Now, now,' I said soothingly. ‘It'll end in tears. I want to get one thing straight before this conversation finally goes down the drain and before he orders liqueurs.'

Sorrel and Werewolf sat up straight in their seats like schoolkids at morning assembly. Their faces were studies of faked interest.

‘So your father is ...'

‘Innes McInnes,' said Sorrel primly.

‘
The
Innes McInnes?' I asked stupidly.

‘The rich Innes McInnes,' said Werewolf. ‘As in company takeover McInnes, company chairman McInnes, seat-on-a-thousand-boards of directors McInnes and so on.'

‘Oh,
that
Innes McInnes.' I nodded, hamming it up. ‘I thought you meant the Innes McInnes who runs the bookmakers on the Goldhawk Road.'

‘Nah,' Werewolf joined in. ‘That McInnes is McInnes with two “M”s and a silent “q”. Any anyway, he's Jewish.'

‘I don't think you two,' said Sorrel, sniffing loudly, ‘are in any position to take the mick out of people's names. I mean to say, Fitzroy Maclean Angel! Would you believe it?'

‘No,' I agreed, ‘but it happens to be true.'

From the corner of my eye, I saw little Gino make his way over to the restaurant's background music system.

‘What sort of a name is it?'

‘My father was a great reader,' I explained, as I have a million times. ‘And when I was born, he'd just finished reading
Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean. Hence the name. Lucky, really.'

I noticed Gino reaching for the volume control on the amplifier with one hand and the restaurant light-switch with the other.

‘Why lucky?' she asked, as I knew she would.

‘The following week he read
Mein Kampf.
'

The restaurant was plunged into darkness and the music boomed out as Gino dived across the table at her.

 

I got home, eventually, via a minicab and two large malt whiskies at Sorrel's flat in the Barbican – or the Barbarian, as Werewolf insisted on calling it. It was a nice flat with a good view, and as I let myself into Stuart Street, I wished I could remember how to find it again.

No 9 had long since gone to bed, so I crept up the stairs as quietly as I could. I did put the landing light on, though, as I'd been ambushed in the dark on those stairs before, barely escaping with my life. But Springsteen wouldn't catch me napping again.

There was a note from Lisabeth Sellotaped to my door telling me that Frank had phoned and that Salome was ‘comfortable,' which was heaps better than ‘stable,' and he'd talked about her being moved to town. Oh, and Frank wanted to see me about the car.

There was also a PS:

 

A Man rang this evening [Lisabeth always used capital M for the enemy] and asked how Salome was. Wouldn't say who he was, just said he was a friend. Very posh voice. Don't forget to tell Frank if you see him before I do. L.

 

Underneath, in purple ink, had been added: ‘And love, Fenella,' with a capital X as a kiss. I might have known Lisabeth wouldn't have walked up the stairs herself to leave the note. She was convinced Springsteen would come out of the cat flap like a bullet and zip up her trouser-leg. Though, to be honest, there was hardly room for her leg in there.

With such idle thoughts, I repaired to my virginal couch to stack up some zeds in the sleep bank. But even as I engaged in the ritual unarmed combat with Springsteen (well, I was unarmed) over possession of the duvet, I had a nasty feeling that I wasn't taking this whole thing seriously enough.

 

My brain went some way up through the gear-box next morning as I padded downstairs to collect my pint of gold top. Frank usually left it outside my flat door on his way back from his morning jog. I was missing him already.

Lisabeth appeared in her doorway as she heard me coming back up.

‘Did you get the message?'

‘Loud and clear, and good morning to you too.'

‘Hrumph.'

‘You look worried.'

‘Well, I don't like Men phoning who won't give their name,' she said as I drew level.

I shook my head to dislodge some of the dead grey cells that were clogging things up.

‘What are you on about?'

‘The posh voice last night who kept asking where he could send flowers to for Salome.'

‘You didn't say that in your note,' I said accusingly.

‘But I said he wouldn't leave his name.' She'd also said it was a Man with a capital M, and you don't get much lower in Lisabeth's book. In her dictionary, Men came between Sewer and Slime. I never said she could spell.

‘What's this about flowers?'

‘He kept asking where he could send flowers and whether it would be better to send them to the hospital or to here if she was coming home.'

‘So what did you say, Lisabeth?
Exactly.
'

‘Well,
exactly –
' she hrumphed some more – ‘I said she was still going to be in Maidstone for a few days though we were thinking of moving her to a private hospital. And that's
exactly
what Frank said yesterday except you weren't here, of course ...'

By then she was talking to my back as I headed downstairs again to the communal phone on the wall.

Salome's hospital number was still pinned up on the noticeboard alongside the little red book where we are supposed to log our calls. I checked my watch as I dialled: 9.15, which meant the admin shift should be into their first tea-break by now. It was worth a try.

‘Hello. Administration, please. Hello, can I speak to whoever handles press inquiries, please. Yes. My name is Fitzroy.' Do I lie? ‘Yes, from Radio Invicta.' Well, occasionally.

A male voice came on the line.

‘Hello, I'm trying to clarify a rather confused report we've picked up – I think from the local police – about an incident at the hospital last night, or it could have been early this morning. We don't like to broadcast things unless we're absolutely sure, of course, so ...'

‘But the police told us there was nothing worth reporting,' said the voice impatiently. ‘We were worried, naturally.'

‘Well, of course,' I agreed quickly, without the faintest idea of what I was agreeing to.

‘
They
couldn't find anybody outside and there was certainly no-one in the wards unaccounted for,' he went on bossily. ‘So they put it down to a prowler, probably a junkie after drugs. We have a one hundred percent record on security as regards drugs, I don't mind telling you.'

‘I'm sure you do, sir. Now this incident was around midnight, wasn't it?' Well it was a fair guess.

‘No.' There was a rustle of paperwork. ‘It was probably 2.06 am when the forced window was noticed.'

Oh how I love a bureaucrat.

‘So someone actually got into the hospital?'

‘No. The police think that the prowler – that's what
they
called him, not me – was disturbed and made off across the car park.'

‘There doesn't seem to be much in it, sir. Just as well I checked.'

‘Yes it is ... Just who did you say ...?'

‘Thank you. Goodbye.'

I hung up, feeling vindicated in my analysis of human nature. (Rule of Life No 83: Approached in the right way, anyone will tell you anything, and it will usually be true.)

I was smug for only about half a minute. Then I moved into worried.

By eleven o'clock I was standing in front of Patterson's desk laying down the law. I was dressed in red leather riding gear and red boots and sweating a lot despite the air-conditioning. That may have ruined the image a bit; after all, not even Prior, Keen, Baldwin could have had that many motorbike-riding clients. Mind you, if they had Lloyd Allen as a client, they should have been used to anything.

‘I want her moved now, Tel. Today. Before end of play this afternoon. Make a window in your Filofax for the downside of this afternoon or whatever the fuck you have to do, but get it organised. Okay?'

I thumped his desk with a gauntleted fist and the telephone rattled in its handset.

‘You really think ...'

‘I know, Tel. As long as Sal is in that hospital, she's in danger. There's been one pretty definite go at her, and you can ask Alec Reynolds if you doubt that – and you've got a ouija board, that is.'

He fluttered his fingers as if he'd picked up something hot.

‘All right, okay, relax. It's done. There's a BUPA clinic up West, somewhere near Paddington, I think. We'll get her in there by tonight.'

‘Good man, Tel, you're a diamond. And don't worry, it must be deductible from something.'

His eyes lit up for a moment at that.

‘Then what?' he asked.

‘Well, I thought I'd go and sell ice-cream outside the Stock Exchange, which is why I dressed like this.'

‘Did anyone ever tell you you had a smart mouth?'

‘When they could get a word in.'

‘So you're going out with the black kid, the messenger?'

‘No, I'm going out instead of Luther, although Luther doesn't know it yet, and if it isn't Luther who comes when you ring for a rider, then we're in trouble. But the plan is for me to get a look in that van without, for the moment, the driver noticing anything wrong.'

Tel, I have to say, looked sceptical.

‘Won't he notice that you are somewhat less tinted than our friend Luther?'

‘I'm banking on him being colour blind,' I came back, but it was getting too easy to wind him up. ‘With this gear on and his helmet with the visor down ... And remember, it's for about three minutes only, and the driver will be busy doing whatever it is inside the van.'

Tel reached into a desk drawer, confirming his reputation as the fastest cheque-book east of Chancery Lane.

‘How much will Luther want?' he asked, going for a pen from his inside suit pocket.

‘Luther will want cash, and 50 should do it.'

He got on to the internal phone and asked for petty cash, not specifying any amount. Maybe petty cash only came in fifties these days. It was brought in almost immediately by Anna from the postroom, who smiled at me, but it was one of those you-haven't-phoned smiles that are supposed to make you feel guilty and usually do.

As soon as she'd gone, Patterson flipped the five ten-pound notes across the desk. I scooped them up before he could think of asking for a receipt, and zippered them into a jacket pocket.

‘Where did you get the Hell's Angels outfit?' he asked, then he realised what he'd said. ‘Hey – Hell's Angel.'

‘I rented it, so I'll be putting in an expense claim.'

I hadn't, I'd borrowed it from Duncan, but I'd heard the Hell's Angel crack so many times before that I suddenly decided to charge him for it. And there'd be a drink in it for Duncan, so he'd be happy.

‘Now I want you to call a courier and sort out a couple of juicy documents to somebody not too far away, but it doesn't matter who. But make the stuff kosher, top grade. We don't want them thinking they've been sold short or rumbled.'

‘Okay,' he said slowly. ‘But it goes against the grain.'

‘All in a good cause, Tel, all in a good cause. Now, any comeback on Alec Reynolds?'

Patterson consulted a notepad on his desk.

‘Alec was an only child, brought up by an aunt, an unmarried aunt, in Preston, would you believe. His parents died in a car accident while was still at school. No other relatives, nobody asking questions. The aunt gets his insurance and pension – both generous – and the police reckon the body can be released more or less any time. I've talked to the aunt and she's taken it well. She's talking about a funeral next Monday or Tuesday up in Bolton. Nobody's asked any nasty questions, not even the cops. Lucky, really.'