Angel Touch (23 page)

‘My guess is that one of them found the other end of the conduit, maybe the fax machine at Pegasus or evidence of Cawthorne acting on information he shouldn't have had. Whatever it was, he felt he had to get rid of them.'

‘Are you sure about that?' He was definitely uncomfortable now. ‘I mean, you are talking serious crime here.'

‘Yes, Tel, it's called murder, and the last I heard it was certainly against the law. I believe the expression round here is “downside of legal.”‘

‘You can't prove a thing.'

‘Get me a camera, and if we repeat this morning's little exercise, we'll be able to prove the leak end of things. But I want to look round Pegasus Farm and see if we can dig up anything there. If we blow Sorley, he'll just sell the van and do a runner.'

‘The Exhilarator only does night exercises – don't look at me like that, that's what they call them – on Friday and Saturday. That's why Alec and Salome went then, so they could look around. They knew what they were looking for. Think you can do better?'

‘I can't do worse, can I?'

He thought about this.

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow maybe. From the brochures, you can book the day before. I'll need some cash. Expenses.'

He automatically reached for the cheque-book. ‘I'll make it for cash. I don't want any comebacks on the company.'

‘Sure.'

‘Are you any good at these war game things?'

‘Never been on one. But I have to look the part. You know, bored City whiz-kid. I'll have to borrow your BMW.'

‘What?'

‘Well, I can't turn up on the bus, can I?'

‘Haven't you got a car?'

‘Sort of, but it wouldn't create the right impression.'

‘Are you insured?'

‘Up to the hilt, Tel. Don't worry.'

He scratched his head, then tweaked his nose before fishing in a pocket for the BMW's keys.

‘I'm taking one hell of a chance on you.'

‘What are the options?' I picked up the keys before he could change his mind. ‘Go to the police? With what? Maybe we've got enough to get them interested, but the word'll be out that Prior, Keen, Baldwin leaks like a sieve. Want that?'

‘Of course not.' He narrowed his eyes and tried to look tough. ‘But what are you getting out of it? Are you doing this because you think he hurt Salome?'

‘I'm sure he did, Tel. I think he waited on Blackberry Hill in the dark until Sal and Alec came round the corner and then he bumped their car off the road and into space. I didn't know Alec, but Salome's virtually family, so I'm after Cawthorne for that, yeah. But also –' I flipped the keys a couple of times as I stood up – ‘because I think he enjoyed doing it.'

 

I rang Sorrel's flat from Sergeant Purvis's desk, and as he was out to lunch, I sat on it and rearranged his pencils in a petty and thoroughly satisfying bit of vandalism.

Werewolf answered and said he was in the middle of cooking lunch as Sorrel was out. I hoped she knew to expect that her kitchen would look like a nuclear test site when she returned.

I told him I had planned to take him to lunch. He said he couldn't wait, as he had some business to attend to, but he'd be in a pub called the Banker if I could pick him up about 3.00.

I asked him if he'd misheard the name of the pub, and he said gosh how original, he bet nobody had thought of that before and he'd be sure to tell the landlord.

After he'd hung up, I phoned an OADF(F) – old and distinguished friend (female) – called Fly. I'm sure her mother called her something else, Eunice I think, but most people called her Fly, though I've no idea why. I can be terribly innocent in some things.

Fly ran the Hackney branch of a chainstore optician's, and we went back quite a long way together, as OADFs go. She told me she didn't eat lunch any more as it had become a bourgeois meal, but I could call in for a cup of decaf and con her into whatever it was I wanted. Fly knew me well. It's frightening sometimes.

Never having been one to look an unguarded telephone in the mouth, I made another call, to the number on the Exhilarator brochure I'd taken from Salome's case.

A woman answered with: ‘The Exhilarator. How can I help?'

‘Good afternoon. A friend and I have come across your brochure and we'd like to give your course a try. Would there be a chance, say, tomorrow?'

‘We have a shoot scheduled for ten am, sir. We do not call them assault courses.'

‘I'm so sorry.' I can crawl when I have to. ‘Could I book?'

‘Certainly, sir. Briefing is ten am sharp. How will you be paying?'

‘Cash.'

‘Could I have the names, please.'

‘Maclean and ... er ...' Come on, think fast. ‘... Chaney.'

Well, Lon Chaney had played the Wolfman, hadn't he? And I didn't think that was bad at such short notice.

‘Fine, sir. Booking confirmed. We'll see you on parade. Everything is provided, but you might wish to bring your own action footwear.'

Action footwear? Christ.

That little bridge would have to be crossed later. For the moment, I had two vehicles in PKB's underground car park: Armstrong and Tel's BMW.

Much as I was itching to play with the Bob Marley, I knew I would have more chance of parking Armstrong illegally when I collected Werewolf. And I had a change of clothing in Armstrong's boot, so the faithful old retainer won out over the flash German status symbol.

The garage attendant, who'd almost called in a SWAT team when he'd seen me arrive that morning, had a few more palpitations when he watched me climb in the back seat and start peeling off my biker's gear. God knows what he thought when I emerged in jeans and Roar of Disapproval T-shirt (I've no objection to advertising good causes) and got in the driving seat. I tooted Armstrong's horn as I passed him, but he didn't wave.

One of the many advantages of a de-licensed black cab is that unless the cops know it's de-licensed, the chances of getting pulled for not wearing a seat-belt are fairly remote. This means you can eat a Big Mac, suck on a vanilla shake and drive in relative comfort, though I don't recommend it for anyone who hasn't done at least two combat tours driving in Central London.

I cut up back towards Hackney and Fly's optician's, judging I could still make the Banker by three, though I wondered why I was worrying about leaving Werewolf waiting in a pub.

Fly is a tall, skinny, short-haired, very independent lady who dresses and swears like a Vietnam veteran. (North Vietnam, that is.) I'd once helped her break a habit. No, that's going too far. She hadn't actually caught the dragon's tail, but she was reaching. To my surprise, she'd taken a regular job selling frames and contact lenses, and had stuck at it and was now boss of the shop. Her gimmick was that she wore a different pair of glasses every day, and somehow they all seemed to suit her. She'd even been on the local TV news for it, and it had done wonders for business. Her eyesight, of course, was 20/20 straight arrow.

I parked Armstrong on double yellow lines outside her shop and dived in. Fly broke off from a customer and headed me off.

‘You really come for a cup of decaf, Angel? I hear you're a city slicker these days.'

‘Is nothing secret in this town?'

‘Village, Angel. This city is just a collection of villages that happen to share the same map reference.'

‘You've been reading too many Sunday supplements.'

‘You could be right. What're you after?'

I put on my all-innocent, how-could-you-think-it-of-me expression. After two seconds, I dropped the pretence.

‘I want a pair of glasses. The sort we city slickers wear, but with clear glass in the frames.'

Fly tapped a pencil against her teeth. ‘Would that be regular workaday frames, sir, or for dress wear?'

She was serious.

I picked some black, carbon fibre frames that had been signed by an Italian designer, made in Japan and retailed in England for over a hundred quid. Fly produced an aerosol spray and cleaned the clear glass lenses for me. Then she made me promise to get them back to her in one piece within a week and sold me two tickets to a Ward Bond Retrospective at her film club in Ponder's End. I'd have to go. She'd ask questions later.

I wore my new glasses as I drove south to pick up Werewolf. The Banker is a riverside pub, converted from a warehouse or something at the end of Cousin Lane, a cul-de-sac tucked under the armpit of Cannon Street station. There's no way draymen in London deliver after lunchtime, so I felt fairly safe there, even though I had to rearrange the kegs around Armstrong.

It's a great barn of a pub, with a high ceiling, a balcony area and lots of glass in the south wall so you can drink and look at the Thames without having to smell it. The bar had a headbanging range of Fuller's beers, but I decided I'd better be in training for the Exhilarator, so I opted for an alcohol-free lager, turned my back to the bar and its temptations and scouted for Werewolf.

The lunch trade had mostly disappeared, so he wasn't hard to spot. He was at a window table, but he was ignoring the river, being deep in conversation with a middle-aged man wearing a suit and a short, sheepskin car coat with matching, brown suede shoes. Even from this distance, you could guess the guy's tailor was based in Dublin. And Werewolf was drinking tomato juice. Another bad sign.

I left them to it, but didn't have to wait long. Within five minutes, the older guy got up and left. I replaced him at the table opposite Werewolf, who was staring into his tomato juice. He looked up and saw the glasses.

‘Bloody hell. I always said you'd go blind.'

‘Pardon?' I said, cupping a hand to an ear because I knew the routine.

‘And deaf.'

‘Done the business?'

He made a see-saw gesture with his right hand. ‘Gotta go see a man about a dog at the weekend. In Dublin. Go on Saturday, back Sunday. I'm not stopping.'

‘Family trouble?' I asked diplomatically.

‘You don't wanna know,' he said. Then, looking at me: ‘It's just an errand I have to run for ... somebody. Nothing heavy, trust me. You know I don't tangle with the looney politico fringe. Just don't ask, okay?'

‘Don't forget to bring me some poteen,' I said, and left it at that. From the look in his eyes, there wouldn't be a result in pressing it unless I was really keen on acquiring a broken nose.

‘Sorrel's cooking for us tonight,' he said, apropos absolutely nothing.

‘Great. I've booked us to play soldiers tomorrow.'

He shrugged, then linked his fingers and made his knuckles crack. ‘Good.'

I made a mental note to make sure I got put on his side.

‘She's keen for you to meet her old man,' he said, then drained the last of his juice.

‘She's not thinking of proposing, is she?'

‘I think she's up to something,' he said. ‘But she's a good cook, and if I don't get some decent wine in, she'll skin me.'

‘Okay, let's go shopping.'

I reached into my wallet and flashed my PKB Amex card at him. His face lit up.

‘I feel suddenly invigorated beyond measure,' he said with a grin.

‘Good. I think we should go in character tomorrow,' I explained, moving the Amex card out of his reach. ‘Hence he glasses. We're supposed to be bored Yuppies, you know.'

‘So we'll need some clothes ...' He was catching on.

‘A suit at least ...'

‘Or two ...'

‘And some action footwear. They specified that.'

‘Some
designer
action footwear ...'

‘And we have to turn up in style.'

‘Meaning?'

I flipped Patterson's keys on to the table.

‘Do you want to play with a new BMW?'

I had to run to catch up.

 

I'll gloss over the afternoon's shopping expedition. Suffice it to say there is now a branch of Suit & Co I dare not go to again, but there is a Tie Rack where Werewolf and I are on a promise with the girls serving there. We also managed to find a couple of bottles of Chilean Chardonnay (trust me, it's great) in a very posh wine merchant's where the staff were halfway to calling the cops as we walked in.

At the end of our shopping spree, we collected Tel's BMW from Prior, Keen, Baldwin's garage. This time, the garage attendant just shook his head and walked away, not wanting to know. I think the thing that really upset him was seeing Werewolf slide across the BMW's bonnet to get to the driver's door.

I knew it would be a race back to Stuart Street, and I was pleased that it ended in an honourable draw. The BMW had the power – too much for the traffic conditions, if truth were known – but Armstrong knew the side roads better. I parked outside No 9 just as Werewolf reversed into a space two millimetres longer than the BMW across the road.