Bootlegged Angel (3 page)

Veronica, in those days, could just about tell the difference between a black cab and a Number 13 bus. As it happened, there wasn’t a Number 13 bus in sight but I was and she’d
jumped in the back – whilst I’d been parked up on Wimpole Street, minding my own business – and yelled, ‘Follow that cab!’

There had been a time when I would have just gone for it and hoped she wouldn’t notice that where the cab’s meter should have been was a cassette deck. When that had happened in the
past, I had always wheeled out the excuse: ‘Sorry, guv, I forgot to put the meter on. Call it a fiver, shall we?’ You’d be amazed at how many people coughed up, though there was
always the wise guy who legged it, thinking they had put one over on a genuine cabbie. But the vast silent majority simply took things at face value. A black cab cruising London was a black London
cab, part of the scenery, unremarkable, perfect camouflage. Or at least I hoped so. That was why I liked driving one although the hackney cab licensing authorities frowned on delicensed cabs being
sold to civilians within metropolitan London, on the basis – heaven forfend! – that someone might take advantage of the situation.

The problem when I met Veronica was that I tried to play the stand-up guy and explain things to her. By the time I had got her to understand that I wasn’t touting for a fare, the person
she was supposed to be tailing had disappeared round the corner in a real cab and she had promptly burst into tears.

Even though it was the worst attempt at following somebody I had ever seen – she used the Homer Simpson Defence: ‘It’s my first day’ – I took pity on her and helped
her, one way or another, to solve her first case.

As far as I knew, that had been her
only
case but she said she was still in business and, even more surprisingly, still in partnership with Stella, the very person she had been trying to
follow when, of all the taxis and all the minicabs in all the world, she had dropped into the back of mine.

I had always regarded Stella as at least one sandwich short of a picnic and only a healthy and totally amoral love of physical sex kept her just this side of psychotic. But then, I hadn’t
known her for long. Neither had Veronica when they had teamed up and formed Rudgard and Blugden Confidential Enquiries. I had been sceptical of them being able to work together and whether or not
the business would ever turn a profit, but I had approved of the name. ‘R&B Investigations’ was just eye-catching enough to pick them out from all the other private detective
agencies in the London phone book, most of whom thought that by calling themselves the ‘A’ or ‘AA’ agency, they would pick up business alphabetically. For most people, and
in the absence of a
Which?
consumers’ guide to private eyes, the name they hit first was the one they rang. At least ‘R&B’ sounded vaguely cool and, anyway, they
discounted my other suggestion – ‘Aardvark Enquiries’ – as somebody had already done it.

Round in Shepherd’s Bush Green, the plastic printed sign saying ‘Rudgard and Blugden’ was still on the door. Even if they had been doing well, there was no point in moving
upmarket to a brass plaque in that area, it wouldn’t have lasted a week. Most of the churches around there were technically classed as ‘environmentally friendly’ these days
– lead-free, that is.

The push-button intercom was still there and still seemed to work, so I announced myself. A distorted voice answered:

‘Angel? Come on up. You behavin’ yourself?’

The voice, female, didn’t wait for an answer and the lock buzzed and the door opened.

Even through the cheap electronic crackle I thought I recognised it. I knew it wasn’t Veronica and she had promised me faithfully (and Veronicas don’t lie) that Stella wasn’t
around. So it puzzled rather than worried me as I started to climb the stairs to the first floor where R&B had their offices. But not for long.

‘Are you behavin’ yourself? I asked if you were behavin’ yo’self.’

‘Doing my best, Mrs Delacourt,’ I said as somewhere at the back of my head one of the few remaining unraddled memory chips snapped into action. ‘Doing my best in a hard
world.’

I could tell she didn’t believe me.

Mrs Delacourt was certainly doing well, if appearances could be relied upon. I knew she must be pushing sixty but she had lost ten years thanks to a smart dark purple trouser suit, a frilly
white blouse and a gold chain around her neck which matched the gold chain strung from her gold-framed glasses.

I used to knock about with her eldest son Crimson and once, when she thought he was in a spot of bother, she had approached Albert Block’s (as it was then) agency for help. She
couldn’t pay to hire a detective so she offered to do a couple of days a week cleaning in the office. That was just the time when Veronica found herself inheriting the business and I recalled
hearing that she had employed Crimson’s mum as an undercover cleaner on jobs where there was petty theft going on from an office or the odd spot of industrial espionage. From the way she was
dressed and the fact that she seemed to have her own office, that side of the business looked to be booming.

‘You’re looking well, Mrs Delacourt,’ I said, turning on the smile at full wattage. ‘In fact, you’re looking well handsome. You behavin’ yourself?’

‘I intend to live long and prosper,’ she said seriously, but her stern black face was letting the glint of a smile through.

‘That sounds like a plan,’ I said. ‘How’s Crimson?’

‘Got himself married and two children in twenty months. You credit that?’

‘Sounds like he’s doing something right.’

‘But at least he’s got a steady job now. He’s not done as well as you, though, Mr Angel. I hear you’re –’

‘Is Veronica in, Mrs D.? She said she wanted to see me quite urgently.’

She looked at me over her glasses and made a ‘Mmmmm’ sound deep in her throat. Then she looked at the digital switchboard/fax machine on her desk to check there were no lights
flashing.

‘She’s off the phone now. You can go in.’

She nodded towards the end of the corridor. There were three doors to choose from but unless they had remodelled the building, I knew one was a kitchen and the other a toilet.

As I passed her, she said: ‘Nice suit. I suppose you get them trade these days.’

I gave her trouser suit the once up-and-down and fingered the lapel of my jacket.

‘You can’t beat pure wool, Mrs D.,’ I said bitchily, conscious of the fact that working in the fashion business was rubbing off on me. But it didn’t cut much ice with Mrs
Delacourt.

‘You’ll thank the Lord for Lycra when you get to my age,’ she said, turning back into her office. And I couldn’t argue with that.

But I wish Veronica had.

She was wearing white stretch leggings (never white, darling, they just scream ‘fat’) with the foot straps over a pair of red high heels (red shoes only in strobe lighting unless
you’re on the pull), but she had made an effort with a dark red TALtop rigged as a round-neck. I didn’t know we did a size 16 (Euro 44) in that shade.

‘Angel,’ she said, businesslike, stepping from behind her desk, hand outstretched, ‘thank you for coming so quickly.’

I ignored her hand and wrapped her in a hug so that she couldn’t see me bite my tongue to suppress a giggle.

‘Veronica, my dear, you’re looking extremely well. Are you working out?’

‘You can tell?’ she whispered into my ear.

‘It shines out, Von, shines out. You’re looking well fit.’

I hadn’t the heart to tell her I had spotted the Adidas sports bag on the floor behind her desk. She hadn’t zipped it fully and I could see the heel of a Reebok and more leopardskin
leotard than my imagination could handle.

‘I only do two sessions a week,’ she said, disengaging delicately and putting the desk between us. ‘It’s difficult to find the time what with the amount of work we have
on.’

‘That’s good to hear. Crime is one of the few growth industries left in this country, so cash in while you can.’ I sat down in the low, metal-framed armchair reserved for
visitors. ‘Was this Stella’s idea?’

‘What?’ She was genuinely puzzled.

‘Having the client’s chair lower than yours so they have to look up to you.’

‘I didn’t. . . . I never . . .’

No, you wouldn’t have, but Stella would.

‘I’m not complaining, Vonnie, I approve. Good psychology, especially when you tell them your daily rate.’

Even better if they could see Stella’s legs through the knee-hole in the desk. The last thing they would think about would be the daily rate. But this was Veronica.

‘Contrary to the pulp fiction you read,’ she recovered well, ‘we mostly meet clients on site. The work of the modern confidential enquiry agent is more to do with security
advice and systems for premises, to combat fraud or pilfering or shoplifting. That’s why we don’t usually quote a daily rate like you seem to think. Most of our work is tendered,
full-contract installation or weekly or monthly rates for observational jobs, both overt and covert.’

‘I’m impressed,’ I said, and I was – very impressed that she’d learned that entire Mission Statement by heart without resort to prompt cards. ‘So you
basically sell people security cameras, closed-circuit TV, burglar alarms, that sort of stuff?’

‘Mostly . . .’ she said suspiciously.

‘Which you get from where?’ I said it as if I was genuinely curious.

‘Out of Yellow Pages,’ she answered too quickly. Then when she saw my eyebrows hitting the roof, she gabbled: ‘But our clients are buying impartial, expert advice from
professionals they can trust.’

‘Of course they are, Veronica, that’s absolutely right.’

I left the thought
Stella has trained you well
hanging in the air.

Her face darkened. ‘There’s no need to patronise me, Angel.’

‘Hey, I’m not,’ I said, palms up, all innocence. ‘I think it’s a great idea. You’re like personal shoppers for the Neighbourhood Watch. Sounds like a business
plan to me.’

She screwed up her eyes so they looked like a pair of seagulls coming at me head on.

‘We do do
other
sorts of security consultancy as it happens.’

She shot the cuffs on her TALtop and opened a drawer in the desk, taking out a thin blue file. She laid it on the desk top in front of her and tapped it with a forefinger.

‘This is why I rang you.’

She paused for effect.

‘Why did you ring me at Stuart Street?’ I asked, which she wasn’t expecting.

‘I keep in touch with Lisabeth and Fenella. They said you popped round quite a lot to rehearse.’

‘Rehearse?’

‘To play your trumpet. They said you kept them up until two o’clock one night last week.’

Yeah, well, it had been a good night out with some of the lads from the old days and I hadn’t felt like going home when the pubs had shut and in truth I was getting out of practice now I
didn’t play in public and, anyway it had seemed like a good idea at the time. You had to be there.

‘I do pop back occasionally,’ I said.

‘And I didn’t have your new number. It’s Hampstead, isn’t it?’

Some detective.

‘It’s best to get me on my mobile,’ I said casually.

‘But I didn’t have that either and neither did Fenella.’

Too right she didn’t. I may be getting old but if you can still remember it’s called Alzheimer’s, you haven’t got it.

‘Anyway,’ Veronica went on airily, ‘I wasn’t too sure about ringing you at home. I didn’t know how your new . . . er . . . your . . .’

She had seen my expression change this time. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad detective.

‘Partner,’ I completed for her.

‘Yes, of course, partner. I didn’t know how she would react to me contacting you.’ She paused and stroked the sleeve of her TALtop. ‘She makes nice clothes,
though.’

‘I’ll pass on the official Veronica Blugden seal of approval,’ I said keenly, almost as if I meant it.

‘Please do. I’ve read about her in
Hello
magazine, you know.’

I remembered the day they’d come to interview her. She’d sent me to a factory in Leicester with an urgent delivery of colour swatches. By train. Second class.

‘Next time I see her,’ I said. ‘She likes to keep the customer satisfied, stay in touch with the grass roots motivational driving force of the market – the consumer. That
sort of thing. She might even ask you to join one of her focus groups.’

‘Would she really?’

How would I know? I’d just made them up.

‘Could do.’ I made a point of looking all around the office before resuming eye contact. ‘Wasn’t there something else you wanted to say?’

For maybe two seconds she blanked me – the lights on but nobody home, her mind on another planet. Then she cleared her throat and flipped open the file on her desk in as professional a
manner as she could muster.

‘Seagrave’s Seaside Ales,’ she announced, as if making a presentation from a lectern.

‘That’s very kind, Veronica, but I’ve got to drive later, so how about a cup of tea?’

‘No, no, I meant have you heard of them?’

She was more flustered than angry, but then she always had been dead easy to wind up. Too easy really. I should pick on someone my own size, even though she was bigger than me.

‘Vaguely,’ I said slowly. ‘A small family brewery in Kent, with about half a dozen pubs in London mostly in the City or south of the river. Got their own hop farm, so they use
a lot of hops. “A positive frisson of bitterness”, I think the
Good Beer Guide
said of their premium bitter. Famous for their very strong winter warmers and they pick a new name
every year, usually something to do with the Church. I think it was Archbishop’s Revenge last year. They also, though there’s not many people know this, brew Mongoose beer – the
lager you get in most Indian restaurants these days. Oh, and they’ve still got horse-drawn delivery drays which you see in virtually every BBC costume drama series. A private company, I
think, so they’re not quoted on the stock market. Apart from that, never heard of ‘em.’

Veronica gave it a beat, then quickly closed the file in front of her.