Angel Confidential

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Would you go to Longleat and not see the lions?’

  She shrugged and followed me towards the pay box. At least she didn’t ask if they had a lion museum at Longleat.

  A small, skinny youth with dark curly hair bobbed out of the wooden kiosk like a jack-in-the-box as we approached. He had two old-fashioned ticket machines slung across his chest, bandoleero style, the sort bus conductors used to use – or so I’ve seen in old movies. One dispensed orange tickets, the other, blue. His hands poised over them like a gunfighter.

  ‘Classic Car Centre, or the unguided tour of the Lodge, sir? Or can I do you for both?’ he chirped.

  ‘We’re here to see Sir Drummond Rudgard,’ I said.

  He smiled at me.

  ‘The owner,’ said Veronica unhelpfully. ‘On business.’

  ‘You’ll save two pounds if you buy both tickets now,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘We’re here to see Sir Drummond,’ Veronica started indignantly. ‘And I don’t think …’

  The kid still smiled.

  ‘You’ve heard all this before, haven’t you?’ I eyeballed him.

  ‘Twice a day, three times Saturday and Sunday. And I’ve only worked here a month. You’d be amazed how many punters try and get in for free. They’re here on business or delivering something or are personal friends of the management. The worst are the National Trust members. They try it on, then when they have to pay, ask for discount by producing their membership card.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose this place is in the National Trust?’

  ‘Hey, come on. The Trust ain’t that desperate. So what’ll it be?’

  ‘Two tickets for the museum,’ I conceded. ‘But we really do have business with Sir Drummond, in about half an hour.’

  He cranked out two orange tickets, and I had to pay as Veronica made no move to.

  ‘Half an hour will just about do you, sir,’ he said as he counted out my change. ‘If you walk slowly.’

  ‘How slowly?’ I asked.

  ‘Try limping.’

  We had crunched halfway across the gravel before Veronica said: ‘What a rude youth. Do you think we should report him to Sir Drummond?’

  ‘Only for a pay rise. He’s doing a good job. And I don’t get the impression that there’s a queue to take his place.’

  As we approached the sliding doors of the museum hangar, it was obvious there was no-one to take our orange tickets. Nor were there any attendants or guides. The Classic Car Centre was very much a do-it-yourself operation.

  Even the notices describing the cars on show were home-made, typed and then enlarged on a photocopier and covered with what looked like plastic kitchen film. But to be fair, the cars themselves looked to be in immaculate condition and clean enough to cook pizza on, though even thinking such a thing would probably induce hysteria in the true classic car fan.

  Two-thirds of the way down the hangar was a sign saying ‘Commercial Vehicles’, with the larger exhibits – old trucks with company names and slogans on the side. But the main display was of saloon cars, mostly British, though with odd foreigners, in two lines, each car at a slight diagonal. I counted 32 different models down one phalanx, and there were about the same down the other side of the hangar. Some crude guesswork and some shaky mental arithmetic gave me a net value of about £400,000-worth of cars under the one roof, and I had no idea what the commercial vehicles were worth. Sir Drummond may not believe in spending money on staff or graphic designers, but he certainly put his cash where his cars were.

  There was no logic – to me anyway – to the order of display. As we walked down the central aisle, to our left were: a metallic silver blue Alvis (1961), a white Austin Healey ‘Frogeye’ Sprite (1959), a Wolseley Hornet in racing green (1964), and a dark tan Vauxhall FD Victor, which the blurb on the sign in front of it told me had been voted Car of the 1967 Motor Show.

  To our right, the first car was a 1962 Ford Zephyr, the Mark II mind you, and the blurb told us to note the two-tone blue paint job, the alloy wheels and the external metal sun visor. It didn’t tell us why. Then came an American import, a 30-year-old Lincoln Continental with black and tan upholstery and a seven-litre engine. We learned it had been voted the seventh most luxurious car in the world in 1964, and so now we could sleep nights. Then came a bright red Triumph Herald 12/50 from 1965 and a black Austin A40 from 1963, the car that if invented 20 years later would have been marketed as a hot hatchback. Well, tepid hatchback anyway.

  Beyond that lot stretched a proud line-up of Rileys, Austins, Fords, the odd Fiat and Citroen, even a Bentley or two. Okay, so there were a couple of classic designs there, but the majority of cars were the sort that, if you were behind them in a traffic jam, you’d ask yourself how the thing managed to stay on the road, then you’d drop a gear and overtake and forget it before it had gone from your mirror.

  There were only two other visitors, a father and son way up the other end of the hangar. Their voices echoed in the spaces, and though I couldn’t hear the words, the kid was bored. So was Veronica.

  ‘Is that it, then? You just look at them? Cars.’

  ‘What did you expect? Practical displays of ram raiding? An interactive display of hotwiring skills?’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing here for the kids, is there? I mean …’ She paused, then looked at me. ‘Did you just say hotwiring?’

  I made a dance of looking around just to emphasise that there was no-one else within 50 yards. ‘Must have been me.’

  ‘You know how to hotwire a car?’ Her eyes gleamed. Or it could have been the strip lights reflecting in her glasses. ‘Yes,’ I said, knowing I’d regret it. ‘And I can hotwire aeroplanes too.’

  ‘Now you’re having me on.’ She all but wagged a finger at me.

  ‘No, seriously. They’re actually easier than cars. Light aircraft, that is; you know, with a propeller at the front. Not a jumbo or anything.’

  ‘Could you teach me? To do a car, I mean?’

  It was time to change the subject.

  ‘I think it’s time to see Sir Drummond. You can tell him he’s got a fascinating collection.’

  ‘But can you?’

  ‘Why do you need to know stuff like that?’ I said as I turned to go.

  ‘Albert said he would teach me about the hardware.’

  ‘What hardware?’

  ‘Detective work these days is all hardware. Electronic listening devices, alarm systems, video surveillance, planting bugs, sweeping for bugs, all that stuff. I don’t even know about cars. Or picking locks,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘These are the tools of my trade and I need to learn about them.’

  I bit back a retort about going equipped for burglary when I saw she was serious and also embarrassed about having to ask for help.

  ‘You don’t need those things,’ I said carefully. ‘Play to your strengths, don’t get hooked on gadgets. If you can’t drive, you don’t need to know how to hotwire. If you can’t talk your way through a door, why do you want to enter an empty room? And if nobody’s home, smash the frigging door in, find what you want and get out. You’d be no good at a secret search. And what do you need videos and listening devices for when you’ve got eyes? People will always tell you things, if you ask them right.’

  ‘Like that vicar this morning?’

  ‘Exactly. And maybe sometimes its what they don’t tell you that’s important. But those are the only work skills you need that I can see. Keep Detection Simple. Campaign For Real Detectives. Talk to people and to hell with the electronic devices.’

  ‘You mean forget all the hardware?’

  ‘Absolutely. Detective Unplugged. There’s a title for you.’

  If we had been expecting a liveried flunky or even a butler to greet us as we entered Sandpit Lodge, then we were about 20 years too late. Unlike in the C
lassic Car Centre, however, there was someone here to take our tickets and sell us a range of souvenir brochures that sat in a wooden stand, yellowing from the sunlight through the open door. She put down her knitting as we entered. She looked like a retired headmistress from the local village school.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Would you like to wander round yourself or can I give you a tour? I don’t mind doing it in the slightest, but to be honest, I don’t know too much about the house. This isn’t my normal job. I used to be the headmistress at the village school and I just do this to help out.’

  ‘Actually, we’re here on business, to see the owner,’ Veronica said, warming to the old dear instantly. She produced one of her business cards and held it out like a wizard would point a wand.

  ‘Well … Miss ... Blugden ... I suppose I’d better find Sir Drummond. He didn’t tell me he was expecting visitors, well, apart from Mr Buck, who knows the way anyway. And I don’t like leaving the desk unattended for too long …’

  Veronica took the initiative. ‘Please don’t worry about that. I’ll keep an eye on things. I think you can see from my card that we have a reputation for trust and discretion, or Sir Drummond wouldn’t be employing me, would he?’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t, you’re quite right,’ said the sweet old thing as she peered at the card. ‘My, my, private and confidential. Well, of course. I won’t be a minute.’

  She tottered off into the gloomy recesses of the hallway and through a dark oak door marked ‘Private – Staff Only’.

  ‘How was that?’ Veronica beamed at me.

  ‘Exactly right,’ I said, just thankful she’d shown the right card. ‘Just remember what we rehearsed when we get to see the main man.’

  ‘And I get to take the lead.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She turned on her heels to have a better look at the hall and the impressive oak staircase that did three right-angle turns up to the first floor. I leaned over the old lady’s desk to check out the contents of her cash drawer and deduced that business was not exactly booming.

  ‘Oh, I hate that,’ said Veronica suddenly.

  ‘What?’ I snapped. I hadn’t really been thinking about claiming our admission fee to the car museum back in cash. Well, maybe just thinking about it.

  ‘Signs like that.’ She pointed to one of three that said that photography was not allowed inside the house. ‘They really annoy me. They don’t let you lake photographs so you have to buy their rotten postcards. It’s the same in all the big country houses. It’s a swiz.’

  Oh dear, she did have a lot to learn.

  ‘There were some in the car museum, but it’s nothing to do with postcards.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘‘Fraid not. It’s a favourite trick of robbers to come round as visitors and photograph the alarm systems so they can work out how to disable them. So, no photography, please. It’s probably written into the insurance policy.’

  Though I hadn’t seen anything worth stealing in the house yet.

  ‘That’s useful to know,’ she said slowly, then looked at me with an awful sincerity. ‘Do you think I should start making notes?’

  You should have started about ten years ago, I thought, but I didn’t say it as the headmistress was holding the door at the end of the hall open.

  ‘Sir Drummond will see you now,’ she announced, just like I could have guessed she would.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Veronica, nodding graciously.

  ‘He’s asked Mr Buck to stay for the meeting,’ the headmistress confided as we passed her and moved into a short corridor.

  ‘Who’s Mr Buck?’ hissed Veronica out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I hissed back. But he’d rated three question marks in Albert’s notebook. ‘Let’s keep an open mind. I’ve found it’s the best policy.’

  ‘Open mind,’ she said to herself. ‘Open mind.’

  The door at the other end of the corridor was half open, then fully open as a tweed-jacketed arm pushed it back. ‘Miss Blugden, come in. I’m glad you found the place.’ Then he saw me.

  He was about my height, which isn’t saying much, about 60, and he had the roundest face I’d ever seen. Almost a perfect circle, ruddy-complexioned and iced with a receding crop of white hair and a snowy white, clipped moustache.

  He held out a hand for Veronica to shake, which she did with a muffled and very respectful ‘Sir Drummond …’ under her breath. I could tell that the tweed jacket had seen better days, but it went with the scuffed brown shoes and the shirt with the slightly frayed collar that you hope nobody will notice.

  ‘And this is ... ?’ He looked at me like he had a master’s degree in eye contact.

  ‘Mr Maclean,’ said Veronica, as we’d rehearsed. ‘He’s an associate and also one of our regular drivers. Junior associate,’ she added vindictively.

  I shook Sir Drummond’s hand, and I felt Veronica scowl at me because I didn’t bow.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said with mock bonhomie. ‘The library is usually the only place one can find sanctuary when the house is open to the public.’

  I smiled as if I had these problems all the time and didn’t mention that I hadn’t noticed him having to beat off the visitors with a stick.

  The library was a library in the sense that it had maybe as many books as the average Oxfam shop. No leather-bound editions here, just popular paperback fiction. There was a fireplace but no fire, and no more than half a dozen pieces of furniture, including a moth-eaten set of armchairs.

  From one of these arose a tall, angular man wearing a pinstripe suit and the sort of black-framed glasses Michael Caine hasn’t worn since 1966.

  He didn’t seem to be the type you could warm to instantly.

  But, as I’d said to Veronica, we should adopt an open mind.

  ‘This is Simon Buck,’ said Sir Drummond. ‘I’ve asked him to join us. He’s my solicitor.’

  I decided to save time and hate him on sight.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I understand that you may have something positive to tell Sir Drummond,’ said Buck precisely.

  I hadn’t counted on anyone else being present, and certainly not some legal Doberman, so I could only hope that it didn’t throw Veronica.

  ‘Well, we have some news,’ she said, sticking to the script, ‘but first there is a small administrative matter to do with your cheque.’

  She produced a purse from her shoulder bag. It was a brightly-coloured, velcro-fastened wallet with illustrations campaigning for the protection of endangered species, and pretty embarrassing. But if she had produced a gun or said, ‘The murderer is in this room …’ (after all, we were in the library), she could not have got their attention more fully.

  Sir Drummond went red – bright, circular red – in the face.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘It’s made out to Mr Block.’ Veronica held the offending rectangle out towards him.

  Sir Drummond didn’t seem to want to touch it, and made no move towards her. Buck stepped closer and leaned over so he could point his glasses at it.

  ‘That seems to be correct. And the date is accurate, and you obviously haven’t tried to cash it.’ At that point, Sir Drummond exhaled. ‘So I don’t quite see ... ?’

  ‘The problem is at our end, I’m afraid,’ she said confidently. I was impressed. ‘Albert – Mr Block – has been taken ill rather suddenly, and is unlikely to return to work.’

  ‘Good heavens, nothing too serious, I hope?’ This from Buck, who seemed genuinely concerned, certainly more so than Sir Drummond, who just concentrated on breathing more easily.

  ‘A mild heart attack,’ I said. ‘He’ll survive, but he’s not up to coming back into the team. He’s thinking of early retirement, once he’s out of hospital.’

  ‘So it would be
very helpful if we could have another retainer, in my name.’

  Very businesslike, I thought. Well done, Veronica.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she added, and I despaired.

  ‘So you just want another cheque, made out to ... ?’

  ‘V Blugden, please. Miss.’ She handed Buck a card, and he slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘And this was paid against an invoice?’ Buck asked, taking the cheque from her.

  ‘Invoices are not normally issued on retainers but I am sure I could let you have a VAT receipt.’ Good girl.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Buck turned to Sir Drummond. ‘Shall I take care of this, Drum? I have my cheque book here.’

  Sir Drummond cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you, Simon, that would be ... convenient.’

  Buck sat down, produced a cheque book and balanced it on his knee. He wrote it out, consulting Veronica’s card once in a prissy sort of way, and then detached it from the book, scribbled something on the counterfoil and handed it over. He swapped it for Sir Drummond’s, and while Veronica checked the details, I noticed that he folded the cheque made out to Albert and put that in his breast pocket along with Veronica’s card.

  ‘And now may we have your report?’ asked Buck.

  ‘And please sit down,’ said Sir Drummond, relegated to the role of housekeeper.

  Veronica made herself comfortable in one of the armchairs, pulled the hem of her skirt down with both hands, then turned to me.

  ‘I think I will let my associate outline our findings to date,’ she said with a regal nod of her head.

  I realised she meant me, but tried not to show my surprise.

  ‘Your daughter started work this week as fill-in receptionist in a medical practice in Wimpole Street. She got the job through the agency you told Mr Block about.’

  Buck shot a glance at Sir Drummond, who was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. Buck produced a pen and a small black notebook or diary.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘The senior consultant is called Linscott. Full details will be in our written report.’