Angel Hunt

by Mike Ripley

  I hoped Nassim was making enough on the insurance claim to have the job done properly in the not-too-distant future.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I asked cheerily.

  ‘No more dead men, if that’s what you mean,’ snarled Nassim. ‘You be careful of those tiles!’ he yelled towards the boys in the bathroom, who were setting up a step-ladder in the bath. ‘You’ll make good any damages.’

  ‘He wasn’t a burglar,’ I said, joining Nassim at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Who is a burglar?’

  ‘Nobody is. The man who fell through the roof wasn’t after any of the family jewels. He didn’t have a striped jersey or a bag marked “Swag,” as far as the Old Bill are concerned.’

  Nassim winced at the sound of breaking glass from the bathroom, but it was only the remaining splinters of the old stuff coming down. I got interested as well. I love to watch people work when they obviously have no idea what they’re doing.

  ‘What are you talking about? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘The dead man wasn’t a burglar is what I’m saying. You can relax on that score.’

  ‘Not my house,’ he said, not looking at me but straining to see round the bathroom door. ‘Just my bloody money!’

  At last, emotion. I was getting to him.

  ‘Okay then, Sunil can relax.’

  ‘He’s coming home. Mind that paintwork, you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I rang him last night, and he’s flying back today or tomorrow. I think it a good excuse to get away from his family. I don’t blame him. I don’t like them either.’

  ‘I thought you were related.’

  He looked at me as if I’d crawled out from under the Axminster. ‘We are. Hey! That toilet seat just will not take your weight!’

  I shook my head and wondered if there was any room spare on the next space shuttle.

  ‘Well, you won’t be needing me here then, will you?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I’ll get my gear together, then.’ That wouldn’t take long. I was wearing most of it. ‘I suppose the rent amnesty’s off as well?’

  ‘Double correct.’

  Merry Christmas.

  ‘Anyway, tell Sunil it wasn’t my fault.’ He looked daggers at me, so I pressed on before they drew blood. ‘The guy wasn’t a burglar, he was coming here because he used to know someone who lived here before.’

  ‘Oh, the Cat Woman,’ Nassim said casually, then yelled: ‘Care-ful!’ as part of the window-frame dropped onto the bathroom carpet.

  ‘I know I’m going to regret this,’ I said, but still said it. ‘This ... er ... Cat Woman, she wouldn’t be called Scarrott, would she?’

  Nassim still kept his eyes on the lads in the bathroom, one of whom had produced a seven-pound hammer from his tool-bag, but reached for his wallet pocket and produced a broken-spined red leather diary. He wet a finger and flicked through some of the loose pages at the back.

  ‘Here we are. Lucy Scarrott, 28 Geneva Street, Highbury.’ That was up near the Arsenal football ground. I knew that from when I’d gone to watch them play in the past; but I’d been cured of insomnia for some time now.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Where she lives?’

  He looked at me pityingly.

  ‘When we bought this place from her, she had nowhere to go. She did not tell Sunil this until the exchange of contracts. She was one totally disorganised lady. So I – I –’ he jabbed himself in the chest with a finger ‘– had to find her alternative accommodations.’

  ‘One of your bedsits?’

  ‘For a couple of months, yes. Her and her smelly cats. I do not approve of animal pets in my properties.’

  ‘And why should you?’ I asked, looking down at my feet.

  ‘And I also had to take her furniture into store until she found this house in Highbury. Then she telephones one day and says she wants her stuff delivered bloody quick. Not one word of thanks do I get from her or from Sunil or his wife … Hey!’

  One of the apprentice glaziers had lit up a wide-mouth blowtorch.

  ‘When was this?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘Six, seven months ago.’

  ‘And she bought this place in Highbury?’

  ‘Bought? Rent? How should I know? Said she wanted somewhere better to bring up her baby.’

  ‘She had a baby?’

  ‘One baby and maybe 27 cats. The place smelled awful as soon as she moved in. What is he doing?’ He pointed to the lad with the blowtorch.

  ‘I think he’s going to weld the new window into place. Have a nice day.’

  I jogged down the stairs while he began to argue with the builders. I didn’t fancy being around when Sunil got back to check his library.

  So that’s how I was heading north-west towards Highbury and Lucy instead of north and east to Zaria. I’d get to her later; hopefully before Sunil got to me. But I still wasn’t sure why.

  Perhaps it was Nassim’s mention of the baby that sparked me off, however subconsciously. Perhaps I thought that if it was Billy’s kid, then somebody had to tell Lucy the bad news, and if she was skipping probation, it had better not be the cops. But then, if it was Billy’s kid, why didn’t he know she didn’t live on Dwyer Street any more?

  One fact I did recognise and hang on to was that late afternoon was the best time to find a young mother at home. Even if you didn’t know anything about baby-feeding times, a quick look at the TV schedules would tell you that. The programme planners assumed that most women’s brains came out with the baby. If I was a young mother, I’d write in and demand re-runs of Joseph Losey movies or continuous showings of Jewel in the Crown, but then I’d never get to learn about biological cleaners working at low temperatures.

  Geneva Street was a row of identical terraced houses without even different front-door paint-jobs to distinguish them. No 28 was noticeable only because it did not have net curtains, just long, dark purple ones that were almost drawn across the front room window. I could see the flicker of a television set reflected in the glass, though. I’d been right about the biological cleaners.

  I parked Armstrong round the corner and walked back to press the doorbell of 28.

  Before the two note ding-dong had faded, a baby had started to howl inside. And howl, and howl.

  Eventually, the door opened an inch on a chain thick enough to restrain a Rottweiler. A lock of blonde hair and the edge of some round, gold-rimmed glasses appeared at my chest height, and I’m not that tall.

  I almost asked if her sister was in; then the tone of voice that said, ‘Yes, what is it?’ told me that wouldn’t be too clever.

  ‘Er … Lucy Scarrott?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  I couldn’t blame her. I do the same if someone I’ve never seen comes up and uses one of my names. Sometimes I do it if I know them quite well.

  ‘My name’s Roy,’ I said round the corner of the door. ‘I wanted a word about Billy Tuckett.’

  ‘Billy’s not here. I haven’t seen him in over a year.’

  From behind her, the baby’s howl turned to a high-pitched whine, like Concorde warming up.

  ‘I’ve got to go. Tell him he’ll have to stand on his own two feet.’

  The door began to close and I put out a hand to stop it.

  ‘I can’t. There’s been an accident.’

  The door eased back against the chain.

  ‘How bad an accident?’

  ‘The worse kind,’ I said, hoping it didn’t sound flip.

  ‘He’s dead?’ said the blonde voice, after ten seconds silence.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  More silence, then she said: ‘I’m sorry. Thank you for letting me know.’ And then she closed the door, leaving me on the step in the rai
n.

  For a minute or so, I just stood there. I hadn’t really known what to expect, but it wasn’t this.

  To my left, I saw the long purple curtains twitch in the window, and for a moment I thought it was her just making sure I’d gone. But then they twitched again, and I looked down to see, just above the sill, the curls and bright blue eyes of a snub-nosed child.

  I crouched down so that we were eyeballing each other and began to pull funny faces; the sort of expressions you do in traffic jams when you don’t think anyone’s watching. The kid began to laugh and steam up the window-pane, then started slapping the glass with a tiny hand, leaving greasy fingerprints.

  After about two minutes of this, I heard the door open.

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’ she said.

  I had to take my thumbs out of my nostrils and uncross my eyes before I answered.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a chat about Billy, if that’s all right?’

  I drew a pattern in the raindrops on the window for the kid while she thought about it. The kid laughed loud enough for me to hear, and then the chain snicked off.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘Before the Neighbourhood Watch get you.’

  It wouldn’t be the first time, but I didn’t say it.

  She led me into the front room where, defensively, she picked up the baby. She was only about five feet tall, if that, and the kid, a big, healthy specimen, seemed to be only a few inches off the floor. Lucy and the kid were wearing matching outfits: jeans and blue sweatshirts with World Wildlife Fund patches. The kid had bright yellow socks on; Lucy was barefoot and her hair was longer and she wore glasses. Otherwise, there wasn’t that much difference.

  The baby pointed at me and said: ‘Der … da-dat …’

  ‘You have a lovely daughter,’ I said, shaking my head slightly to stop raindrops running into my eyes.

  She looked impressed.

  ‘Most men think Cleo is a boy, just because I don’t dress her in pink frocks.’

  It had been a 50-50 chance, but it’s better to be lucky than good. (Rule of Life No 1.)

  ‘The pink for a girl, blue for a boy thing was probably thought up by men just to help them identify their kids without having to resort to close inspection. How old to she?’

  ‘Sixteen months.’
  ‘So she was born when you lived in Leytonstone?’

  ‘What is this? What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I must have moved towards her, as she took half a step back. I indicated a chair, and she nodded that it was okay for me to sit down.

  She relaxed visibly as soon as I did so. Now she looking down at me.

  ‘I’d better come clean,’ I said. ‘I was in the house you used to own in Dwyer Street on Sunday. Billy Tuckett fell off the roof and killed himself.’

  ‘What?’

  She let Cleo slide over her thigh and down onto the floor. The kid toddled off like a drunk trying to balance two pints of beer.

  ‘I don’t know any other way of saying it.’ I did, but not so she wouldn’t scream. ‘He fell off the roof and killed himself

  ‘Suicide?’ She sat down herself, but her face remained blank. In a good light she could pass for 16.

  ‘No, no way. It was an accident. We think he might have been trying to find you.’

  ‘We?’ Suddenly suspicious. ‘Just who is we?’

  ‘Look, lady –’ Little Cleo staggered back into the room clutching a bright red balloon ‘– I just happened to be there, looking after the place while the owner was away. That was my first bit of bad luck. The second bit was that I had to identify Billy. I knew him, back in student days, but I hadn’t seen him for ten years.’

  Cleo ran to Lucy and hit her around the knees with the balloon, shouting ‘Doon … doon.’

  Lucy reached out and ruffled Cleo’s curls. ‘I haven’t seen him myself for about a year,’ she said quietly. ‘He called round one day and saw Cleo there and after that ... I think Cleo was a shock to him.’

  ‘Is ... was ... ?’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed; I’m not. No, Billy wasn’t the father. That’s why it was a shock to him.’

  Cleo tore off towards a fold-up dining-room table on which a hairy brown cat I hadn’t noticed until now had begun to stir and stretch.

  ‘Dat … dat … dat …’ yelled Cleo, pointing at the animal, which wisely stayed just out of her reach.

  ‘Cleo’s a constant source of worry,’ said Lucy vaguely.

  ‘Seems fighting fit to me,’ I said.

  ‘It’s her words,’ Lucy went on, almost as if I wasn’t there. ‘Everything she says starts with a “D.” She can’t seem to get her mouth round anything else.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll come,’ I said paternally, but not too much. ‘Was ... er ... Billy …’

  ‘Expecting to be the father? No. I think even Billy knew you had to sleep with somebody before that happened. Billy and I were just good friends, really good mates. That’s all. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Most men can’t, or won’t.’

  Cleo did another circuit of the room and emerged from behind a chair with a well-sucked teddy bear. ‘Ded … Ded …’ she cooed as she hugged it.

  ‘Billy moved away to work –’ she hesitated for a fraction of a second ‘– out of London about three years ago, and I started seeing someone and Cleo was the result. Billy came back just before I sold the house in Dwyer Street and saw her when she was a baby. Yes, I can see what you’re thinking. He was disappointed in me, I think. Anyway, I didn’t see him again. And now I don’t suppose I ever will.’

  She leaned over and hugged Cleo, who put a delicate finger on her mother’s nose as she whispered: ‘Dose …’

  ‘Did you tell Billy you were moving out?’

  ‘I didn’t tell anybody I was …’ She looked at me accusingly. ‘How the hell did you find me?’

  ‘Mr Nassim,’ I said quickly. ‘The guy who looked after your furniture. The guy who helped buy your house. He’s my landlord. I was doing him a favour looking after the house over Christmas.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘No. Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  ‘I don’t want Cleo’s father to find us.’ She stood up. ‘I’m sorry about Billy, but I don’t see what it has to do with me or how I can help you. Just what are you trying to do anyway?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, more or less honestly. ‘Maybe just laying a ghost. There’ll have to be a funeral.’

  ‘There usually is. Thanks, but no thanks. I have my own problems.’

  Just for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of emotion in her eyes, but it was probably a trick of the light.

  ‘You and Billy were into animal rights campaigning, weren’t you?’

  That stumped her for a few seconds, then she opened the door to the hallway for me.

  ‘That was a long time ago. You’d better go now, I have to get Cleo’s tea.’

  There didn’t seem to be any point in pushing it, so I made to leave.

  ‘Bye, Cleo.’ I waved to the toddling girl, who was over by the window again, banging a fist on the pane and watching the rain drizzle down.

  ‘Dith … dith … dith …’ she said to herself.

  I don’t know why Lucy was worried about the kid. I could understand every word she said.

  It was dithing it down outside.

  Chapter Five

  It was dark and well stormy by the time I got to the Aurora Corona Rest Home, and the residents were probably battened down for the night. I parked Armstrong on the road and walked down the short drive to the impressive Gothic porch around the front door. That at least had a light showing. At first I thought the rest of the building was in total darkness,
but as I crunched gravel and got closer, I could see they used extra-thick curtains, maybe leftovers from the blackout. They’d help deaden the screams.

  I got wet again, as the rain had set in in stair-rods. The interior of Armstrong was beginning to smell of wet dogs, and that just added to my bad mood. Since lunchtime, I’d done nothing except be in the company of women, hanging around in pubs or crawling through traffic. I was getting hungry and frustrated because I hadn’t been able to enjoy any of it.

  There was a printed card fixed above the doorbell, which told me I had about ten minutes before visiting times were up. I pressed it, and there was a buzz and a click and the door opened an inch by itself. I shook the rain out of my hair and wiped my feet on the doormat, then stepped into the porch and tried the inner door. That opened into a hallway with a huge open staircase, almost certainly pinched from an older house, and a reception desk.

  If it hadn’t been so quiet, it could have been Paddington station during a commuter cull. The hallway and various passages off it were full of visitors helping pyjama-ed relatives in and out of chairs, plumping cushions for them or fetching magazines from a well-stocked rack, or encouraging them to that last little drop of cocoa from what seemed to be a standard-issue purple mug. None of the wrinklies – sorry, shouldn’t be ageist – looked remotely grateful or pleased to see their visitors, and the feeling was probably mutual. They needed something to stimulate them, even I could see that, to dispel the overwhelming atmosphere of gloom.

  I thought about leaving a few of Simon’s visiting cards around, or suggesting they all get together and build a glider in the loft, but then I saw the frosty-eyed Matron in a blue uniform and matching hair rinse clocking me from behind the desk.

  I was on borrowed time. Better turn on the blag.

  ‘Good evening, Matron,’ I beamed, walking straight towards her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me arriving without an appointment like this, but I understood you had an open door policy.’

  She looked as if she didn’t know what I was talking about, which was okay. That made two of us.