Angel Confidential Read Free

the paintwork. Armstrong had suffered several paint jobs in his time to cover up the odd scratch, dent, shotgun blast and in one case graffiti, so it was impossible now to tell that he had ever had a Hackney Carriage plate screwed there.
    â€˜If I had a number,’ I said cheerfully, ‘that’s where it would be.’
    She looked at me as if I had just beamed down in front of her. She was taller than me, but then she was standing on the pavement and she was wearing high heels, the sort that gave her hell at the back of the ankle so she had to wear elastoplasts where they rubbed. The rest of her was enveloped in a white trench coat, the belt knotted and straining over her left hip.
    â€˜I’m on a very important case,’ she hissed, ‘and now you’ve messed it up and I won’t get another chance.’
    I thought for a moment she was going to hit me, but she did something far more unexpected. She stamped her right foot hard on the pavement and began to howl.
    It wasn’t crying. I know what crying is; I’ve seen Casablanca 16 times, once in an Aberdeen oil-riggers’ pub at three in the morning. That’s crying. This was howling with tears.
    The first thing I did was to take a step back from her so that the passers-by on the other side of Wimpole Street, who were already turning to look, could see that we were not in physical contact. Why was I worried? It was me being assaulted.
    â€˜Now, calm down, lady, will you?’ I tried. I even remembered some of the lessons from the Safety Body Language for Men correspondence course I’d taken once (during a postal strike) and leaned back, showing her the palms of my hands. The howling turned into a staccato braying, a fair impersonation of a donkey with its tail trapped in an elevator door.
    â€˜All I’m saying,’ I said, trying not to shout, ‘is that I’m not a cabbie. This is a private car. You can’t hire me, it would be illegal. Probably.’
    She stopped braying and sobbed twice, catching her breath.
    Then she said, clear as a bell, ‘You could give me a lift, though.’
    â€˜Well. I suppose I could, hypothetically …’ I said slowly.
    Too slowly.
    â€˜That’s a fab idea. Shepherd’s Bush Green, please.’
    Two stars for cuteness, definitely. But ‘fab’?
    â€˜Now wait a minute. I only said could, not would. Shepherd’s Bush Green is west and I’m going east, plus at this time of the day I’m going to get stuck in traffic and consequently be late for a very important social engagement this evening.’
    Quite what, I hadn’t decided yet, but it seemed a reasonable sort of alibi. The sort of argument any reasonable person would accept without too much strife. First mistake; thinking I was dealing with a reasonable person.
    â€˜You did say you would, you did, you did,’ she snapped, increasing the volume with each beat and, believe it or not, stamping her foot again.
    This was ridiculous. What she needed was another five-year-old to run up and pull her pigtails. I scanned the street in vain. There’s never one around when you want one.
    â€˜Okay, okay,’ I soothed. ‘Calm down, foot off the pedal. Let’s sit inside and we’ll negotiate.’
    I know I should have just driven off and left her there. But I was in a strangely generous mood. I had time on my hands, some cash in the bank for once and all my teeth back in my mouth, so I was moved to take pity on her. The mood I was in turned out to have a medical name: barking mad.
    â€˜Get inside?’ she said suspiciously.
    â€˜Were you thinking of riding on the roof?’ Two minutes ago she was baying at the moon because I said she couldn’t get in.
    I think she said ‘Hmmm’, while weighing up her options, but after no more than half a minute’s thought she reached for the door handle and got in. She slid across the back seat as far as she could go,