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delivering to the restaurants and wine bars, the gas company guys drilling the street where the electricity boys had drilled last week, and the total indifference to on-street parking laws by the local population. It was interesting to see so many Volkswagen Golfs still around after all the jokes about Sloane Rangers back in the â80s. The cars were still running â after all, they were VWs â but they now had beaded back comforters on the driversâ seals and âBaby On Boardâ stickers in the rear windows.
I eventually found enough space, with half a metre to spare, between some double yellow lines and a Residents Only parking spot in one of the other side streets. I had already told Veronica that I wanted to suss the house alone. Now I told her to get out of Armstrong and go shopping for an hour.
âWhy canât I come with you and help with the observation?â she asked, emphasising her point by polishing her glasses with a square centimetre of tissue.
âBecause you may have been seen last night, and if somebody spots you, it could jeopardise the whole surveillance operation.â
That seemed to satisfy her, and I was pleased that one of us knew what I was talking about.
âCanât I stay here and wait for you?â
âNo, you canât. A black cab parked illegally usually gets away with it. A black cab parked illegally with the driver in is totally anonymous; heâs obviously waiting for a fare. But a black cab parked illegally with no driver and a passenger in the back â hey, something wrong there, and people start asking questions. Maybe even tell the local Plod.â
She pushed her glasses back onto her face with one finger and then looked at me with her head cocked on one side.
âThey said you noticed things like that.â
âWho did?â
âLisabeth and Fenella. And Miranda said that her Douglasââ
âDoogie,â I corrected her.
âWell, her Doogie says youâve got more road cred than Firestone tyres. Thatâs a compliment, isnât it?â
âAlmost.â
Â
Veronica had identified the door of 8 John Brome Street. That was where she had tailed Stella Rudgard to.
On the way there, I had made her tell me more about the pitch the father had made to Albert and her. According to Veronica, Mr Rudgard had been sick with worry over 19-year-old Estelle, and wasnât it a crime to shorten such a lovely name to Stella? She had been the perfect daughter until the previous summer, her last summer before going to university (and Veronica confided that like she was talking about an AIDS victim). And guess what? Sheâd fallen in love with a young gypsy boy hired to help out with the horses on Mr Rudgardâs farm or estate or whatever, and wasnât it just like a fairy story? Well, no, of course it wasnât, because it was a totally unsuitable match. So Mr Rudgard had given the stable boy â Estelle called him âHeathcliffâ â some money to go away and work somewhere else.
Naturally, Estelleâs heart broke when she found out that her Heathcliff had been sent away, and she refused to stay at university. She heard from somebody, maybe a friend, that her Heathcliff was in London and had dedicated her life to finding him, even if it meant tramping the mean streets until she was old and haggard, or about 25. And it really was like a romantic novel, wasnât it? (I told her it wasnât like any Iâd ever read; but admittedly most of those had âSwedishâ in the title somewhere.)
Worried sick, Mr Rudgard had suddenly had a piece of luck. Stella, as she now called herself, had registered for work with the temping agency Office Cavalry. Somebody from there had rung him just to check on Stellaâs National Insurance number. They wouldnât tell him where she was living or working, of course, but at least he had an address where she would be reporting for a job
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