Angel Confidential by Mike Ripley

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 ‘80s. The cars were still running – after all, they were VWs – but they now had beaded back comforters on the drivers’ seals and ‘Baby On Board’ 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.
    â€˜Why can’t I come with you and help with the observation?’ she asked, emphasising her point by polishing her glasses with a square centimetre of tissue.
    â€˜Because you may have been seen last night, and if somebody spots you, it could jeopardise the whole surveillance operation.’
    That seemed to satisfy her, and I was pleased that one of us knew what I was talking about.
    â€˜Can’t I stay here and wait for you?’
    â€˜No, you can’t. A black cab parked illegally usually gets away with it. A black cab parked illegally with the driver in is totally anonymous; he’s obviously waiting for a fare. But a black cab parked illegally with no driver and a passenger in the back – hey, something wrong there, and people start asking questions. Maybe even tell the local Plod.’
    She pushed her glasses back onto her face with one finger and then looked at me with her head cocked on one side.
    â€˜They said you noticed things like that.’
    â€˜Who did?’
    â€˜Lisabeth and Fenella. And Miranda said that her Douglas–’
    â€˜Doogie,’ I corrected her.
    â€˜Well, her Doogie says you’ve got more road cred than Firestone tyres. That’s a compliment, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Almost.’
    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 wasn’t 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? She’d fallen in love with a young gypsy boy hired to help out with the horses on Mr Rudgard’s farm or estate or whatever, and wasn’t it just like a fairy story? Well, no, of course it wasn’t, because it was a totally unsuitable match. So Mr Rudgard had given the stable boy – Estelle called him ‘Heathcliff’ – some money to go away and work somewhere else.
    Naturally, Estelle’s 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, wasn’t it? (I told her it wasn’t like any I’d ever read; but admittedly most of those had ‘Swedish’ 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 Stella’s National Insurance number. They wouldn’t 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