Angel on the Inside by Mike Ripley

silk stockings with seams, which brought back fond memories at least for me.
    I was actually looking to see if her passport was there, which it was. Or rather both of them were. She has two, which is not unusual; so do I. But Amy had got both hers legitimately as a businesswoman of some standing who might have to travel at short notice, so she has one with visas for America and Israel and one for countries that might take exception to that.
    So wherever it was she’d travelled to at short notice this time, it wasn’t abroad, which was comforting, and I began to convince myself that I was worrying unnecessarily. If I could only think hard and straight, I was sure I could come up with a logical explanation.
    The doorbell rang. It was my pizza, and when I had paid the spotty, moped-riding delivery boy (he’d taken 21 minutes and 15 seconds, so no tip) I opened another beer and flipped on the TV.
    I never could think hard and straight on an empty stomach.
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    I heard the chirping of an electronic lock and then the sound of a key being cranked and finally not one but two deadbolts being drawn, and all the time I showed my best smile to the peep-hole as I stood there under the halogen security light. The door opened inwards but no more than 20 degrees.
    â€˜Mr Dunmore? Good evening. I’m Roy Angel, your neighbour from across the street.’
    â€˜I know you are.’
    The voice was used to giving orders. It was middle-aged, still had a suit and tie on in the house at 9.30 in the evening and owned the new Mercedes parked in the drive. There was probably a second, smaller one in the garage.
    â€˜You do?’
    â€˜This is the third house you’ve tried, isn’t it? The Cohens and the Elringtons rang me. We’re all in the Neighbourhood Watch.’
    He wasn’t wrong. It had been trial and error on my part; but it was their own fault. No-one who is anyone is in the phone book these days – just think of the population of London and then look at the size of the Residential directory. And in Hampstead, everyone thought they were somebody.
    â€˜I believe you reported a suspicious character lurking around our house?’ I said, keeping it friendly, hoping he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t wearing a suit and hold it against me.
    â€˜If you’d been a member of the Neighbourhood Watch, you’d have found out three days ago,’ he said snootily.
    â€˜I wouldn’t join any Neighbourhood Watch that would have me as a member,’ I quipped before I could bite my tongue.
    Ivan Dunmore looked as if he just had bitten his tongue.
    â€˜But seriously, I came to say thank you for being so vigilant,’ I pressed on. ‘We’re trying to be careful. You know we were burgled about a month ago?’
    â€˜The police did mention it,’ he said cautiously.
    That was one up to the Neighbourhood Watch, wasn’t it?
    â€˜So I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about the person who was hanging around the other day?’
    He shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter. He’d done his bit, after all, telling the cops. Why should he have to give a repeat performance for me? Because I was standing at his front door making his driveway look untidy and giving the rest of the Neighbourhood Watch something to watch.
    â€˜She was young, about 20 I’d guess. Blonde, quite long hair. I suppose you could say pretty if we’re still allowed to say that without being a sexist pig.’
    There was something in the way he said it that made me think a nerve had been struck and I really didn’t want to go there.
    â€˜How was she dressed?’ I said, to change tack, but that only made him look down at me as if I was a pervert.
    â€˜The same way all girls of that age dress – in things that look as if they come from Oxfam and they wear only once even though they actually cost a small fortune.’
    Woops, I think he had a history