Angel on the Inside by Mike Ripley Page B

her not to worry, just buy a pack at the supermarket and throw it in the flat. Springsteen could easily unwrap it himself as long as it wasn’t frozen – which just took longer. She said okay, if she really had to and, by the way, that car mechanic friend of mine had called round on the off-chance I would go to a pub with him and his wife but I wasn’t to worry as he’d give me a ring.
    I didn’t bother to ask if ‘Alison George’ had paid a return visit, assuming that to be highly unlikely. Nor did I ask if Amy had rung, as that would have sounded a bit weak and surely Fenella would have mentioned it.
    Duncan the Drunken calling round to take me for a drink, now that could be serious. It probably meant the estimate for the BMW’s repairs was going to be horrendous.
    I dialled his home number, not really expecting him to be in and, sure, enough, got the start of his recorded voice message.
    â€˜This is Duncan. Me and the wife Doreen have gone down the pub and we’re probably shit-faced by now so you can either come and buy us a drink or ...’
    There was a click as the receiver was picked up and Duncan’s Yorkshire accent cut across the message.
    â€˜Talk to me.’
    â€˜Duncan, it’s Angel. Why aren’t you down the pub?’
    â€˜Bit of a cock up, there, mate. We thought we’d try the karaoke down The Whalebone in Barking, but it seems we’re barred from there.’
    â€˜You forgot you’d been banned from the pub?’
    â€˜Not me,’ he said haughtily. ‘Doreen.’
    â€˜Oh. Fair enough. You have some bad news for me, then?’
    â€˜Aye, about the chassis on that Beamer. Could be up to three grand to sort it out before we start on the systems checks, and then there’s the bodywork.’
    â€˜All right, Duncan, don’t sweat it. Let’s cost the whole job like we said and see if it’s worth getting it back on the road and maybe selling it on.’
    â€˜Just thought you’d like to know, now the insurance company’s got it on the agenda.’
    What insurance company? I hadn’t even sent in the claim form.
    â€˜What insurance company, Dunc?’
    â€˜I don’t think she said the name of it.’
    â€˜ She? ’
    â€˜The blonde bint who came sniffing round here this afternoon. I wouldn’t mind having her on my case, I can tell you. Long as Doreen didn’t find out, of course.’
    â€˜Would her name have been Alison George by any chance?’
    â€˜Aye, that’s it. But she said I could call her Georgie if I wanted to.’
    â€˜I’ve got a few other names for her,’ I said.
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    The next morning, I awoke with a plan. I knew exactly what I was going to do.
    But first, I reached over and patted the other side of the bed. It was empty, which was a relief.
    It would have been a shame to waste such a good plan and, anyway, Amy would have killed me if she’d been there, what with all those empty beer bottles scattered over the duvet.
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Chapter Six
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    It wasn’t about me, or Amy, it was about Keith Flowers.
    Whoever this Alison George character was, she was tracing Keith Flowers’ movements in the month he spent out of prison. Flowers had stalked Amy in and around the Oxford Street office, so Alison George had been there, only to give Debbie Diamond an earful when she found Amy had done a runner having being warned by the cops that someone had her under surveillance.
    She had hung around the house in Hampstead, the house Keith Flowers burgled, and she’d even been to Duncan the Drunken’s garage to see the car he’d stolen. She would have known from the Suffolk cops where to go, as Duncan would have signed for the wrecked BMW when he picked it up and he would have used a kosher name and address if there was a chance of a legitimate insurance payout. The one thing I couldn’t figure out was why she had visited the