Just Another Angel by Mike Ripley Page A

clicking.
    â€˜I’m Melanie.’ She nodded to the child at her side. ‘This is Antiope.’
    â€˜Hello, Antiope,’ I smiled. Poor kid. I thought I had trouble with names, but I wasn’t going to ask, because I knew Antiope was the mother of Achilles in Greek mythology. Such are the benefits of a public school education.
    â€˜We can go look for her if you want,’ I offered, jerking a thumb at the Transit. ‘Do you know which way she would have gone?’
    â€˜Into the village probably. Are the pubs shut?’
    I looked at my watch. Nearly 5.00 pm. ‘Couple of hours ago.’
    â€˜We could check the off-licence, I suppose, though I didn’t think she had any money.’
    No, but she had some credit cards, I thought. ‘Is it far?’
    â€˜Three miles.’ Melanie turned to one of the other women and handed over Antiope. She also slipped her ball-bearings into her jeans pocket. ‘Go and play, luvvie. Tricia, you come with me.’
    Tricia turned out to be one of the plumper members of the bodyguard, and she kept hold of her ball-bearings. From the look in her eyes, I wasn’t going to make a smart remark about that either.
    â€˜What’s this? A posse?’
    Melanie looked me squarely in the face. ‘We never travel alone with men.’
    â€˜Fair enough.’ I unlocked the passenger door of the Transit for them, but I thought it best not to open it for them or offer them a hand up and in.
    Tricia sat between Melanie and me, which made me change gear ever so carefully in case I brushed against her ample thigh, and Melanie shouted instructions around her. We found the village easily enough, though anyone travelling in the area in a Porsche had better not blink.
    It had a pub, which looked decent enough, a small village green flanked by a post office, a small supermarket and, incongruously, a hairdresser’s called Sylvia’s; and while this could be the hairdressing capital of east Suffolk for all I knew, I bet Sylvia didn’t get many takers from the peace camp.
    There was also a bus shelter on the green, one of the old-style ones that have a bench seat. Lying across it like a stranded whale, if, that is, whales wear pink flying suits, was Carol. And she was singing. And she was drunk.
    I parked the van alongside the bus stop, and Carol swayed to her feet, thinking I was a bus. As she stood up, an empty wine bottle clattered off the bench and rolled down the pavement. The Transit being left-hand drive, I was nearest to her, so I did the gentlemanly thing. I locked the door, wound up the window and told Melanie and Tricia to go and get her.
    They didn’t need much encouragement. Almost instantaneously they were round the nearside and had the odious Carol backed up against the van trying to wave away their prodding, stabbing fingers. There was a lot of ‘You unreliable bitch’ and quite a few ‘selfish’ and ‘dopey’ cracks before Carol managed to fight back a bit and shout, ‘All right, I’ll get us some food.’ She seemed to be getting quite violent, as I could feel the van sway from her leaning against it.
    Much more of this and some nosey neighbour was bound to call local Plod, though from the look of the place, Camberwick Green probably had tougher policing.
    I wound down the window and butted in.
    â€˜Hello, Carol, hop in. Door’s open.’
    â€˜Who’s he?’ she asked Melanie, without looking at me.
    â€˜He’s brought us some wheels, which is more than you did. Now get in the van.’
    â€˜All right, sister, all right.’ With some difficulty, she slid open the side door and bundled herself in and spread herself across one of the triple seats. But only just.
    Melanie closed the door and looked at me. ‘Back to camp?’
    â€˜Why not? I’ve nothing better to do.’ I smiled and her eyes smiled back enough to make me think the ice could just possibly melt