Angel on the Inside by Mike Ripley
Authors: Mike Ripley
Tags: Fiction, detective, Crime, Mystery, series, Humour, Gangster, funny, Novel, angel, Comedy, stalking, Welsh, mike ripley, comic crime, crime writers, fresh blood, lovejoy, critic, birmingham post, essex book festival, secretive, private, amusing
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âI got beans on toast,â I said.
âYou donât have to sleep with him,â said Miranda.
That seemed fair, and anyway, Doogie had said that beans on toast was what all professional chefs ate when they got home and put their feet up.
âSo you suspect this Valuation Officer who came round with Mr Nassim this morning?â she said between mouthfuls.
âHad to be somebody in the house,â I said, âas he couldnât have got back inside the flat with that injury, probably couldnât have got up the stairs, so more than likely it happened in the flat. You havenât been in the flat, the naked chef here hasnât. Mr Goodson downstairs just wouldnât. Fenella was the one who found him. Who else is there?â
âLisabeth?â
Doogie and I exchanged looks.
âNo way, pet,â Doogie said. âSheâd defenestrate Angel soon as look at him, but not a dumb animal.â
âEasy enough mistake to make,â she muttered under her breath. âBut I think youâre right, Angel.â
âI am?â
âRight to be suspicious. I mean, where do you think Iâve been all day, dressed like this?â
I bit back the smart remark that it couldnât have been hanging around Shepherdâs Market, even on a slow day.
âBeen for a job interview?â
Miranda worked for a local newspaper that was part of a larger group and was always on the look-out for promotion to the bigger-circulation titles.
âNo, guess again.â
âYouâve been in court?â
The idea of Miranda as a court reporter was pretty scary. I would have âfessed up to anything if Iâd seen her glaring into the dock at me from the press benches.
âNo such fun. Think really, really dull .â
âAnnual General Meeting of the Hackney and Islington Civil War Re-Enactment Society?â
âNow youâre being silly. I was covering the Council.â
Doogie tried to look proud of her. I must have just looked blank.
âAnd ...?â
âIâm the local council specialist and a stringer for Greater London related matters,â she said.
Doogie still tried to look smug, but I knew he couldnât keep it up for long.
âWhich means ...?â I offered.
âWhich means I know about rates and precepts and business rates and exemptions and all that shit,â she snapped. âAnd I can tell you thereâs no rating revaluation going on in Hackney at the moment. Too many votes at stake to tell people they have to pay more taxes. So your phantom Valuation Officer was ...â
âTotally bogus,â I completed.
Doogie waved his glass at me.
âOch, yer wee dipstick. Has she not been trying to tell you that for the last five minutes?â
Â
Miranda insisted that Doogie made me a pot of coffee, and I agreed to drink it only if she would go downstairs and ask Lisabeth about our suspicious visitor. As soon as she was gone, I laced my Golden Jubilee souvenir mug with more of Doogieâs Scotch. Doogie didnât mind. He held the same view that I do: coffee doesnât sober you up, it just makes you a more awake drunk.
When she returned, I asked her if sheâd thought to look in on Springsteen on her way back upstairs. She gave me a killer look and said no, she hadnât â but Fenella had.
âAnd sheâs okay?â I asked, genuinely concerned.
âShe got out alive, if thatâs what you mean,â said Miranda, âand that unwholesome beast of yours is resting comfortably, so she says.â
I secretly thought Fenella was getting into this caring business and with a bit of training could be pinning daily bulletins to the front door.
âAnd what did Lisabeth have to say?â
âNot much. She said she only ran into the woman on the stairs as Mr Nassim was bringing her in. About my height, mousy blonde shoulder length hair pulled back off the face with a wide
âI got beans on toast,â I said.
âYou donât have to sleep with him,â said Miranda.
That seemed fair, and anyway, Doogie had said that beans on toast was what all professional chefs ate when they got home and put their feet up.
âSo you suspect this Valuation Officer who came round with Mr Nassim this morning?â she said between mouthfuls.
âHad to be somebody in the house,â I said, âas he couldnât have got back inside the flat with that injury, probably couldnât have got up the stairs, so more than likely it happened in the flat. You havenât been in the flat, the naked chef here hasnât. Mr Goodson downstairs just wouldnât. Fenella was the one who found him. Who else is there?â
âLisabeth?â
Doogie and I exchanged looks.
âNo way, pet,â Doogie said. âSheâd defenestrate Angel soon as look at him, but not a dumb animal.â
âEasy enough mistake to make,â she muttered under her breath. âBut I think youâre right, Angel.â
âI am?â
âRight to be suspicious. I mean, where do you think Iâve been all day, dressed like this?â
I bit back the smart remark that it couldnât have been hanging around Shepherdâs Market, even on a slow day.
âBeen for a job interview?â
Miranda worked for a local newspaper that was part of a larger group and was always on the look-out for promotion to the bigger-circulation titles.
âNo, guess again.â
âYouâve been in court?â
The idea of Miranda as a court reporter was pretty scary. I would have âfessed up to anything if Iâd seen her glaring into the dock at me from the press benches.
âNo such fun. Think really, really dull .â
âAnnual General Meeting of the Hackney and Islington Civil War Re-Enactment Society?â
âNow youâre being silly. I was covering the Council.â
Doogie tried to look proud of her. I must have just looked blank.
âAnd ...?â
âIâm the local council specialist and a stringer for Greater London related matters,â she said.
Doogie still tried to look smug, but I knew he couldnât keep it up for long.
âWhich means ...?â I offered.
âWhich means I know about rates and precepts and business rates and exemptions and all that shit,â she snapped. âAnd I can tell you thereâs no rating revaluation going on in Hackney at the moment. Too many votes at stake to tell people they have to pay more taxes. So your phantom Valuation Officer was ...â
âTotally bogus,â I completed.
Doogie waved his glass at me.
âOch, yer wee dipstick. Has she not been trying to tell you that for the last five minutes?â
Â
Miranda insisted that Doogie made me a pot of coffee, and I agreed to drink it only if she would go downstairs and ask Lisabeth about our suspicious visitor. As soon as she was gone, I laced my Golden Jubilee souvenir mug with more of Doogieâs Scotch. Doogie didnât mind. He held the same view that I do: coffee doesnât sober you up, it just makes you a more awake drunk.
When she returned, I asked her if sheâd thought to look in on Springsteen on her way back upstairs. She gave me a killer look and said no, she hadnât â but Fenella had.
âAnd sheâs okay?â I asked, genuinely concerned.
âShe got out alive, if thatâs what you mean,â said Miranda, âand that unwholesome beast of yours is resting comfortably, so she says.â
I secretly thought Fenella was getting into this caring business and with a bit of training could be pinning daily bulletins to the front door.
âAnd what did Lisabeth have to say?â
âNot much. She said she only ran into the woman on the stairs as Mr Nassim was bringing her in. About my height, mousy blonde shoulder length hair pulled back off the face with a wide
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