Angel on the Inside by Mike Ripley Page A

purple scrunchy band, very light blonde eyebrows, blue eyes, hardly any make-up but bright red fingernails. No rings. Wore a Burberry raincoat over a short skirt and a polo-neck ribbed sweater. As Lisabeth said, she only got a glimpse. Hardly noticed her at all.’
    â€˜Did she get her dress size?’
    â€˜Twelve,’ said Miranda without batting an eyelid.
    Doogie let out a low, quiet whistle. He was impressed.
    â€˜But did she get a name?’
    â€˜Give the girl a break. We’re talking complete strangers here passing on the stairs for maybe a few seconds.’
    Doogie and I stared at her all innocent, though I knew Doogie wouldn’t have the nerve to say it, so I had to.
    â€˜And your point there is ... what?’
    â€˜Isn’t it time we got you a cab?’ she said through gritted teeth.
    â€˜He’s already got one!’ Doogie giggled.
    â€˜I’ll deal with you later,’ Miranda said to him, and he cowered in his chair.
    This, the man who listed ‘football hooliganism’ on his CV; the man whose favourite line at parties when someone was between him and the bar was ‘Pick a window, you’re leaving’, actually cowered.
    Miranda suddenly had a mobile phone in her hand, as if she’d had it up her sleeve like a derringer on a spring clip.
    â€˜Any preference in mini-cab companies?’ she asked, waving the phone at me so I knew what it was. I might have trouble focusing, but I knew a Nokia at six feet when it was pointed at me.
    â€˜Wait a minute. You’ve got to ring Mr Nassim first,’ I said reasonably.
    â€˜I have?’
    â€˜To ask him if this Phantom Menace had a name or any credentials,’ I explained patiently.
    â€˜Why me?’ she argued.
    â€˜Because you’re holding the phone, you’re a valued tenant of his, you have the Power of the Press behind you, it’s your job to ask questions and you’d like to know if the Council is up to something you don’t know about, you’d like to know if he showed her into this flat while you were both out, and if you do it I’ll get out of your hair.’
    â€˜The last one’s the clincher,’ she said.
    It was the nearest I’d ever heard her get to a joke.
    Â 
    Of course I had to stand at her shoulder and listen in just to make sure she asked the right questions, though she deliberately turned her head away from me and preferred to repeat Nassim’s answers out loud.
    â€˜So you didn’t show her into our flat, I see,’ she said loudly, giving a thumbs up to Doogie, who tried to look suitably relieved, though I don’t know what those two were worried about. They didn’t have a cat.
    â€˜Just Flat 3? That was the only one she wanted to get into. I see.’
    Well I don’t, I pantomimed, standing in front of her. Why?
    â€˜Because you might be eligible for a reduced rate rebate on rented property not occupied throughout the year? Oh yes, of course.’
    As she said this she put a finger to the side of her head and made a turning, crazy-man motion. I put a hand down below my waist and made the sort of gesture monkeys do whenever you take your parents to the zoo. Miranda looked away, pretending not to know what I meant. Then again, she was Welsh, so she might not know.
    â€˜And she definitely did come from the Council? Oh, I see, she had a card. Yes, please.’
    She covered the phone with her hand.
    â€˜He’s gone to get her business card. A rate rebate ? From this Council? Is Nassim dopey?’
    â€˜I think the word is bhudu – it means “slow” – but don’t call him that to his face,’ I said, just to show that I could insult people in several languages.
    Then she was back in listening mode.
    â€˜Alison George, I see. And is there a phone number? Yes, that’s the number of the Council. No, I was just curious. We’ve been doing a series in the paper on fake gas meter