Angel on the Inside by Mike Ripley Page B

readers and the like, conning their way into people’s houses ... No, of course nothing like that happened here ...’
    Ask if he left her alone at any time, I mouthed, pointing at the phone.
    â€˜And anyway,’ she went on fluently, ‘you were with her all the time, weren’t you? I bet you never let her out of your sight, did you? Not even for a few seconds ...’
    Miranda made eye contact with me.
    â€˜Except when the phone rang downstairs? I see. Yes, wrong numbers are a pain, aren’t they?’
    I shook my head and drew a finger across my throat to end it.
    â€˜Actually, I don’t think we really need that house phone any more. We all have mobiles these days, even Mr Goodson in Flat 1. It only gets used when somebody has to take a message for Angel, and he’s never here these days ... No, of course I will ... I’ll give him your love next time I see him ... Very well, then, not your love, just your best wishes ... Okay, I’ll just wave to him. ‘Bye . ’
    If I hadn’t know better, I would have said she had enjoyed that. And she had another surprise for me.
    â€˜Alison George my arse,’ she said as she closed her phone.
    â€˜What?’ I pleaded.
    â€˜There is an Alison George works for the Council; I know her. She happens to be the Tourist Development Officer, and she’s on six months maternity leave just at the moment. You know what that means.’
    I slumped into a chair and the blood must have drained from my face, such was Miranda’s look of near concern.
    â€˜Angel? Are you all right?’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose so,’ I said quietly, humbly holding out my glass towards Doogie’s Scotch. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
    â€˜I know,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s an invasion of your private space. An intrusion. It’s like finding out that ...’
    â€˜No, no,’ I said, aiming the now-full-again glass to my lips. ‘It’s finding out that Hackney has a Tourist Development Officer. Bloody hell, what will they think of next?’
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Chapter Four
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    â€˜Of course I’m not paranoid! I’ve every right to be suspicious!’
    If it hadn’t been for the muscle-relaxant qualities of alcohol, I could have got quite worked up about the suggestion.
    â€˜An unidentified, totally bogus female wangles her way into our house by conning the landlord – who must have been enjoying what they call “a senior moment” these days to fall for it – and once in, doesn’t nick anything, just makes sure she’s alone in my flat and then kicks seven kinds of crap out of my flat-mate. Cause for concern or what? I think at least a severe furrowing of the brow is called for here.’
    â€˜Was he badly hurt, your flat mate?’
    â€˜You should see the bill from the vet.’
    â€˜The vet?’
    â€˜Well he is a cat. But the point is, my personal space has been invaded and with malice aforethought. It was only my flat she looked at – wasn’t interested in any of the others. And she put a bit of thought into it. Once in, courtesy of our senile landlord, she waits for him to trek downstairs to answer the phone so she’ll be all alone in there ...’
    â€˜How did she know the phone would ring right on cue?’
    â€˜Easy-peezey. She’s got her mobile in her pocket with the number programmed in and she just presses the call button. Keeps it ringing until he gets to the phone, then hangs up as he answers. She’s left on her own.’
    â€˜She wouldn’t have long, though, would she?’
    â€˜Well, no,’ I admitted. ‘But long enough.’
    â€˜Long enough to do what?’
    Now that, unfortunately, was a good question.
    â€˜To snoop, to pry, to invade my privacy. She’d gone to a fair bit of trouble to get into my flat, if only for a few minutes.’
    â€˜How did she