Just Another Angel by Mike Ripley Page B

the law on her without a second thought. It was worth ten percent – £250 – to her to have it back within a fortnight. Hubby would never twig it had gone walkies.
    As I steered Armstrong back to Limehouse to pick up Frank’s sander, I did wonder why Jo had refused to leave Champnas with me even though they seemed to have finished tweaking her hair into shape. Then I thought of 250 reasons why finding the girl drummer from Peking and then Carol and then the pendant would be a piece of cake. But just in case this Carol person mistook me for a police horse, it might be an idea to take Dod’s 16 stone along for moral support.
    Which made me think of where I’d heard this scenario before, the having the jewels back before the damsel in distress was put into a compromising position. Of course, it was the Queen’s Diamonds in The Three Musketeers .
    Shit. There were four of them on that job.
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Chapter Four
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    Lloyd Allen was my first connection, as he was supposed to be Peking’s manager, or so Bill Stubbly had said.
    I had thought about ringing Bill, but he was such an old woman I just couldn’t face it. Lloyd would deal straight with me and he owed me a favour or two, mostly to do with unofficial deliveries of Red Stripe lager to unlicensed West Indian drinking dens that no one except the police, BBC documentary film crews and the entire West Indian community knew about.
    Trying to track Lloyd down by night, unless you had a homing device on him, would be impossible, but I knew he shared an office in Curtain Road that I could try in the morning. So for the rest of that evening, I let Frank and Salome treat me to an additive-free, meatless and fairly tasteless meal at a vegan wine bar they’d discovered in Southwark. Fortunately, Frank was in a mood to impress and lashed out on more white Bordeaux than he would have normally. With both of them watching their waistlines, I had to do the decent thing and drink most of it, and while I have a pretty good head for white wine (though not, oddly, for red, which is why I prefer red), I have to admit that Armstrong weaved slightly as we turned into Stuart Street and liberated the parking space nearest to No 9.
    I was on a first-back-puts-the-coffee-on promise, so I was fiddling with filter papers when there was a knock on the flat door and I yelled, ‘It’s open.’
    To my surprise, it was Lisabeth from the flat below. I’ve always maintained that Lisabeth stopped buying clothes in 1974. In fact, she’s probably never bought anything except at jumble sales since then and lives in a late-hippie timewarp. I’ve even known her to wear bells when she’s being going somewhere special, though that’s rare. I think she had been a secretary somewhere along the line, but no-one seemed to know much about her. She took in typing for a living, rarely leaving the house and getting ‘Binky’ to run her errands. Maybe she was self-conscious about her size, but I don’t see why she should be. Sea-lions aren’t.
    â€˜Hello, Angel, glad I caught you.’
    When the day comes when Lisabeth catches you, God help you.
    â€˜Hi. I’m just brewing up for Frank and Sal. Do you fancy a cup?’
    â€˜No, thanks, not stopping, wanted a favour.’ I’d never noticed how talking to a male upset Lisabeth’s speech pattern. ‘Next week.’
    â€˜If it is in my power, my dear, you have but to command.’ That was gallant enough and without double entendres. You have to be careful with Lisabeth. Frank Bruno would have to be careful with Lisabeth.
    â€˜I want to move in here for a few days,’ she said, looking me straight in the eyes.
    I wasn’t shocked. I’ve been around, it’s happened before. But Lisabeth? I decided I could pick up the coffee later.
    â€˜It’s because of Bin … Fenella.’
    â€˜You’ve had a fight?’ I must have sounded