Ugley Business by Kate Johnson

clicked his fingers, “you know. Sixties. Bond girl.”
    If I said IC’s name out loud, he’d make the connection. Angel doesn’t tell many people who her parents were.
    “I’m not big on Bond films,” I lied, because I’d watched them all when I was trying to figure this spy thing out.
    “Yeah. Well. She does the cute and helpless thing. You’re all kind of…”
    I raised my eyebrows at him. Statuesque? Amazonian. Nice words, but they usually meant only one thing: I’m too polite to say I think you’re fat.
    But listen, I’m not. Well, mostly not. I have natural curves. I’m rounded. I have big bone structure.
    I hate tiny girls like Angel.
    “Anyway,” Tem tried to recover the conversation, “your boyfriend’s a lucky bugger.”
    “Don’t have one,” I said automatically.
    “What about that blond guy I saw you with?”
    “When?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Last week. Picked you up. Outside Enterprise House.”
    I almost asked what car, but I didn’t want to highlight the fact that I was sleeping with someone who drove a Vectra. So I said, “Oh, yeah, that was my brother.”
    “So you’re single?” Tem shook his head. “Jesus.”
    How sweet.
    As checkin closed down, Angel and I made out way over to the gate to meet the inbound charter flights full of sleepy tanned tourists fresh from Ayia Napa and the Costa Del Sol. Bastards. I never damn well tan.
    We got to VP9 and Angel automatically swung her bag up onto the scanner, walked through without bleeping and handed her pass to the BAA official. I rummaged in my bag for my red pass and warrant card, and they let me through without being scanned. The validation point—or VP as we call it—is there to act like security for staff in exactly the way that passengers go through main security. They scan your bag and you, and if either bleep then they get searched.
    Except for me. And Luke. I have things in my bag that don’t bear scrutiny. And right now, with a pair of handcuffs tucked down my bra, I could have done without a full body search, too.
    Angel was impressed. “So is this part of the—” she began, and my eyes widened in alarm. “The thing you were telling me about?” she finished, mouthing, “Sorry.”
    “Yes,” I said. “It’s hell trying to get through there normally. I have to pick my moment so there’s no one else there. Most of the BAA guys recognise me, but the other day I went through with Vallie and had to pretend I’d forgotten something so she could go on ahead.”
    Angel nodded. “Sophie…” she said.
    “Yes?”
    “That thing with the crutches. Was that real?”
    I nodded. “Very real. Very painful. You saw the scar. But I—I can’t tell you about it.”
    She nodded mournfully. “That’s what my dad always used to say.”
    Jesus. Poor Angel, having to live with the knowledge that her parents were doing something so horribly dangerous and that one day, they might just simply not come back.
    A thought occurred to me and I got out my Nokia. How did Greg Winter die? I texted Maria.
    She replied in seconds. Motorbike accident. Cut & dried. Found him in a ditch. Why?
    I wasn’t sure why. Just a suspicion. Can you access the report?
    Bugger all else to do, she replied, and Angel asked, “Who’re you texting?”
    “Luke,” I said.
    “Oh,” she said, and we boarded the transit train in silence. Then, just as the doors opened and we stepped out onto the little platform in a swirl of passengers, my phone bleeped again. Several passengers glared at me, and Angel grinned. We’re supposed to have our phones switched off at work. But then we’re also supposed to have a neat and tidy appearance, and that’s not likely to happen any time soon, either.
    I opened the message, thinking Maria was working fast, but instead it was from Harvey. Did you get my message? Who is that girl?
    I smiled. A client. Why?
    She’s amazing. I saw you with her at Lakeside. PS you were right the other girl was awful.
    “Now what?”