Angel Hunt by Mike Ripley Read Free Book Online Page A

gesture and whispering ‘Puss … puss …,’ which is something I’ve noticed a lot of people who haven’t met Springsteen do. Maybe it works on other cats, but I wouldn’t attempt it without asbestos gloves.
    â€˜Yours?’ he asked.
    â€˜I pay the rent and he lets me sleep here.’ I shrugged as I opened the flat door. He waved me in first.
    â€˜I’m a dog man myself,’ he said conversationally.
    â€˜Well, naturally. Dobermans, Rottweilers, attack Alsatians ...’
    He pushed his spectacles back into his face with the middle finger of his right hand. I was to learn that it was his way of controlling his temper.
    â€˜Jack Russells, actually. My father bred them. Of course, it’s not fair to keep dogs like that in London, not natural hunters like them.’
    So that’s where I was going wrong with Springsteen. Maybe I should buy him a place in the country. Maybe a foreign country.
    â€˜Is this going to take long, Sergeant? I have to go to work, you see.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t think so. Just what exactly do you do, Mr Angel?’
    Now I had a number of answers to this. Self-unemployed was the usual one, though I didn’t think that would wash with Prentice. And I would never say that to anyone who was unemployed but didn’t want to be. To anyone who was claiming unemployment benefit or social security, which I don’t, I would imply that I’d registered as ‘outdoor clerical’ or similar, and wasn’t it a disgrace they couldn’t find me a job? Sometimes I stick to ‘driver’ – well, I have a cab (though you’d better not be talking to a real musher), and a Heavy Goods Vehicle licence. But ‘driver’ has dodgy implications if you’re a copper. So I compromised.
    â€˜I’m a musician.’
    â€˜Oh, so you have a degree in electronics?’
    He said it with a faint smile. I knew what he meant. Possibly he was human after all.
    â€˜Not me. Strictly crash-bash saloon bar trad jazz.’ I pointed to where my trumpet was balanced on top of one of the stereo speakers. People think I put it there as a piece of pop art to decorate the room. Only I know I forgot to pack it away.
    â€˜Have you done the “in” clubs? You know, Jazz Cafe, the Wag Club, places like that?’
    He was well informed, probably more up to speed than I was. ‘I’m not into Yuppie-jazz, so I’d never get asked to the Jazz Cafe, though they get some good people there.’ That was true; in fact, Stoke Newington was turning into the Storyville of British jazz. ‘But I never get past the bouncers at the Wag.’
    â€˜Me neither,’ he grinned.
    Maybe I could do business with this guy, I thought. Sometimes I have the weirdest thoughts, and I always promise to give up eating cheese late at night but never do.
    â€˜Time for a cup of coffee?’ I asked, not keenly.
    â€˜Sure,’ he said, moving a pile of paperbacks and sitting down in my fake Bauhaus leather and steel chair (one of a set, of one).
    I went into my kitchenette and flicked the kettle on. His voice carried after me.
    â€˜Interesting mixture of reading material,’ he yelled.
    â€˜I try to keep the grey cells working,’ I shouted back, more to reassure him that I hadn’t done a runner out of the kitchen window.
    â€˜Bit of military history, detective stories – is there any money in these old Penguins? – P J O’Rourke, essays by Gore Vidal, the new Jeffrey Archer –’
    â€˜Sorry, somebody must have left that here,’ I yelled.
    â€˜What did you read at university?’
    â€˜History,’ I shouted, pouring water.
    â€˜Billy Tuckett did Chemistry, didn’t he?’
    End of polite chit-chat. Rule of Life No 61: there’s no such thing as off-duty.
    I carried the coffee jug and filter and two cups back into the living-room and put them down on my coffee table, which