Vixen (Inspector Brant) by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

carrying.’
    Angie went to a small lock-up she’d rented when she’d last got out of prison. Just off Clapham Common, it held every item that was of any value to her. Some porcelain dolls she’d nicked from an old woman, designer clothes and imitation Louis Vuiton luggage she’d found in a boot sale. The tags on the handles said, ‘Florida’, for the day she made her great escape and she figured it was only a short time away now. There was a portable television, a fridge, a foldaway bed and essentials like vodka, a kettle, coffee and half a gram of coke.
    She laid the money on the floor and wondered why it didn’t make her feel good. There and then she vowed not to go anywhere until she had it all, every last penny. It was her scheme, her planning, her fucking entitlement.
    Rage enveloped her and she wanted to go back, shoot Ray in the balls, the bastard, remembering the half smile he’d given her when she’d asked:
    ‘Don’t you trust me?’
    Yeah, right.
    She laid out a couple of lines of coke, used a twenty from the pile to snort, and waited for the hit.
    It came fast, hit her brain running and then the ice-drip down her neck. She didn’t use very often as her insanity was sufficient to keep her stoked but, now and then, she’dhave a hit and summon up the crystal-clear thinking she needed. As her body began to experience waves of wellbeing, she thought: Okay, Ray, you want to play, we’ll play.
    There were few things she liked better than to play, said aloud:
    ‘Game on.’
    She lifted a few loose boards from under the threadbare carpet and stashed the money. Then dabbed some perfume behind her ears. It was the brand Jimmy loved. He never tired of asking her what it was and she’d always reply the same:
    ‘Money.’
    Angie had absolutely no feelings about Jimmy, he was simply the means to an end. Sometimes he amused her but not in any fashion that she’d miss.
    She took a shower, the coke singing in her veins. She was looking forward to the remainder of the evening. Naked, she assessed herself: looking good, maybe she’d cut down on the booze a bit but otherwise, in fine shape.
    She selected an outfit that Jimmy usually drooled over. Stockings and suspender-belt, sheer black top and black miniskirt, add a black bomber jacket that Ray had boosted from some Europeans who’d had a place on the Balham High Road. Finally, a few lines of coke to get Jimmy off his game completely.
    Leaving the place, she double-locked it and put on the deadbolt. At the end of the street was a mini-cab office and she asked for a car.
    The driver, a Rasta, gave a low whistle of appreciation as she got in.
    ‘Yo sho looking fine, girl.’
    ‘Whatever, I need to go to Kennington.’
    He had a spliff going, asked:
    ‘You wanna get some dis good vibe?’
    ‘I don’t do drugs.’
    ‘Yo baby, dis be life, not no drug.’
    He got the car in gear and turned up the sounds. The Wailers doing their thing, he kept up a constant monologue of which Angie heard little. The music drowned him out but it didn’t put as much as a dent in his rap.
    When they got to Kennington, she asked the fare and he stroked his dreads, said:
    ‘Yo like to mebbe party with me, Fs got me a crib dat be shaking.’
    She threw a tenner at him and a look that cut through his high, said:
    ‘Keep the change.’
    He watched her saunter down the road, said:
    ‘No woman, no cry.’
    Angie let herself into the flat.
    Jimmy wasn’t back yet. The place was bare, the few items Jimmy had brought were in boxes. She unpacked them, scattered them around – it had to look like he’d lived here. She piled cups and dishes in the sink. Then went to the bathroom, ran a hot bath, returned to the main room, picked up the one-bar electric fire and plugged it in nearthe bath. You’d get more heat from a cigarette but Angie wasn’t interested in getting warm.
    Then she sat down to wait. Prison had taught her how to do that, just sit and let her mind roam free. Mostly, she