‘I don’t know, Margaret. You tell me. Where are they now?’
‘I’ve eaten them.’
Angel sighed. His eyes narrowed. ‘When did you eat the last one?’
‘Last night, while I was watching the telly.’
‘What did you do with the peel?’
‘The peel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it in the waste bin. Under the sink. In the kitchen.’
‘Ah. Good. I’ll have a look.’
‘It’s too late. I emptied it early this morning. It’s been collected. I saw the dustbin lorry drive away.’
He pursed his lips and let out a long sigh.
She looked across at him.
‘What’s so special about orange peel? You didn’t believe me. You were going to check up on me.’
‘If you were the Archbishop of Canterbury I would have checked up on you.’
She rested her head in her hand and said, ‘I suppose you have to.’
‘Yes. I have to.’
There was a pause.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a drop of sherry somewhere, if you’d rather,’ she said mischievously. ‘It would relax you, Michael. You’re so tense. Are you like this at home? Are you married, Michael? What’s your wife like?’
She wriggled up the settee, turned to face him, supporting her head with a hand and her arm on the armrest.
‘Nothing for me to drink, thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s only one more thing,’ he said.
‘Are you hungry? I can do you a bacon sandwich.’
He shook his head quickly.
‘The man who was living next door—’
‘Number twenty. Yes. I heard he’d been murdered. Outside The Three Horseshoes. It’s almost as if murder is following me about, isn’t it?’
Angel thought about her last remark. If it was, she didn’t seem at all phased by it. ‘Did you know him?’ he said.
‘No. Saw him once come out of the lift. Looked a lonely, miserable little sod. Walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Didn’t speak. Very quiet.’
‘Did he have any visitors?’
‘Don’t think so. Never saw anybody. Never heard anything. Never even heard his telly through the wall. He must have heard mine.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Margaret. I’m going to have to ask you to vacate this flat tonight. It’s for one night at least, although it could be for longer.’
Her face straightened. She sat bolt upright and stared at him. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘You’re not arresting me, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s for your safety, that’s all.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s to do with your next door neighbour. We are expecting his place to be visited by somebody.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go.’
He pulled his chin into his chest. ‘It’s really a matter of being extra careful, that’s all. I’ll make all the arrangements. Just assemble all you need for yourself and young Carl for, say, twenty-four hours. It’s may not be as long as that. I’ll get a WPC to come round and pick you up in an hour or so. She’ll take you to our safe house. You’ll be very comfortable. All mod cons. Telly, nice bathroom and everything. And absolutely safe.’
Her fingers went to her lips. She swivelled off the sofa. There was a flash of her long legs and white underwear. Angel tried to look away. He stood up.
She found the rabbit slippers and hurriedly pushed her feet into them. She shuddered, stood up and reached out for a cardigan hanging over a chair.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said, stabbing an arm into a sleeve. ‘Carl won’t settle. He’s never been away from here.’
Angel smiled at her. ‘You’ll be all right, just for a night.’
She wasn’t happy.
‘I don’t want to go. Carl won’t settle.’
‘Just one night,’ he said gently. ‘It’s for his and your safety.’
She nodded.
Angel glanced at an open door. ‘Can I have a look around while I’m here?’
‘Of course.’
He opened the door behind him. It was the kitchen. There were a few pots in a bowl in the sink, otherwise unremarkable. He came back into the room and looked at the next door. It was ajar.
‘That’s my bedroom,’ she called out unnecessarily.
He didn’t look back. He stepped forward a pace and pushed at the door. The hinges squeaked as it slowly swung open to reveal an unmade bed, a baby’s cot with a mobile hanging over it and clothes strewn everywhere, both on the furniture, on the bed and on the floor. Then there was something that made Angel suck in a short intake of breath and which set his pulse racing. On the wall above the head of the bed was a picture. It was the painting of a young woman in a long blue frilly dress. She had blonde hair and a straw hat.
Margaret Gaston came forward. She saw that something had startled him.
‘I haven’t had chance to tidy round yet.’
He took a couple of steps up to the picture, pointed to it and said, ‘Who is that?’
She looked up at it as if she’d never thought about it. ‘I dunno. It was there when I took the flat. It’s nobody. It’s only a print.’ She looked round the room at the explosion of clothes. ‘I can tidy up. It won’t take me long.’
Angel ran his hand through his hair.
‘Do you mean it’s always been there?’
‘Since I’ve been here, it has. Do you want it, Michael? It’s of no value, you know. It belongs by rights to Mother Reid, I suppose. If you want it, take it up with her.’
He sighed. He unhooked it off the tiny nail in the wall. It left a white mark on the dusty distempered wall. It weighed very little and was only about 20” by 30” on stout cardboard, framed by a thin wooden dowelling. He turned it over. There was a gold-coloured sticker on the back with black printing on it. ‘1930s Lady of Leisure. From the library of Joshua Pickering Galleries, 120-132 Argument Street, Farringdon, London. Stock No. 2239429.’
‘What?’ Angel bawled. He was surprised. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Scrivens stood by the office door looking like a man who had won the lottery but lost the ticket.
‘I said there’s no such thing as 212 Huddersfield Road, sir. The numbers finish at 210. What’s the point of that?’
Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. ‘The point of that, Scrivens, is to validate Simon Spencer’s existence dishonestly to the welfare state for free doctoring, free hospitals, subsidised dentistry and whatever other handouts he can get, without the exchequer and the judiciary being able to get back at him for taxes, fines and in this particular instance, fraud. And fraud big time.’
Scrivens raised his head.
‘We have ourselves a very ambitious crook,’ Angel said. ‘And, I think, a murderer.’
‘He may have murdered his partner in crime, Harry Harrison, sir?’
‘It’s getting to look that way. So hop off down to the Northern Bank. See the manager, Mr Thurrocks. Get the best possible description of Simon Spencer, you can. And get a photograph of him. Get a hundred prints of it with his description on it run off in time for this meeting at four o’clock, all right?’
Scrivens looked up as if a Roman candle had been fired up his trouser leg.
‘Four o’clock, sir!’ he cried, looking up at the wall clock. ‘That only gives me an hour and a half.’
‘Well, later than four would mean that the meeting would be pointless, wouldn’t it? Come on, lad. Chop. Chop.’
The door closed.
Angel rubbed his chin. It wasn’t looking good for Simon Spencer. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope. There were some notes on the back of it. He ran down a list. He seemed satisfied that he had checked off all the points he needed to cover in preparation of the four o’clock briefing. He pulled out another envelope and began to check down that one. He found something. It was a telephone number. He picked up the phone and tapped it in.