Angel Touch by Mike Ripley

Author:Mike Ripley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: london, 1980, 80s, thatcherism, jazz, music, fiction, series, revenge, drama, romance, lust, mike ripley, angel, comic crime, novel, crime writers, comedy, fresh blood, lovejoy, critic, birmingham post, essex book festival, death, murder, animal rights
ISBN: 9781845838195
Publisher: Telos Publishing
Published: 2011-04-25T16:00:00+00:00

If I was surprised to hear that Lloyd had a stockbroker, Patterson was dumbfounded. But a client is a client, and he perked up no end as we walked round to Marlowe Road, Lloyd between us and one of the Dennison boys about ten feet ahead acting as an outrider.

I’d been right about Lloyd’s two-tone shoes, though I had I expected him to put socks on, and I was wrong about the hat – it was a white Panama. I was glad he chose to wear it, for otherwise, in his shirt-sleeves and braces walking between us, it could have been mistaken for an arrest or at least a ‘helping with enquiries,’ and the last thing I wanted was a street riot.

By the time we were out of Jonson Road, Lloyd and Tel were getting on famously, talking ‘fundamentals,’ ‘half-yearly growths’ and ‘sell options.’ The Dennison lad had pulled ahead of us and disappeared round a corner. He emerged giving Lloyd the thumbs-up sign, and Lloyd jerked his head without pausing in his conversation on the future of the British economy. Dennison crossed the road and disappeared again. He would be covering the back door of No 24 if I knew Lloyd.

The front door of No 24 was a yard back from the pavement. Lloyd didn’t knock; in fact he didn’t stop talking to Tel. He pulled a key from his trouser pocket and slipped lit into the lock.

‘You do know Lewis, then,’ I said, looking at the key.

Lloyd pushed the door open and showed me his teeth. ‘‘Course I do. He’s one of my tenants.’

‘This is your house?’ asked Patterson, impressed.

‘One of ‘em,’ said Lloyd modestly. I wondered if he had just the one broker. ‘This way, gentlemen. Ground-floor ap-art-ment if my memory serves me well. And we know he’s home.’

I followed his gaze down the hallway to where a Kawasaki was parked on a spread-out copy of the Evening Standard. The number plate told me it was the same one I’d followed earlier.

Lloyd rapped his fist on a badly-stripped fake pine door with a metal numeral 1 nailed to it. Further down the corridor was a kitchen, and across it I could see young Dennison loitering with intent outside the window.

‘Looo-ees,’ Lloyd cooed. ‘It’s your friendly landlord. Social call.’

The door opened an inch and a yellow and brown eye looked out.

‘Do I lie?’ said Lloyd, pushing the door.

Lewis Luther was about 19 in age years but a lot older in street-time. He backed across the room, keeping pieces of furniture between himself and the three of us. Not that there was much furniture in the room: a table, covered with copies of Motor Cycle News, two dining chairs, a bed with a duvet cover illustrating a big Honda bike, and a chest of drawers with a midi stereo cassette unit on it. The whole place had an odour of long-gone take-away curries and engine oil.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Allen?’ said Lewis suspiciously, rubbing the palms of his hands down his red leathers.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.