‘See anything you like, lover?’
The last time she’d been round, they’d ended up in the sack, to Falls’s never-ending regret and shame. Angie raised her glass, said:
‘To the future, ours, right hon?’
Falls raised her glass, took a lethal wallop, asked:
‘What do you want?’
Angie smiled, she had great teeth, and then went:
‘Opps.’
Wiping the lip gloss off the rim of the glass, she said:
‘You might want to wipe some of this gloss yourself, would you like that?’
And Falls, to her horror, did want to, so badly. She had to physically bite down, get a grip, and she let her voice stay cold, repeated:
‘What do you want?’
Angie’s face went through the brief change, the mask slipping for a moment, to show the dark demon that lived there.
Falls actually backed up a step, the fleeting glimpse of who, or what, Angie was had raised goosebumps on her arms. She put out her hand to steady herself, and it curled round the bottle of Stoli, which had been left on the bookcase, holding the bottle for comfort. Angie let her eyes linger on Falls for a moment then turned away, said:
‘My new little friend has disappeared, now I wonder why. I’d plans for that boy and 1 have a sneaky suspicion that you, Liz, mind if I call you that, I think you had something to do with it.’
Falls felt a rush of emotions, delight that the bastard was gone, she was off the hook, fear as to what Brant had done to him, and mostly, dread of what Angie had in mind. Angie crossed her legs, letting the sound of nylon hover, then said:
‘Liz, unless I get him back, I’m going to have to go to the papers with our… affair. You think the Tabloid would be interested in that?’
Falls lashed out with the bottle, catching Angie square across the top of her head, then screamed:
‘Don’t fucking threaten me, you piece of crap. I’m a fucking police officer.’
Vodka packs more of a wallop than you’d expect.
32
Angie wasn’t moving, she was sprawled on the sofa, her eyes rolled back in her head.
Falls dropped the bottle, moved to the sofa, tried:
‘Angie, Angie, you okay?’
Nope.
Falls, panicked, felt for a pulse.
None.
She staggered back and nearly slipped on the Stoli. She grabbed it, pulled off the cap, and drank from the neck, the liquid running down her Snoopy shirt. She let the booze burn her stomach then gasped:
‘I’ve fucking killed the bitch… oh Jesus.’
CallingBrant was out of the question, and she certainly wasn’t calling the squad.
Fuck, no way.
She had to get the body out of here and now.
She grabbed her car keys, pulled Angie upright, got an arm under her shoulder, and pulled her to the door, she opened it cautiously, no one around and did Angie have a car, no, no sign. She got her in the her own backseat, then slid behind the wheel and started driving, very carefully.
As carefully as you can when you’ve whacked someone’s lights out and guzzled most of a bottle of spirits. She didn’t know how long she was driving, her mind refusing to come up with a plan. Finally, she stopped, in Croydon, beside a deserted warehouse. Turned her engine off.
She checked her surroundings, not a soul and better, beside the warehouse was a Dumpster. She got Angie out and dragged her by the hair to the Dumpster, Angie’s shoes were gone.
Where were the fucking shoes, in the car?
She got the lid off the Dumpster, that sucker was heavy, then with an almighty effort, pulled Angie up, threw her in the garbage. The smell from the thing was appalling, a blend of decaying vegetables, she hoped they were vegetables and urine with… curry?
She slammed the lid down. It made a ferocious bang, and she muttered:
‘Nice, real fucking nice, wake the freaking dead.’
And she began to giggle, said:
‘Angie, didn’t wake you, did I?’
Hysteria engulfed her, and she added:
‘Don’t ever fucking call me Liz.’
Then a blast of cold wind hit, and she stopped, realized she had to get the hell out of there.
She did.
When she finally got back to her flat, she looked in the backseat for Angie’s shoes. They were there. She took them into her home and first thing, she had a large shot of the Stoli, then a few more and later, tried Angie’s shoes on, they fit:
Snugly.
She was still wearing them when she passed out, thinking:
The night wasn’t a total bust.
She’d been meaning to buy new shoes.
Who had the time?
33
Brant was dozing when the phone shrilled. He grabbed at the receiver, mumbled:
‘Yeah?’
Heard:
‘Congratulations, big boy.’
Very posh tone.
Only one person called him that and, of course, the haughty flighty accent. It had to be that mad cow, his agent, Linda Gillingham-Bowl
Fucking name. Take you a week to get it out.
And he shuddered, he’d ridden the cow, Jesus wept. He’d managed to con Porter Nash into writing most of his novel and then got hold of this agent, a real high-profile one, but fuck, old. He’d meant to ply her with drink, trick her into giving him an advance, and… instead, he’d given her one.
Real bad move.
But it sure made her work like a banshee on his book. He needed coffee, lots of it.
But here was:
