Angel Hunt by Mike Ripley

praising the Universal Song. I just love the old romantic ones. So I’ll blame her.
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    When I’d called in at Sunil’s place after Prentice had driven off, Nassim was on the landing yelling orders to the builders, who were crashing around in the bathroom. It was as if he didn’t actually want to go near the scene of the crime, and I couldn’t blame him. The police had done a reasonable job of cleaning up and had put a plastic sheet over the hole in the window to keep the rain out. A couple of lads, who looked as if they were moonlighting from a Youth Training Scheme, were trying to re-glaze the window from the inside, underneath the plastic so their haircuts didn’t get damp.
    I hoped Nassim was making enough on the insurance claim to have the job done properly in the not-too-distant future.
    â€˜Everything okay?’ I asked cheerily.
    â€˜No more dead men, if that’s what you mean,’ snarled Nassim. ‘You be careful of those tiles!’ he yelled towards the boys in the bathroom, who were setting up a step-ladder in the bath. ‘You’ll make good any damages.’
    â€˜He wasn’t a burglar,’ I said, joining Nassim at the top of the stairs.
    â€˜Who is a burglar?’
    â€˜Nobody is. The man who fell through the roof wasn’t after any of the family jewels. He didn’t have a striped jersey or a bag marked “Swag,” as far as the Old Bill are concerned.’
    Nassim winced at the sound of breaking glass from the bathroom, but it was only the remaining splinters of the old stuff coming down. I got interested as well. I love to watch people work when they obviously have no idea what they’re doing.
    â€˜What are you talking about? Can’t you see I’m busy?’
    â€˜The dead man wasn’t a burglar is what I’m saying. You can relax on that score.’
    â€˜Not my house,’ he said, not looking at me but straining to see round the bathroom door. ‘Just my bloody money!’
    At last, emotion. I was getting to him.
    â€˜Okay then, Sunil can relax.’
    â€˜He’s coming home. Mind that paintwork, you!’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I rang him last night, and he’s flying back today or tomorrow. I think it a good excuse to get away from his family. I don’t blame him. I don’t like them either.’
    â€˜I thought you were related.’
    He looked at me as if I’d crawled out from under the Axminster. ‘We are. Hey! That toilet seat just will not take your weight!’
    I shook my head and wondered if there was any room spare on the next space shuttle.
    â€˜Well, you won’t be needing me here then, will you?’
    â€˜Correct.’
    â€˜I’ll get my gear together, then.’ That wouldn’t take long. I was wearing most of it. ‘I suppose the rent amnesty’s off as well?’
    â€˜Double correct.’
    Merry Christmas.
    â€˜Anyway, tell Sunil it wasn’t my fault.’ He looked daggers at me, so I pressed on before they drew blood. ‘The guy wasn’t a burglar, he was coming here because he used to know someone who lived here before.’
    â€˜Oh, the Cat Woman,’ Nassim said casually, then yelled: ‘Care-ful!’ as part of the window-frame dropped onto the bathroom carpet.
    â€˜I know I’m going to regret this,’ I said, but still said it. ‘This ... er ... Cat Woman, she wouldn’t be called Scarrott, would she?’
    Nassim still kept his eyes on the lads in the bathroom, one of whom had produced a seven-pound hammer from his tool-bag, but reached for his wallet pocket and produced a broken-spined red leather diary. He wet a finger and flicked through some of the loose pages at the back.
    â€˜Here we are. Lucy Scarrott, 28 Geneva Street, Highbury.’ That was up near the Arsenal football ground. I knew that from when I’d gone to watch them play in the past; but I’d been cured of