Free Angel Hunt by Mike Ripley

Simon’s desk, as there were no chairs. Behind it were several sets of screens at different angles, behind which the stripogrammers or Boozebusters got changed.
    â€˜What time?’ I asked him.
    â€˜About two-ish. It’s some guy called Harding, and it’s his last work day before he goes on holiday. His secretary–’
    He broke off as a natural brunette called Kim came from behind one of the screens. She was wearing a red basque and matching knickers, with four suspender straps hanging loose around her white thighs. It was a nice piece of lingerie, but I’d never worked out why they named it after Spanish terrorists.
    â€˜Will you do this bleedin’ thing up for me?’ She offered Simon the drawstrings round the top of the basque. ‘Oh, hi, Angel. Christ, but it’s as cold as a witch’s tit back there. Ever thought of investing in any heating, Simon?’
    Simon didn’t answer, just turned in his swivel chair and began lacing up the front of Kim’s basque while still giving me my instructions.
    â€˜â€“ his secretary has ordered a full four-hander policewomen buster to make sure he’s back in the office by two-thirty so he can sign all the staff’s petty cash vouchers. He is a bit of a late lunch merchant, by all accounts.’
    He finished tying a big bow dead on Kim’s cleavage and, as she turned to go, she winked at me.
    â€˜Here’s his office address.’ Simon had swivelled back to me and handed me a piece of paper with an address in Theobalds Road.
    I was watching Kim walk back to the screens. She was holding a suspender in each hand like she had a skipping rope. I had a bizarre thought. Maybe they named the Spanish terrorists after …
    â€˜No problem,’ I drawled, checking the address. ‘Who else is coming?’
    A full four-hander meant that two girls dressed as policewomen would go into the pub, locate the victim and intimidate him in front of his office cronies, then start taking their clothes off. Two others, wearing raincoats over their underwear, would be waiting at the bar or similar, ready to join the fray shouting ‘Boozebusters’ and things like ‘Your wife/secretary/boss is taking you out of here now!’ And then they would spray foam, throw cards, pop party-poppers and so on and drag the victim out to a waiting fast car. Or in this case, Armstrong. Suitable scenes of red-faced hilarity would occur back at the office, as someone always tipped off the entire staff to be ready at the front door. It was not unusual for the orderer of the Boozebuster to specify a long route back to the office, to give the victim’s fellow revellers time to get back ahead of him.
    â€˜Kim and Jacqui will be the cops, Frances and Eddie will shadow them with the shaving foam and stuff,’ said Simon, like it was Normandy beach 1944.
    â€˜And my mission, should I decide to accept it?’
    He looked at me blankly. Surely he wasn’t too young to remember Mission Impossible ? Oh God, he couldn’t be, could he?
    â€˜Make sure they don’t leave their coats – or their underwear – hanging over the beer pumps.’ He looked up at me sharply. ‘This time.’
    I looked suitably abashed. I honestly thought he would have forgotten the Marquis of Granby incident.
    I looked at my watch.
    â€˜Have I got time to do a quick errand? Just round the corner.’
    He looked at his watch; a liquid crystal Roger Rabbit affair. Trendier than my Tissot Seastar, but not as expensive. It’s the little things that count, I always say.
    â€˜I was hoping you could pick up Eddie from the Blackfriars at one sharp. She’s doing a birthday kissogram before she shadows the Holborn job.’
    â€˜Can do. I only want to pick something up from Union Street, so it’s on the way.’
    â€˜Don’t be late,’ Simon said seriously.
    â€˜I won’t be,’ I answered, equally