Free Bootlegged Angel by Mike Ripley

point.’
    What was?
    ‘If only it was that simple. But you’re quite right, the smugglers don’t go around shouting ‘Yo-ho-ho’ and delivering brandy to the vicar and ‘baccy to the
clerk.’ What was he talking about? ‘Well, actually they do smuggle tobacco, quite a lot of it, but that mostly comes in from Holland and goes through Harwich or Felixstowe. But your
basic point is correct and a very astute observation.
    ‘Not only do today’s smugglers not look like that,’ he pointed to the pirates, ‘but they don’t look like that much either.’ This time he pointed to the fleet
of white, unmarked vans.
    ‘As you rightly say, Mr Angel, the smugglers are becoming more sophisticated – more organised. The “van trade” as we call it is simply too obvious these days, in fact the
anonymous white van has become something of a symbol of the beer smuggler, almost a what-do-you-call-them . . . like a trademark . . . a . . .’
    ‘Logo,’ I supplied.
    ‘That’s it. It’s almost shorthand for the newspapers. They show a picture of a white van and slam the word “Bootlegger” underneath it, though
“bootlegging” is inaccurate. The crime is smuggling.’
    ‘Most people don’t think so,’ I said, though even I could hear I was slurring.
    Murdo looked horrified. This time I had gone too far.
    ‘Exactly! You’ve put your finger on it again!’ He slapped his hand down on the table, rattling his laptop and almost sending my empty glass flying. ‘Miss Blugden said you
were sharp, that you cut right to the quick. You’re just the sort of man we’re looking for.’
    I tried to look humble and smile at the same time. I don’t think either worked.
    ‘It’ll be your round, then?’ I asked, offering my glass.

5
    I hadn’t been back in the safety of London for more than twelve hours before I was beaten up, tortured and left for dead.
    When I came round I could see a weak and watery sun climbing over the rooftops, which told me it must be morning. My spine and kidneys hurt as if they’d been speared and twisted with a
corkscrew and my head felt as if an anvil had dropped on it and was still resting there. I could only open my right eye, the left seemed glued shut with something thick and sticky, and the back of
my left hand throbbed with a three-inch diagonal burn.
    I was wearing only a T-shirt (a ‘Somebody Killed Kenny’ Christmas present) which explained why I was cold and starting to shiver. A plastic bag drifted by my face and I could see
empty take-away food cartons, an old shoe, a pile of cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and, from the corner of my good eye, something sleek and furry scuttling away.
    Various smells assailed my nostrils; rotting, vegetable smells like . . .
    ‘Angel? Was that you falling out of bed? Are you awake?’
    Oh,
bloody hell
.
    From the knees down, my legs were still on the bed. My bed. My old bed, in the Stuart Street flat. The rest of me was face down on the floor, which explained the bend and incredible pain in my
spine. I was facing the bedroom window which was wide open, which was why I was so cold. The second-degree burn on the back of my hand fitted exactly the corner of an aluminium food box on which
the word ‘Rice’ was written in green pencil. Who’d have thought they could hold so much heat? My eye seemed to be gummed with a prawn curry of some description and the flattened
box told me that’s where my face had landed when I had rolled off the bed. The fact that there was no sign of any prawns any more explained the sleek figure of Springsteen, who was circling
me in the hope that I was dead and therefore suitable for lunch. All the empty bottles – and some full ones – bore Seagrave’s Seaside Ales labels.
    ‘Angel? Are you sure you’re all right?’
    Oh bloody, bloody,
bloody
hell.
    It was Fenella, clumping up the stairs. I must have left the door open as well as the windows. Why didn’t I just get a neon sign saying ‘Burglars