Free Angel Touch by Mike Ripley

waitress’s notepad and pencil clipped to a studded leather belt, which held the shirt around her waist, and a bootlace tie added to the gunfighter image. I doubted if she got many complaints about the soup being cool. Instead of asking if someone was ready to order, she probably said: ‘Feeling lucky, punk?’
    â€˜Is everybody happy with that?’ was what she actually said. ‘No vegans, gluten-free freaks or anti-salt campaigners?’
    â€˜We always eat our greens here, Mrs Pilgrim,’ said Patterson with a sickly smile. ‘Otherwise we don’t get any pudding, do we?’
    â€˜Good. Then I’ll serve.’
    â€˜Er ... one thing,’ I said hesitantly.
    â€˜Yes?’ asked Mrs Pilgrim sharpishly.
    â€˜Have you used fresh lime juice in the sorbet?’:
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Pity, it gives the lychees an extra tang.’
    She smiled as if she’d just seen a child drop an ice-cream and turned away to open the door. She wheeled in a heated trolley and served out four bowls of soup, the bowls being
fine china with lids on. I thought of my meagre kitchen back at Stuart Street, and I liked my grub, don’t get me wrong. But this was how the other half lived without a doubt. Strike
that; make it the other seven-eighths.
    Mrs Pilgrim closed the door behind her, and Patterson dropped the small talk as subtly as if he’d banged for order with a gavel.
    â€˜I’m told you can help us with a slight problemette we have, Roylance. You don’t mind if I call you that?’
    Problemette? Roylance? Who wrote this guy’s script?
    â€˜You’re buying lunch, Tel, you can call me what you like.’
    Patterson just stared at me, although I knew he was still alive, because I saw his jaw working a couple of times. To my right, Salome choked quietly on a water chestnut. To my left, Alec Reynolds started the deep breathing exercises his psychiatrist had taught him to help combat moments of stress.
    â€˜Er ... well ... good. Fine.’ He spooned some soup to give himself time to think. He’d probably come across people like me before, but he’d never had to talk to them.
    â€˜I think, Terry, that we should tell Roy why we wanted to talk to him,’ said Salome, putting emphasis on ‘Terry’ and ‘Roy’ in the hope that we’d both notice. Well, I would if he would.
    â€˜Yes, Terry,’ said Alec. ‘We’ve got to put Roy into the matrix on Capricorn Travel.’
    â€˜You’re right, Alec. Will you input or shall I?’
    I finished my soup and leaned forward on my elbows just to prove I was an oik not to be trifled with.
    â€˜Listen. Before anybody plugs me into the mainframe, let me tell you what I know, and then you can tell me what the hell it’s all about. Fair enough?’
    Patterson and Alec looked at each other, their eye movements faster than Morse.
    â€˜Okay,’ said Patterson slowly. ‘You lead, but pas devant les domestiques.’
    He pressed the bell for Mrs Pilgrim, and they small-talked among themselves while she cleared the table and served the next course – Chinese-style duck, served dry and fruity, with three-inch diameter pancakes, spring onions and shavings of cucumber accompanied by a small bowl of hoisin sauce. I gave her my best smile as she leaned over me, but I resisted the temptation to ask for chopsticks.
    As she left, I asked Salome if she really was one of the firm’s domestiques.
    â€˜No, she’s the founder of Mrs Pilgrim’s.’
    I looked suitably blank and did a ‘so?’ shrug.
    â€˜Just about the most successful external catering company in the country,’ she said in her don’t-you-know-anything voice. ‘It’s a franchise deal supplying high quality function
food to City firms. Cash for her, no overheads for us. It’s a business she started with some girlfriends from university, apparently. There are four of them and