Page 41 of The Nameless Ones

In the event, there was candy – boxes of Swedish Fish and Milk Duds – and some polite conversation passed between Angel and Canton on the journey, the former’s animosity toward the latter being general rather than specific, and arising from the aforementioned distrust of federal law enforcement. Canton’s radio was tuned to one of those classical music channels aimed at those anxious to improve themselves but hampered by short attention spans.

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why you’re here?’ said Canton at last, as they turned off Euston Road and entered London’s congestion zone.

‘I want to catch up with a friend,’ said Angel. ‘I may even take one of those bus tours. I didn’t have a chance last time I was here.’

‘Well, you were otherwise occupied, what with you and your buddies leaving a trail of bodies and all.’

‘A “trail” might be an exaggeration. And a couple of them were down to you, or so the newspapers said, unless you plan on demanding a retraction.’

‘Thankfully, I wasn’t actually named.’

‘You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel,’ said Angel.

‘It wasn’t my light I was hiding.’

Which was true. Canton had taken the heat for killings that would otherwise have left Parker, Angel, and Louis with awkward questions to answer. It didn’t seem to have hurt his career, Angel thought, unless he was being forced to moonlight as a limo driver to make ends meet.

‘So this isn’t a business trip?’ said Canton.

‘It’s personal all the way.’

‘Huh,’ said Canton. ‘I wasn’t aware that SAC Ross had expanded into leisure tourism.’

‘I think he’s planning for his retirement,’ said Angel. ‘You know how much he hates idle hands.’

They crossed Oxford Street and edged into Soho.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Canton, ‘if you anticipate problems arising out of your activities here, I expect to be informed before they happen, not after. For old times’ sake.’

‘Is that a warning?’ said Angel.

‘Call it a government advisory,’ said Canton. ‘Unofficial, of course.’

‘Sure,’ said Angel, as they pulled up in front of Hazlitt’s on Frith Street. ‘By the way, you got any “Get Out of Jail Free” cards, just in case?’

Canton stared at him, stony-faced.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

‘I’ll just take the candy, then,’ said Angel. He liberated two boxes of Milk Duds, dropping them into his pocket. ‘And thanks for the ride. Five stars, no question.’

Hazlitt’s had been recommended to Angel by Bob Johnston, a retired Maine bookseller who was now living happily in London with a woman named Rosanna Bellingham. Johnston and Rosanna had a number of shared interests, among them books, gin, and each other. Johnston had opted to stay in London after traveling over from Maine to help Charlie Parker with some research on a case. This had resulted in Johnston being rendered permanently deaf in one ear and having a number of his fingers broken, which was what sometimes happened to people who entered Parker’s orbit.

Angel unpacked, freshened up, and met Johnston and his inamorata at the Phoenix Arts Club on the Charing Cross Road, where they ate decent comfort food while resting actors sang show tunes around a piano. During the lulls between songs, Angel explained to Johnston and Rosanna his reason for being in London, and requested their assistance with what was to come.

‘A kidnapping?’ said Johnston.

‘The appearance of one,’ said Angel.

‘I’ve never kidnapped anyone before,’ said Rosanna.

‘And you’re not about to start now,’ said Angel. Rosanna Bellingham, he thought, looked to be worryingly enthused by the idea of an abduction. He believed she might have missed her vocation.

‘What if she doesn’t want to be kidnapped?’ said Johnston.

‘Nobody wants to be kidnapped,’ said Angel. ‘And for the last time, an actual kidnapping is not what it is.’

‘Bob’s right,’ said Rosanna. ‘What if she says no? Because you’ll have played your hand, and if you let her walk away …’

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