‘What are you saying?’ he countered.
‘I’m suggesting it’s odd that Keagan didn’t ask the same question. And a man with your experience…’ He let the words hang in the silence.
Myburghe finally flapped a vague hand. ‘It was stupid, yes, and I should have known better. But Keagan shared the view that it was probably the work of a crank. There are plenty of reasons for them — mostly petty. Someone wasn’t granted a work visa, or was refused leave to stay here in the UK. Or a trade deal went wrong and someone felt cheated. It’s simple enough to take grievances out on the nearest representative — which is usually the embassy staff. Nobody takes them terribly seriously. Anyway, after a while they stopped and I thought that was the end of it. Then the other… things arrived.’
‘What about the final package?’ Palmer asked softly. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘I don’t know. There was nothing on the outer wrapping to indicate its origins. It arrived one morning.’
‘Stamps? Postmark?’
‘Nothing. It was left on the doorstep.’
Palmer chewed his lip, and Riley thought from his expression that he didn’t believe a word Sir Kenneth had said. One thing was certain, however. Whoever had sent the package was close enough to deliver it personally.
Some of this must have communicated itself to Myburghe, because he said finally, ‘I think whoever it is, is foreign. The impression I have is, I don’t know — colourful, if you know what I mean. Keagan has already been through this with me, anyway. And the Foreign Office assigned investigators.’ He pulled a bitter face. ‘Not that they uncovered anything.’
‘Keagan didn’t mention your son,’ said Palmer. ‘Or the details of the package.’
Myburghe lifted his chin again, as if his collar was too tight. ‘Because I don’t wish my son… my son’s fate, to be a subject of general discussion.’ His eyes burned brightly, and the red flush still glowed beneath the thin skin of his face. It was an indication that the drink he was working his way through might not be his first of the day. ‘He’s not someone to be hauled over some investigator’s table and talked about like a statistic. Neither do I wish to have the damned press camped along the drive and dissecting every aspect of our lives in fine detail. I’m sorry.’
Riley watched as he finished his drink with a gulp, and wondered what he would say if he realised that one of what he called the damned press was sitting here right in front of him.
They sat in silence, each staring at the walls, until Myburghe stirred and spoke so softly they almost missed it. ‘There’s no point, anyway.’
It was as if he was admitting his son was no longer alive. It was possibly the first time he’d been able to do so.
‘So why the wedding? Don’t you think it’s a bit, I don’t know… ‘ Riley paused, trawling for the right words.
‘Tasteless? Poor timing?’ Sir Kenneth’s eyes burned and for a moment he looked as if he were about to throw his glass at her. Riley wondered why. Surely people closer to him had already suggested the same thing. But then his diplomat’s training reasserted itself and his face became a blank canvas once more. ‘You could be right.’
‘Actually,’ Riley said calmly, ‘I was going to say risky. All those guests milling around. There will be a lot of unknown faces.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Myburghe raised a hand in apology. ‘Please forgive me. I’m afraid this is all a bit much.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Both my daughters are well looked after. They have people watching them. Victoria, my elder daughter, wanted to postpone the wedding at first, when Christian didn’t come home. She was extremely upset, as you can imagine. She and Christian are — were — very close. But we sat down and talked it through, and felt it would be caving into these… whoever these people are.’ He looked up at them, misery in his eyes. ‘It was a family decision.’
‘And you’ve absolutely no idea who they could be?’ Palmer put in. ‘None at all?’
‘None. I’ve told you. In a life serving this country all over the globe, I’ve no doubt there are plenty of crackpots with a grudge who might have picked up my name and address.’ He gave a bark of disdain tinged with anger. ‘After all, extortion and brutality are growth industries these days, aren’t they? In the end I persuaded Victoria to go ahead. Better to face it rather than knuckle under.’ His chin jutted out determinedly, reminding Riley of a comic book hero facing up to bad news. ‘In any case, if I postponed it, there’s no guarantee they won’t just wait to try again next time.’
Nobody said anything, and Riley almost winced at the pompous tones of British Empire bluff and double bluff bouncing around the room. If Myburghe really thought his son’s kidnappers had gone to all that trouble and would make no demands, or that they would stand by and watch him marry off his daughter without making some kind of statement, he was either deluded or one teacup short of a set.
‘What do you expect us to do?’ asked Palmer, returning the talk to business.
Sir Kenneth swung his way with a look of relief, and it was obvious he’d had enough of being made to face up to his shortcomings. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Palmer,’ he said at last. The look did not include Riley, but she wasn’t surprised. ‘One or two of your former um, clients, have spoken impressively of your services. Victoria speaks well of you, too, of course.’
Palmer took in the name-dropping without a flicker. But when Riley turned and stared at him, wondering about the last comment, he studiously avoided her eye.
She knew almost nothing of Palmer’s earlier background, or of the circles he moved in. But the one thing she hadn’t been prepared for was that he was acquainted with Victoria Myburghe, the blushing bride-to-be.
Then she became aware that Sir Kenneth had asked her a question.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your background,’ he repeated with a tinge of impatience. ‘Is it the same as Palmer’s?’
It put Riley in mind of being interviewed by a headmaster who didn’t really want her in his terribly posh school, but was having to accept a quota of rough for the sake of appearances. He’d evidently decided that anyone in the security business was impertinent and rude, with the possible exception of Palmer, and clearly a woman wouldn’t be very different.
‘Pretty much,’ she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel.
It was evidently sufficient for Myburghe. He made a grunting sound. There was no doubt that, having spent time in Colombia, he would have met more than his fair share of security men and women. Because of the diplomatic and political circumstances in which he’d lived and moved, perhaps he’d managed to do so without having to consider any of the individuals as people before.
‘Glad to hear it.’ He looked doubtful but soldiered on. ‘Some of Keagan’s team have been assigned to cover the church. There are various government and Foreign Office people attending the service, and Keagan thinks the journey between the village and here is a weak spot. I’d like you two to concentrate on the house and grounds, and obviously Victoria and Annabel, when they get here.’
‘That won’t be easy, with just two of us,’ said Palmer. ‘They’re unlikely to stay together, and in a crowd of any size, that leaves us overexposed. I recommend we get more people in.’
‘I appreciate that. On the other hand, I know enough about security to realise that I could draft in a small army, and it still wouldn’t guarantee their safety. Just do what you can. Please.’ He looked at his empty glass and put it down on the desk with an expression of regret.
Palmer said nothing, but conceded the point. A large team could never ensure absolute safety. On the other hand, while two focussed professionals blending with the crowd might spot trouble before it happened, it was hardly throwing a wall of steel around them.
‘And after the wedding?’ Riley asked. ‘They could still be vulnerable.’
Myburghe nodded. ‘Victoria is delaying her honeymoon, so she won’t be travelling for a week or two. Perhaps you have some suggestions?’ His eyes sli
d to Palmer for guidance.
‘I’ll put a couple of extra people on them,’ said Palmer, getting to his feet. ‘I know their addresses. They’ll be in place before either of your daughters leaves here.’ It was as much an instruction to Sir Kenneth as a reassurance. ‘In the meantime, we’ll do a thorough security check of the place. Do you have a list of all staff working here over the next couple of days?’
‘Of course,’ Sir Kenneth nodded. ‘Good point. I’ll see to it.’
Myburghe approached the window and watched as Palmer and Gavin crossed the rear garden. They moved comfortably, clearly attuned to their surroundings and each other. He felt a faint rush of comfort at their presence. They seemed to be a good team.
But he knew they weren’t enough — they never could be. Not by a long way.
He wondered what was yet to unfold; what barricade would be breached in order to turn the screws on him further? What nameless horror would they mount next to make him do what they wanted?
The door opened and the slender figure of Victoria stepped into the room. She was tall and graceful, and as she leaned forward to greet him with a kiss, he was reminded at once of the huge risk he was taking by going ahead with the wedding. Yet when he had suggested cancelling it in the wake of Christian’s disappearance, she, like Annabel, had protested strongly. Thankfully, he pondered, although they knew about the threats, they didn’t know the reason for them.
‘Is she his girlfriend?’ Victoria asked, watching the two figures in the garden.
‘I’ve no idea. I doubt it.’ Myburghe knew that Victoria and Palmer had once been more than acquaintances. Thrown together by circumstance when Palmer was hired to look after a friend of hers, Victoria had gradually become fascinated by the seemingly nonchalant but watchful ex-military policeman hovering in the background. It had taken solid resolve and the counsel of Susan, his wife, to make him step back and leave them to it, rather than rush in and try to stop the relationship developing. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. There’s no need.’
‘No regrets?’ he queried, and instantly wished he hadn’t.
But Victoria smiled and touched his arm, knowing he was concerned for her. ‘No. Frank’s a lovely man. But I wouldn’t have figured very much in his life. It was fun, but… ‘ She shrugged. ‘I’m pleased he’ll be around, though. He’s solid. I trust him and so does Mummy.’
Myburghe grunted, recognising the warning signals against becoming the over-protective father. ‘Very well. Are you off?’
‘Yes. Back to London. I’m having dinner with Annabel and a couple of girlfriends tonight. Perhaps you could make my apologies to Frank?’
He nodded and watched her walk from the room, then turned and looked at a photo of Christian on the wall. His son was smiling into the camera with all the innocence and promise of youth, and Myburghe felt sick and ashamed, the guilt washing over him as it did every waking minute, and even in his dreams.
‘Do you believe it?’ said Riley, as they made their way back to the car. ‘That he ditched all the letters and stuff? How dumb is that?’
‘People do strange things.’ Palmer had been quiet on the tour of the house, checking exits and stairs, familiarising themselves with the general layout. Now they were off to look at the approaches to the village and the house and grounds. It wasn’t giving them much time, but it was essential they got to know their way around in case disaster struck.
‘And you’re okay with that?’
‘No. I’m just trying to figure out why he did it.’
‘You make it sound as if it was deliberate.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘But that would mean-’ Riley stopped and looked at Palmer, who kept walking, but at a slower pace.
‘It would mean,’ he finished for her, ‘that he didn’t want the letters traced.’
She caught up with him, digesting the implications of that idea. The only conclusion was astonishing. ‘He knows who sent them? That’s incredible. What makes you think that?’
He stopped. ‘Most normal people getting threatening letters would go straight to the police. Myburghe’s had far worse than letters, but with a hotline right to a close protection unit, he’s done nothing about the latest package. I don’t think he even told Keagan about the finger. Why not?’
‘Palmer, that’s a bit wild, isn’t it?’
‘Depends what he’s hiding, doesn’t it?’ He started walking again and Riley had to scramble to catch up.
‘He didn’t mention his wife at all.’
‘Ex-wife,’ Palmer explained. ‘They split last year. Lady Myburghe lives in London. She’ll be at the wedding, though.’
‘Does she know about Christian?’
‘Yes. He had to tell her in case it hit the headlines.’
‘You mean he considered not telling her?’
‘They don’t communicate much.’
‘Jesus, no kidding!’ Riley thought back to the websites she’d searched. She was certain there had been a photo of Sir Kenneth and his wife taken sometime in the last year or so. Whatever had driven them apart must have been recent. It might be worth taking a closer look.
As they approached the car, she said casually, ‘So you know Victoria Myburghe.’
‘Knew her,’ Palmer corrected her. He held out the keys to the Saab. ‘Do you want to drive?’ The way he said it told her he was hoping it would take Riley’s mind off asking awkward questions.
‘No, thanks.’ She climbed in and settled herself down. ‘She’s pretty. Girlfriend, was she? Victoria, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘Well, she wasn’t a college chum, was she?’
‘Hardly. I’d have been arrested for cradle snatching.’
‘Oh, come off it. She can’t be that much younger than you. Anyway, hadn’t you heard? Some girls prefer the more mature man.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘So where did you meet her? Was it at a Young Farmers’ ball in Chipping-Cum-Stately? No, of course not. You don’t do farms, do you? Or — ’
‘If you must know,’ he said with careful precision, taking the car smoothly down the gravel drive at speed, ‘I met her in London when I was hired to watch over a friend of hers by an over-protective father. They were like Tweedledum and TweedleDee. They went everywhere together. I had to troll along to the same restaurants to keep an eye on them. That’s all.’ He drifted expertly round the fountain, throwing a spray of gravel onto the grass.
That’s going to play havoc with the lawn mower, thought Riley. ‘So you didn’t have a relationship, then?’
‘No. Could we discuss something else?’
Riley smiled at him. ‘Not yet. Bear with me — I’m naturally curious about the ruling elite. So no kissy-kissy? No showing her your army tattoos in the summerhouse? Not even once?’
He looked sideways at her and she saw a cool and amused glint in his eye. ‘We got on while the job lasted. But that was it. Getting hooked on the client or any of their mates doesn’t go down well in my business. It makes you both vulnerable.’
Riley smiled and nudged his shoulder. ‘You old dog, you. It worked with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. You shouldn’t knock it.’
He said nothing. But Riley thought she detected the faint edge of a smile on his lips.
**********
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
John Mitcheson waited by a magazine stand and watched three men in army uniform patrolling the concourse of Baranquilla International airport in northern Colombia. They were heavily armed and watchful, and clearly looking for certain faces among the travellers and greeters thronging the airport. As if in unspoken collusion, the crowd opened before them, careful not to walk too close, then closed again behind them like a school of multi-coloured fish around cruising sharks.
Mitcheson was dressed in a pale lightweight suit and white shirt, smart enough to pass as a businessman, but not so smart as to attract the wrong kind of attention, such as these security men or con artists loo
king for an easy mark. He had earlier bought a copy of a local newspaper and was idly scanning the pages without reading, more intent on watching the tidal flow of the crowd moving through the terminal. He hadn’t spent enough time in this country on his last visit to get a real feel for the place or the language, so none of whatever was in the news really meant anything.
He yawned and felt the grit of a nineteen-hour flight and two stopovers beginning to take effect. The air conditioning in the building seemed to be spasmodic, with occasional welcome downdraughts of cold air alongside pockets of warm, humid fug, heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of overheated travellers. He needed something to drink but was putting it off until his contact showed up.
After completing his delivery of a packet of documents to a lawyer’s office in Panama City — the original reason for his journey — Mitcheson had secured a cheap onward flight aboard a cargo plane to Baranquilla. It meant making the shortest of stopovers before turning round to leave again, but that suited him fine; the last thing he wanted to do was hang around here and come to the attention of the military authorities. Luckily, he’d been able to persuade his local contact to meet him here rather than in Bogotá, avoiding the dangers of entering the capital’s airport where security was higher and faces were scanned more rigorously.
He checked his watch, wondering whether to call Riley. He decided not. She had no idea where he was, and would probably blow a fuse if she knew what he was doing. But after what she’d told him about the threats to Myburghe and the possible links to FARC or the cartels, he’d begun to have serious doubts about what she was getting herself into. British diplomats occasionally got on the wrong end of violent protests, but it was rare for the fight to be carried overseas, and rarer still for it to become so personal.
A familiar face appeared among the crowd. The man was middle-aged, stocky and slightly less than medium height, dressed in crumpled slacks and a linen jacket, like so many others here. He was casually wandering along, but there was no disguising the watchfulness in his eyes as he filtered through the bustling throng.
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