No Tears for the Lost

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘Frank Palmer. Bodyguard to the stars.’

  ‘Have you been a naughty boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno. I haven’t looked recently. Why?’

  ‘There’s a big noise from the Met been asking questions about you. His name’s Weller.’

  ‘Gosh, how exciting,’ he murmured. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘He didn’t say why, only that he thought we were joined at the hip and that I’d know where you were and what you were doing.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said nothing.’ When Palmer didn’t respond, she asked, ‘So what are you doing?’ From the flat quality of his voice and a rushing noise in the background, which could have been wind in the trees, he was out in the open somewhere.

  A dry laugh echoed down the line. ‘Jesus, you’re so transparent. So is Weller. I’m on a job, as a matter of fact. Can’t say what or where, of course, otherwise I’d have to kill you. But I can confirm that it’s a beautiful sunny day and I’m thinking of treating myself to an ice cream.’

  ‘Great. Can you tell me what country you’re in?’

  ‘Not even. If Weller comes round again, tell him to mind his own.’ He cut the connection, leaving Riley with the suspicion that she had just done the one thing Weller may have been hoping she’d do. Palmer, ever wary and quicker off the mark, had got there first and ended the call in case anyone was listening in.

  Palmer stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and wondered why one of Scotland Yard’s finest should be taking an interest in his activities.

  He wasn’t unduly bothered by the news, as he hadn’t broken any laws recently. But even the most innocent of citizens could be excused a small frisson of apprehension at finding themselves under the suspicious gaze of the authorities. And with all the extra legislation surrounding every aspect of life and the law, from the Data Protection Act to the current frenzied deluge of anti-terror laws, stubbing a toe on one of the new rules was an increasing danger for those in the private security industry.

  He debated lighting a cigarette, but went for the healthy option and tore off a thick grass stem instead. He chewed on it, angling his tall frame round to study an expanse of neatly tended grass, flower borders and, beyond them, a thick belt of trees which formed the backdrop of his current assignment, near Tetbury in Gloucestershire.

  Palmer didn’t like open spaces. Especially like this, dotted with clumps of greenery large enough to hide a small field gun and backed by enough lush trees for an entire regiment to sit and have a brew-up without being spotted until it was too late.

  He turned to study the large, impressive manor house in the centre of the grounds, one end of which was covered with scaffolding rearing against the sky like a giant Mechano set. That, too, was a problem, but of a different kind. He’d deal with it later.

  For now, he was more interested in keeping the list of problem points around this place to a manageable length. If he itemised every area where security was a living nightmare, he’d run out of paper – and most likely a client in the process. Some people just couldn’t stand bad news.

  Risk assessments were a regular part of Palmer’s routine. As a former RMP, he had a close working knowledge of security procedures and planning, as well as general investigative work. Advising nervous clients on aspects of daily risk-avoidance was something he did on a regular basis. Some were simple, such as advising on the fitting of lights, alarms or buying a large, voracious dog; others were more complex, usually because the client had a chequered history or a background which meant their particular risk levels were outside the norm.

  This current client, he had a feeling, fell into the second category, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had been contacted by phone with a follow-up email and a couriered cheque as an advance against his initial advice. No face-to-face meeting, no background briefing on the client, no contract specifying his operational parameters. Just get on with it and report back, the clipped voice on the phone had instructed him, preferably without asking questions. The man had sounded faintly hostile and had given his name as Keagan. And if he wasn’t a serving or former army officer, Palmer was ready to eat his hat.

  All he did know was that a wedding was scheduled to take place here in a few days time, and his task was to identify any chinks in the armour around this building, and to list them with any recommendations.

  End of job.

  In the brief time available to him, he had taken steps to find out the identity of the owner. When he’d seen the name, he’d realised he didn’t need to do any more digging. He knew the family – one of them better than the others - from a previous assignment, and that Sir Kenneth Myburghe was a diplomat. That fact might raise the security stakes a little higher, but as long as he wasn’t also a mass murderer or manufacturing chemical weapons in a shed at the back, Palmer didn’t much care what he did.

  His mobile rang, tinny and feeble in the open air. It was probably Riley with more bad news. Maybe she’d discovered the United Nations was bugging his office.

  The name Keagan flashed up on the small screen.

  ‘You done, yet?’ The man’s tone was sharp and unfriendly and Palmer decided something must be biting him. Either that or he’d just lost a winning lottery ticket.

  ‘Just about. I’ll send in my report.’

  ‘No time for that. Come to the house. You can do it in person.’

  ‘Does that mean-’

  ‘There’s been a change of plan. You’re hired. You’d better be ready to start immediately.’ The connection was cut, and Palmer reflected that, all things considered, there were probably more formal ways of being offered a job.

  Riley returned to her flat in a thoughtful mood, wondering if something was going on in the capital that she hadn’t heard about. Senior coppers trudging around on their own feet and mixing with the public was a rare occurrence. Usually they had an army of junior faces to do that for them, rank being given to those capable of determining strategy, not asking basic questions.

  As she pondered the intricacies of police thinking, she automatically checked her email.

  There were two new messages: one from an on-line purveyor of steroids, the other from the mysterious Tristram. She deleted the first and was about to add the second, when she read the text on the subject line.

  It was chillingly direct.

  Did you know Sir Kenneth Myburghe is dirty?

  A smiley face sat underneath.

  *******

  CHAPTER THREE

  Riley stared at the screen with an increasing feeling of unease. Her instincts told her this wasn’t an idle spammer with time on his hands or some brain-dead computer nerd looking for laughs at someone else’s expense. And the smiley face in the message box somehow made it all the more sinister.

  But what did it mean?

  She checked ‘Properties’, but it was just a Hotmail address. ‘Tristram’ would probably prove untraceable; it was simple enough to use an Internet café and create a blind email address to send out messages to whomever you wished. She scrolled down the window to see if any other recipients were included. If there were, it meant Tristram was most probably a nuisance, spreading rumour like buckshot to see who got drawn in.

  But her name was the only one.

  She called up Google and fed in Myburghe’s full name, and got an instant list of hits running off the page. At least the man existed, which was oddly comforting.

  She scrolled down the page, occasionally checking the links. But whoever Myburghe was, he seemed to prefer staying out of the cyberspace limelight. Direct information about him was curiously sparse, and no more than she might have picked up from newspaper reports. There were mentions of his name, but nothing accompanied by anything more than events he had visited, and then only as part of a list of delegates or invitees.

  She soon tired of this and clicked on images. These showed a tall, elegant, man with thinning grey hair and the magnolia skin of an ageing academic. In
most of them he was sharing floor space with other figures in penguin suits at a range of charity or government functions. Some showed him with a thin, smiling woman. They were dressed for partying, in elegant clothes and jewellery and mostly holding glasses and smiling into the camera. But the accompanying information revealed strangely little in the way of background detail. And none mentioned what he did for a living or when the photos had been taken.

  Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. It takes real work in the digital age to stay so low on the radar. It wasn’t until she scrolled down the page and came across a Spanish-language site that the picture became slightly clearer. The site yielded clippings from a newspaper in Bogotá, Colombia, listing a clutch of British and American embassy staff and personnel. From Riley’s limited fund of Spanish, it had been lifted from an invitations list for a Colombian Government seminar on the environment and local development issues held three years ago. There was no photo of Myburghe this time, but that might have been for security reasons.

  At least she now knew what he did for a living: he was a diplomat. Or had been. While interesting, it didn’t necessarily mean much, other than that someone called Tristram didn’t like him. Maybe, she reflected, Tristram was an ex-Foreign Office employee with an axe to grind.

  A site on another page led to a society column clip, announcing the forthcoming marriage of former British Ambassador to Colombia, Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s 26-year old daughter, Victoria, to Simon Biel, a banker. A photo showed a tall, pretty young blonde on the arm of a lofty individual with an impressive stomach and no discernible chin.

  The wedding, Riley noted with interest, was in a few days time.

  She chewed over what she had so far, which was that someone didn’t like a shy diplomat whose daughter was about to get married. It was pathetically little, and most days she would have binned the idea and got on with something else. She sat back and ruminated. Was it a story worth pursuing – and if so, what propelled it to that level? Jilted putative son-in-law, perhaps? If so, why not take it out on the daughter instead?

  The fact that the maligned Sir Ken was a former ambassador elevated him some way beyond Mr Average on the news front. By the nature of his job, it meant the source reason for any enmity might lie overseas. But apart from that, the only reason he seemed to be currently in the news was because of his daughter’s wedding. It was hardly reason enough for somebody to take what appeared to be a more than passing and personal interest in him.

  So why the obvious tone of rancour?

  She wondered what the mysterious Tristram was doing right now. Probably grinning smugly over his own cleverness and sending the same message to another sucker to see how many responses he could notch up.

  Eventually, powered by a growing sense of curiosity, she hit Reply and typed:

  ‘Tell me more. Who are you?’

  Three minutes passed before the machine beeped.

  A friend.

  It was followed by another smiley symbol. Totally innocuous and common enough, but sufficient to give Riley a renewed sense of concern. She paused, her fingers above the keyboard, questioning what she might be getting herself into. Simpler beginnings than this had turned into unpleasant situations in the past. But it was too late now; the connection had been made and Tristram, whoever he was, now knew she was hooked.

  She typed back: ‘So tell me your real name.’ She didn’t for a moment believe it was really Tristram, but it was worth a try.

  The screen remained blank. She gave it a minute and tried again.

  ‘Are you wasting my time?’

  Still no answer. She sighed and switched off the laptop. If Tristram were serious, he would get back to her. If not, he’d get bored and try somebody else.

  She checked the time and decided to call on Donald Brask. If he had any crumbs of work on offer, facing him down might get her a headstart on his other journo clients. Besides, she could do with some fresh air and the gladiatorial buzz that driving in London inevitably gave her.

  She grabbed her car keys, told the cat to behave – it was pointless, but a habit she found hard to break - and headed for the door.

  Donald Brask lived and worked alone in a large Victorian house in Finchley. Both home and office, it was his sanctuary from the world outside, preferring, he claimed, the company of his machines and their flashing lights, cursors and ring tones to people and places.

  Over the years Riley had known him, Donald had built up an impressive array of computer power and electronic archives. Armed with this and his little book of contacts in commercial, showbusiness and governmental circles, he claimed to have a finger on the pulse of whatever scandal or intrigue might be in need of uncovering. With an address book of newspaper and magazine editors around the world, he was able to play the market like a virtuoso, seeking out the best offers and contracts for his clients.

  ‘Sir Kenneth Myburghe,’ she asked him, when he opened his front door. ‘Should I know anything about him?’

  ‘Pahum?’ Donald scowled blearily at her and closed the door quickly as she stepped past him. Unlike his customary attire of mismatched slacks and shirts, he was dressed in a garish dressing gown that made him look like an eastern potentate in a bad school play. He was also nursing a thermometer between pursed lips and looking distinctly peaky.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked, suddenly concerned. It was barely noon, and although Donald could be a bit of a drama queen, being too ill to get dressed was not something she had witnessed before. Illness meant time and time was money, and in Brask’s book the two didn’t quite gel.

  ‘I’ve got a sore throat,’ he squeaked, whipping out the thermometer and frowning at the results. He held out the instrument for her to check. ‘See?’ he cried dramatically, his ample belly quivering. ‘One hundred and six! I’m ill!’

  ‘Donald, if it was that high, your head would be steaming,’ she told him bluntly. She felt his forehead. He was a little hot, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not that she knew what might be ordinary for Donald Brask. ‘Take some Paracetamol, drink lots of tea and watch some day-time televison. We common folk do it all the time – it’s called throwing a sickie.’

  She walked through to his kitchen, fitted with every device known to culinary man, and switched on the kettle. She might as well do it for him, otherwise he’d be useless.

  ‘Did you say Sir Kenneth Myburghe?’ he echoed, trailing along behind her, bad throat and thermometer momentarily dismissed. When any kind of ‘name’ was involved, his nose, permanently set on ‘Seek’, was more sensitive than a truffle-hound on heat.

  ‘Yes. I think he’s something in the diplomatic corps, but I can’t find out much more at the moment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, dear. He’s one of Her Majesty’s faceless men in far-flung places. Flour graders, most of them.’ Donald sounded faintly uninterested, and stared at the floor while calling up details from his prodigious memory. ‘Let me see… middle-ranking diplomat, sixties or thereabouts? Couple of kids. No, three. He has a country pile in Gloucestershire somewhere, near the Royal Triangle. His wife lives in London. Something about an amicable split, as I recall. He’s been around a long time but I don’t recall anything newsworthy about him.’

  Riley was surprised Donald knew even that much about the man. ‘How do you know all that?’

  Donald waved a vague hand. ‘Lord knows. Some things come in and stick, others don’t. It was a while back - probably in connection with a diplomatic fundraising event, I expect. Why the interest?’

  Riley told him about the anonymous emails from Tristram. ‘It could be someone with a warped sense of humour or a personal grudge,’ she admitted. ‘But why would they bother – and why come to me?’

  ‘Who knows, sweet pea?’ Donald murmured sombrely, suppressing a cough. He watched as she poured water over tea bags and stirred them. ‘There are some odd people out there, as you know. And you’re not exactly unknown. That Observer piece you did on procurement fraud last month got you a lot of notic
e. Who better to call, when you want to dish the dirt on a VIP, than a star reporter? Better than Hello magazine, although not as well paid, sadly.’

  ‘Is Myburghe still a VIP? I got the impression he was a former ambassador.’

  ‘Quite possibly. But a career in the diplomatic corps doesn’t automatically end with retirement. Some embassy suits go on to even greater heights.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Or lows.’

  ‘In that case, I wonder what he’s been up to?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to dip your little piglets into such muddy waters?’ Donald stared at the thermometer one last time before dropping it into a nearby drawer. His voice was already sounding a lot better, as if the lightweight bout of verbal sparring had given him the energy he needed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Diplomats, sweetie. It’s a little too close to Her Majesty’s embassies, isn’t it? With all the terrorist activity at the moment, they’ve got them wrapped up like little cocoons and surrounded by armed heavies, in case Al-Quaeda come calling. I’m not sure it’s healthy at the moment, taking too much of interest in somebody like Myburghe. You could find your pretty face appearing on a security department computer somewhere.’ He chuckled and touched her cheek. ‘Definitely not good for the complexion.’

  Riley stared at him. This didn’t sound like Donald. He usually had the gung-ho attitude of a pit-bull, VIPs and terrorists or not. True, he wasn’t above suggesting she get some backup if danger threatened, which was where Frank Palmer had first come in. But nothing about what she’d seen so far suggested it was a possibility.

  Was it her imagination, or was he trying to put her off this job?

  ‘If this Tristram has got something on Myburghe, we should find out, VIP or not.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Donald sipped his tea and grimaced as it went down. ‘But there are other avenues worth pursuing. I have a couple of hot tips you could follow up for me – one involving a rather libidinous pop star who’s made a lot of fuss recently about how clean-living she is.’ He chuckled nastily, in spite of his throat. ‘Now there’s a young lady who will go down in flames if she has to - and enjoy it.’ He sniggered at his crude double entendre, then doubled over in a coughing fit, his face turning purple.