No Tears for the Lost

by Magson, Adrian

  Riley slapped him across the shoulders and waited while he regained his composure. ‘Thanks, Donald. But pop stars come and go, most of them briefly. I’ll give this Myburghe a look first, just in case.’ She took a final swallow of tea and said casually, ‘I don’t suppose you know what Palmer’s working on at the moment, do you?’ She knew he handled some of Palmer’s assignments, although it would probably take wild horses and a weighted hosepipe to get him to give any details.

  Brask wiped his lips on a silk handkerchief and created a drama out of a simple shrug, before subsiding into another coughing fit. She couldn’t tell if it was genuine or whether he was simply trying to avoid answering her question. Never mind. She’d get to the bottom of it sooner or later.

  ‘I’ll take that as a ‘don’t know’, then,’ she said coolly. A cold shoulder and a little gentle bullying sometimes went a long way with Donald. ‘Please yourself.’ She poured the rest of her tea down the sink and headed for the door. He was a lovely man and always full of concern for her, but she never forgot that he was first and foremost a businessman and therefore always on the lookout for number one. He’d soon come round.

  ‘Dear heart,’ he began, his voice plaintiff. ‘I really think-’

  Riley patted his cheek and slipped past him into the hallway before he could suggest any other stories she should follow up. She wasn’t sure why, but instinct told her that, even if on the basis of dubious messages from a mystery source, the Myburghe thing was worth a look.

  ‘Stand by, Donald,’ she told him. ‘If my instincts are right, we’re up and running.’

  **********

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Back home, she switched on the laptop and waited for her emails to download. There was a message from Tristram, sent ten minutes ago.

  What does it take for a diplomat to be dropped from the diplomatic list?

  Riley typed back: ‘Is this a ‘knock-knock’ joke?’

  The screen remained blank for a full two minutes before the reply came.

  Answer the question.

  Okay, Tristram, she thought. So you don’t have a sense of humour. No need to get ratty.

  She typed: ‘I don’t know. What does it take…?’

  The reply was instantaneous.

  Ask Myburghe. He knows first-hand.

  She sat back and read the text three times. Whatever the words said, there was clearly a hidden sub-text. Unfortunately, so far only Tristram knew what it was. She decided to cut to the chase and hit the keyboard.

  ‘Why don’t we talk about this?’

  We are.

  ‘I mean face to face.’

  There was no reply, and by the length of the pause, it was clear Tristram either wasn’t sure or didn’t want to reveal himself. But that could be for any number of reasons; personal, professional or moral.

  Even criminal.

  Riley sat and wallowed in indecision. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with a story based solely on unsubstantiated and anonymous hints about another man’s honesty. Yet there was something very barbed about these messages. They hinted at something far more than a simple desire to gossip, or a haphazard smear campaign by a malicious spammer.

  And the accused was hardly a nobody.

  Maybe, she reasoned, it was the way the messages were coming to her in this spooky, veiled manner, feeding onto her screen like notes being slipped under the door. Nothing, after all, was calculated to spike any reporter’s interest more than a drip-feed of innuendo, especially when the choice of other stories to work on was less than exciting. Or was she merely responding to a touch of vanity, her ego fanned into action by the thought that this Tristram, whoever he was, had selected her as his contact?

  Her phone rang. It was Donald Brask, still sounding full of cold. ‘Sweetie, I’ve got you an appointment,’ he croaked mournfully, ‘at Colebrooke House. It’s this afternoon, so you’ll have to get your skates on.’

  Riley’s head was still full of Tristram and his emails. ‘Where and what is Colebrooke House?’ she asked, wondering if it was the latest glitzy pad for a headline-seeking pop princess, and whether Donald was intent on pointing her down the track of celebrity journalism.

  ‘It’s in the Cotwolds, off the M4,’ he replied. ‘It’s Myburghe’s country retreat.’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘He’s agreed to an interview about his daughter’s wedding.’

  ‘Donald, you’re a star! How did you manage that?’

  Notwithstanding his stuffed-up nose and sore throat, Donald still managed to preen. ‘Influence, sweetie, influence. The only condition is, you stick to the wedding topic and nothing else.’

  ‘Word of honour, Donald – and thank you! I’ll be in touch.’

  She rang off just as the intercom buzzed three times in quick succession. Moments later, she heard footsteps on the stairs. She went to the door and opened it.

  It was John Mitcheson. He was holding the downstairs door key.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ he said, and leaned through the doorway for a kiss.

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ she replied, responding in kind. She felt a strap curled over his shoulder, and followed it round until she encountered the bulk of a leather overnight bag. She pulled away reluctantly and with a mild feeling of disappointment. ‘You’re off on a job?’

  ‘Yeah. Not long, though. A day, maybe two at most, out of town.’ He followed her into the flat, dumping his bag on the floor. ‘If I can, I’ll drop by.’

  She smiled and stood close to him. ‘We’re like ships that pass, you and I.’

  ‘Better than not, though, eh?’

  ‘I’ll say.’ She leaned back and looked at him, pleased to have someone else to think about for a few minutes. Especially this someone.

  John Mitcheson was in his mid-thirties, tall and tanned, with smooth, dark hair and an easy smile. A former army officer, he now specialised in security work, sharing some of the same working pastures as Frank Palmer. The difference was, Riley suspected Mitcheson ventured closer to the line than Palmer when it came to the risks involved and the sort of assignments he undertook.

  A couple of years younger than Palmer, his military experience had been cut short after becoming unwittingly embroiled in arms smuggling by soldiers under his command in Bosnia. Although he hadn’t been part of the ring, he had made the mistake of speaking up on the men’s behalf, while most other officers would have kept their distance.

  Riley had first met him in Spain, while she was on the trail of a re-emerging London gang trying to promote itself back to the premier league through the traffic in drugs and illegal immigrants. Mitcheson had been working with the gang, but had changed sides in time to prevent himself meeting the same fate as some of its members - ironically, some of them the same men who had caused his earlier downfall in Bosnia. He and Riley had subsequently enjoyed an exciting, if sometimes remote relationship, as Mitcheson had, for a while, been persona non grata in the UK.

  ‘What’s cooking?’ He was referring to her work and eyed the laptop as he sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Something or nothing,’ she replied vaguely. ‘Rumours about a diplomat… might be pie in the sky. Donald’s not enthused because of the security thing surrounding them at the moment. I had to twist his arm.’

  Mitcheson how stubborn Riley could be when following a good story. ‘Is it anybody I know?’

  Riley shuffled up next to him and spun the laptop round so he could see the last message from Tristram.

  ‘Myburghe?’ He frowned. ‘Sounds familiar - I’m not sure why. What’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. This Tristram is either a spotty kid having fun winding me up, or he knows something and wants to spin out the story for as long as he can. It could be a complete waste of time. I won’t know until I start digging.’

  Mitcheson slung an arm across her shoulders. ‘Go with your instincts, like you always do. But watch your back. Donald’s right about the diplomatic scene - it’s touchy territory. Get too close and they might
burn you.’

  They kissed for a while, taking what advantage they could from snatched time together. It was a situation they had become accustomed to, and even Mitcheson’s continued presence in London had not led them to share space together on a more permanent basis. He had a small flat in Islington, and they met when they could, touching base by phone when they could not. It wasn’t perfect, but for now it was all they could manage, neither of them seeming keen to push for more. In the quiet moments when she was alone, Riley sometimes asked herself why, without coming to a firm conclusion.

  Mitcheson eventually broke away and stood up. ‘Sorry – got to go. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Of course. Aren’t I always?’ She followed him to the door and watched him sling the bag over his shoulder. She experienced a small stab of something akin to loneliness each time he left, and wondered if he felt the same. For some reason, it was something she had never been able to ask him.

  ‘The Myburghe thing,’ he asked. ‘Is Frank in on it, too?’

  Mitcheson got on well with Palmer, and understood the relationship Riley had with the ex-Redcap. If he’d ever harboured any feelings of jealousy about how close they were, he had long ago come to terms with them.

  ‘No. He’s off somewhere, doing his own thing.’ She smiled and leaned in for a parting kiss, aware of of the hidden subtext in his question. ‘Don’t worry. If I need to, I’ll scream for help.’

  ‘Liar,’ he said mildly, knowing she wouldn’t. The one thing he’d got to know about Riley was that she was far too tough and independent to play the weak female. But he also knew she would calculate the risks involved very carefully before wading in without a thought – at least, most of the time. It was an aspect of her character that had been a definite attraction ever since he’d met her. ‘Take care.’

  When he’d gone, Riley returned to her laptop and stared at the screen. She was hoping for an answer from Tristram, giving her something more to work on, a hint, maybe, of what was driving him. But the Inbox remained resolutely blank. In the end, she switched the machine to Standby and stood up. Enough of this; it was time to do something constructive. She had just enough time for a quick spot of paper research before heading westwards along the M4.

  She set off for the library, where the reference section offered a variety of valuable information unmatched by Google. The quiet, academic atmosphere always seemed to inspire her thought processes far more than researching on-line at home, and she still enjoyed the feel and texture of printed paper over the soul-less click of plastic keys. If she picked up anything useful, it might help her stray off the subject of the wedding and touch on other things.

  The man calling himself Tristram stared at the screen of his computer, his forehead lined in indecision. He hadn’t been prepared for this development. Sending emails to the journalist, Gavin, had been easy; he’d picked the name off the page of a newspaper and trusted to luck. It was supposed to get things moving. It was part of the plan. But the idea of meeting face to face was something else entirely. He wasn’t good at face to face. He hadn’t been for a long time.

  He looked up at a security monitor on the wall and saw two figures appear on the screen. One of the faces was familiar, the body language well known to him. Tristram momentarily forgot all about his computer and whether he should or could meet the journalist beyond the anonymous confines of his screen. He hurried out of the small room, banging the door back against the wall as he went, the sound echoing off the tiled walls like gunfire.

  ***********

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Colebrooke House was Queen Anne in design, according to the details Riley had uncovered in her research earlier in the day. Built around 1700 by the original local landowner of the time, it was square and redbrick with large, high windows and clusters of tall chimneys, and she was sure she’d seen something like it in a bus tour of Hollywood a few years ago. That one had been a good two hundred and thirty years younger than Colebrooke House, courtesy of a major MGM star with more cash than dash, but the design was the same.

  Unlike Hollywood, where houses vied for space close to droves of other celebrities, this place was located a respectable distance from its nearest neighbours, a clutch of impressive but obviously lesser, stone-built mansions with far fewer trees to shield them from prying eyes.

  It had been a two-hour drive from London, made longer by heavy traffic and slow going once she was off the M4, but still a pleasant change from snarled city traffic. Riley had enjoyed the scenery along the way, persuading herself that taking a trip out on what appeared to be the flimsiest of evidence was worth the punt. If it came to nothing, all she had wasted was some petrol and a few hours of her time. But at least Donald would have some background information to tout to his editor friends.

  She turned in through an impressive set of wrought-iron gates and crunched along a looping strip of gravel drive bordered by heavily-laden horse chestnut trees. There were no signs of the army of staff it must take to keep the place in order, but she did catch a glimpse of one old man with a rake. He was being either suitably deferential at her passing or merely scratching his head, but she waved, anyway, and smiled.

  The drive snaked between two slabs of pasture and into a thick belt of mature trees. The grass borders were uniformly short with precision-cut edges. If it was all the work of the lone raker, he evidently toiled a lot harder when nobody was looking. Every now and then, through gaps in the trees, she caught a flash of rolling countryside, like pastoral snapshots of the world beyond.

  To the rear of the house, glimpsed as the drive curved level with the side of the main building, stood more gardens, with an array of terraces and colourful flowerbeds, while lawned areas dotted with shrubs and trees swept down a gentle slope to a thick belt of woodland running into the distance. She drove on and passed to the left of a large, stone fountain with a cherub spouting water in the centre, and another hundred yards took her between lush explosions of laurel, until the drive opened out to a fan-shaped area of gravel in front of the house. In the middle of this stood another fountain dominated by a stone goblet centrepiece bubbling with water. She pulled up to one side of the parking area and climbed out.

  Dismissing the front entrance as a door would have undervalued its purpose in life; it was tall, wide, glossy and black, and mounted with enough brassware to sink a tugboat. Come the revolution, thought Riley, if a modern peasant army rolled up here to address the natural order of things, they’d take one look at this solid, gleaming barrier and go home for tea and a re-think.

  As if the grounds and house weren’t indication enough of Myburghe’s financial standing, parked a few yards away was a Jaguar in British racing green and a dark BMW 7 series, both polished to a ferocious gleam. Even the tyres had been buffed to their proiginal black, as if the scene had been set for a coffee-table magazine photo-shoot.

  On one end of the house an intricate cluster of scaffolding clambered up the stonework like steel ivy, the poles rigged with ladders and planks behind a partial covering of see-through plastic sheeting. Judging from the workmen and the high-pitched whine of power tools sending a fine cloud of dust swirling into the atmosphere, some major renovations were in progress.

  Riley counted seven bodies in all. Evidently being an ex-diplomat wasn’t hurting Sir Kenneth’s wallet in any way. She couldn’t see any activity related to a wedding party, but presumed that was all going on at the rear of the house.

  She walked up the front steps and located a discreet bellpush. The sound reverberated inside, bringing the approach of heavy footsteps.

  The door was opened by a huge man with impressively broad shoulders and a craggy face like a lump of granite. He looked down at Riley and waited for her to speak. He may have been wearing a sober grey suit and shoes with a shine he could have shaved in, but his manner was clearly that of a butler. If so, Riley thought, he was one of a kind.

  ‘My name’s Riley Gavin,’ she said, passing him her card. ‘I have an appointment with Sir Kenn
eth.’

  ‘He’s not available at the moment. May I ask what it’s about?’ The man’s voice carried traces of a northern accent. He appeared to be in his fifties, but the years sat easily on him.

  ‘I’ve come to do a piece about his daughter’s wedding,’ she explained. ‘My agent made the appointment earlier.’

  To her surprise, the butler gave a sly smile. ‘Do me a favour, love,’ he grated. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’ Without another word, he closed the door with a firm thud.

  She stared at her reflection in the shiny paintwork. What the hell was that about? She leaned on the bell again, but there was no answer. She raised her hand, this time to pound on the wood, then thought better of it. Okay, so they’d had a change of heart about an interview. Now why was that? Still, there were more ways than one of picking up on gossip; given the right approach, the folks in the village might have something useful to say.

  She walked back to the car, certain that she was being observed from one of the many windows, probably by the gentleman’s gentleman having a quiet chuckle at her expense. She ignored it and drove back down the drive, trying to work out her next avenue of approach. There was always the staff, of course, although she doubted they would talk. Alternatively, she could tap whatever contacts she could find in London to see if there were any whispers about Sir Kenneth circulating the corridors of Whitehall and St James’s, where these things had currency.

  As she rounded the final bend in the drive, she found the gateway blocked by a car parked sideways across the opening. A tall, dark figure was silhouetted against the lighter sky, leaning casually against the bonnet. She swore and jammed her foot on the brake, and felt the tyres losing their grip on the loose gravel as the car began to slide. She corrected it in time and jabbed the brake again, bringing the vehicle to a stop against a grass verge as the engine cut out.