No Tears for the Lost

by Magson, Adrian

  When she looked up, the figure had stepped away from the car and was walking purposefully towards her, head down. It was a man and he was holding a heavy stick.

  Riley felt the choke of fear grip her throat. She still couldn’t make out his features. She checked her rear-view mirror. The drive behind her was empty, but there was too little room to turn round – and the man was only a few feet away. She ducked her head and scrabbled in the glove compartment, fingers brushing over paper, the car’s information folder and some batteries, before she found a small can of de-icer. It wasn’t Mace but would be painful enough to the eyes to give her a fraction of time to do something – as long as he got close enough for it to be effective.

  Then he was alongside and tapping at the window. All Riley could see was a tall frame and a strong hand clasping a heavy stick, like a club. With a sick feeling, she realised she might as well face him down rather than wreck her car trying to get by. She pressed the button to lower the glass a fraction, waiting with her thumb on the button of the spray can as the man bent and peered through the gap.

  ‘Bit heavy on the brakes, there, weren’t you, missus?’ he commented.

  ‘Palmer!’ Riley felt a wave of relief wash over her, fighting to compete with the urge to give the familiar, grinning face a blast of the spray for scaring her.

  Before she could say anything, he gestured at the car behind him, a muddy Saab 95. ‘Follow me and I’ll treat you to a cream tea.’

  ‘I don’t want a cream-’ Riley started to protest. But he was already walking away, tossing the stick into the bushes.

  ********

  CHAPTER SIX

  Palmer led her on a fast drive to an inn a couple of miles away and pulled into the car park. He climbed out of his car and disappeared ahead of her through the front entrance. By the time she joined him in the dark-timbered lounge, he was flicking through a local magazine, long legs stuck out before him in careless disarray as if he’d been there all day.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Palmer?’ Riley nearly exploded as she slumped into a well-worn club chair across from him. ‘And what are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me back there!’

  A young woman’s head poked out from behind the reception office doorway, then ducked back again when she saw no blood was being shed.

  Riley’s initial relief at seeing Frank Palmer at the entrance to Colebrooke House had now given way to a deep suspicion that Donald Brask had once again donned his Mother Hen cap and asked Palmer to keep an eye on her. He’d done it before and it would never have surprised her that an unaccustomed dose of flu in Donald had awoken some temporarily dormant feelings of concern for her wellbeing. Especially if he felt that going after Myburghe was fraught with danger.

  ‘Going on?’ Palmer dropped the magazine and flicked back the twin halves of a carefully rumpled sports jacket. The rest of his clothes were his usual blend-in, comfort uniform of slacks, soft shoes and dark cotton shirt, but no tie. Palmer only did ties under sufferance, although Riley knew he sometimes carried one with an alternative outfit in the back of his car for making quick changes when on surveillance work. ‘Suppose you tell me. You’re the one who was planning on assaulting me with a can of – what was it, hair spray? Tea’s coming, by the way. I asked for extra jam and cream.’ He gave her an innocent look and a raised eyebrow, a signal she recognised as showing he was prepared to out-wait her for an answer.

  ‘It was de-icer, actually,’ she retorted. ‘And how was I supposed to know it was you standing there waving a big stick?’

  She had first been introduced to Frank Palmer at Donald Brask’s insistence when embarking on a dangerous assignment a couple of years before. Faced with the lethal attentions of a criminal gang whose members had shown few reservations about killing people who got in their way, she had reluctantly enlisted his help. Her initial impression had been of a laid-back man with low energy levels and a marked reluctance to get involved unless absolutely necessary. Subsequent events had forced her to revise those first impressions, as he had proven him capable of ruthless efficiency, and in the time they had been acquainted, they had come to know and trust each other. They had built an easy, if sometimes prickly rapport, more akin to long-term partners than occasional colleagues, although their relationship had never shown signs of developing into anything stronger.

  ‘Why are you following me-’ She paused as a waitress appeared with a tray of cups, saucers and the makings of a cream tea, depositing them carefully in the middle of the coffee table and departing quickly with a shy smile. ‘Why are you following me around?’ she hissed at him, but found the lure of scones and jam, not to mention cream, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in hours. She reached for a scone and a knife.

  ‘Why the hell should I be following you?’ he retorted indignantly. ‘I’ve got better things to do with my time.’

  ‘Yeah, right. So you being here is just a huge coincidence?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m on a job. Tea, dear?’ He reached for the pot and waited for her to nod assent. ‘And before you start again,’ he continued, ‘I hate to sound one-uppish, but I was actually at Colebrooke House first.’ He pushed a cup towards her. ‘Which means, technically, you were following me. Were you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ While she finished a mouthful of scone, jam and cream, Riley debated whether she should believe him. He actually sounded sincere, although she’d known Palmer lie convincingly enough when the occasion demanded. Maybe he was just playing dumb and knew what she was doing here all along.

  ‘I said, were you following me?’

  ‘I’m on a story, if you must know,’ she said forcefully, but her indignation was beginning to evaporate. ‘It’s what I do, remember?’

  ‘I can see that.’ He leaned round the table and stared pointedly at her legs with an appreciative grin. ‘New line of attack, is it?’

  Riley felt herself redden and pulled in her feet. She rarely wore a skirt and high heels, preferring instead the comfort of slacks or jeans and a jacket. For this job, however, she figured it had been worth the effort to look a little more formal. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The lead you’re following.’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘Because if you don’t you’ll develop nosebleeds and have sleepless nights. Come on, you know you’ll tell me in the end, anyway.’

  She gritted her teeth. Had Palmer been another journo, there was no way she’d have considered it. Needs must, however, although she wasn’t about to spill everything, just in case Tristram was perpetrating a huge hoax. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she said finally, and settled on the only plausible reason for her being there. ‘It’s about Sir Kenneth Myburghe.’

  He rolled his eyes with a pained air. ‘Christ on a motorbike, I’d figured out that much already. What about him?’

  ‘His daughter’s getting married. I thought I’d do a background piece.’

  Palmer lifted an eyebrow. ‘You. Covering a wedding.’ His tone was as flat as his gaze, laden with disbelief.

  In spite of her toying with the truth, Riley’s hackles rose in response. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I have to pay the rent, too, you know.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry – that was rude and insensitive of me.’

  ‘Palmer, don’t patronise me. Donald called you, didn’t he? He’s suffering from a dose of flu and it’s making him get all motherly in his old age. He changed his mind.’ Then she saw the ghost of confusion drift across his face and realised that Palmer hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. She swore silently. ‘Dammit – what were you doing there?’

  Palmer helped himself to a scone and took his time spooning on a thick helping of cream and jam. Typical, thought Riley savagely, reaching for her tea. Cream first - he has to be different.

  ‘I’ve been hired to do a study of security around Colebrooke House,’ he said, with what she thought was a sligh
t air of pomposity. Or maybe it was the mouthful of scone and cream that was making speech difficult. ‘It’s an exercise called risk-assessment.’

  ‘Against what?’

  Palmer swallowed and showed his teeth. ‘People like you, mainly.’

  ‘Really? Why should-?’ Then it hit her. ‘It was you! You blocked my interview, didn’t you?’

  Palmer studied her for a moment, his eyes impossible to read. There was humour in there, and friendliness. But there was also caution born of long experience, even when dealing with friends. He said, ‘You shouldn’t take it personally. In the run-up to the wedding. I decided to bar any press interviews.’

  ‘Why?’ Riley was puzzled. With Sir Kenneth Myburghe high on the diplomatic totem pole, he would surely have a single man or a team of close protection officers around him. Yet from what Palmer had said, that wasn’t the case. She wondered why. ‘And who are you taking over security from?’

  Palmer sighed, aware that Riley would continue to gnaw away at this until she got the answers she was looking for. ‘Do you know anything about him?’ he asked. ‘His working background, for example?’

  ‘I know he’s been in Colombia.’

  He nodded. ‘He spent years at the embassy in Bogotá. They’ve got some dangerous people over there, including the drug cartels, FARC or any number of other groups with a grievance to air.’

  ‘FARC?’

  ‘Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarios de Colombia,’ he supplied the translation easily. ‘They’re conducting a war against the government and use drugs to fund it. There’s always a risk of them taking action against a representative of the British or US governments, just to regain face among the locals.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’

  ‘Well, you know me - I read all the right books, keep my finger on the pulse.’ He reached out a fingertip to scoop up a blob of cream and ate it with relish. ‘Next question?’

  ‘Question?’

  ‘Of course. I know you’ve got one – you always do.’

  ‘Okay. Why would these groups have a grievance against Myburghe now he’s retired? He can’t do anything to them, can he?’

  ‘Search me. He represents – or used to, anyway - British attempts to wipe out the drugs trade. And according to my brief, that’s reason enough for me to check out everyone who comes near him.’

  ‘But I’m not a FARC person – and we’re a long way from Bogotá.’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘If anyone wants to settle some old scores, he and his family are soft targets.’ He gave her another infuriating smile. ‘In any case, your trip down here has got nothing to do with the wedding, has it? You don’t do that sort of fluff stuff.’

  Palmer knew her better than anyone else, but Riley had learned to read him fairly well, too. And right now she sensed there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  Then something else occurred to her. Weller.

  ‘That’s why Weller was asking questions about you!’ she said, barely able to hide her excitement. ‘Your name popped up alongside a senior diplomat, and they want to know why.’ She frowned, trying to figure out what it meant. ‘Is that normal?’

  Palmer gave one of his infuriating shrugs. ‘No idea, guv. Maybe this Weller’s put all his paper clips in a chain for the week and doesn’t know what to do next.’

  ‘Aren’t you bothered?’

  ‘Why should I be? I’ve done nothing illegal. They’re probably just dotting the tees and making sure I haven’t got a Bazooka in my back pocket and a grudge against people who insist on paying me to work for them. It’s typical security department paranoia.’

  Palmer and his laid-back attitude made it all sound so reasonable and straightforward. A former diplomat in one of the world’s hot-spots might have upset somebody over the years, either real or imagined – and in Colombia, Riley was guessing it might have been real – so it would be reasonable to expect that he would need a level of protection for a while after returning. But how long could it continue? The UK wasn’t like the States, where important government officials dragged an army of sun-shaded heavies around with them for life. Over here, she thought cynically, they’d be lucky to get a guide dog on loan for a couple of weeks.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit high-risk? For you, I mean. What if someone takes a pop at him?’

  ‘I doubt it’ll happen. They wouldn’t leave him unprotected if they were that concerned. The official team signs off in a couple of days, and I’ll take over from there. After that, who knows?’

  ‘So you,’ she surmised, switching tack, ‘being his protection detail, would be able to get me in to see him, wouldn’t you?’ It was a crude attempt, but one she thought might work.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Dream on, kiddo,’ he replied shortly, and gave a brief chuckle. ‘No way am I going to smuggle you in there. I’d sooner stick a red hot poker in my eye.’

  ‘Palmer!’ Riley protested. ‘After all the things I’ve done for you!’

  His eyebrows shot up a notch or two. ‘Yeah? Name me ten.’

  ‘Pig.’ She scowled at him, but he’d already turned his attention to another scone, which he coated with cream and settled back to enjoy. She let it go and debated what she could say that might penetrate his armour. Not that he’d hold out forever; she’d get to him eventually. The only problem was, how long it would take. ‘I’ll have to find out what he’s been up to some other way, then.’ The comment came out before she could stop it. To cover her mistake, she finished her tea and stood up.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said easily. ‘Out of interest, what did Rockface say?’

  ‘Rockface?’ She stared. ‘Oh, you mean the butler. He’s solid, all right.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. He’s good at his job. I’m just interested in how he handled it.’

  ‘Basically, he laughed at me and closed the door.’

  ‘Was that all? He must have taken a shine to you. He doesn’t like the press much. The last reporter who pushed his luck trying to get the story on the wedding got dumped in the fountain.’ He got ready to take another bite of his scone, then said casually, ‘Anyway, what makes you think Myburghe’s been up to anything?’

  Riley bit her lip. Damn - he’d noticed her slip. ‘I’m not sure I want to tell you now,’ she said, aware that she sounded like a stroppy teenager throwing a tantrum. As he grinned at her with a show of triumph, she added furiously, ‘Don’t worry - there’s bound to be someone who knows why he’s been kicked off the diplomatic list.’

  The effect on Palmer was dramatic: he choked on his scone and sat forward, coughing, his face going red. He waved at her to wait while recovering his composure and wiping crumbs off his shirtfront. Eventually, he stared up at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, did they forget to mention that?’ Riley smiled loftily at his reaction. ‘Word is, Sir Ken’s no longer welcome on the top table at Her Majesty’s official bun-fights. Sounds like he’s been misbehaving, don’t you think?’ She touched her cheek, to one side of her mouth. ‘Cream, Frank - on your face. Wipe it off, there’s a good boy.’

  Then she turned and walked out.

  She was tired when she got home, and only half paying attention when she switched on her laptop and called up her emails. The cat was on the sofa cleaning itself, by which she concluded he’d already eaten downstairs courtesy of Mr Grobowski. She just hoped there hadn’t been too much cabbage, otherwise he’d be going out for the night.

  There was a single message from Tristram, this time in the main body of the email. It made her skin go cold.

  While good men died in the South Atlantic, one bad one was supping with the devil. It’s going to come back to haunt him.

  *********

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Palmer, I need to see you.’

  Riley had sat on the email from Tristram all night, fearing it was simply a ramping up of his claims to gain a greater reaction from her. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had chosen to take
out some deeply hidden frustrations on a complete stranger, preferably a person in a position of influence. Stalkers did it all the time, although they were usually content to try and insert themselves into the VIP’s life by association, gaining kudos by proximity and inferred friendship, a brush-by existence that was ultimately doomed to turn sour.

  But the more she thought about this one, the more she felt there was a serious undercurrent at work here. Whatever Tristram was up to, the focus was too specific to be dismissed as the work of a crank. And though it went against the grain to pull someone else in on the story, she felt Palmer had to know. It was only seven in the morning, but she knew he’d be up and about.

  ‘Aw, shucks,’ he exclaimed yokel-like, when he answered the phone. ‘You missing me?’

  ‘Frank, I’ve some information about your protectee. I think you ought to know.’

  Her use of his first name clinched it. She almost never called him Frank.

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘I think I know someone with a grudge against him.’

  There was a pause. Then he said, ‘I can’t get away until later this morning. The pub in Colebrooke village is called The Armourer. Meet me there at eleven.’

  ‘Okay.’ She disconnected before she was tempted to say more, and headed for the door.

  Palmer’s Saab was already in the small car park behind the pub when Riley arrived in the village, a collection of small, stone-built cottages half a mile from Colebrooke house. She locked the Golf and ducked through the low front door, and found Palmer nursing a fruit juice at a table in one corner. Another glass stood across the table. He looked half asleep, but she wasn’t fooled for a minute.