‘Of course,’ Palmer replied. ‘What about Sir Kenneth – is he okay?’
‘No idea. But two phone calls were made late last night, alerting the police, both within half an hour of each other and both by male callers. Unfortunately, the local plods couldn’t undo the padlocks on their bicycles and weren’t able to get there for an hour after the calls. Now I know you two wouldn’t do the sort of things that were done to Hilary, but something tells me you might be able to help me in my enquiries. Care to make my life a little easier?’
Riley reminded herself that Weller hadn’t risen high in the police force without having something between his ears. Two phone calls? Palmer had made one; so who had made the second? And was it before Palmer’s call or after? If after, it meant someone had been watching the house and had seen Palmer and Riley enter and leave. The idea was unsettling, and her thoughts switched to Toby Henzigger. Had he also been roaming about in the wilds of Gloucestershire last night?
‘Sorry. Can’t help you,’ she said truthfully. ‘We knew Hilary, of course - he was around Myburghe all the time. But that’s all.’
Weller sighed and stepped towards the house, followed by the PC, then turned and came back. ‘Two things,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘One, you haven’t asked how Hilary died, which I find a little odd in two people with noses for trouble – and one of you a hack. Answer: he was tortured and bled to death, in case you’re interested. Two: there were actually two deaths reported last night, both connected with Sir Kenneth Myburghe. The second was in the States.’
Riley guessed what he was going to say. She glanced at Palmer. By his stillness, he also knew.
‘Who else?’
‘The body of a young man was washed up on a beach in Florida yesterday afternoon. It was identified as Christian Myburghe.’
**********
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘How did it happen?’ The stark image in Riley’s mind was of a pale corpse lying on wet sand, one finger missing. It was accompanied by vivid flashes of David Hilary’s abused body hanging on the wall of the stable block.
‘A drowning. The local police think he went swimming fully clothed while under the influence of alcohol, and got caught in a riptide. Happens all the time, I’m told. Kids get down on the beach for parties and barbecues, drink too much, smoke wacky backy or snort snazzle dust and get carried away. Literally, as it happens.’
‘How did they find him?’
‘A couple of fishermen got him tangled in their nets offshore. They didn’t stick around long enough to say where. Fortunately, there was a wallet and a blood donor card, so the local cops didn’t have to rely on prints to confirm his identity. He’d been dead several days. It wasn’t nice.’
Riley almost felt the question rising in Palmer’s mind and beat him to it; she figured it would sound better coming from her. ‘Was he intact?’
Weller stood back and stared at her, eyes narrowing. ‘That’s a bloody odd question. But since you ask, no. There were some fingers missing and other injuries – probably caused by a boat propeller.’ He straightened up and gestured the PC to move towards the house. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have an unpleasant duty to perform.’
‘Florida,’ said Palmer quietly, as the two policemen disappeared inside. ‘Not quite where I expected. But maybe not surprising.’
Riley agreed. She had been expecting somewhere like Mexico or the Caribbean - locations occasionally tinged with a shade of darkness that might reflect what was happening here. But Florida, especially around Miami, with its long-established assortment of underworld gangs incorporating the mafia and Cuban exiles, more than fitted the bill.
‘Do you want to go back in?’ she asked, nodding towards the house.
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t do grief. Let’s get some exercise.’
‘Suits me.’ She walked alongside him, comfortable in the silence, aware that they both needed time to chew over what they knew and come up with a course of action.
The main problem was, the one thing they needed to know – the whereabouts of Sir Kenneth Myburghe - still eluded them.
‘Christian wasn’t meant to come back, was he?’ she said eventually.
Palmer shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Unless he tried to escape and died in the process. My guess is, it was an arranged hit all along.’
‘But why?’
‘For something Sir Kenneth did. Or something he didn’t.’ He stopped and lit a cigarette. ‘The finger was a last warning; the body was to be the pay-off.’
Palmer went on to explain what he meant. If Sir Kenneth Myburghe had been under some kind of ultimatum, the price of delay might have been the reason for his son’s finger being sent to him in a bag. A clear warning that they were not playing games. The discovery of the youth’s body, however, took it into a different league; it meant Myburghe had refused to comply. The question was, by doing so, had he automatically signed his son’s death warrant?
Palmer threw the cigarette away. ‘Damn. There’s something I still don’t get.’
‘What?’
‘The threat levels: they’re too irrational. One minute they’re sending nasty letters and fake bombs made of silly putty and wires. The next it’s a finger, gutting a bodyguard and killing Myburghe’s son. They don’t match. Why bother with crank letters if they were going to kill the kid in the end, anyway?’
Riley saw where he was leading. ‘Two different people at work?’ Then she had a flash of inspiration. ‘Jacob Worth! He could have sent the letters and the fake bomb. And he wouldn’t have needed to step outside Barnston to do it.’
Palmer nodded. ‘From what you say, he had the motive – he hates Myburghe enough to send malicious emails about him - although we still don’t know why.’
‘You need to ask him,’ said Riley. ‘He won’t talk to me.’
Palmer nodded in agreement. ‘Can you set it up for tomorrow?’
The storeroom in 34A was cramped, hot and claustrophobic, and smelled strongly of soap overlaid with the acid bite of industrial bleach. Palmer was amazed anyone could stand it. Yet for someone apparently suffering a form of battle stress, Jacob Worth seemed strangely at ease among the clutter of cleaning materials, boxes of paper towels and other unlabelled equipment stacked around the walls.
‘I’m sorry about Miss Gavin,’ Jacob said politely, when Palmer explained who he was. He tugged at his blue work shirt and straightened his tie. ‘I didn’t realise…’ He shrugged and looked around as if checking everything in his subterranean domain was present and correct. ‘She wasn’t angry, was she? Only she should have said she was… you know. Or had a photo above the articles, the way some journalists do. That way I’d have known.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Palmer easily. He hesitated, wary of starting out too quickly and sending this man scurrying into whatever safe haven he might have built around himself. ‘She’s sorry she upset you.’
‘No worries.’ Jacob reached across his desk and picked up a blue paper towel. It was ridged and creased from being folded many times, and he proceeded to fold it again and again, concentrating on the task, his fingers moving quickly and firmly until the oblong of paper was reduced to a solid block. ‘No worries.’ He peered at Palmer and paused. ‘You want some tea? I can do tea if you’d like.’
Palmer nodded. It had been a long drive and he was feeling jaded. ‘Tea would be great.’
‘Grand. Grand.’ Jacob leapt up and busied himself with a kettle, mugs and teabags. As he did so, a faint buzzing began in the room, and it took Palmer a few seconds to realise that the sound was coming from the former Intelligence officer.
‘What were you, then?’ Jacob turned away from the kettle as it boiled. ‘You weren’t Navy, were you? I’d know if you were Navy. Army, I bet.’ He turned back and made the tea, his movements economical and practised. He placed two mugs on the table with a bag of sugar and pushed one of the mugs in front of Palmer. The tea looked like gravy.
‘RMP,’ sa
id Palmer. ‘Special Investigations Branch. You?’
‘Defence Intelligence Group.’ Jacob spoke proudly, quietly, and pulled his mug towards him. ‘A small department, self-contained… but we did good work.’ He pointed to a photo on the wall. It showed a group of men in tropical whites, smiling at the camera. The detail was too small to make out faces, but Palmer thought he recognised Jacob in the centre of the group. He looked less shy, smiling happily out at the world.
Jacob blinked a few times, then cleared his throat and said, ‘We tried, you know… to get all the Latin American countries not to take sides. Not many people know that. They probably think it was the politicians or the Foreign Office who did everything. But it wasn’t. Not entirely.’ He nodded and sipped his tea. ‘There wasn’t much time, you see. It all blew up, the Falklands did, and suddenly we had to hit the ground running and start talking to our opposite numbers and others to get them onside.’ He smiled almost slyly. ‘Getting them not to be on-side with the Argies, is what it really amounted to. Stepping back from the line. All the same thing, really, I suppose.’
‘Important task,’ said Palmer. ‘It seems to have worked.’
‘Absolutely. Absolutely.’ Jacob’s response was intense, and he nodded eagerly several times. ‘Absolutely. Vital, in fact.’
The words seemed to jump out as if on impulse, and Palmer decided to bring the conversation back in line before Jacob sank into more reminiscing. ‘Where did you meet Sir Kenneth Myburghe?’
Mention of the ambassador’s name seemed to make the man shrink. He peered into his tea, then looked away and flicked on a small television monitor on one side of his desk as if he hadn’t heard. The blue-grey image showed the mens’ room taken from high on the wall. Palmer guessed the camera lens was situated in one corner where it would command a panoramic view.
‘Jacob?’
‘Bloody perverts,’ Jacob muttered, although nobody was there. ‘I have to keep an eye on them, you know. Damned nuisance, they are. Talk to you while you’re peeing – it’s not right. Puts people off coming here.’ He flicked off the monitor and looked at Palmer as if the interruption hadn’t happened. ‘I was in the north for ten days,’ he said, his voice more businesslike, ‘dodging between Bogotá in Colombia and Quito in Ecuador. Had to use shite little planes flown by madmen. I was working on their military people, trying to get them not to side with Galtieri. It wasn’t a matter of taking our side, nothing like that; we just didn’t want them interfering and sending Galtieri any hardware.’
‘Did Myburghe help?’ Palmer desperately wanted to focus the man’s mind, but knew it wasn’t going to be easy; he had too many memories jostling for position, ready to come pouring out, each one acting as another form of distraction.
‘He should have. But he was always too busy, wasn’t he?’ Jacob pulled a sour face. ‘I asked him… I needed him to get me some introductions, like the others. We had orders to get names of relevant personnel from the embassies. But Colombia was difficult, they said. Sensitive. There had been problems with agreements on the control of the drugs trade. I was told to tread carefully. Even Myburghe said I shouldn’t go blundering in without his say-so.’
‘So you waited.’
‘I had no choice. It wasn’t right, though.’ He pulled another paper towel from a box and began folding it. Then he stopped. ‘I wasted days while he ponced about. And all the time things were threatening to go pear-shaped down in the South Atlantic. In the end, I decided to follow him.’ The words were said softly, as if he didn’t want anyone but Palmer to hear him.
‘You did what?’
‘Well, it was the only thing I could think of. I’d had help from everyone else. So did Tom. There were four of us to begin with, but two went sick. Tom Elliott and me, we divvied up the countries left, those that we knew we could approach, which wasn’t many at the end of the day, but what could we do, eh?’
‘Okay. What happened?’
‘I’d been trained in surveillance and undercover work.’ Jacob grinned, displaying an almost childish self-delight at possessing a valued and secret skill. ‘And a few other bits and bobs. The embassy pen pushers didn’t know that. Thought I was just some pretend-spook filling in for the real ones. But I knew my tradecraft. Was good at it, too. Followed Sir Kenneth right to his meetings. Him and his protector.’
‘Did this protector have a name?’ Palmer kept the questions short. There wasn’t much he could do about Jacob’s rambling approach but try to keep him on track.
‘Hilary. David Hilary. Stood out like a hairy mammoth at a tea party. There were others on the protection detail, but they weren’t close, not like Hilary. Him and Myburghe were tight. Big feller, but good at his work. He didn’t see me, though.’ He chuckled proudly and pushed his mug away. ‘They needed eyes in the back of their heads to see me. Tom was my best mate, you know. Solid. Nice bloke.’ His face softened and Palmer said nothing, waiting for the moment of distraction to pass. Then: ‘I got nowhere, of course, with Myburghe. It didn’t take a genius to see he was up to no good. You don’t meet up with the cartels unless you’re stupid or you have official sanction. And he didn’t.’
‘How do you know that?’
Jacob scowled, then smiled, his expression changing like traffic lights. ‘I checked. You think we went down there without knowing what was what? No way. They gave us open access to Intel material, human and signals, verifiable by the desk controllers in London. We had to know everything that was going on, see, so we didn’t trip over any ops or tricky situations. Who was talking to who, who was with us, who wasn’t. But there was nothing logged. Nothing.’
‘Where were these meetings?’
‘Posh places, like country clubs and gold courses. Most of them were on the outskirts of the city. As far as I could make out, most were fronts for gambling and stuff – places people like Myburghe shouldn’t have been seen dead in.’
It confirmed what Mitcheson’s friend, Co, had described, almost to the letter. Palmer didn’t want to ask the next question, but he had to. They couldn’t move forward without it. ‘What do you think he was up to at these places?’
‘It was obvious, wasn’t it?’ muttered Jacob. ‘He was getting himself in with these people. Why else would a British Ambassador meet known drug gangs?’
**********
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘Can you be sure?’ Palmer felt a degree of certainty begin to drain away. There had been the faintest note of doubt in Jacob’s voice, right at the end. This wasn’t what he or Riley had wanted to hear.
Jacob grew defensive. ‘I couldn’t get that close, could I? But I hung around after one of his meetings, and heard some men talking as they went to their cars. They owned the place, see, so they got careless about security. After all, who was going to threaten them? They had the whole country in their pockets. Pathetic.’
‘Go on.’
‘They were bragging about having a British Ambassador on the hook. Like it was a big achievement. One of them mentioned an I.O.U. – a big one – and said maybe one day they could get a ‘By Appointment’ crest put on their letterhead. It was obvious what that meant, wasn’t it? I didn’t need to know any more. Myburghe was selling out to get himself out of debt.’
Palmer was surprised. ‘You speak Spanish?’
‘Yes. I did a three-month exchange stint with the Spanish Navy. I was a quick learner.’
Palmer nodded. The words ‘on the hook’ could only be interpreted one way: Myburghe was a fish and the cartel wasn’t about to let him go. And the ‘By Appointment’ reference could only have been meant in a supply of goods context. It didn’t take a genius to guess what the goods were, or what they had planned for Myburghe’s future. The simplicity and nerve of it was stunning.
‘Why didn’t you go to your bosses with your suspicions?’
Jacob’s expression tightened and Palmer guessed at a mix of emotions, including guilt, anger and sorrow. His next words confirmed it. ‘I was going to. Had a report r
eady, with times, places, people, all that. But everything had blown up at Port Stanley by then and we were summoned to HMS Sheffield for an urgent briefing. I didn’t have time to file the report.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
He nodded. ‘I told Tom on the way down. He said I should be careful because if there was no proof Myburghe was dirty, I’d lose my job. But I knew I was right.’ He paused, took a deep breath. ‘We were just starting the briefing when the Exocet struck. It didn’t explode, but the impact blew off one of the bulkhead doors. Tom got hit. I couldn’t help him. Next thing I knew there was smoke, oil and flames everywhere and I was being carried off the ship.’ He rubbed furiously at his face, then bent and slapped his bad leg. ‘Got this for my troubles.’
Palmer allowed the silence to grow, but the former Intelligence man appeared to have run out of things to say. He stood up and stretched his legs while Jacob fiddled with his paper towels. As he went to sit down, he saw a newspaper cutting sticking out from under a pile of magazines on a chair. It was yellowed and creased and dated from several weeks ago.
It mentioned the forthcoming marriage of Victoria Myburghe.
‘You started writing to him,’ Palmer said softly. ‘Why, after all this time?’
Jacob dropped the towel and crossed his arms tightly, like a defensive child. ‘I couldn’t stand it. For years I swallowed it, not thinking about him and what he did. Good lads were dying while he was meeting with those…bastards. Lads like Tom.’ He stared up at Palmer with fierce intensity. ‘Tom had a son, you know. Ben’s his name – he’s a DS in the West Yorkshire Police. A good kid, but he should have had his dad. Then I saw the piece about the wedding and… I had to do something.’
‘You could have told Ben.’
‘No.’ Jacob shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have done his career any good. Still got my file, but it’s old now, like the names in it. I wanted to unsettle him – Myburghe, that is.’ He smiled that sly smile again. ‘Used a bit of the old psy-ops – psychology - letting him know it hadn’t been forgotten. It hadn’t gone away.’
No Tears for the Lost Page 18
