Over the years, Frank Palmer had followed more suspects than he cared to think about. He’d tracked men and women across crowded city centres and deserted suburbs; through colourful shopping malls and dreary industrial landscapes; he’d followed them through open territory and down arrow-straight motorways – even, on occasion, along cold, wind-swept canals and waterfronts. Following Varley through London proved simple by comparison. At least, on the surface.
After waving Riley off, Varley walked for a while, his long stride easy and assured, a man working off a leisurely lunch before heading back to the office. He seemed to have time to spare, wandering into one or two clothes shops, but emerging without any noticeable purchases. By the time he reached Grosvenor Square, an hour had gone by and Palmer was beginning to think he was wasting his time. Maybe he was a publisher after all, enjoying some free time. Then Varley seemed to come to a decision and flagged down a passing cab.
Palmer did the same and told the driver that he was on a company initiative test, and promised a generous tip if he didn’t lose the other vehicle.
‘No problem,’ said the driver disinterestedly, and concentrated on the road ahead.
Varley’s vehicle turned north, cutting across Oxford Street towards Marylebone. The journey took a brief turn along the crowded chaos of Marylebone Road, then turned left, skirting Regent’s Park and picking up speed. Palmer told the driver to hang back. The leading cab eventually turned north-east, finally pulling in near a row of shops in Camden Town.
Palmer told the driver to pull over. Ahead of them, Varley paid off his cab and crossed the pavement, stopping for a moment to look round before entering a glass-fronted shop.
Palmer handed the driver his money and dodged across the street, heading for a café on the other side. He turned once he was through the door and studied the premises where Varley had disappeared.
The shop was called MailBox Services, with a post-box motif on the fascia. It was a post franchise, where boxes of varying sizes could be rented by the day, week or month. The windows were plastered with special offer stickers and a pin-board of personal ads, but Palmer could just about make out the interior. It had two rows of steel boxes, one on each side and a counter at the back, topped by a glass and aluminium security frame.
Varley was standing just inside the door, watching the street.
‘You want something?’
Palmer turned. A jowly woman with a shock of coarse hair was scowling at him from behind the café counter, a dishcloth in one hand. Steam was hissing into the air around her head, drifting over a wobbly stack of cups and saucers and misting the glass on a battered display case holding a selection of tired-looking pastries. There was nobody else in the place, which he took to be a bad sign.
He ordered coffee but gave the pastries a miss on health grounds, and sat back from the window where he could watch Varley without being seen. He thought at first that the publisher was waiting for someone. But it was soon obvious that he was actually watching his back, scanning the street and the faces of passers-by. Where he was standing, he was masked by a series of posters, and would be virtually invisible to anyone coming along the pavement in his wake.
Palmer felt a familiar drumming deep in his chest. Normal people didn’t do this. But then, normal people didn’t have the training or the need. Was Richard Varley unusually cautious – or something else entirely?
Eventually, Varley stepped back from the window and joined a thickset man in a jumper and slacks at the rear of the shop. Palmer assumed he was the owner. They were looking down at something, and Palmer realised that they were discussing a large brown cardboard box by the counter. By the amount of gesticulating going on, Varley didn’t look happy. He bent and tore at the cardboard, and took out what looked like a magazine. He checked the cover before flicking through it in an animated fashion.
After a while, the owner turned to the back and shouted something. A woman appeared and both men left the shop. They walked thirty yards along the pavement and disappeared inside a small restaurant. Varley was carrying the magazine he’d taken from the box. The two men sat down and a waitress approached with a pad.
Palmer paid up and left the café, turning left and walking a hundred yards before crossing to the other side. This would bring him back to MailBox Services without having to pass the restaurant where the two men were sitting.
As he stepped inside, he heard the sound of a buzzer at the back. The shop was empty. He looked around and spotted a security camera high on the back wall. It would have a clear view of the shop and all of the mail boxes. That’s if anyone was looking.
The woman appeared, feet scuffing heavily on the tiled floor. She bellied up to the counter and eyed him with a tired look.
Palmer was trying not to look at the box on the floor, but from the corner of his eye, he caught a splash of colour inside the tear Varley had made.
‘I need to rent a box,’ he explained. ‘Do you have a price list?’
The woman stared at him with a blank expression. He repeated the question, and when she still didn’t seem to get it, he pointed to the boxes on either side and waved some money in front of her. ‘How much?’ he said.
The penny finally dropped and she began to look. As she ducked her head below the counter, Palmer surreptitiously nudged the large box with his knee. It felt heavy. He nudged it again and something shifted inside. More magazines, at a guess. Lots more.
‘Moment,’ the woman murmured, and disappeared through the door at the rear.
Palmer leaned down and slid a magazine from the box, coughing loudly to cover the scrape of cardboard. It was a copy of East European Trade, but with a different cover image to the one Riley had shown him. There was also a stapled pack of labels on A4 sheets just inside the lid. He slid it out. The first dozen sheets bore names and addresses spread right around Europe. Most of them seemed to be in capital cities, many with PO Box numbers. The majority of the addresses on the remaining sheets were in the Middle East and Asia, and Palmer spotted Egypt, Dubai, Jordan, Iran, Syria, Pakistan and a whole host of others. The names of the recipients meant nothing, although he spotted the word Minister among many of the titles.
He weighed the magazine in his hand, recalling what Natalya Fisher had said about the circulation run. ‘Two hundred copies – maybe three. But not more.’
Yet this box and the list with it contained easily twice that number. Was there a reason for increasing the print run? An increase in business, perhaps? Unlikely.
Someone had scribbled in heavy print across the top of the list: Issue 1572 & 1573. The magazines in the box were issue No 1572. Palmer replaced the list and slid the magazine inside his jacket just as the front door opened and the buzzer sounded.
It was the shop owner and Richard Varley. They were standing in the doorway, staring at him.
********
25
As soon as Riley got home, she checked the phone directory and got through to Al-Bashir’s office. It was a risky venture she was about to undertake, but without it, she would always be one step back from finding out some important facts about the man. And sometimes, the full-frontal approach worked where guile didn’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist purred, as soon as she heard Riley’s request. ‘But Mr Al-Bashir is very busy and requires advance notice of interviews. I’ll put you through to our media office - I’m sure they’ll accommodate you.’
‘Please don’t,’ Riley purred back. ‘Tell him it’s about his bid for the Batnev network licences in Eastern Europe. I have information which I think means his bid will fail. I’ll call back in fifteen minutes.’
She called in ten. The woman coolly told her that Mr Al-Bashir would see her the following morning at nine o’clock. She made a note of Riley’s name but asked for no other details.
‘What you want?’ The owner of MailBox Services seemed surprised to find anyone in the shop. He was unshaven and overweight, and in stark contrast to the impeccably dressed man by his s
ide, his clothes were uncared-for and worn.
‘A bit of service would be a start,’ Palmer replied. If they’d seen him take the magazine, they weren’t saying anything. Which was odd. ‘Are you the manager of this place?’
‘Yes. Koutsatos.’ The man looked wary, as if he’d suddenly realised that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusion and could be facing someone in an official capacity. Palmer was tempted to play it that way, but there was a risk the man might ask for some proof of identity.
‘Well, Mr Koutsatos, I’m interested in renting multiple boxes. I came in looking for some prices. But your assistant doesn’t seem to have the details. Maybe I’ll get more satisfaction somewhere else.’ He moved away from the counter. As he did so, he came face to face with Richard Varley. The man was taller than Palmer and broader, and up close exuded a strong aura of vitality and power. His eyes made a brief assessment of Palmer’s face, then he stepped aside without a word.
‘Wait.’ Koutsatos reached over to the pile of leaflets and snatched one up. He handed it to Palmer. ‘I am sorry. She not my usual girl. You come back soon.’
Palmer nodded at him and walked over to the doorway. ‘If you say so.’ He stepped outside and walked away. As he looked back, he saw Koutsatos frantically manhandling the box of magazines through to the rear of the shop, watched by a grim-faced Richard Varley.
Palmer waited a hundred yards down the road, having snagged another cab. It was fifteen minutes before Varley emerged. But instead of hailing another cab, he began walking south.
It left Palmer in a familiar dilemma: either stay in his cab and risk the vehicle being spotted, or hit the pavement himself and hope Varley hadn’t played clever and had a vehicle waiting to pick him up a hundred yards down the street.
He chose the latter and paid off the driver. There was still a risk he could be spotted, but Palmer had confidence in his own abilities to stay out of sight.
Fifteen minutes later, during which Varley took a couple of elementary detours but made no obvious signs of having spotted him, Palmer knew with absolute certainty where he was going. Sure enough, Varley turned off a narrow street and walked across the car park and through the front entrance of Pantile House.
Whatever business Varley had in the office block was soon over. After five minutes, he emerged again and made his way out to Eversholt Street, where he hailed a cab.
Palmer followed, the procession turning west towards Marylebone, before cutting off south and eventually stopping outside a smart hotel close to Lancaster Gate, across from Hyde Park. Palmer watched as Varley paid off his driver.
But something about the scene wasn’t right.
Palmer paid off his cab and walked towards the park, pretending to be on his mobile. As he turned to allow a couple of nannies and their charges to pass him on a narrow section of pavement, he glanced back to check Varley’s progress.
What he saw gave him an instinctive jolt of unease.
Two men were standing outside the hotel. Varley passed almost between them, but they showed no interest in him other than a brief nod. Yet they were scrutinising everyone else very carefully.
To Palmer, it was an eerily familiar scene. Both men wore suits and were pretending to be deep in conversation, friends, perhaps, who had encountered each other by chance. But he knew a security detail when he saw one. The men looked fit and capable, and by their bearing were probably former military personnel. Blond hair and high cheekbones pointed towards origins in Scandinavia or somewhere further east.
As Palmer watched, another man came out of the hotel entrance and walked over to a gleaming black 4WD at the kerb. He tried the door, which was locked, and nodded in satisfaction. He was shorter than the other two, and heavier, but clearly of the same mould. As he stood there, three black youths walked past the front of the hotel, eyeing the 4WD. The newcomer ignored them. Seconds later, an older man in dreadlocks and a Rasta hat ambled past, carrying a white kitchen-style jacket slung across his arm. None of the security men gave him a glance.
After a few moments, the third man seemed to lose interest and walked away. He passed the other two and nodded briefly before disappearing round the corner.
Palmer continued walking, certain that brief instructions had just been passed between the men. Of one thing he was growing more convinced: whoever or whatever Richard Varley was, it was doubtful publishing was his first profession. Otherwise, why else would he require a security detail at the hotel where he was staying?
He decided to stay with him. So far, he had nothing definite to show for his labours, yet all his inner alarm bells were ringing. The problem was, Varley now knew what Palmer looked like. He needed to find someone else to take over and get close to him and his men. Someone anonymous.
He knew just the man for the job.
********
26
Isleworth had changed little since Palmer had last visited the area – this street, in fact, he recalled - nearly a year ago. Still busy, still wearing that slightly run-down air of too much movement and too little care, it seemed to slump wearily in the evening gloom as if exhausted after a long, hard day.
Palmer’s attention was fixed on a Victorian-style villa across the street. A low retaining wall wearing drunken coping stones fronted a neglected garden, which held a rusted motorcycle frame and a discarded kitchen unit with battered fibreboard sides swollen and distorted by rain. A set of broken steps led up to the front door, and the windows were draped carelessly with grey net curtains. A line of buttons and name slots sat on one side of the door.
Palmer checked his watch. So far, there had been no sign of movement at the house, and no sight of the man he’d come to see. But he couldn’t sit here all evening.
Just as he was about to cross the road for a closer look, a car pulled into the kerb. It was a plain black Mondeo with a cab licence plate on the rear skirt.
The driver got out and walked up the front steps with a spring in his step, scanning the street on either side. He made it look casual but Palmer knew it was anything but. A lifetime of staying one step ahead of dubious friends, unpredictable enemies and the eager reach of the law had given Ray Szulu a set of habits too ingrained to break. He disappeared inside and closed the door.
Palmer left his car and quickly crossed the street. He knew Szulu’s flat had a view over the front, and that he would probably look out of the window as a matter of habit as soon as he got in. He ran up the steps and tried the door. It was locked, but ill-fitting, the wood tired and loose. He grasped the central knocker to keep it still and pushed with his shoulder, concentrating on the centre of the door. The wood creaked once, then the lock clicked and the door swung open. Inside, the air was muggy, the atmosphere heavy and dark. He listened for sounds of movement, then walked up the stairs and knocked on the door of 3A.
‘Yeah, wha-?’ The door opened and the familiar face registered instant recognition. And dismay.
‘Hello, Ray,’ said Palmer, smiling genially. ‘How’s it hanging? I was in the area and thought I’d pop round for tea and cakes.’
‘No way!’ Szulu started to close the door, but Palmer slammed it back, propelling him into the room.
‘Not nice,’ Palmer chided him, and followed him inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room. It was furnished just as he remembered it, with large cushions, a sofa, a couple of armchairs and a CD player, mercifully silent. He remembered how Szulu liked to play music very loudly, even when he had visitors. ‘Have you decorated since I was last here? It’s not very ethnic, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He was taking a deliberate swipe at Szulu’s ability to dip in and out of his Rasta roots whenever it suited him. The man wasn’t quite as dumb as he liked to pretend.
‘What the fuck do you want, Palmer?’ Szulu was rubbing his arm and wincing, his dreadlocks forming a curtain across the side of his face. ‘You can’t come in here like this – I’ll call the cops.’
‘Of course you will. And they’ll come running b
ecause they so value your safety. Now we’ve got that out of the way, how about a cup of tea? I’m parched.’ He turned and found his way through to a small kitchenette. It was surprisingly neat and tidy, with evidence that Szulu knew his way around both kitchen and supermarket.
Palmer filled the kettle and switched it on.
‘So,’ he continued, affably, ‘how’s the driving job?’ He turned to face Szulu, who was looking at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘More importantly, how’s the arm?’
‘Go screw yourself,’ muttered Szulu, his voice sliding into a soft Jamaican twang. ‘And stay out of me place, man. You trespassin’.’
Palmer gave him a pained look. ‘See, that’s what I mean. Now you’ve gone all Bob Marley on me. I only came round to offer you some gainful employment. You haven’t gone all fussy about who you take money from, have you? Oh, of course, not – you drove for Lottie Grossman, didn’t you? Remember - that wicked old bitch who tried to kill Riley and me?’ He turned back to the kitchen and made two mugs of tea, and brought them back into the living room.
Szulu was scowling at the memory of his last encounter with Palmer and Riley, but took his mug and sat down. ‘What do you mean, employment? You need a driver or a heavy - what?’ He’d lost the twang.
‘What I need is someone who’s street-savvy. Someone who can melt into the shadows and move like a panther. Someone who knows all the moves. A surveillance job, in other words.’ Palmer took a seat and sipped his tea, waiting for Szulu to catch on and show some interest. ‘Know anyone like that?’
‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ Szulu looked offended. ‘I can do that. How much we talking about?’
‘A hundred. Cash. Shouldn’t take more than half a day. No risks.’
Szulu looked suspicious. ‘Like there’s no catch, man. How do I know it ain’t gonna turn tribal? Last time I had you and that Gavin woman near me, I got shot, remember? And what was that army nut’s name – Mitcheson?’ He went back to massaging his arm and glanced towards the door as if the assailant he was referring to was about to come charging into the room.
NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) Page 13
