No Sleep for the Dead

by Magson, Adrian

  The passenger switched off her phone and peered out of the window, then gave a brief nod to indicate all was clear. The driver slid out from behind the wheel and clicked the door shut. As he walked across the pavement, he rolled his shoulders to ease his muscles, cramped after an hour spent in the confines of the car.

  The driver’s name was Szulu. He was tall and slim, with strong shoulders and powerful hands. A ring of shiny dreadlocks framed an ebony face and grey eyes. He walked with a loose-limbed grace, and this, coupled with an air of strength, meant he was often treated with caution among those who didn’t know him. The one thing Szulu was not accustomed to was acting as an errand boy, which was what he felt right now. But he needed the money to settle some outstanding debts. Failure to pay very soon meant he would receive a visit from men who knew little of his reputation and would care even less if they did.

  He approached a single wooden door set between two anonymous glass-fronted commercial premises. Beyond these on one side was a dry-cleaning shop, which was still open, and on the other a bookmaker, which was not. He pushed open the door, which needed a paint job, he noticed, and stepped into a gloomy apology for a hallway, with just enough room for a hard chair and an empty waste bin. The air smelled damp. A narrow stairway covered in curling carpet tiles led upwards to a glass-panelled door at the top. A box of rubbish teetered on one of the middle treads, a clutch of yellowed newspapers spilling out from a gash in the side. Szulu listened, head cocked to one side. All he could hear was the hum of an occasional vehicle outside and the sound of a radio from somewhere nearby. He flexed his shoulders again and willed himself not to look back at the car; he didn’t need an imperious flap of the passenger’s hand urging him to get on with it; he’d had enough of that already and it did nothing to make him feel any better about himself.

  He walked up the stairs, treading lightly, hands held loosely by his sides. All he had to do was go in, check the place, then give the passenger the all-clear signal. Easy enough. Unfortunately, as he knew from experience, it was the easy jobs that most often led to disappointment or pain.

  There was no name on the frosted-glass panel. He already knew from the briefing his passenger had given him two days earlier that his main item of interest was a private investigator named Frank Palmer. And this was Palmer’s office. He tried the door, but it was locked. He took out a bunch of keys and selected a few, trying them one by one. The fourth worked with a smooth click and the door swung open. The dull atmosphere of the staircase gave way to the dark reaches of a small, stuffy room heavy with the fog of recent cigarette smoke and typical office smells.

  He switched on the overhead light. Two minutes later, he heard the downstairs door open and slow footsteps on the stairs. He cut the main light and pulled the blinds, then switched on the desk lamp. It didn’t do much to improve the scenery, but was sufficient for what they needed.

  The passenger appeared in the doorway and Szulu stepped over to the window where he could watch the street through a crack in the blinds. It also meant he didn’t have to look the woman - his temporary employer - in the eye.

  ‘Have you touched anything?’ Her voice was soft, with signs of wheezy breathlessness after the stairs, and awoke in Szulu unhappy memories of a particularly malevolent and asthmatic nun who’d taught him maths when he was eight.

  ‘No.’ he said curtly. ‘You said not to.’

  The woman nodded and stepped into the room, her nose twitching at the smell. She looked gaunt in the throw of the desk light, and moved carefully, as if she was trying to keep herself upright in spite of a particularly bad back. She wore expensive shoes and jewellery, and was wrapped in a heavy coat tightly belted at the waist in spite of the generally warm weather. Szulu thought the coat was hideously dated, but since he knew nothing of fashion and the woman was no longer remotely young, he assumed his views would count for little. His mother wore a coat all year round, but he put that down to her coming from Antigua and because she, too, was as old as the hills. Old people felt the cold.

  The woman pulled open a filing cabinet and rustled through the contents, her wrinkled hand with its bright red fingernails racing across the tops of the drop-files like a large, gaudy spider. She selected two or three, briefly scanning the sheets within, then replaced them carefully where she had found them. The drawers closed with a thunk. From there she moved over to the desk and worked her way through its contents. It didn’t take long, and she gave a small sigh of irritation. Next she turned her attention to a notepad on the top of the desk, covered in meaningless squiggles. She picked it up, scanned it, then dropped it back on the desk.

  ‘You want me to help?’ Szulu offered finally. She was staring at a battered PC monitor sitting on the desk. The tower was beneath the desk, the green power light glowing in the shadow. He wasn’t great with computers, but he could generally find his way around them. It would be better than standing here like a lemon – and quicker.

  ‘Are you an IT specialist?’ she asked, eyes swivelling towards him. It was like coming under the gaze of a bad-tempered rat, and he could feel the tension coming off her in waves. He couldn’t help it: he flinched. And shook his head.

  ‘Then you can’t help.’ She reached across and pulled at a Rolodex sitting alongside the PC monitor. She spun it round like a dealer shuffling a pack of cards. When it stopped, she stabbed a long fingernail at a point in the index and unclipped a card. She studied it for a few seconds before dropping it on the desk. ‘Remember the details then put the card back.’

  She moved away to the window, where a small pot plant stood on a coffee table. The plant looked neglected and close to death, with the tips of the heavy leaves yellowed and beginning to curl. The soil around the base was dry and cracked, and edged with a white fuzz. Alongside the plant was a small plastic watering can with a long spout. It was empty, and still had a sales ticket stuck to the base. The woman took the can to where a kettle sat on a tray, and transferred water from the kettle, then carefully poured a trickle around the plant, using the handle of a teaspoon to turn over the soil and help the moisture penetrate.

  Szulu watched in astonishment as she tidied up some spilled soil, and wondered whether this woman was for real. Didn’t she realise they’d get caught if the owner came back? Yet here she was playing Gardeners’ World. Maybe she was nuts.

  She finished what she was doing and wiped off the spoon with a tissue from her coat pocket. Replacing the spoon near the kettle, she walked out of the office and down the stairs, leaving Szulu half hoping she might trip on the way down.

  He checked the card she had dropped on the desk. The surface bore the indent from one of her chisel-like nails. There wasn’t much on it; a name, address and a phone number. He slid it back into the pack, then turned his attention to the PC. He touched the tower, which felt warm from recent use. He wondered if he should take a quick look, anyway, then dismissed the idea. The woman hadn’t told him what she was looking for, and hanging around here too long was asking for trouble. Without thinking, he reached down and flicked off the power button.

  He pulled the door shut behind him, instinctively reaching for the keys to lock it, then changed his mind. He liked the idea of this Palmer person knowing someone was watching him; that someone had entered his domain because they felt like it. And, what the hell, the old woman didn’t own every decision he made, in spite of her money and her evil eye. As he walked back down the stairs, he found himself thinking about the Rolodex card, and wondering who Riley Gavin was.

  **********

  Chapter 7

  Early next morning, Palmer was once more outside the office block in Harrow. This time he was facing the opposite way down the street, and parked close to the rear entrance, within sight of the loading bay. The cover here wasn’t ideal, but it was likely he’d only need to be here for a short while. After his revelation the previous day, he needed one more look; one more sighting of that face to confirm that he wasn’t losing his entire sense of perspective.


  Fifteen minutes later, after watching a procession of early workers, deliveries and the usual comings and goings related to an office building girding itself for the day’s business, he saw a White Tower cab turn the corner and slide into the kerb. One passenger got out, closing the door without looking back, and the cab pulled away. No goodbyes, no indication that money had changed hands in the usual way. A regular user, then – most likely an account-customer.

  The tanned skin and gaunt look confirmed it was the man from the lift.

  Palmer took a digital camera from the glove box and fired off a couple of shots. With the face already imprinted on his memory, he wouldn’t need to refer to the camera again. The photos were purely for backup, a hangover from his days in the Special Investigations Branch of the RMP.

  The man approached the rear of the building and punched in a security code on a small black box to one side of the door. There was no audible click from this distance, but by the way the man barely checked his step, the time delay was brief and the procedure something of a habit. It showed he had been coming here for some time, and had settled into the comfortable routine of a regular.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Palmer dialled a number he’d stored in his phone the previous evening. He hadn’t been confident enough to make this call yesterday, but now he had no hesitation.

  Reg Paris had come from a small village near Trowbridge in Wiltshire. It was the seat, the tall NCO had once joked, of the Paris family ever since they had first been discovered living under a rock. Coming from a family of farm labourers, Reg had displayed the raw-boned strength and build of his forebears, a fact, Palmer recalled, that had proven useful in promoting an air of calm among troublesome squaddies around the pubs and clubs.

  With no current information to go on, Palmer had, the previous evening, dialled up his account with a directory search engine and keyed in the name and the largest town, Swindon. The first result had produced a blank. He’d tried other county towns, wondering whether he was being over-optimistic, before finally hitting on three references and phone numbers. The first two had been unhelpful. The Paris family, it seemed, was no longer as close as it had once been. The third number, however, had led to gold in the form of a younger brother. Although wary at first, the man had finally given Palmer a phone number for Reg’s widow, Marjorie. She had answered after three rings. By now long remarried, she was surprised to hear from anyone about her former husband’s death.

  ‘It’s been years,’ she said calmly. ‘I thought that was all over and done with.’

  ‘Just tying up some loose ends, admin-wise,’ Palmer told her, playing the diligent civil servant. ‘I was wondering whether you were ever given any details of the accident?’

  ‘Details? What… you mean how it happened?’ There was a pause before her voice came back laden with suspicion. ‘Here, this isn’t going to affect my pension, is it? Only I was told at the time that there was no problem with the pension, seeing as how he’d been killed on duty, like.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I was wondering if you were told anything specific, that’s all.’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have wanted to, neither. They said Reg was on his way to some civil police court to make a statement, and he got hit by a big lorry that was going too fast. It happens, over there, with those German roads, doesn’t it? They should have a speed limit, same as we do. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Just clearing up some bits and pieces before sealing the documents, that’s all. Umm… did anyone mention the other man in the car?’

  ‘Other man? Are you sure you’re looking at the right papers, love? There wasn’t nobody else with Reg. They told me he was on his own.’

  Palmer thanked the woman and hung up, his chest drumming. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear, yet perversely, came as no surprise. He dropped the phone onto the seat and chewed over what he knew, trying to picture once again the man who had turned up at the base two days after the shooting and informed Sergeant Paris that he, as the senior British RMP present, was required to make a statement to the civil authorities in Frankfurt about the scene of the shooting and what he had observed. There had been the usual display of authorisation, followed by a confirmation phone call to the CO, and Reg had marched out with a flat face to the car pool, closely followed by the man in the coat. They had climbed into the first available car, Paris taking the driver’s seat and hitting the gas before his passenger had fully closed the door. Palmer hadn’t heard the exchange between them, only that Reg had muttered to the guard on the gate that he had to go to accompany the man to Frankfurt and would be back the following day.

  It was the last time Palmer had ever seen him.

  After another twenty minutes and two more calls chasing down the person he was after, including one to a sniffy hausfrau, Palmer switched on his ignition and drove away. He was experiencing a shimmer of excitement which he recognised of old: the frisson of the chase, that stirring of the blood and sinews when a subject was in the frame and he was focussing on the detail and procedure necessary to lock on to the target. It was what he was good at.

  In his pocket were his passport and a small bundle of Euros. An overnight bag sat on the floor by the passenger seat, containing a change of shirt and underwear and some other essentials, gathered together over years of having to move at short notice and live out of hotels. He might give Charlie a ring later today or tomorrow, just in case his immediate plan didn’t work out. Riley, too. Thinking of her reminded him of their dinner date. He swore. He’d have to call her. She’d no doubt play hell when she discovered he’d been working on something without keeping her in the loop, but for now, he wanted to see how far wrong he was before he made a complete spanner of himself. He checked his watch. He had plenty of time to get the flight he wanted. With luck he’d be back again by evening. He pointed the car towards Heathrow.

  Riley was becoming seriously concerned about Palmer’s lack of contact. She had called him several times during the morning to talk about their new assignment, but his mobile was constantly off and his answer machine had given up taking messages. She didn’t expect him to be waiting at the end of the phone for her, but being out of touch this long without a word was out of character. She would never claim to know the former military policeman completely, since he wasn’t exactly an open book, and rarely talked about himself, preferring to hide behind humour and dry wit. But she felt she was as close to him as anyone else, and knew he would not drop out of sight or contact without god reason.

  She had already discarded the idea of driving over to his place to see if he was there. If he was busy and simply keeping his head down for some reason, he wouldn’t thank her for chasing him around the capital like a mother hen. Instead, she had occupied her time doing her accounts, shredding unwanted files and making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the flat, her least favourite activity. When that had failed to hold her interest, she turned her attention back to the assignments from Donald, especially bringing a close to the information on the NHS manager with the Platinum card life-style. With a bit of luck and a fair wind, she would be able to confront him with the evidence and see if he would admit to receiving financial inducements from the funeral chain in return for the guaranteed business he was suspected of putting their way. The clincher so far had been her discovery, under the guise of pursuing an insurance claim against a hotel for lost baggage, that the last family holiday in the Caribbean had been paid for by a company called RestPlan, which turned out to be a subdivision of the funeral chain. If such a glaring oddity didn’t prove sufficient to unnerve the man, then he was tougher than she’d imagined and she’d have to re-think her strategy.

  She rang Donald Brask. The agent would have been chasing Palmer about the fruit-picker brief, too, and may have spoken to him. He’d probably confide that Palmer was slumped in his car somewhere, running surveillance on some corporate drone suspected of having his hands in the company piggy bank.

  But she was in for a sur
prise there, too. ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ said Donald. ‘I haven’t heard a peep. I’ve tried raising him a couple of times, but his mobile’s switched off. Unusual for him, I must say.’ For once, Donald sounded concerned, reflecting what Riley was already thinking: that Palmer dropping off the radar without leaving word was seriously odd. ‘Perhaps he’s found love, do you think?’ Donald added waspishly, ever ready to trade gossip about one of his clients.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Riley. She thanked him and switched off, mystified. Hell, maybe Donald was right and Palmer had found love. Now that might make him lose his sense of perspective and keep his head down.

  The cat wandered in and sat in front of her, eyes half-closed, paws treading the carpet. Riley shook her head in disgust. ‘This is getting bloody desperate, cat. It’s looking like being another night in, one man beyond reach in sunny la-la land and the other… well, wherever. Good job I’m not in a girlie’s night-out gang – I’d be excommunicated for lack of commitment.’ She stood up and walked through to the kitchen, where she spooned some cat food into a dish, then placed the dish on the floor.

  ‘Sorry, cat,’ she said, collecting her car keys and jacket. ‘I’d be terrible company, anyway. If Palmer shows up while I’m gone, scratch his ankles for me. See you later.’

  ********

  Chapter 8

  Riley slotted the Golf into a space outside Palmer’s office and checked his window for signs of life. Knowing Palmer, he could be fast asleep over his keyboard, lulled into unconsciousness by a lengthy surveillance session and a heavy takeaway. Unless Donald had been right, of course, and it was love, in which case his office was the last place she should expect to find him.