No Sleep for the Dead

by Magson, Adrian

  Palmer nodded towards the caged area containing the wooden crates. ‘I see you’ve got a secure storage area, too. That’s good.’

  The man looked at the cage and shrugged. ‘Is for high value.’

  ‘Really?’ Riley asked. ‘Such as?’

  The man gave a hint of a smile and reached behind him to pick up a phone. ‘I get my colleague.’ He dialled a number and waited, studying them by turn, then muttered something in a language neither Riley nor Palmer understood, before slapping the phone back on its rest. ‘He come. You wait. Two minutes.’ He settled back against the workbench, arms folded across his chest, no longer interested in working.

  Palmer shrugged and lifted his foot to pick at something on his shoe, while Riley bent to peer at the label on the parcel.

  Three minutes later, a grating sound came from the rear of the warehouse, and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, with a pale complexion and crinkly hair, dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt. Above the breast pocket was a logo and the word SkyPrint in flowing script.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said, with the same lifting of the chin as the man in the overalls. His accent was less noticeable, but he seemed no more welcoming than his colleague. He looked from Palmer to Riley with a frown, then at the man against the bench, who merely shrugged and mumbled a few words.

  Palmer repeated the story they had agreed on, then waited while the man processed the information.

  ‘Like he said, we don’t need more business at the moment,’ he informed them. ‘Who did you say recommended us?’ His eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t quite believe anyone had done such a thing.

  ‘Somebody we know,’ Palmer replied. ‘It’s no big deal. If you can’t help, we’ll find someone else.’ He turned towards the entrance. As he did so, another man ducked beneath the roller door and stood in the opening. Physically, he was a clone of the man in overalls, except that he was dressed in a black towelling jump suit and trainers. He also looked a lot lighter on his feet.

  ‘Neat,’ said Palmer. ‘You guys have a unique approach to business.’

  The man in shirtsleeves considered Palmer’s words before muttering something. The newcomer stepped aside with a sour show of reluctance.

  ‘Get anything useful?’ asked Riley, on the way back to the car. She looked over her shoulder. The three men were standing in the entrance, watching them.

  ‘You mean apart from the shitty welcome, the heavy in the romper suit and where the man in the white shirt sprang from? Not much.’

  ‘It could be a genuine set-up.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Yeah. At least, some of it.’

  ‘Well, well. Look at that.’ Riley looked pointedly in the direction of a unit they had just passed. Similar in size to VTS, it bore a large sign printed with the word SkyPrint and the logo they had seen on the man’s shirt.

  Palmer nodded. Signs out front offered express printing jobs; any value, walk in, wait, walk out. ‘Good cover,’ he said. ‘They turn over regular cash work, establish local credibility and the boss can keep a watchful eye on VTS, without appearing to be too involved.’

  ‘I wonder if Radnor and Michael ever come here.’

  ‘I’d bet on it. Radnor doesn’t strike me as the trusting kind.’

  As he climbed in the car, Palmer opened his hand. He was holding a tiny scrap of heavy, greasy paper, coated in dust. He rubbed the surface to reveal a dull sheen.

  ‘It’s the same as the piece you found inside the art book in Radnor’s office,’ said Riley.

  ‘Funny, that. They’re getting careless.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  Palmer considered their options for a moment. He had not forgotten the intruder of the evening before, and was sure Riley hadn’t. Was he connected with Radnor? Was he a contract ‘soldier’ hired to find out what Riley and Palmer were up to? If what Nobby had said about Radnor’s racist inclinations was correct, it didn’t seem likely. Then there was the woman named Fraser, who had hired the car and driver in the first place. But why the interest in Riley? ‘We’ve got two strands to look at,’ he concluded. ‘There’s the Fraser woman and her driver, and there’s Radnor and his little operation. Our problem is, we don’t know if they’re connected, and I get the feeling we’re running short of time.’

  Riley nodded. She knew no more than Palmer about the people involved, but her instincts were telling her they were unconnected. ‘They feel… different in some way.’

  ‘I agree. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough hands to check them both.’

  ‘Not unless we split up.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Palmer agreed. ‘Can you handle taking a look at the driver, see where he’s based?’ He studied her carefully. It would mean Riley coming close again to the man with dreadlocks. Some people might not be able to handle that. But Riley wasn’t some people. He gave her the note he’d made after Donald’s call with information from the DVLA. ‘Just nail down where he is. If you can get a look at the woman, that would help. At least we’d know what she looks like. But keep your distance until we know more.’

  Riley folded the note into her pocket. ‘What are you going to do?’

  He gave her one of his annoyingly enigmatic smiles and looked towards the VTS unit. ‘I’m going to hang around for a bit. I want to see what they’ve got in that storage area at the back of the warehouse. I’ll see you back at your place.’

  Riley looked around at the lack of obvious cover in the area. Other than a regular flow of commercial vehicles into and out of the estate, there were few pedestrians, and passing traffic on the road running through the area was light. And it wasn’t as if Palmer could keep a watch on the place from a convenient café, because there wasn’t one. ‘They’ll spot you, Palmer. And how will you get back?’

  But Palmer shook his head. ‘Drop me up the road. I saw some waste ground behind this estate, with a couple of abandoned buildings. It’ll do me nicely. I’ve coped with less.’ He smiled confidently and checked his mobile. ‘Don’t worry – when I need to bug out, I’ll call a cab.’

  *********

  Chapter 20

  Riley double-checked the address on the slip of paper Palmer had given her. It turned out to be a ratty, run-down Victorian villa on the southern edges of Isleworth. Heavy net curtains hung drunkenly at the dust-blown windows, and the remains of an old trials bike was rusting in the small front plot behind a low brick wall topped with drunken coping stones. Six cracked steps led up from the pavement to the battered front door, and a panel showing a row of bell-pushes with name-tags. The house had once been proud, and no doubt the property of a single household. But over it now hung an air of despair, with peeling paint, frost-damaged brickwork and the grey tinge of a building dying of neglect.

  Riley parked outside a deserted building site nearby and waited. She took out the note Palmer had given her and checked the registration and make against the cars at the kerb. None of them matched. Maybe it was parked in a secure lock-up nearby.

  According to Donald’s information, the assigned driver of the car was a Raymond Szulu, whose address was given as Flat 3A. She studied the building carefully, wondering which window belonged to Mr Szulu. Like many large Victorian-style properties in the capital, this one had been broken up into small flats or bed-sits, catering to an ever-shifting population. She was tempted to take a closer look, but as Palmer had pointed out, Szulu now knew what Riley looked like. If 3A looked out onto the street, and Szulu was the cautious type. He’d have a clear view of everyone walking by. If he was brazen enough to make an entry into her house to frighten her, there was no saying how he might react if he saw her encroaching on his own turf.

  She wondered if Palmer was having any joy at VTS. After her brief encounter with Szulu, she would have preferred to have Palmer here with her, but pride had prevented her saying so. Besides, he was probably enjoying himself, skulking around the commercial estate looking for an opening. Knowing Palmer, he’d probably come away with a job driving a forklift before the d
ay was out.

  The front door to Szulu’s house opened, and a woman came out, followed by two small children, both with their hair in mini-dreadlocks. Szulu’s, perhaps? She watched as the trio gathered together on the top step while the woman organised a clutch of bags and told one of the children to close the front door. It banged shut but, unnoticed by the woman, didn’t quite catch.

  Riley waited, excitement building in her chest, as they walked away up the street. Risky or not, this might be the only opportunity she’d get to see Szulu’s place at close hand and check if he was in or not. Otherwise she could be out here for hours, waiting for him to put in an appearance.

  She got out of the car and rummaged in the boot. Among the debris and clutter was an old fleece she kept for emergencies. She pulled it on over her jacket and swept her hand roughly through her hair from back to front, then the other way. A brief look in the side window to check that she now had a suitable air of untidiness, and she set off across the street, hoping that she wasn’t already in Szulu’s sights.

  The broken steps rocked beneath her feet as she approached the front door. She ignored the name-tags on the panel of bell-pushes. If Szulu was in, the last thing she wanted was to announce her arrival. She pushed the door open. Inside was a large lobby with a cracked tile floor in a chequerboard pattern, and a battered table holding a scattering of envelopes, free papers and junk mail. Riley flicked through the pile, but saw nothing addressed to Szulu. In front of her was a broad staircase, the treads covered by a worn carpet. The air smelled of a cleaning product with a hint of lemon.

  Two doors led off the lobby, both marked PRIVATE. She guessed these were the landlord’s or a tenant-manager, if there was one. She’d check out 3A first, then come back here as a last resort. A corridor ran along one side of the staircase, with a bicycle against the wall and a pushchair just beyond it. A glass-panelled door opened onto a garden at the rear.

  Riley climbed the stairs, wincing as the treads creaked loudly. If this was one of Szulu’s warning signals of unexpected visitors, he’d now be on high alert and waiting for her.

  She reached the first floor landing, with two doors in front of her and one at each end. Number 3A was to her right, but as she turned towards it, one of the doors facing her swung open, and an elderly black woman in a raincoat and scarf stepped out. She eyed Riley with suspicion before slamming the door behind her.

  ‘You don’t live here,’ the woman muttered in a Caribbean drawl, pulling herself up to her full height. ‘Who you looking for?’

  Riley wanted to tell the woman to lower her voice in case Szulu heard and came out to investigate. But something in the woman’s eyes told her she wasn’t the sort to listen to any kind of advice, and probably saw herself as the house custodian. Maybe she and Mr Grobowski belonged to the same club.

  ‘His name’s Ray,’ she said hesitantly, pulling her fleece closely around her. ‘I met him… I met him in a club and he said to call by if I was in the area.’ She shrugged. ‘So I thought, why not?’

  The woman looked Riley up and down with narrowed eyes and shook her head. Her expression spoke of disapproval and pity in equal measures.

  ‘You mean Ray Szulu?’

  Riley nodded. ‘I think that’s what he said. He’s got-’ She gestured to her head. ‘-dreadlocks.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ The woman gave a humourless smile. ‘What you doing calling on a man when you don’t even know his name?’ She gestured towards 3A and walked past Riley, stopping to add quietly: ‘He’s out. Best you take that as a good omen and look elsewhere, girl. He’s not what my mother would have called decent company you know?’ She nodded fiercely and walked down the stairs, slamming the front door firmly behind her.

  Riley waited until the vibrations had ceased, then stepped over to Szulu’s door and put her ear to the woodwork. There were no sounds from inside, so she decided to cut her losses. Two minutes later, she was back in her car, watching the street.

  Time ticked by slowly. Then a large, black Lexus saloon drifted neatly into a slot a hundred yards away and a tall, athletic figure stepped out and surveyed the street. Riley felt her skin crawl as she recognised the familiar shape. Even with the poor lighting in the stairway, there was now no mistaking him or the dark swirl of braided hair around his head.

  He walked along the pavement with a graceful gait and disappeared inside the house. Five minutes later, he came back out and returned to the car, before driving smoothly away from the kerb, heading north.

  Riley followed, keeping station four vehicles behind him. Her heart was thumping at the idea that she was so close to the man without being seen, and she remembered Palmer once telling her that the excitement of the chase was what often put the follower at risk of detection. Insert ‘amateur’ follower, Riley thought, and he would have been more accurate, although less kind.

  The Lexus was heading west, Riley realised, towards the A30. Ahead lay the vastness of Heathrow, and beyond that, the more salubrious area of Windsor. According to Donald, this was where the woman named Fraser was staying. This could be interesting, getting the two heads together at once.

  Szulu drove in a smooth, unfussy manner, using the road with evident skill. He rarely exceeded the speed limit, but took advantage of quiet stretches wherever he could. It was obvious he knew the road and the area well, a fact that made Riley take extra precautions to avoid being left adrift with no vehicles between them.

  He eventually turned off the A30 and approached Windsor from the south east, through Wraysbury. When he gave a right signal just before a large hotel sign, Riley pulled into the kerb and watched as he drove into the front parking area and left the Lexus.

  Riley’s patience lasted ten minutes before the temptation to do something became too strong. Locking the car, she dodged across the road and entered the hotel, scanning the foyer.

  The reception area was all glass and aluminium, with large ferns and yuccas dotted about to counter the almost sterile atmosphere. A waterfall trickled into a pool to one side of a staircase, and tuneless musak hummed through the air. Through an archway to her right, Riley saw a dining room, and to the left a lounge. Just past the reception desk, a wall sign pointed towards the rooms and a lift.

  The receptionist, a young blonde with high cheekbones and a glossy smile, was busy on the phone. There was no sign of Szulu.

  Riley peered round the edge of the lounge door. There were club chairs, comfortable sofas but no people. She walked across to the dining area. Empty save for an elderly waiter, slapping crumbs off tablecloths with a folded napkin. It was evidently the dead hour for the hotel trade.

  ‘May I help you?’ The receptionist had finished with the phone and looked up with a faint frown. Riley was relieved she had discarded her tatty fleece.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Riley replied. ‘I’m sure I saw a friend of mine come in here just now. Tall, black… with dreadlocks?’

  ‘A friend?’ The receptionist showed her teeth, and Riley realised she had probably blown it. It hadn’t occurred to her that Szulu might be well known here. If he really was a freelance driver-for-hire, this might be one of his regular collection and delivery points.

  ‘Well, not a friend, exactly,’ she admitted, aiming for a sister-in-need smile. ‘He owes me a key. He never returned it.’

  The receptionist made a drawn-out ‘ah’ of understanding and pointed behind her. ‘He’s gone out back to the garden. His client’s waiting for him. She’s not feeling so good. I think she took a bit of a turn earlier.’ Her expression suggested that key or no key, barging in right now to settle a private spat would not be appropriate.

  ‘No problem,’ said Riley easily. ‘I’ll wait for him to come out.’

  The receptionist went back to her phone, and Riley wandered into the lounge. She picked a chair within sight of the foyer and the front desk, and waited until the girl was busy, then stood up and slipped past her to the stairs. If she was lucky, she might be able to get a glimpse of the mysterious Mrs Fr
aser.

  The upper floor was deserted, apart from a cleaner’s trolley outside one of the rooms. The sound of someone humming came from inside, and Riley moved by swiftly, heading for the rear of the building.

  At the end of the corridor was a fire-escape door. She peered through the glass and found herself looking down on a stretch of lawn with a few bushes and trees. To one side stood a couple of parasols with tables and chairs.

  Szulu was sitting on one chair, elbows resting on his knees. He was facing somebody, and judging by the shoes and legs, which was all Riley could see, that person was an elderly woman.

  She waited for the woman to lean forward, impatient to catch a glimpse and leave. But it was soon clear that Mrs Fraser – if it was her – wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

  Suddenly the trolley rattled behind her. Riley gave it a few more seconds before deciding enough was enough. As she turned to leave, her phone rang.

  It was John Mitcheson.

  ************

  Chapter 21

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘Heathrow. Landside. But don’t tell anyone. Can we meet?’ Mitcheson sounded undeniably breezy, and Riley could hardly take in the fact that he was just a few miles away from where she was sitting.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she demanded, momentarily forgetting where she was. ‘If some eagle-eyed immigration drone spots your name, you’ll be arrested!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been yet. It’s risky, I know, but I’m fed up with all this subterfuge. I contacted a mate recently… he has connections with Immigration. My name isn’t on any of the lists he can access, and he doesn’t think there are too many others, not unless it’s on one the security bods keep close to their chests.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Riley desperately wanted to tell him to get on the first flight out, but a large part wanted to tell him to stay, to take the chance.

  ‘I’m leaving later this evening. My mate said if I was on a watch list, unless it was a priority, it would take at least seven hours to filter through the system. They’re more interested in Al Quaeda right now than a dodgy ex-army officer.’