No Kiss For The Devil rgafp-5

by Adrian Magson

  She led the way inside and poured a glass of wine.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, waving at his raised eyebrows. ‘I’ve had a trying morning.’ She told him about her visit to Al-Bashir’s office.

  ‘Sounds like a fun meeting,’ said Palmer, taking a seat. ‘What else?’

  ‘You mean, apart from being followed by a former Russian spook named Pechov.’

  He sat up. ‘Who told you he was a former spook?’

  ‘Al-Bashir’s security chief, a man named Koenig. He reminded me of you. He advised me to stay away from Pechov. He also banned me from ever going back to the store.’ She scowled in irritation. ‘Bloody nerve of the man — I should sue him for discrimination.’

  Palmer laughed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah. I can see that must have added to your bad hair day.’

  ‘What about you?’ Riley ignored the dig. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

  Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door. Riley put down her glass and went to see who it was. She found DI Craig Pell on the landing.

  ‘How did you get past the front door?’ she queried.

  He flashed his card. ‘The old chap downstairs let me in. He was trying to lure a large cat indoors with what looked like giant meatballs.’

  ‘That’s Mr Grobowski. And the community cat. Couldn’t you have rung first?’

  ‘I would have, but I thought you might not be in.’ His smile faltered at the way that sounded, and he pressed on. ‘Anyway, I was in the area.’ He shuffled his feet uncertainly. ‘And I wanted to say sorry about the other night. I might have been a bit… abrupt.’

  ‘Were you? I didn’t notice.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Palmer, who was giving her a snide smile, and felt her face flush. She didn’t mean to give Pell a hard time; it was just coming out that way. ‘What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Um… right.’ He cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘Actually, I need to speak to Mr Palmer.’

  Riley threw the door open and let him in.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ said Pell, advancing into the room. ‘But I couldn’t get you on your office number. Chief Superintendent Weller suggested Miss Gavin, here, might know where you were.’ His voice had lost the tentative air and was all business.

  Palmer digested that titbit in silence. For Weller to have suggested such a thing meant the senior policeman was in touch with Pell on a regular basis. He wondered if the lines had become slightly blurred between the murder investigation and Weller’s role in SOCA. Unless, he thought, noting the way Pell carried himself in front of Riley, there was another reason for him being here.

  ‘How thoughtful of him.’ He could guess what the policeman was going to tell him, and he was right.

  ‘Someone turned over Helen Bellamy’s flat,’ Pell announced. ‘I take it you haven’t been there since our talk?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘I hope not. We’re dusting for prints at the moment. You wouldn’t care to provide some samples, I suppose?’

  ‘Are you asking or instructing?’ Palmer remained calm. The man was only doing his job, but he wasn’t about to make it too easy for him.

  Pell blew his cheeks out, seemingly undismayed. ‘Actually, I can’t say I’m bothered, bearing in mind that you’ve been there before. I don’t need to set us up for more embarrassment on flimsy forensics. I was more interested in whether you’d had any further thoughts about that photo Miss Bellamy sent you — the one of the office block.’

  ‘No. Like I said before, I think it must have been a mistake.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Pell sounded doubtful.

  ‘Have you come up with anything at all?’ Riley asked.

  ‘We don’t know who killed her, no. But we found a reference in her flat to a meeting three weeks ago with a man in a west London hotel. It could have been perfectly normal, but there’s no trace of the man, unfortunately.’

  ‘What sort of reference?’

  ‘A receipt for coffee. It was a slim hope, but the porter remembered her from a photo we showed him. He said she arrived early and had to wait. He thought she seemed a bit nervous and assumed it was a job interview. He vaguely recalled the man she met as a foreign national — possibly American.’

  ‘Anything on CCTV?’ said Palmer.

  ‘I wish. The tapes are turned over every week.’

  ‘You said American?’ Riley echoed. She picked up a pen and paper and scribbled down David Johnson’s number. ‘Helen recently did a piece on a US finance case here in London. He’ll give you the details.’

  ‘Thank you. It all helps.’ He placed the piece of paper in his pocket. ‘Something else has cropped up. We received a formal request this morning from the Frankfurt Criminal Investigation Division. They’re looking into the death of Annaliese Kellin and want a report on what we found.’

  ‘Can they do that?’ Palmer wasn’t sure where the boundaries existed now in the new modern EU, or how far a police force in one country could impact on a murder of a fellow national in another.

  ‘Why not? It works both ways; we help them, they help us next time we have a query on their turf. It seems a former press colleague bumped into Miss Kellin in London, and she told her she’d got a new job, but she was thinking of jacking it in. The friend said she seemed unhappy — even distressed — and mentioned something about being asked to do something she felt was unethical. She didn’t go into detail, though, so we’re no further forward.’

  Palmer waited, wondering why Pell was telling them this. It was clear that Annaliese Kellin must have got herself into something nasty. Was her untimely death something to do with wanting to throw in her new job?

  ‘Anyway,’ Pell continued, ‘I mention it out of interest. You’ll let me know if you think of anything?’ He nodded at them both, then turned and walked over to the door. As he went out, he looked at Riley. ‘I meant it — the apology, that is.’

  ‘Did your wife tell you to say that?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘If I had one, she might’ve done.’ He walked down the stairs, humming to himself.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Riley, closing the door.

  ‘Just what I was going to ask,’ Palmer retorted innocently. ‘Wife, huh? Nice touch. Neat. He fell for it, too.’

  ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘My guess? He’s taking his lead from Weller. Rattling our cages.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She sat down and picked up her wine glass. ‘You still haven’t said what you’ve been doing.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Me?’

  ‘You. Where did you get to while I was at lunch with Richard Varley? Only, I had a distinct feeling you weren’t far away. Why was that?’ The look she gave him was cool, and it was obvious she had been thinking about it for a while.

  ‘If you must know, I followed your lunch date to see where he went.’ There was no other way of telling her. It produced the reaction he’d been expecting.

  ‘I knew it!’ she muttered angrily, slopping wine over her hand. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! Who I have lunch with is no concern of yours!’ She stood up and stalked into the kitchen to wash her hand under the tap, leaving Palmer contemplating that it had been her idea to meet Varley in the first place. A cupboard door banged and a roller towel clattered as she snatched off some squares of tissue to dry herself. When she came back, it was without the wine. She went over to the window, throwing Palmer a furious look on the way, and stood looking out at the skyline.

  ‘So where did he lead you?’ she said finally, her shoulders tense.

  Palmer told her about the trip across London, the visit to MailBox Services and the security men outside the hotel at Lancaster Gate. ‘And before you ask,’ he added not unkindly, ‘I admit I can’t prove they were Varley’s men.’

  Riley turned. ‘But you think they were.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just paranoid,’ she said. ‘Or cautious.’

  ‘One or the other. We�
��ll soon find out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He took a deep breath, aware that the next bit of information might also get a chilly response. ‘He’s seen me, so I can’t go near him. I’m having him followed.’

  ‘Good idea. Who by?’

  ‘Ray Szulu.’

  30

  Riley’s mouth dropped open in shock. Palmer returned the stare without a flicker. He knew she still recalled with frightening clarity her first meeting with Szulu and the scare he’d given her, but he also knew she was tough enough to get over this.

  ‘Szulu?’ she echoed. ‘That idiot with the gun? Tell me you’re joking!’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m dead serious. The security men near the hotel didn’t look twice at a couple of black guys who walked by. It’s as if they weren’t there. Don’t ask me why… possibly making false assumptions. Everyone else got the full eyeball, men and women alike. Szulu’s purpose-built for the job.’

  ‘What did you do — threaten to shoot him?’

  ‘No. I offered him money.’ He was enjoying the moment. At least it had taken the anger out of the situation. ‘I also said if he didn’t agree, I’d send you round. That seemed to clinch it.’

  ‘Very funny. What else?’

  Palmer remembered the magazine he’d taken from the parcel in MailBox Services. He handed it to her. ‘Varley was taking a close interest in this. There was a box full of them in the shop.’ He waited while she glanced through it.

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t he be interested? It’s his job.’ She looked at the cover. ‘This is the edition following the one he gave me.’

  ‘There was also a mailing list in the box. A long one.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Natalya Fisher said the circulation was three-hundred, tops. The box and the mailing list must have been twice that.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It looks as if they distribute the magazines from London. It probably looks better than coming out of Georgia. The list, though, was only for the next two issues. I thought it was odd having such an inflated mailing for two editions.’

  Riley said nothing, so Palmer continued, ‘I think this first one — number 1572 — could be a mailing tester to flush out any problems with the list and to set up the next one.’

  ‘Or it’s a simple marketing exercise to increase circulation.’ Riley still sounded prickly, but her tone wasn’t quite so sure. She turned to the editorial page, then looked at Palmer with a sombre expression. ‘I think you’re right.’ She handed him the magazine, pointing at an editorial piece at the bottom of the page.

  In the next edition of East European Trade, we take you behind the scenes of the developing battle for control of the next-generation telecommunications network across the planet’s largest land mass. What is the Low Earth Orbit BATNEV system? What does it promise for consumers in remote areas of Eastern Europe and beyond? Who will be the winners and losers in the forthcoming round of bids? Will it be the current giants of the telecoms industry expanding their business base even further, or is there room for newcomers in this exciting consumer market? We introduce you to one surprise bidder in this field — ‘Kim’ Al-Bashir, Egyptian-born London billionaire entrepreneur, who is staking his claim to a portion of this global business. He has the nerve, he has a formidable investment background, and an army of oil-rich Middle East fund-holders. But has he any weak links in his armour? Is there anything about Al-Bashir that might derail his plans at the last minute? His traditional and ultra-conservative Muslim backers are known to favour secrecy and a lack of anything approaching scandal in their dealings. But we ask, is this man, married to a beautiful young wife, Asiyah, perhaps anything but conservative? To find out, you must read the next explosive edition of ETT!

  Palmer finished reading. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘They’re talking about my article,’ she said. ‘The article Richard wants me to write. It’s going in the next issue.’

  ‘But you haven’t written it yet.’

  ‘Nor can I. This is a smear-job… it would be professional suicide. Al-Bashir would nail my skin to the doors of the High Court.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, I knew there was some salacious stuff in the notes Richard gave me, but I didn’t expect them to go for this kind of angle- ‘ She broke off and paced the room, eyes flashing with growing anger. ‘They must have planned it this way this all along — and I stumbled right into it!’

  They were both startled by the phone ringing.

  Riley picked up the phone and listened, then glanced involuntarily towards the front window. ‘You’re here?’ She looked at Palmer and mouthed Varley’s name.

  Palmer jumped to his feet and pointed upwards. It was best if he stayed out of the way. He wondered if his visit to the shop in Camden had anything to do with it, although he couldn’t see how. As far as Varley was concerned, there was no connection between him and Riley Gavin, and that was how he wanted to keep it.

  Riley nodded and said, ‘Richard, just give me a minute, will you?’ She put the phone down, a determined set to her jaw. ‘Good timing, really. I’m going to tell him I’m pulling out. I can’t put my name to the sort of stuff he’s talking about.’ She picked up the magazine. ‘You’d better take this with you. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I want to see if he came alone.’

  ‘You’re thinking of those security men.’

  Palmer nodded.

  ‘And if he didn’t?’

  ‘Then we’ll know what we’re up against.’

  31

  Riley went downstairs and opened the front door. Richard Varley was standing on the steps. He was as elegant and expensively dressed as before, and seemed to fill the doorway.

  She led him upstairs. This time the roles were reversed and it was he who seemed ill-at-ease. She wondered what had happened to bring him here like this.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ She kept her voice level, wondering how long to give him before telling him to take his assignment away.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked paler than usual and had cut himself shaving. She found it an oddly appealing sign. ‘I’m sorry, Riley, for coming round here like this… invading your space. But I’ve heard some unpleasant news.’

  ‘What about?’ Riley had a sudden image of Palmer’s face. Had they made the connection?

  ‘I have,’ Richard began, his voice uncertain, ‘some… principals in the publishing business. Directors, shareholders, if you like. They have made substantial investments over the years and are very watchful about what we publish. It has come to my — their — notice… that you’ve had a meeting with Al-Bashir. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. So?’ Riley felt her gut react. If Richard or his ‘principals’ knew she had been to see the Egyptian-born entrepreneur, there was only one way they could have found out. She had been followed.

  Pechov.

  At the admission, Varley’s expression underwent a change. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face. ‘That’s unfortunate. It would have been better if you hadn’t done that.’

  ‘Why? I told you when we first met that I do my own research. And speaking to the subject of a profile piece comes pretty high on the list, don’t you think? No ethical journalist takes someone else’s notes as gospel — and certainly not with a man like him. What’s the problem? More importantly, how do these ‘principals’ of yours know I’ve seen him?’

  Varley shifted in his chair. ‘It came to their notice. How is not important.’

  ‘It is to me. Were they watching him? Were you?’ She desperately wanted to ask him if they had been keeping her under observation, but it might be best not to let them think she harboured suspicions in that area. If he thought she was merely a working reporter trying to hang on to an assignment, he might say more than he’d intended.

  He ignored the question. ‘By going to see him, and possibly alerting him to the fact that a story is circulating, you’ve made the whole project more…difficult, don’t you see?’

/>   Riley wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but opted to play dumb. ‘But I haven’t submitted my copy yet. How do you know what line I’m going to take? If it’s his Batnev bid you’re worried about, it’s already public knowledge. Al-Bashir is hardly a wallflower when it comes to his business intentions. The man’s desperate for recognition.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Varley’s tone took on an almost desperate note. ‘Now he knows what’s happening, he’ll have time to prepare… to hide anything he doesn’t want aired in public.’

  Riley very nearly blurted out that copies of the magazine currently being prepared for mailing would soon blow that hope out of the water, but she managed to control herself. And there had been no actual mention in the editorial tease of any scandal attached to Al-Bashir’s wife. So what was the real problem?

  Fortunately, Varley unwittingly supplied the answer.

  ‘It’s a question of timing,’ he continued seriously. ‘Too soon and Al-Bashir can brush off bad news. His PR people can work on his backers and supporters, and convince them that everything’s peachy. Too late and… well, that’s even worse…’ His voice tailed off as if he had suddenly realised what he was saying.

  Riley suddenly saw what he was driving at. She recalled what he had said at their last meeting, about how if Al-Bashir failed or pulled out right on the wire, it could drag everyone else down, too.

  ‘But either way, he still wins,’ she said. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want him to win!’

  ‘Riley, you don’t understand. We’re just a journal — we’re right in the middle, here. We need your copy to go in urgently. We’re simply trying to avoid being the cause of any problems, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s easy: delay the piece until after the bidding.’

  ‘We can’t. It’s too late.’

  ‘Why? What’s the deadline?’

  ‘It’s very close. There have been…delays, and now we need to move along on this.’ He gave an unconvincing smile.

  ‘What sort of delays?’