Not that Donald usually made mistakes. It was one of the reasons she had decided to use an agent for her work. It saved having to pitch for assignments and she could leave it to him to filter out anything she might not like to tackle. Not that that left much out; she needed the money and so did Donald. They were a good team, although she had only seen him twice. Fat, humourless and gay as a hatbox, he saw Riley purely as a money earner. At least it kept him on his toes.
“Sorry to disturb your hols, love,” he’d breathed insincerely on the phone that morning. “I’ve got an editor who needs some digging done, preferably by someone who isn’t a known Face.” When he mentioned the name of the newspaper, Riley found all thoughts of holidays fading into the background. Donald was talking high-profile national daily with a reputation for good fees. They specialised in crime stories that usually found their way onto television specials, which was good for the track record of the reporter involved and a near-guarantee of repeat work.
“What’s the assignment?”
“A couple of old men have been murdered,” Brask explained. “Nasty stuff. The editor smells a big story and wants to get the goods before the other rags realise what it’s all about, which won’t be long. He figures an unknown will have more chance of getting the details before being spotted.”
He relayed in succinct terms the execution-style deaths of two men on the south coast of England. Both jobs were professional and carried out with clinical neatness, and since it seemed the two men had known each other, with no obvious motive available, the police were dropping the word that it was probably an old gangland score being settled. “In other words it’ll do as an explanation until something else comes up,” he finished dryly. “Or until they find a smoking gun.”
“Gangland?” Riley asked. She had met a few crime figures, mostly self-effacing types who dressed well, if a little flashily, and kept themselves to themselves. They were a dying breed, preferring to live in the shadows and let their employees do the legwork, unlike their modern and younger equivalents who saw no reason to hide from anyone, least of all the law, because they used the law as camouflage.
“Used to be, a long time back. Contemporaries of the Krays, but not in the same league. These two worked a corridor from south London down to Brighton. Gambling, tarts, racecourses, clubs, that sort of thing. But nothing heavy. Retired now, according to my sources.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Respectable pillars and all that. Makes your heart bleed, doesn’t it?”
She heard Donald rustling paper at the other end, and the beep of a computer. He was first class at building files on assignments. “They were pretty successful in their own way,” he continued. “But they’d been out of it for so long everyone thought they were dead. One of them had a plush pad on the sea front; the other owned a Roller and a big house on the Downs. Rumour has it they used to operate with a third partner, but no one knows who. Maybe therein lies the motive.”
“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. “Do I get to use the paper’s resources?”
“Of course. But anything they’ve got won’t be much help, otherwise they’d use their own bodies. He wants you to do some background digging without attracting attention.”
“Fine. I’ll let you negotiate the fee as usual. Make it a good one and I won’t cut off your thumbs for spoiling my holiday.”
“Of course, dear heart,” he said dryly. “Like you couldn’t resist the call.” He paused, then added, “You might do well to get some help on this one, Riley.”
“Help?” This didn’t sound like Donald. Next thing he’d be suggesting she became a housewife with two-point-four and a licence to sell Tupperware. “What kind of help?”
“It’s just a precaution. From what I’ve picked up so far, these people might be a bit too sharp to play with by yourself. I’ve got a name for you — you can call him when you get back.”
“Thanks, Donald, but I don’t need it, you know that.”
“Listen, dear,” he countered bluntly. “This is serious. Get help or I don’t represent you again. I’m not talking about taking on a lifelong pal. You simply need someone to watch your back.” He hung up before she could argue.
Chapter 4
Riley was disappointed when the plane finally touched down. The food had been avoidable, but easily traded in for the company of John Mitcheson to while away the journey. At least it had taken her mind off the aborted holiday and Donald Brask’s concerns. It turned out Mitcheson was a security consultant working between the UK and Spain, setting up systems for wealthy property owners with villas in the sun. He, too, had been on holiday and was now on his way back. Riley found him interesting, if physically unsettling company, and wondered if his claim to be unmarried was true. He certainly didn’t have the aura of a married man.
She had deliberately glossed over what she did for a living, dismissing it vaguely as “research”. Some men felt threatened when she told them she was an investigative reporter, as if she’d confessed to working for the Inland Revenue or the police. Maybe that said something about the sort of men she knew.
Mitcheson seemed satisfied by her description, and eventually switched topics, to Riley’s relief. The holiday was now in the background, and she was already beginning to focus on the priorities for the job ahead. First thing to do was get the file from Donald and brainstorm the details until they were firmly embedded in her mind. It was the least interesting part of an assignment, but fundamental to success. With much of her time spent on the move, carrying round a research library was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
They collected their bags from the carousel and walked through the crowded arrivals area, now simply two strangers who had come together for a short while. Riley wondered if there was a chance they might meet again.
As if sensing her thoughts, Mitcheson turned and placed a hand on her arm. “ I’m for the M25,” he said. “Can I give you a lift?”
Riley shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve got my car here.”
“Pity. Could we meet again…say, for dinner?”
She gave him a studied look. It never pays to be too eager with a man, her mother used to say. Take your time. Make him wait. “Sure. Why not?”
“Good. I’ll call in a day or two.”
It was only after he had gone that Riley realised he hadn’t asked for her telephone number. So, that was the end of that. On the other hand, nobody caught a prize by waiting. Perhaps she’d call the manager of the holiday flats in Sotogrande.
Twenty minutes later she was in her car on the way to Donald Brask’s Victorian pile in Finchley. Traffic was light and she made good time, calling him on the way to let him know she was coming. He was waiting for her at the front door and, with natural gallantry, lifted her hand briefly to his lips.
“My, you look delicious, sweetie,” he breathed, giving her a meaningless once-over. He was wearing a thin, light blue jacket and pale slacks, with a pink cotton shirt that didn’t quite match and a pair of trainers. The ensemble, Riley thought, looked as if he had dressed in the dark.
“Donald, you’re an old fake,” she said. “Why not tell me what’s cooking?”
He smiled and released her hand, then led her into his office. In a former life it had been the dining room, but was now lined with books wall-to-wall and contained two state-of-the-art computers linked to printers and scanners. A television sat in one corner, tuned permanently to CNN, with the latest in digital recording equipment wired in and ready to go at the press of a remote. She counted three phones but there were probably more beneath the swamp of newspapers and documents that seemed to float over every available surface. This was Brask’s nerve centre and she knew the disarray was misleading. He had a mind like one of his PCs and by the end of the day would have documented, copied, distributed or dumped every piece of information which had come into this house. Much of it arrived from contacts around the country, and what facts he couldn’t locate within this room he could source very quickly by fax, phone or online. As if on cue, one of
the phones rang once before a machine took over, and an indistinct voice spoke briefly before hanging up.
“Don’t worry,” Donald waved a hand towards the unseen caller. “They’ll ring back.” He turned to the desk in the centre of the room and pushed aside that day’s newspapers to reveal a buff cardboard file. He flicked it with his fingers and handed it to her. “Everything we know is in there,” he murmured. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. The file was light, she noticed — too light to contain anything of substance. Considering Donald’s considerable resources it wasn’t a good sign. She was going to have to do some serious digging. Still, that was her job. “What’s the deadline?”
Brask raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking national here, sweetie, and being chased by whoever else is feeling wide awake enough to pick this up — which they will. The deadline’s yesterday, as always.”
“Donald! I’ve just got back.”
He sighed and sat down heavily at his desk. “You’ve got a week, max. More than that and it’ll either go stone cold or totally ballistic. The police are currently trying to play it down as two separate incidents — one as a robbery gone wrong, the other as a revenge killing. That might keep some of the pack off the story for a bit, but it won’t stay that way for long; it’s very quiet news-wise right now, which means editors and reporters will be getting bored. Once they stop kicking the government or the furniture and begin linking the two murders, this thing will be knee-deep in hacks. You can funnel your reports through me.” He handed her a slip of paper with a name, phone number and address on it. “Remember what I said about help. I strongly suggest you call this man.”
Gary opened the front door as a dark BMW crunched into the drive and stopped with its nose pointing towards the gate. He watched with apparent disinterest as the driver climbed out. The same scene was being played on a television screen in the kitchen.
“She in?” John Mitcheson asked. If he thought it odd that Gary kept one hand in his jacket pocket he made no comment.
“No, boss. Went out an hour ago — to the garden centre. She’ll be back later.” Gary stepped aside, allowing Mitcheson to enter. “You heard the news about the two old duffers?”
Mitcheson nodded with a faint show of distaste, and shrugged off his jacket. “Where are the others?”
“Keeping their heads down near the airport.” Gary followed him across the hallway into the kitchen. “She said to stay away from the house for a bit. The neighbours have been talking.”
“Makes sense.” Mitcheson helped himself to coffee from a jug on the side. “How is she?”
Gary hesitated. He had known Mitcheson for some years, and possessed sufficient ingrained caution towards officers to not take anything for granted. They were a world apart in many ways, even though they were no longer part of the military. But this situation was different. And changing. “She’s cool,” he said eventually. “Seems to take everything in her stride, in fact.” He smiled as if proud of a growing child: “Like weeding the garden.”
“Are you okay?” Mitcheson’s eyes were on him over the rim of his coffee cup, flickering down to where Gary’s hand was still in his pocket.
“Sure. I’m good.”
Mitcheson shrugged and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. “I’m going to the gym, then I’ll get some kip. I’ll be back later for the briefing.”
Gary nodded and let Mitcheson out, and stood watching the driveway as the car purred out onto the road. Only then did he let go of the gun in his jacket pocket.
Chapter 5
The address Brask had given Riley was amid a row of glass- and steel-fronted refurbishments in Uxbridge. As she climbed out of the Golf, she caught glimpses of high-tech open-plan and discreet lighting, with a hint of tinted glass and tastefully-arranged potted plants. Nice, she thought. Feng Shui is alive and well in the bodyguard industry. Then her glance clicked on the number she was after and she questioned what Donald was getting her into. Between two of the stretches of clean glass modernity was a single brown doorway with an open letterbox, like a shocked mouth dressed in dried and peeling paintwork. A section of plain wood had been clumsily inserted down one side and left unpainted, as if the owners were going for shock value to annoy their neighbours.
Riley was glad she had dressed in her customary jeans and a sports jacket. It wasn’t the height of fashion but it suited her day-to-day movements. Especially here.
She crossed the pavement, pushing open the weathered door which led into a gloomy hallway. A narrow stairway led upwards to a glass-panelled door at the top, with piles of cardboard boxes vying for space on the treads and spilling onto the tiny landing. She shuddered, stepping past the rubbish, nudging open the door with one foot. There was no name on the frosted-glass panel. Inside, the dull atmosphere of a small, smoke-filled office replaced the gloom of the staircase.
“Always make an entrance, dear,” a drama teacher she’d known had often said. The theory was that women could conquer their surroundings by making their presence felt. On the other hand the teacher was unlikely to have seen this dump. The furniture was pre-war MOD surplus, with a touch of rough living thrown in. A sturdy desk, a side table, a couple of chairs and a battered, wooden filing cabinet all came together in an uninspiring collection of grot. And yellowed wallpaper. Decor to jump off a bridge by.
A man was sitting at the desk peering at a computer screen. Riley put his age at about forty, with a good head of dark hair and a face that would have been interesting if it hadn’t been screwed up in concentration. He wore a battered jacket of indeterminate colour and a button-down green shirt. Comfort winning out over style. He didn’t look up.
“I’m looking for Frank Palmer,” said Riley.
He raised a finger for a second, then stabbed it down on the keyboard with conviction. Whatever it did seemed to please him and his face lost the screwed-up look.
“Technology,” he announced, “can be a real bitch.” He had a pleasantly deep voice, with the huskiness of a smoker. “But I live in hopes of mastering it.” He smiled vaguely as if the likelihood was imminent but unimportant, and stood up. “I’m Frank Palmer. Who is the client — you or a third party?”
Riley suppressed a tug of irritation. He wasn’t exactly the jump-up-and-hit-'em type she had imagined. And his office was the pits. But she had enough faith in Donald Brask’s advice to know she needed this man — or one like him.
“I need someone to accompany me for a few days while I do some research,” she explained.
“Okay. My rate’s a hundred and fifty a day plus expenses.” He smiled. “I love saying that.”
“Make it a hundred including and I’ll think about it.”
“‘Bye,” he said, turning back to his computer. “Close the door on the way out.”
Riley felt the slow burn of anger. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. She was supposed to tell this Palmer what he was to do, he would then agree the terms and off they would go. Nobody had mentioned morons who could afford to turn away paying customers. Hell, it didn’t take much to see that Frank Palmer had a cash-flow problem.
She decided to give it another try. Better that than face Donald Brask’s inevitable sarcasm. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
He nodded towards the other chair. “Help yourself.”
Riley flicked at the patina of dust and sat down, while Palmer lit a cigarette.
“I need someone,” she started again, “to accompany me on some field research. I was given your name.”
“So you said.”
“My name’s Riley Gavin,” she continued, letting a little grit creep into her voice. “Donald Brask recommended you.”
“Good man, Donald.” He stubbed out his cigarette with a wince of distaste. “I’m trying to give up. It’s not easy. Which daily are you with?”
“I’m freelance. I work for whoever I can.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “How long have you been doing t
his kind of work?”
“Does that matter?”
“It might. I don’t want to end up holding the hand of an amateur and getting dragged into something messy.”
Riley counted to five. “What makes you think it could be messy?”
“Because it often is. Call it instinct, but hot news is never dull.”
“Maybe. But you won’t be holding anyone’s hand. I’ve been doing this for four years and if you don’t want the job-” She began to rise.
“I didn’t say that,” he said calmly. “I just need to know who I’m — might be working with, that’s all.” He smiled faintly and looked across his computer towards one of the grimy windows as if hoping for divine guidance.
“How about you?” She decided to go on the offensive. “How long have you been doing this… work?”
“Same as you,” he said readily. “Four years. Well, four years solo, anyway.”
“Police?” Donald hadn’t given out any information about Palmer’s background, which could be a good or a bad sign.
“Army — Special Investigations Branch. Redcaps to our clients.”
A military cop. Useful.
She told him as much as she knew, beginning with the murders of the two former gangsters and ending with the suspicions that a third person had been involved with them. It was the third person she needed to find.
“Who are the two stiffs?”
“John McKee and Bertrand Cage.”
Palmer leaned forward until the front legs of his chair settled with a faint thud on the floor. His face was still. In the silence a fly buzzed about his head before settling on the desk and cleaning its feet.
“I think someone’s having you on, Miss Gavin,” he said softly. “There’s nothing ‘former’ about McKee and Cage. They may be getting a bit long in the tooth, but they never left the business. Even I’ve heard of them. They and their type are not nice people.”
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