Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

A knock at the door prevented him dwelling on the situation. It was the reassuring bulk of his butler.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ the man said. ‘Mr Keagan called. He confirmed that he’ll be briefing Palmer tomorrow.’

Myburghe nodded. He was aware of Palmer’s capabilities, and that he was good at his job. But Palmer was just one man. What he needed, if the threats were genuine, was a whole team of Palmers.

The butler was hovering, and it was clear there was something else on his mind.

‘What is it?’ said Myburghe.

‘Down at the village pub. The landlord said a man has been asking questions about the wedding.’

‘A reporter?’

‘He said not.’

‘I expect it was Palmer. Keagan gave him a preliminary assignment to look at the area and report back.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. A foreigner, he said.’

Sir Kenneth’s shoulders felt suddenly chilled, and he tried instinctively to keep his face blank of any emotion. It didn’t do to let anyone know how you felt, even though this man knew him better than most. ‘Foreign? Not-’

‘Anglo American.’

The butler stepped back through the door. As he did so, Myburghe glimpsed the tell-tale bulk of a gun in his pocket. Instead of the sense of comfort it should have brought, it merely added to his growing fears.

He turned back to the window. North Americans he could deal with. The man was probably a tourist tout looking for events to sell to his rubbernecking compatriots on their whistle-stop tours of middle England. Show them a few mullioned windows and some oak beams, and they’d be in seventh heaven.

His eyes were drawn towards a clump of trees to one side of the house, where a stable block stood. It had once housed a few horses, but was now deserted. The building was an uncomfortable reminder that any threat to his safety was not as far away as he might imagine.

No, North Americans he could deal with; those further south, however, were a different prospect altogether.

********

By eleven the following morning, Riley and Palmer were turning onto a rutted track leading through a thick belt of trees. Tetbury was five miles away in one direction, the village of Colebrooke three miles behind them. Riley was riding shotgun, which meant holding a map and singing out directions for Palmer to follow. Apart from acknowledging the instructions, Palmer was humming tunelessly and staring out at the greenery. There was a lot to stare at.

They were both clad in rubber boots, although Riley’s were Hunter green and fitted properly, whereas Palmer’s had come from a self-service station just off the M4. They were black and fitted like canoes. Not that it seemed to bother him.

Riley thought that London seemed far away and was wondering where this particular job was leading them. The idea of a boy’s body parts being sent to his father was horrible, especially when set against the backdrop of the shire counties, titled gentry and chinless wonders blasting holes in the sky in the name of sport.

‘Who are we meeting?’ she asked, as Palmer steered the Saab down a narrow, bumpy back-road bordered by thick hedges.

‘A man named Keagan. Major. Ex-military. He’s part of the Diplomatic Protection Group and runs the security detail responsible for Myburghe’s safety, among others. Sir Kenneth has instructed him to give us a briefing.’

‘So why out here and not at the house?’

‘It’s easier this way. There are too many people wandering around his place — builders, caterers, staff and wedding organisers. Sir Kenneth’s holed up indoors and some friends are acting as decoys for the day’s shoot.’

‘Really? Now they’ll know what a pheasant feels like. Nice to see they’re taking it seriously.’

‘They are at the moment. Some of Keagan’s team are with him, treating it like a training exercise. The rest are at the house.’ Palmer turned down a track, swinging past a stocky, Lycra-clad cyclist bent over a racing bike. The man didn’t bother looking up, intent on tugging at the chain which was hanging loose from the main cog.

Riley was surprised they hadn’t sealed up Myburghe’s house like a fortress with him inside. If it had been her under threat, she would have found the safest place available and locked herself in with a team of heavies at every access point until it was safe to come out. On the other hand, that was a way to grow old and grey, thereby missing some of life’s finer pleasures.

‘Thoughts?’ Palmer spoke as they cleared a tunnel of trees and turned through a gateway onto a gentle hillside with half of Gloucestershire spread out before them. At least Riley assumed it was still Gloucestershire; her geography was never too good once she was out of London.

‘I’m still thinking them,’ she replied.

Several gleaming 4WDs splattered with mud were parked on the hill, their occupants standing in a group nearby, guns at the ready. They all wore the uniform of Hunter boots, Barbours and peaked caps, and had that air of well-fed leanness which comes from good breeding, money and time spent in the great outdoors.

One or two men turned their way, but nobody moved to greet them. Palmer parked with the front of the car facing back the way they’d come. He turned off the engine and they sat waiting for Keagan to come forward. The tree line around them was heavy and dark, full of shifting shadows.

‘If you go down to the woods today,’ Palmer sang quietly. ‘I counted three.’

‘Three what?’ asked Riley.

‘Security men hanging around in the bushes. Four if you include the chunky individual mending his bike near the entrance to the track.’

Riley nodded at the men with the guns. ‘What about them?’

‘Strictly local colour. Keagan brought them in to make it look real.’

‘Risky, isn’t it? He could have all manner of collateral damage if anyone lets rip at them.’

Palmer grunted as one of the men suddenly swung round with scant regard for his companions and blasted away at a pheasant flying by. The bird didn’t even bother to duck and continued on its way, leaving the shooter looking red-faced and the other men laughing. ‘With shooting like that, any gunman showing up here is in more danger than the birds.’

‘If the bomb package was a hoax,’ said Riley, musing out loud about the series of threats, ‘then why not the finger, too?’

‘There was a family ring attached. No hoax.’

‘Oh.’ Riley fell silent. The implications weren’t good. ‘In that case, the boy won’t be coming back, will he?’

Palmer shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Does Myburghe realise that?’

‘I think so.’

Riley shivered at the idea. If it was a straight kidnap, even moderate statistics held that most victims died within seventy-two hours of being snatched. In some cases, this was due to inept or simply callous kidnappers; in others it was the fear of being identified if they let the victim go. In a minority there was never any intention of the victim surviving, anyway, and few of these made it past the first day.

Then there was the matter of the finger. Getting hold of a spare as a ghastly form of hoax was no simple matter. It wasn’t simply a case of tripping along to the local morgue and buying a spare body part. And grave robbing was a little too public to go unnoticed.

She felt sickened at the thought of someone cutting off a finger. But the cold brutality of the act didn’t end there; she was no medical expert, but she figured if the boy wasn’t in a proper hospital or at least being cared for by a professional medic when the finger was cut off, he was going to die from shock, infection or blood loss.

She looked up as one of the men left the group and walked towards them, waving a hand. He had a relaxed air of authority and she guessed he must be Keagan. Then she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a slight shift of movement in the trees behind the car. No doubt one of his watchers.