Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

She brought him up to date with the events of the past couple of days, finishing with the watcher in the woods.

He listened without interruption, then said gravely, ‘You should watch your back. The emails don’t sound like FARC, but if they are behind the threats, they won’t be playing around. It’ll come to a head sooner or later.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They play the odds. If something doesn’t pay, they’ll leave well alone. And they rarely take the fight outside their own boundaries unless they really get upset.’ He paused. ‘And that’s what Frank should be asking himself.’

‘What?’

‘If it’s FARC or any of the cartels, what the hell could a British Ambassador have done to stir up that kind of hornets’ nest?’

***********

‘Good morning,’ Palmer murmured. ‘ Rats ‘R Us. We’ve come about the infestation.’

Myburghe’s butler, Rockface, was standing in the doorway to Colebrooke House. He stared down at Riley and Palmer as if hoping for an excuse to pick them both up and toss them into the fountain, and looked quite capable of doing so. His shoulders seemed to twitch in anticipation.

‘Staff are supposed to use the side door,’ he growled. The faint sneer he gave Riley clearly indicated that Palmer had explained the reason for her previous visit.

‘We’re not staff, sunshine,’ Palmer replied easily. ‘Now, do we stand out here all day?’

The other man blinked slowly before stepping aside. ‘I’ll tell Sir Kenneth you’re here.’

The foyer was large and circular, and impressively cool. The floor was marble, as were the columns liberally sprinkled around. The curved walls were covered in fine wooden panels, dotted with tiny paintings, and the effect was completed by elegant pieces of antique furniture at strategic points.

Riley saw a staircase curving upwards, its walls hung with heavy oil paintings of glum faces and owl-eyed family groups staring down in silent resentment. Somehow, she thought it was the only jarring note about the place, as if it had been assembled to create an impression of ancestry.

‘Some butler,’ she commented, as the large man disappeared.

‘Bodyguard is closer,’ Palmer replied.

‘At his age?’ In spite of his appearance, which would be easily capable of intimidating anyone who might want to do harm to Sir Kenneth Myburghe, it was clear he was in his early fifties. ‘I thought bodyguards were younger.’ She smiled at Palmer. ‘Well, young-ish.’

Before Palmer could come back with a snappy reply, Rockface returned and beckoned them across the foyer. He made barely a sound as he walked and Riley checked his feet, half expecting to see him ghosting along on a set of silent rollers.

They were ushered into a room with surprisingly modern furniture, including a plain mahogany desk bearing a PC and printer, and a scattering of nouveau club chairs made of brushed aluminium and leather. The walls were dotted with watercolours, mostly of pastoral scenes, and the whole effect was of functional comfort. It was a startling contrast to the formal austerity of the foyer.

‘Sir Kenneth will be with you shortly,’ said Rockface, before leaving them and closing the door silently behind him.

After the excitement of the previous day, Keagan had put the house and gardens on lockdown while he and his men conducted a rigorous security scan. Palmer and Riley had been advised to stay away until this morning, when they would be needed for a briefing with Sir Kenneth.

They had discussed tactics on the way, and decided that for Riley to be accepted as a security expert on a par with Palmer, she should not remain a dumb follower.

‘We need to ask him some questions,’ Palmer suggested. ‘So far, all I’ve had is what Keagan has told me. If anyone knows what’s behind the threats and the disappearance of his son, it must be Myburghe. He can’t be so naïve as to think he’s just been picked on by chance. Anyway, unless there’s been a major shift in tactics, kidnappers don’t send fake bombs.’

Riley was surprised. ‘You want me to question him?’

‘Why Not? He might open up more with you. Push him a little. It’s for his own good.’

‘What if he fires me?’

‘If he values his life, he won’t.’

Moments later, a man Riley recognised from the photos on the Internet as Sir Kenneth Myburghe, opened the door and stepped into the room.

‘Palmer. How kind.’ He shook hands warmly with Frank Palmer, then turned to Riley and gave her a more perfunctory but polite greeting, as if he didn’t quite know how to treat her. ‘Miss Gavin.’ She thought it was oddly gauche for a man in his position, but decided stress might be playing a part. He nodded towards two of the chairs. ‘Please. Sit down.’

In the flesh, Sir Kenneth was the epitome of the career diplomat: smooth and elegantly dressed in razor-creased slacks, cotton shirt and brogues, he looked comfortable in himself, with a ready smile revealing impeccably white teeth. How much of the smile was genuine, however, was impossible to tell. He wore a faint air of controlled stress and his face had a gauntness about it that Riley guessed wasn’t entirely due to age.

All she could think was that if she had received a body part in the post, purportedly belonging to her teenage son, she would never have smiled again. Diplomats were evidently made of sterner stuff.

‘I’m grateful you’ve agreed to help,’ he said. He made it sound as if they had been summoned to unclog the drains. Moving over to a small side table, he lifted the stopper off a crystal decanter and raised his eyebrows in a silent offer. Palmer and Riley shook their heads and waited as Myburghe poured himself a generous helping. Unlike his greeting of Riley, his movements now were practised and smooth, the professional host. He took a sip, lowering the level in his glass by a good third.

Riley glanced at Palmer, who was studying his hands. But she knew he would have seen it, too: beneath the smooth veneer was a man fighting a losing battle with his nerves.

Myburghe sat at the desk and looked at them both in turn. ‘I gather you’re aware of the basic situation?’

Riley nodded, drawing his attention. Barely two minutes in and she was already deciding she didn’t much like Sir Kenneth Myburghe. Losing a son was a ‘situation’? ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son.’

He frowned and studied his glass. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

She glanced at Palmer, who gave her the briefest of nods to carry on. She looked at Myburghe and said, ‘I know you’ve been through this already with others, but just in case you’ve had some ideas: is there anyone you can think of who might wish you harm? Someone who might have made threats — even a while ago?’

‘It’s not something I can pretend I thought would never happen,’ Myburghe replied honestly. ‘There have been threats of one sort or another over the years — more to do with British foreign policies rather than me as an individual. When you work in the diplomatic field, you tend to expect a certain degree of fallout from one group or another. It comes with the job. But you never quite reckon on it being so…personal. A bit like a motor accident, I suppose.’

Riley decided that this ability to deal with major catastrophes as if they were minor setbacks, must be something they taught in public school, She could almost hear the stiff upper lips clamping shut set under pain of God knew what punishment. Here was this man, passing off the possible death of his son as a job-related hazard.

‘I gather your last posting was in Colombia?’ She almost regretted the choice of words, in view of his evident fall from grace, but he seemed not to notice.