Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Col said quietly, ‘Finish up. Something tells me those two jokers are after some easy money. And we don’t need that kind of hassle. Let’s go get you checked in. I’ll tell you what I’ve got on Myburghe on the way. One thing, though: you never heard any of this from me. I don’t want to get dragged into this end of it.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘If rumours are accurate, it’s worse. And if what they say is true, Myburghe’s got himself into a shitload of trouble.’

********

The first rush of guests began arriving at Colebrooke House just after five. Most were transported in a fleet of gleaming Bentleys, crunching expensively on the gravel drive and spinning round the fountain to form a neat line in front of the house. The occupants stepped out and milled about in the warm evening air, shaking out the stiff formality of the service, which had been held at the village church of St Peter’s, half a mile away. Other cars followed in quick succession, forming a line down the drive

Riley and Palmer were waiting, having made another inspection of the grounds first, while Rockface checked the house and the catering staff. As far as they could tell, Colebrooke House was clear and ready to go.

‘It would have been nice to have gone to the service,’ Riley said wistfully, eyeing the display of elegance emerging from the cars. It looked to her as if half the fashion houses in Europe had been raided to meet the demands of the occasion, and it was clear that, although small by some standards, this was an important date on the wedding calendar.

Palmer, wearing a smart lounge suit — a rare event for him — gave her a sideways look. ‘Jesus. Women and weddings.’

‘It’s all very well for you,’ she said curtly. ‘I feel somewhat underdressed. Make that hugely underdressed.’ Pressed at short notice to wear something other than her customary jacket and jeans, she had been forced to settled on a lightweight summer suit bought a couple of years ago for a cousin’s wedding. It may have been appropriate for that occasion, but she knew it wouldn’t match the present level of glamour on display by a long way.

‘You look fine,’ said Palmer, somewhat belatedly.

‘Fine?’ she hissed, although it was quite a compliment, coming from Palmer. ‘Fine doesn’t cut it. If I’d known it was going to be as glam as this, I’d have held out for a minimum clothing allowance.’

‘If I’d known you were going to witter on about it,’ Palmer retorted calmly, ‘I’d have hired a bloke.’

‘Philistine.’ She decided she was wasting her time. Apart from the suit, she was wearing a pair of medium heeled shoes. They didn’t enhance the outfit, but she’d already decided that if called on to break into anything approaching a trot beyond the firmer terrain of the paths and terraces around the house, she’d kick them off and to hell with convention. Stumbling about on heels like an idiot while pretending to provide security for the Myburghes would be far more humiliating than going barefoot.

Palmer moved away, shaking his head, and began cruising the gathering crowd, instinctively checking out the men first. They were a mixed group, ranging from fresh-faced young turks in search of a party, slightly older types from the city and the civil service, to a mostly conservative and senior scattering in morning suits and double chins.

Riley hung back, preferring the fringes of the crowds, where it was easier to watch people, and where she felt a little less conspicuous. Palmer seemed unbothered by any such distractions, and seemed to blend in easily, although a couple of very tall ex-cavalry types gave him keen, knowing looks as they strode by. They joined two other men of the same brand, and Riley overheard them reminiscing about people called Neville, Alistair and Jonty, and an evening at the officers’ club in Pristina, before they wheeled away with promises to meet up for a game of squash. They smiled briefly at Riley as they passed, too well-schooled to ignore her but probably aware that she wasn’t there by the same invitation.

The women were less restrained, given to peels of surprised greetings and much air kissing. Already fashionably colourful, the amount of jewellery on display was impressive, and the air was soon rent with shrill, catch-up gossip and bursts of laughter as friends and acquaintances spied each other through the crowd.

Uniformed catering staff directed party guests towards the rear gardens, where a large marquee with a service annexe had been set up on the lawns. The atmosphere was balmy and pleasant with only a faint breeze, and most of the arrivals made for a line of champagne-laden white-clothed tables, pausing to scoop up a drink. Then it was onto the lawns in search of fresh air, scenery and some soft grass in which to squish their toes, a sort of sophisticated limbering up before the main event.

Like Clacton beach, thought Riley. Only posher.

Palmer had already checked out the caterers’ vans, along with a generator truck to provide extra power for lighting and refrigeration. Each vehicle carried a ‘By Royal Appointment’ crest. The marquee was a bustle of activity, with trays of food being passed along a line of waiters, and more champagne being packed in ice for later. A manager in a crisp morning suit was directing his troops like a regimental sergeant major, keeping staff in line with a beady eye, calm authority and close attention to his watch. The atmosphere was full of the scent of flowers, with giant floral displays in each corner to add to the sense of colour and glamour.

Riley drifted towards Palmer and nodded towards the roofline, where the silent and deserted scaffolding stuck out like spiky, gelled hair.

‘He’s pushing the boat out, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘With the wedding, it must be quite an outlay, doing up a place this size.’

Palmer nodded, strictly neutral. ‘Lady Myburghe has money, and Sir Kenneth got lucky on the stock market. As for the wedding, Victoria is his eldest daughter. It’s traditional.’

‘So how rich is he?’ Riley was wondering how much in real terms Sir Kenneth could put together if and when his son’s kidnappers finally made their demands. Judging by the scale of the renovations and the size of this celebration, he evidently wasn’t short of funds.

‘I’ve no idea. You thinking about a ransom?’

‘Yes.’

He stared off into the distance, his face grim. ‘If he pays up, whatever he has, it’ll never be enough. They’ll come back for more. Come on, let’s take a walk. I want to check the track.’ He set off with a nod towards a line of trees near the edge of the estate.

Riley followed, still trying to get to grips with the fact that the wedding was going ahead as planned. It was either an attempt by Sir Kenneth to deny the worst, or a brave front against the certain knowledge that Christian would not be coming back. Either way, whenever they had glimpsed the former diplomat, he had seemed brittle, his smile stiff and robotic.

Neither Victoria, nor her young sister, Annabel, had yet put in an appearance at the house. When questioned, Rockface had informed Palmer that they would be travelling directly from London to the church, shadowed by a couple of Keagan’s men.

‘What’s the official explanation for Christian’s absence?’ Riley queried. ‘Surely everyone’e expecting him to be here for his sister’s wedding?’

‘They put the word around that he’s down with a stomach bug and too ill to travel,’ Palmer explained. ‘It doesn’t seem to have raised any eyebrows.’

Thoughts of stiff upper lips came to mind, but Riley had to admire their bravado. It was quite a display. If it had been her family under such pressure, she doubted weddings would have figured too highly on the social calendar.