Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

They pushed through a small thicket, Palmer leading the way and Riley treading carefully on the softer ground, until they found themselves overlooking a broad sweep of countryside fading into the distance. A rutted track ran from right to left in front of them, the ground marked by the treads of tractor tyres and horses’ hooves. It was evidently a regular exercise route for local riders, as well as an access track for farm workers, and even without Palmer’s security experience, Riley knew that this point, like the vast amount of open countryside around the house and grounds, was a security team’s worst nightmare. It was impossible to keep an eye on all fronts, and the amount of cover provided by shrubs, bushes and several acres of trees could have hidden a small army. Add to that the amount of scaffolding and building materials scattered around the place, and it was a terrorist’s dream on a plate.

‘This is crazy,’ she breathed, appalled once more by the size of the task they had taken on. ‘We couldn’t cover all this, even if we had Keagan’s entire team with us.’

Palmer shrugged. ‘True. But I’ve done worse jobs. It’s all about being seen to be there.’

‘I thought security was supposed to be unobtrusive.’

‘Some is, some isn’t. We’re both.’

‘Palmer, are you armed?’ Riley had been meaning to ask him from the outset.

‘No. I asked Keagan to get authorisation, but he was blocked. Insufficient need, apparently.’

‘So what do we do if someone does have a go?’

‘We could always throw champagne bottles.’

‘Great. I should have stuck to writing about Myburghe — it would have been easier.’

Palmer gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, you insisted on sticking your oar in.’ He took a small, lightweight Motorola GP radio from his pocket and checked it out. Riley did the same. They were little bigger than a mobile, and Palmer had given Riley and Rockface a quick briefing earlier on how to use them. With so much ground to cover, it would be their only way of summoning each other if needed.

Just then, both radios crackled and Rockface’s voice spoke briefly. The bride and groom were on their way.

‘Time to trot,’ said Palmer. ‘Let’s go.’

They returned to the main house just as a limousine decked out in ribbons purred up the drive and the newly-weds ducked out amid cheers and flashing cameras. The groom, Simon Biel, who seemed more assured here than the photo Riley had seen on the Internet had portrayed, hovered supportively as his bride, Victoria, greeted friends and revelled in her new-found status, her smile outshining by a long way all the other splashes of colour. Every step was recorded by a frenetic photographer, and from his work-rate, it was plain he had been warned that he would have only seconds to record the necessary outdoor shots before the couple were herded inside.

Rockface also danced close attendance, towering over his charges like a large mother hen. As soon as the happy couple were over the threshold, he closed the door. Next, Sir Kenneth appeared and moved through the assembled guests, any signs of nerves no doubt excused as the understandable jitters of a typically proud father. He caught Palmer’s eye and nodded briefly. He was accompanied by a slender, elegant woman whom Riley guessed was his ex-wife.

‘Lady Susan Myburghe,’ confirmed Palmer, when she asked him. ‘Nice woman.’

A man with the focussed air of a professional watcher appeared through the crowd. He was dressed in a smart lounge suit, but to expert eyes there was no mistaking his profession. He threw Palmer a brief look, clicked through his mental slides of okay faces, then carried on scanning the people around him before turning to nod to a new arrival in a black Jaguar. The male passenger climbed out and Riley recognised the familiar, burly figure of the Defence Secretary.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ she said, as the man was ushered inside by the minder.

‘Friend of the family,’ murmured Palmer. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t come to regret today’s visit.’

They trawled the crowd, picking out a scattering of other public faces. Two peers and couple of back-benchers moved by in easy familiarity; a middle-ranking female opera singer swished past with a party of admirers; an eagle-eyed entrepreneur who had graced the pages of the tabloids the week before was trying hard to be ignored, while two cat-walk models glided past with the grace of gazelles among wildebeest, displaying the hauteur of their trade. A few obviously foreign guests wandered around like confused minnows, no doubt trying to come to grips with the eccentricities of British etiquette and quickly losing the plot.

In between the chatter, the crunch of cars arriving on the gravelled drive continued, interspersed with the thud of doors slamming and cries of greeting. The vehicles were beginning to stack two deep along the drive, some driven onto the grass verge with their noses into the shrubbery. A couple of local youths were trying to maintain order out of this chaos, but whatever system might have been planned beforehand, it was already beginning to break down under the sheer volume of numbers and the exuberance of the occasion.

‘We’d better split up,’ Palmer told her. ‘It won’t make much difference in this crowd, but one of us might spot something. Keep your radio handy.’ He nodded away from the house. ‘You do the gardens. I’ll check the inside.’

Riley walked around the house and through the shrubbery, then drifted towards a collection of brick buildings set back among the trees. The noise dropped appreciably as she walked towards them, and she realised with a sudden chill that she wouldn’t have to go far before she was completely alone.

In the fading light, she could just make out some wooden ventilation boxes sitting on the roofs of the buildings, and closer examination revealed she was approaching some stables. From what Palmer had said, Keagan’s men had checked these out already, but that was probably two days ago. A cobbled path led all the way from the house and ended in a small yard around which the buildings were set in an open square. She couldn’t hear the sound of horses stamping and snuffling, nor any of the associated noises to be found in busy stables. A couple of bulkhead lights shone weakly from high on the walls, revealing the yard to be empty and clean, although dotted with sprouting weeds and coarse grass.

If there had been horses here, she reflected, it must have been a while ago.

The stalls along one side of the open square held an assortment of implements and riding gear. None of it looked clean or fresh and everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The stalls on the opposite side were also empty save for a scattering of straw and some old, damaged furniture. Over everything hung the dull tang of stale horse manure, and the soft cooing of doves in the rafters added to the sense of rural peacefulness.

She turned to the block in the centre. There were no stable doors to this one, just a single door at one end with a low watt bulb burning in a wrought-iron holder overhead.

The door opened to emit a mixed aroma of stale cigarette smoke, cooking and bodies. Riley reached along the wall near the door and flicked on the light. She was in a small, high-ceilinged anteroom furnished with wooden lockers, a table and chairs. High windows looked out onto a stretch of trees at the rear. She opened a couple of the locker doors, but other than a film of dust and the odd clump of dried mud, they were empty. The whole room had an empty feel of desolation and lack of care, like a small-town railway station waiting room.

Against the rear window wall was a single sink and drainer, with a battered microwave oven standing on one end. Its glass door was open, and the inside was stained with baked-on food remnants. The air around it smelled spicy and peppery.