Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

A cupboard under the sink held a bottle of detergent and a selection of mismatched crockery, chipped and stained with use. The air in the cupboard smelled of damp, and the wall at the back was covered in a dark bloom.

The room had obviously been converted from something else — possibly a tack room, Riley guessed — and turned into a makeshift staff kitchen. The walls had been splashed with white paint but the slabbed floor remained uncarpeted and cold. High on the wall to one side of the sink were two hefty metal brackets, which had probably once held shelves for tackle or other equipment. A metal waste-bin against one wall had been used as an ashtray and the one window was over-painted and firmly shut. With no attempt at creature comforts, it smacked of the purely temporary.

Riley emerged into a corridor that ran the full length of the block, with a number of doors leading off to the rear of the building and two small windows facing out onto the central square. The first door opened with a protesting squeak, the wood swollen in the damp air. The room was simple, about ten feet square, plain and as homely as a coal bunker, with a single bed and one hard-backed chair. A small bedside cabinet was scarred along the front edge by cigarette burns, and any varnish on the top had long been eradicated by the ring-stains of hot mugs and wet glasses. Cheap wire coat hangers bunched along a wooden architrave served as a wardrobe. It could almost have been a prison cell, she thought, and shivered at the thought.

The other rooms were identical. None showed signs of current use, but other than a thin layer of dust, bore the same lingering odour of someone having been here recently. The grooms? Or temporary lodgings for some other reason?

As she turned to leave the last room, Riley spotted a small square of printed paper, lying wedged under the edge of the the door. She pulled it out and smoothed it flat.

It was a torn scrap from a magazine. The typeface was rough, the paper quality poor. The illustration showed part of a naked breast, the aureole tanned and pimpled with goosebumps. The text alongside mentioned the name Licia in bold print and was peppered with vivid exclamation marks. No doubt, Riley assumed, the thinking man’s Michelin Guide indicator to soft porn. Unfortunately, whatever the editor was trying to convey about Licia’s finer attributes was a mystery to her, as the text was all in Spanish.

As Riley slipped the piece of paper into her pocket, she heard a noise from the far end of the corridor.

Somebody had just entered the anteroom.

**********

Riley waited, but there was no further sound above the drumming in her ears. With a rising sense of panic, she realised there was no other way out of here; she was going to have to walk back the way she had come in.

She felt the shape of the radio in her pocket and debated calling Palmer. But that would take him away from what he was doing. Besides, what would he say if it turned out to be an inquisitive guest or a member of the catering staff sneaking away for a cigarette break?

She took a deep breath and retraced her steps along the corridor, her footsteps unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. As she passed each door, she glanced in, but the rooms were empty. As she reached the anteroom, she saw a bulky shadow thrown across the floor.

Rockface.

He looked as welcoming as a fridge-freezer and Riley wondered what he was doing here.

‘I thought you were Palmer,’ she said coolly.

‘He’s with Sir Kenneth. I said I’d take a tour of the grounds. I saw the lights.’

‘They were on when I came in. What’s this place used for?’

‘It’s not. Nobody comes here.’ His tone was accusatory.

Riley ignored it. ‘I’m not surprised. Not very welcoming, is it?’

‘It used to be for storage and tack,’ he explained. ‘Sir Kenneth had the place done up when he hired some grooms to look after the horses.’ He eyed the room as if they were discussing soft furnishings, a strange contrast to the surly robot Riley had come to expect. ‘When Sir Kenneth sold the horses, he didn’t need the grooms. They left. That was a good while back.’ The bare bulb in the ceiling cast a collection of shadows across his face, highlighting the planes and hollows of his eyes and craggy cheekbones. Riley wondered why she was being treated so freely to this information.

‘Where did they go?’ she asked, edging towards the door. As far as she knew, she had no reason to fear this man, but she would feel a whole lot better once she was out in the open.

He shrugged vaguely and turned to follow her, closing the door behind him and switching off the lights on the outside wall. ‘No idea. Probably to whatever local stables would give them work. There are plenty in the area, always on the lookout for staff.’ He sounded disinterested, and Riley sensed he was keen to get her away from here.

She followed him back towards the house, unconvinced by his explanation. The smell of humans and cigarette smoke don’t usually last very long, which meant the place had been used recently. And although she knew nothing about grooms and their domestic habits, she couldn’t see local lads being into spicy food and Spanish porn.

Behind the house, the party was growing in volume as more guests milled around the entrance to the marquee and the drinks tables. From inside came the mellow sound of music loosening the mood, and a peek through the entrance showed a wall of bodies.

‘You want to check it out?’ Rockface nodded towards the marquee.

She shook her head. ‘Too much noise and too many people. I wouldn’t see anything.’ There was also the danger that if any of them mistook her for an official presence, there might be a stampede as guests with toxic substances charged outside to dispose of the evidence among the rhododendrons and rose bushes.

Rockface nodded and walked away, leaving her to continue her patrol. Seconds later, a drunken male guest spotted Riley and lurched away from his friends in her direction.

‘I say — you there!’ called the drunk, like a character from a bad stage play. ‘That single tottie… to heel, I say! Let’s have some fun!’

His intentions were spoiled as he tripped over his feet and sprawled to the ground in front of her, a few splashes of wine narrowly missing Riley’s legs. He lay there, head rolling, as a gaggle of his friends ambled across in noisy support.

‘Thanks,’ Riley murmured, stepping over him, ‘but I don’t know where you’ve been.’

She completed two tours of the grounds, drifting silently along the edge of the tree line and growing more at ease with the place. She was surprised at how peaceful it was. Somehow it seemed so at odds with the threats Sir Kenneth had received. Or maybe she was growing complacent, allowing the music, the laughter and the balmy evening to get to her.

She passed a few quiet couples here and there, mostly older guests in search of tranquillity away from the noise and pounding music in the marquee. They nodded courteously but kept their distance. Something else to get used to, she reflected: nobody talks to the minders.

She was just approaching the edge of the trees bordering the track which she and Palmer had seen earlier, when the night was blown apart by the sound of a gunshot.

Riley turned and raced back as fast as she could through the trees. Even had she been able to, it was pointless stopping to call Palmer on the radio; he’d have heard the shot, too. It appeared to have come from the direction of the house, and although the sound had been distorted, she was guessing it was a shotgun.

When she finally broke into the open, she saw a crowd milling about in confusion on the lawn between the marquee and the rear of the house. Most of them were looking up at the roof, although apart from one or two shrill demands for an explanation, nobody seemed too bothered by the sound of the shot. She wondered how much of that was down to champagne deadening their instincts for danger.