Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Riley followed their gaze and saw a gleam of reflected light from what might have been a gun barrel poking out over the balustrade running around the edge of the roof. She felt her stomach tighten with the numb realisation that she and Palmer would now be expected to do something.

Only, with no weapons, what could they do? So much, she thought, for gun control laws. It put all the aces in the hands of the bad guys and left everyone else defenceless.

She was about to call Palmer when she saw Rockface jogging across the lawn from the marquee, a look of consternation on his face when he saw what everyone was looking at. She hurried over to meet him and grabbed his arm.

‘Show me the way up,’ she told him. ‘Then get Sir Kenneth and the girls somewhere safe.’ The cabinet minister and other VIP guests would have to fend for themselves.

‘It’s okay — Palmer’s on it,’ the butler replied, apparently unfazed at receiving orders. He led the way through a side door and up a flight of uncarpeted stairs. They didn’t have the same plush feel as the rest of the house, and Riley guessed it was a service staircase. It echoed with emptiness and felt cold and austere — or maybe that was simply a feeling prompted by the knowledge that somewhere above their heads was a man with a gun. She shivered, her light suit suddenly inappropriate for the drop in temperature.

Their footsteps echoed ahead of them as they rounded the first floor stairs and started up the narrow final section. Riley prayed that whoever was up there didn’t decide to come down this way.

Rockface must have had the same thought, because he reached under his coat and produced an automatic pistol.

Definitely not your average butler, thought Riley. She wondered if Palmer knew the man was armed.

They came to a low door leading to the roof. It was solid, with a large, square lock holding an ornate iron key with a forged handle. Riley tried the handle and felt the door give a fraction. It was unlocked.

They waited, allowing their breathing to return to normal and straining for sounds of movement on the other side. But it was like being in an echo chamber; Riley couldn’t hear a thing above her own heartbeat and Rockface’s panting.

‘Are you any good with that thing?’ she whispered. He was holding the gun in a two-handed grip, the finger alongside the trigger guard. It looked very professional, but she wasn’t automatically reassured. Anyone who’d watched a Bond film knew how to hold a gun like an expert.

He nodded. ‘Among other things, inter-services champion at Bisley. That good enough for you?’

‘Fair enough. But remember — it could be some tanked-up chinless wonder up here who simply found the keys to the gun cabinet.’

Rockface sneered. ‘That’s his lookout, then, isn’t it?’

‘True. But assuming he doesn’t kill us both by accident, what if you shoot him and he turns out to be the son and heir of Lord Doohickey? You fancy doing time for it?’

He appeared to consider the idea, then gestured at Riley to stand by the door. She realised that he wanted her to open it, so he could go through first. She was happy to let him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get his head blown off.

She leaned over and grasped the handle again. It turned with a faint squeak and the door opened, letting in a cool gust of evening air and the reflected glare of lights from the festivities below. Further across the roof she caught a glimpse of the skeletal framework of scaffolding poking into the sky. The sound of music, although muted up here, was still ongoing as though nothing had happened, and it made Riley wonder what it would have taken to bring the proceedings to a halt.

She opened the door a bit more and held her breath, ready for the squeal of rusty hinges. But the door mechanism was silent. She breathed out very slowly, her chest pounding painfully.

At a final nod from Rockface, she pushed the door all the way back.

*********

A man was kneeling by the parapet barely six feet away. He had the butt of a shotgun cradled under one arm, with the barrel poking over the edge. He was dressed like the other guests and seemed to be peering over the top as if searching for someone. An empty champagne bottle lay by his side.

Rockface slipped silently through the door, Riley moving up on one side. The air up here was immediately cooler than at ground level, with a faint breeze skimming the roof. The surface underfoot was flat and faintly ridged, and Riley guessed the area was laid with strips of lead or some other weatherproofing. It should have been the same all over, but as she stepped away from Rockface, she trod on a thin scattering of something brittle, setting off a noise like miniature firecrackers.

The gunman spun round with a start, the barrel of the shotgun lifting towards them. Without thinking, Riley, who was closer, took a quick step forward and kicked the man as hard as she could in the chest.

It wasn’t technical or stylish, merely a good, old-fashioned toe punt. But it did the job. There was a muted crack as something gave way, and the shock of contact travelled up Riley’s leg. As the man groaned and dropped the shotgun, all she had to do was reach out and catch it before it fell to the floor.

As the man flopped over sideways, winded and whey-faced, Rockface stepped past Riley and kicked his hands away from his sides in case he had a backup weapon. There was no attempt at resistance and by the sounds coming from the man’s mouth, he was busy trying not to throw up.

Riley peered over Rockface’s shoulder as he flipped the gunman expertly onto his back. He was fresh-faced and looked no more than nineteen, with a slight fuzz across his upper lip.

‘Know him?’ Riley asked.

Rockface shook his head. ‘Never seen him before. These kids all look the same to me.’ He went through the man’s pockets and came up with a wallet and a silver hip flask. The wallet held documentation in the name of Charles Justin Clarke, with an address in Mayfair, London, and a folded wedding invitation. ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered the butler. ‘He’s a sodding guest!’

‘Well, there you go,’ Riley told him, beginning to feel the surge of adrenalin give way to the shakes. ‘Lucky you didn’t shoot him, aren’t you?’

Rockface grunted sourly and gently slapped the man’s face. It sounded painful. When he got no response, he went downstairs to tell Sir Kenneth what had happened and arrange for an ambulance. Riley didn’t envy him the job. No doubt Myburghe would have something to say about a guest running amok with a gun at his daughter’s wedding reception. It certainly wasn’t something he’d want splashed all over tomorrow morning’s papers while eating his egg soldiers.

Charles Clarke stirred and grunted, his breathing sounding like an old kettle. Riley squatted down and waited for him to come round. He did so by stages, the mixture of shock and alcohol probably combining to act as a mild sedative.

‘What happened?’ he croaked. When he saw Riley looming over him, he struggled to move away, but Riley put a hand on his chest to keep him still. Even in the poor light she could see his face was as pale as a fish’s belly and covered in an unhealthy sheen of perspiration. Then he flipped over and threw up. When he’d finished, he turned back and sat up, shaking his head.

‘Sorry,’ he said miserably, then gently held his ribcage. ‘Christ — what did you hit me with?’

‘My foot,’ Riley muttered. ‘Who were you shooting at?’

‘What? Nobody,’ he muttered groggily and flapped a limp hand towards the darkness. ‘The treetops… I was tree-cutting.’

She looked over the parapet, wondering if he was drunker than he seemed. A group of evergreens showed pale and silver in the light coming up from the ground. Most of them were of the same height, with a uniformity of shape and mass like racked spears pointing skywards. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the nearest one was missing the top few feet of spindly trunk. Myburghe was going to be even less impressed.