Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Riley shrugged. Maybe, after all the years working under such circumstances, Walter Asner had simply become careless. ‘Could it have been suicide?’

Henzigger shook his head with measured emphasis. ‘Not a chance. Walt and I went back a long way. He wasn’t the type.’ He held up a quick hand to forestall argument. ‘I know, the shrinks say everyone’s got it in them; that everyone’s got their breaking point. I hadn’t seen Walt for months, but I spoke to him before he quit. He wanted to enjoy life, not end it. He had lots of plans, all of them involving his wife, Margie and their boat.’

‘This still doesn’t explain why you’ve come to me after all this time. Are you saying Myburghe was involved?’

‘Myburghe,’ Henzigger said, appearing to have only heard part of what she’d said. His eyes glinted sharply. ‘I hear he’s been getting some letters and stuff.’

Riley was surprised. She wasn’t sure how much Henzigger knew or how much was guesswork, but by ‘stuff’, did he mean the fake bomb, or his son’s finger and ring?

‘There’s been some crank mail. How did you hear about it?’

He showed his teeth, ignoring the question. ‘Crank mail? Is that what you call it over here? Jesus.’ He sniffed and added, ‘What’s it about?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘What do they want? What’re the demands?’

She shrugged. ‘There haven’t been any — at least, not yet.’ She wondered if he knew about the fake bomb. If he was as well informed as he claimed, he probably did. But she decided to try it out. ‘Apart from the bomb, anyway.’

He looked stunned. ‘Bomb?’ He dropped his voice and hissed, ‘What freaking bomb?’

Got you, she thought. So you’re not as well informed as you think. ‘It was a fake. The police think it was a disgruntled former worker.’

‘And no follow-up note?’

‘No.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Kinda strange, don’t you think? If someone sent me a fake ticker through the post, I’d expect I’d have to pay out, in case they sent a real one.’

‘Perhaps whoever’s behind it is playing a waiting game.’

‘Sure. And in the meantime, you and your buddy have been hired to watch his back?’

Riley frowned. Pinning this man down was like dealing with a hyperactive kid. ‘Are you saying this business with Myburghe is connected to your friend Walter?’

He gave her a sour look. ‘Damn right. If there’s one thing I learned after all the years I put in this business, it’s that connections to Colombia always rise to the surface sooner or later like dead fish in a pool. Walt died after working there; my career and reputation went in the can after Colombia, and now Myburghe is being threatened — and he was there longer than most. Even money says the common thread must be Colombia.’

‘And you want to find out to clear your name.’

‘You got it.’

Riley wasn’t sure how much to believe. Yet she couldn’t argue with his logic. Looking for a common link to all three men, the most obvious conclusion was the place they had last worked. Except that each case appeared to be different. It wasn’t what anyone would have called a definite pattern.

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘Work with me,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’m trying at my end, through contacts at the embassy and a couple of DEA offices here in Europe.’ He smiled coolly. ‘I’ve still got friends who don’t believe all the mud they threw at me. I’m trying to find out what Walt was working on before he retired. I know what I was working on before I got shafted, so it’s a matter of seeing where the connections are.’

Riley stifled a feeling of anger at his arrogance. ‘And you’re hoping I’ll investigate Myburghe for you? Why should I do that?’

‘I came over to do it myself… but I’m open to any help I can get. I know you’re smart and capable, and you’re pretty tough.’ The look behind his eyes had suddenly become wild and unsettling, and Riley noticed that where his hands were gripping the table, the skin was white with tension. It made her want to move her chair back and put distance between them.

‘You expect me to spy on him for you?’

‘You’re in a position to keep an eye on him. See what he does, who he meets, that’s all. Okay?’

The way he said the final word was like fingernails down a blackboard. Was he taking it for granted that she would help, as if she had rolled over, easily seduced by his hard luck story? Or was it the hard edge of desperation that she could hear in his voice? Either way, she heeded the instinctive alarm bells and said vaguely, ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Sure.’ As if throwing a switch, he was suddenly reasonable and calm again. ‘You’re being cautious. I guessed you would be.’ He slipped a hand in his shirt pocket and took out a slip of paper. It held a phone number. ‘You can get me on that number anytime. You could be a big help, you know — and get yourself a mega-bucks story.’

With that, he stood up and walked away.

*********

Riley returned to her flat to find Weller strolling along the pavement outside. He had his tie loosened and seemed to be enjoying the air. She looked round for a snatch-squad, but he was alone.

She said, ‘What do you want, Weller? This is getting annoying.’

‘Just passing,’ he replied breezily, and looked around at the buildings. ‘Nice neighbourhood, this. Bit outside my bracket, though.’

‘I doubt that.’ She thought the idea of Weller just passing was as likely as Father Christmas in July. Besides, she was convinced he would have already been here to ascertain where she lived before buttonholing her in Caffé Nero a few days ago.

‘Relax,’ he said, fingering a luxurious bay tree in a wooden tub. The old lady next door had placed it there with Mr Grobowski’s approval, and was now watching Weller like a hawk through a side window. By the scowl on her face, Riley reckoned that if Weller so much as bent one of the leaves, she’d be out with a broken chair leg to beat him to a pulp. ‘I wanted to ask if you’d seen Henzigger yet?’

Riley almost admitted she had. Then she thought better of it. Let Weller do his own dirty work. ‘Should I?’

‘Well, he did have your name on him. It seems an odd thing to carry if he had no intention of contacting you.’

‘You said you had no interest in Henzigger.’

‘We didn’t. Then we found out a bit more about him. Seems the Yanks fibbed a bit. He’s got history.’

Riley worked hard at keeping her face straight. Did Weller know she’d just been talking to Henzigger? Was this chat some sort of test? ‘What kind of history?’

‘Classified stuff. Goes back years. Panama, Nicaragua, Chile… he’s knocked around a bit, mostly in the southern hemisphere. One thing’s sure, he wasn’t just a journalist.’

‘What?’ Riley felt her face drain of colour and thought about the line of chat Henzigger had fed her not twenty minutes ago. How could anyone be so convincing? What the hell else had he lied about?

‘We think he was DEA,’ Weller continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. ‘Might still be for all we know. But if the Yanks don’t want him, why should we get stuck with him? We’ve got enough undesirables of our own.’

‘Good point,’ Riley agreed, recovering quickly. ‘So why not pick him up and put him on the next plane?’

‘I’d love to. Trouble is, we can’t find him. I thought he might have contacted you.’

Riley smiled. If she were to believe this man, the Met couldn’t locate Frank Palmer when he was with Sir Kenneth Myburghe, and now they’d lost an unwelcome American with a dodgy past who’d come into the country on a false passport. ‘Sorry. I can’t help.’