Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

His blood had splashed on the wall behind him, vivid and glossy, like dark lipstick. More had run in sticky streams down his torso and legs. The hair on his chest was matted with it, as was the area around his groin, and more was puddled thickly on the floor beneath his feet. A heavy globular trail led to the sink, beneath which lay a wide pool of water. On it, a collection of soap bubbles floated silent and still, like little boats on a lake.

The analytical part of Riley’s brain kicked in. She was no expert, but the blood was coagulating, which meant this must have happened within the past few hours. Long enough for whoever had done this to have slipped away. She realised that the killers — surely it would have taken more than one man to do this — would have had to wash themselves afterwards. She forced herself to cross the room and look into the basin. Just visible beneath the surface of the reddened water was a large kitchen knife, the blade heavy with streaks of red clinging to the shiny metal.

She concentrated on maintaining her breathing and backed away, then turned and walked out of the anteroom and down the corridor. Gone was any idea of stealth; instead she used speed and intent to overcome the fear brought on by the horror of what she’d just seen. She kicked open each door with a crash, the pitchfork held out in front of her, half expecting at any moment for someone to come rushing out. But nobody did.

The rooms were the same as before: cold, unoccupied and soul-less. Just rooms. She went back to the anteroom and stared at the body. She was tempted to do something, to cut it down. But she couldn’t bring herself to go near, telling herself that it was evidence, like the knife, and that she shouldn’t touch.

She rang Palmer and told him.

‘Two minutes,’ was all he said.

While she waited, she busied herself searching for the dead man’s clothing. It had to be here somewhere, unless his attacker had stripped him before bringing him to this place. She couldn’t imagine the big man coming in here willingly unless he had known his attacker, or unless he’d arrived by chance and had been overcome before being stripped and mutilated.

She found his things bundled inside one of the lockers. Black shoes and socks, dark pants, light blue shirt and t-shirt. But whoever killed him had already searched the clothes; the pockets were turned inside out, the hems and cuffs rolled back and checked. Whatever Rockface had carried on him — if anything — was gone.

Riley replaced the clothes in the locker, wondering why they had taken the trouble of putting the clothes out of sight in the first place. Why bother- after this? Then she realised: shock value. In this white room, they wanted nothing to detract from the horror of seeing the body against the stark background.

Palmer whistled a warning before stepping through the door. He looked up at the body, his jaw muscles clenching, then took in the rest of the room at a glance. He eyed the pitchfork in Riley’s hands.

‘You okay?’

‘Why would anyone torture him like this?’ Riley muttered thickly.

‘More than one,’ Palmer said quietly, echoing her earlier assumption. ‘It would have taken at least two men to get him up there.’ He nodded at the brackets, then moved closer to study the string looped under Rockface’s chin. It had been tied tight across the top of his head. It looked painful, even in death. ‘It wasn’t torture,’ Palmer concluded. ‘This was punishment. He wasn’t meant to speak.’

Riley’s throat felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. She needed a distraction. ‘Was there anything in the house?’ It was going to take a long time to wipe this sight out of her mind, and she suddenly didn’t want to think about the agony Rockface must have suffered or why he had been killed in such a horrific manner.

‘Nothing useful,’ Palmer replied. He moved across to the microwave and sniffed at the door. ‘And no sign of Myburghe.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘If Myburghe was away, why was Rockface here? Bodyguards never, ever leave their charges.’

‘Unless whoever killed Rockface took Myburghe.’

‘Possibly.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘His name’s David Hilary, by the way. I found a bedroom with his stuff in it — papers and couple of ID cards.’

At least, Riley reflected, the dead man now had a name. Funny how she’d never thought to ask what it was before. It made her feel guilty.

Palmer bent and touched a spot of blood with his fingertip and held it up. ‘This was fairly recent,’ he said. He led the way outside and they stood for a few moments in a pool of shadow, watching and listening. The killers were probably long gone, but neither of them was anxious to go rushing back across the gardens and discover the hard way how wrong they might be.

‘What do we do?’ said Riley. She felt somehow disconnected, as if she had stumbled into a nightmare and hadn’t the strength to pull herself out.

‘We leave,’ said Palmer. ‘Now. There’s nothing we can do here.’

They made their way by a circuitous route through the perimeter trees and out across the lawns at the back, Riley allowing Palmer to lead her by the arm. There was no sign of life other than a couple of owls and the sinuous outline of a fox slinking unhurriedly into the bushes. The sight of the animal, natural and free, merely served to heighten the contrast of what they had just seen in the stable block.

The walk back to the car was quicker than the trip in, and Palmer wasted no time getting back out onto the road. After a few miles, he stopped at a public phone to call the police, leaving a brief, anonymous message, then hanging up and wiping the phone before getting back in the car.

‘What are you thinking?’ said Riley eventually, as they entered the glow of lights along the Western Avenue on the outskirts of London. She was relieved to be back in civilisation. The regular strobing of overhead lights should have been making her sleepy, but she hardly noticed. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to sleep again after what she had seen.

‘Myburghe,’ said Palmer, muttering beneath his breath. ‘Where the hell is he?’

It was obvious that if a bodyguard went down, then the principal was immediately at greater risk. No bodyguard, no shield. Only they’d found no trace of Myburghe, which was odd. He should have been screaming from the rooftops, or at the very least, summoning help by phone. Unless he was unable to.

Palmer dug out his phone and dialled a number. ‘Sir Kenneth’s mobile,’ he explained. They listened to a recorded message telling them that the subscriber was unavailable. He dialled another, but it rang several times with no response. He switched off. ‘I’ll drop you off and we’ll meet up in the morning. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’

‘Okay.’

He looked keenly at her. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

The truth was, she felt anything but.

**********

Whenever sleep evaded her, Riley got up and drank tea and ate biscuits. It usually worked a treat, but not this time — there were too many vivid images floating about in her head. The cat wandered in and sat close by her leg, purring softly and allowing her to reach down and pet him. He seemed to be acknowledging for once that it was Riley who needed the consolation of unspoken companionship.

Succumbing just before five in the morning, she slept fitfully for three hours, then showered and dragged herself round to Nero’s. Although the images of the anteroom were beginning to recede with the passing hours, she needed normal sights and sounds to help the process along.

She found Palmer lounging in a chair by the back wall, nursing a large mug of coffee and eating a croissant. If he had any remnants of nightmares left over after seeing Rockface, he was dealing with it in his own way. With Palmer, she reflected, you couldn’t always tell.