Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Before Riley could mention her thoughts about Lady Susan’s cover-up, a car pulled in at the kerb alongside them. The rear door opened to disgorge a familiar figure.

‘Well, well.’ Weller stepped across the pavement, straightening his cuffs. ‘Two of London’s finest busybodies. Been anywhere near Colebrooke House in the last twelve hours, have we?’ A uniformed PC emerged from behind him and stood to one side, waiting.

‘You really must stop following me around like this, Weller,’ Riley told him. ‘People are beginning to talk.’ She spread her smile to include the PC, but he stared back with a cold expression.

‘That’s truer than you know,’ Weller replied, eyeing her with a touch of flint. ‘And it’s pointless making eyes at PC Hennings. He’s on duty.’ He threw a studied look at Palmer, who stared back with an expression of boredom. Palmer’s way of dealing with officialdom was to pretend it wasn’t there.

‘Dead bodies turning up always worry me,’ Weller continued enigmatically. ‘Where were you two last night?’

‘Out walking,’ said Riley.

‘Together?’ He glanced at Palmer, who shrugged and said nothing.

Weller didn’t seem offended or surprised by the silence. He glanced up at the windows of the house behind them. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Myburghe’s ex-missus lives here, doesn’t she? Nice place. Must be worth a packet. Are they in?’

Riley caught Palmer’s look and instinctively shook her head. His meaning was clear: the last thing they needed right now was Weller talking to Lady Myburghe. In her fragile state she might let on that they had been asking questions about the Spanish ‘grooms’ and the stable block, a subject a little too close to home, given what Weller had just intimated. ‘You were right about the money thing, Weller,’ she said. ‘But he’s out. What bodies are you talking about?’

Weller ignored Riley and stepped up close to Palmer. ‘Last night at Colebrooke House,’ he explained, ‘an ex-squaddie named David Hilary was murdered. Seems someone didn’t like him. He was Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s butler and bodyguard. You probably knew him.’

‘Of course,’ Palmer replied. ‘What about Sir Kenneth — is he okay?’

‘No idea. But two phone calls were made late last night, alerting the police, both within half an hour of each other and both by male callers. Unfortunately, the local plods couldn’t undo the padlocks on their bicycles and weren’t able to get there for an hour after the calls. Now I know you two wouldn’t do the sort of things that were done to Hilary, but something tells me you might be able to help me in my enquiries. Care to make my life a little easier?’

Riley reminded herself that Weller hadn’t risen high in the police force without having something between his ears. Two phone calls? Palmer had made one; so who had made the second? And was it before Palmer’s call or after? If after, it meant someone had been watching the house and had seen Palmer and Riley enter and leave. The idea was unsettling, and her thoughts switched to Toby Henzigger. Had he also been roaming about in the wilds of Gloucestershire last night?

‘Sorry. Can’t help you,’ she said truthfully. ‘We knew Hilary, of course — he was around Myburghe all the time. But that’s all.’

Weller sighed and stepped towards the house, followed by the PC, then turned and came back. ‘Two things,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘One, you haven’t asked how Hilary died, which I find a little odd in two people with noses for trouble — and one of you a hack. Answer: he was tortured and bled to death, in case you’re interested. Two: there were actually two deaths reported last night, both connected with Sir Kenneth Myburghe. The second was in the States.’

Riley guessed what he was going to say. She glanced at Palmer. By his stillness, he also knew.

‘Who else?’

‘The body of a young man was washed up on a beach in Florida yesterday afternoon. It was identified as Christian Myburghe.’

**********

‘How did it happen?’ The stark image in Riley’s mind was of a pale corpse lying on wet sand, one finger missing. It was accompanied by vivid flashes of David Hilary’s abused body hanging on the wall of the stable block.

‘A drowning. The local police think he went swimming fully clothed while under the influence of alcohol, and got caught in a riptide. Happens all the time, I’m told. Kids get down on the beach for parties and barbecues, drink too much, smoke wacky backy or snort snazzle dust and get carried away. Literally, as it happens.’

‘How did they find him?’

‘A couple of fishermen got him tangled in their nets offshore. They didn’t stick around long enough to say where. Fortunately, there was a wallet and a blood donor card, so the local cops didn’t have to rely on prints to confirm his identity. He’d been dead several days. It wasn’t nice.’

Riley almost felt the question rising in Palmer’s mind and beat him to it; she figured it would sound better coming from her. ‘Was he intact?’

Weller stood back and stared at her, eyes narrowing. ‘That’s a bloody odd question. But since you ask, no. There were some fingers missing and other injuries — probably caused by a boat propeller.’ He straightened up and gestured the PC to move towards the house. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have an unpleasant duty to perform.’

‘Florida,’ said Palmer quietly, as the two policemen disappeared inside. ‘Not quite where I expected. But maybe not surprising.’

Riley agreed. She had been expecting somewhere like Mexico or the Caribbean — locations occasionally tinged with a shade of darkness that might reflect what was happening here. But Florida, especially around Miami, with its long-established assortment of underworld gangs incorporating the mafia and Cuban exiles, more than fitted the bill.

‘Do you want to go back in?’ she asked, nodding towards the house.

He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t do grief. Let’s get some exercise.’

‘Suits me.’ She walked alongside him, comfortable in the silence, aware that they both needed time to chew over what they knew and come up with a course of action.

The main problem was, the one thing they needed to know — the whereabouts of Sir Kenneth Myburghe — still eluded them.

‘Christian wasn’t meant to come back, was he?’ she said eventually.

Palmer shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Unless he tried to escape and died in the process. My guess is, it was an arranged hit all along.’

‘But why?’

‘For something Sir Kenneth did. Or something he didn’t.’ He stopped and lit a cigarette. ‘The finger was a last warning; the body was to be the pay-off.’

Palmer went on to explain what he meant. If Sir Kenneth Myburghe had been under some kind of ultimatum, the price of delay might have been the reason for his son’s finger being sent to him in a bag. A clear warning that they were not playing games. The discovery of the youth’s body, however, took it into a different league; it meant Myburghe had refused to comply. The question was, by doing so, had he automatically signed his son’s death warrant?

Palmer threw the cigarette away. ‘Damn. There’s something I still don’t get.’

‘What?’

‘The threat levels: they’re too irrational. One minute they’re sending nasty letters and fake bombs made of silly putty and wires. The next it’s a finger, gutting a bodyguard and killing Myburghe’s son. They don’t match. Why bother with crank letters if they were going to kill the kid in the end, anyway?’

Riley saw where he was leading. ‘Two different people at work?’ Then she had a flash of inspiration. ‘Jacob Worth! He could have sent the letters and the fake bomb. And he wouldn’t have needed to step outside Barnston to do it.’