Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

‘If he was DEA,’ said Riley, ‘surely they’d have moved in on Myburghe ages ago? This has been going on long enough.’

Palmer squeezed between two trucks trying to make a sandwich of the Saab. ‘Is there any chance you could speak to him?’

‘Henzigger?’ It wasn’t something Riley was keen to do, especially with the latest developments. But she agreed with Palmer; Henzigger was involved. All they had to do was find out to what degree. ‘Maybe,’ she said cautiously, and remembered the number the American had given her. She dialled and heard it ring a dozen times before it was picked up.

‘Yeah, can I help?’ The voice was American, with a faint southern twang. It wasn’t Henzigger.

‘Is Toby there?’ Riley asked.

‘Uh… this is his cellphone, but he’s in a meeting right now, ma’am.’ In the background somebody was pounding on a keyboard and a computer bleeped, followed by the slamming of a drawer and a burst of laughter. Office sounds. ‘May I take a message?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll call back.’ Riley risked a question. ‘Can you tell me where you’re speaking from?’

‘Sure, ma’am,’ the voice replied unhesitatingly. ‘This is the United States Embassy, London.’

*********

Riley gave it fifteen minutes before calling again. In the meantime, she and Palmer tried to make sense of what Henzigger was doing at the US Embassy. The man who’d answered his mobile had sounded hesitant, the way you would if picking up someone else’s phone. Perhaps Henzigger had left it outside the meeting room by request.

‘He might have been called in,’ Palmer reasoned, floating theories. ‘Easier to keep an eye on him that way.’

‘But? There’s a but in there.’

‘It sounds like he’s not exactly a stranger there. Interesting.’

When she re-dialled the number, Henzigger answered.

‘Riley. How are you?’ He sounded wary, and she guessed he’d been told about her call.

‘I need to see you,’ she told him. ‘Something’s come up. I think you might like to know about it.’

‘Sure thing,’ he said readily. ‘No problem. But, uh… you want to give me some idea, as a taster?’

‘I’d rather not. It’s sensitive.’

There was a lengthy pause and she thought he’d gone. Then she heard a hollow sound and realised he’d placed his hand over the phone. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘I can do that. When?’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘No. I’ve got stuff to do all day. After that, I might be out of here.’

He was leaving? ‘This evening, then.’

‘Okay. Make it seven. Where?’

Riley named a spot on Chelsea Embankment. It was cheap psychology; familiar turf for her, but a bit off-territory for Henzigger. She wasn’t overjoyed about the timing, though. She’d have preferred bright sunlight and lots of people.

‘I’ll find it. See you there.’ He cut the connection.

Palmer looked concerned. ‘Is this wise?’

‘It’s the best I could think of,’ said Riley. ‘I don’t think going to Grosvenor Square will accomplish much. If he’s not meant to be on the books, they’ll simply deny any knowledge of him.’

‘True. What are you going to tell him?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.’

Palmer sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get there early.’

But Riley had a better idea. ‘You’d be better trying to find Myburghe or keeping an eye on his daughters.’ She smiled with more confidence than she felt and asked herself whether she was walking into something she couldn’t handle. Only time would tell.

Palmer dropped her at her flat, fighting her idea all the way. But as soon as he left, Riley got on the phone. It took her half an hour and a combination of cheap lies and silky persuasion, but she was finally put through to a number and asked to wait. Weller was in a meeting but when he came on, he sounded relieved to have an excuse to get out of it.

‘If anyone asks,’ he told her, ‘you’re a high-grade informant with important information.’

‘A snitch? Thanks, Weller.’

‘Don’t let it go to your head. And you don’t have to go round speaking out of the corner of your mouth or calling me guv’nor. What can I do for you?’

‘Is Toby Henzigger on the side of the angels?’

‘I doubt it, not after what the Yanks told us. He’s got a sticky reputation and is still under suspicion. As for us, we don’t like people coming in on false plates, no matter who they are. Why?’

‘He came to see me.’ She didn’t mention that it had been the previous day; she wasn’t sure Weller would understand the time lapse. Neither did she want to tell him yet about her meeting the American by the river, unless she had to. ‘He wants my help with clearing his name.’

‘Can you turn water into wine? Why you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Riley said honestly. ‘Maybe he thinks because I’m a journalist I’ll listen to him.’

‘And will you?’

‘I’m reserving judgement. I was hoping you could shed some light.’

Weller gave a snort. ‘Do me a favour. Why do you think I came round to pick your brains?’

‘So how come he was released and allowed to stay in the country?’

There was a silence while Weller digested the question, deciding how much he could tell her. ‘My superiors had a call from the Home Office,’ he said finally. ‘They’d had a call from Grosvenor Square. The US Embassy claim Henzigger’s false plates thing was a mistake. He’d got his papers mixed up and by the time he discovered the fact, it was too late. A favour for a favour, the message went. It’s all bullshit, of course. What’s going on? Is this tied in with Myburghe?’

Riley ignored him. ‘Is Henzigger with the DEA?’

Weller’s reply was loaded with caution. ‘He might be. Why?’

‘Is that yes or no?’

‘It means I don’t know. And the so-called ‘Special Relationship’ doesn’t include that sort of information. What else did he say?’

‘Nothing much.’

Weller gave a non-comittal grunt. ‘Have you seen Myburghe yet?’

It was a sudden switch, but Riley was expecting it. ‘No.’

‘Pity. If you do, tell him to get in touch.’ He ended the call.

The main thrust of outbound traffic was dying as Riley made her way down Flood Street towards the river. Daylight was fading quickly, leaving small pockets of shadow between emerging street lights like clusters of dark cotton wool. In the windows, she caught glimpses of people preparing for the evening, safe and secure behind their double-glazing and solid front doors. It made the outside world suddenly all the less appealing.

As she turned the corner into Cheyne Walk, she was greeted by a strong smell of stale Thames water and the clatter of a boat pounding up river. Lights twinkled on the far bank and a siren sounded mournfully from further east, bouncing off the water like a stone skipping across a lake. A line of cars was caught at the lights by the Albert Bridge, the fumes heavy on the air.

Between the embankment and Cheyne Walk lies a small garden, open to the road, but backed by a spread of thin trees and bushes. In spite of the proximity of so many passing vehicles, and the noise and fumes in the air, it is a popular spot for local residents and tired walkers.

An ideal place for a meeting.

Riley crossed the road and walked through a gap in the trees. She found Toby Henzigger standing by a wooden bench, hands thrust into his pockets. Other benches were placed every twenty yards or so, but they were empty of the little old ladies who usually sat there, feeding the birds and watching the cars go by. Henzigger seemed to be alone.

He turned and watched her approach, rocking back and forth on his toes. He looked slightly greyer and thinner than the last time she’d seen him, but it might have been the light.