Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

She walked past him and stopped at the statue of Boy David. The figure was of a stick-thin child in memory of the Machine Gun Corps in World War 1. Somebody had balanced an empty cigarette carton on one of the statue’s shoulders. Riley plucked it off and dropped it in a waste bin.

Henzigger was wearing a sports jacket, slacks and white shirt. It made him seem oddly at home in this peculiarly English setting. He turned to face her. The move seemed deliberate, and put the nearest street light at his back. She felt her nerves tighten. She was hardly a threat, even if she was a good thirty something years younger.

She sat down on the bench and looked up at him. From her position, the light formed a halo around his head, throwing his face into shadow. The move seemed to confuse him momentarily, as if she had managed to undermine him with her show of composure.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Riley said politely, and saw a flicker of movement near the street corner she had just passed. She forced herself to look away.

‘What do you have for me?’ he asked impatiently.

Riley allowed the seconds to tick away, watching the passing traffic. She didn’t want to get the discussion under way too quickly, and it wouldn’t hurt for Henzigger to sweat a bit. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a faint noise came from the gloom beyond the bushes. She relaxed and smiled.

Henzigger threw her a dark scowl. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry — just a random thought.’

From across the way came another dull noise. Two down, thought Riley, and wondered how many there were. Henzigger didn’t seem to have heard anything, but he was capable of moving quickly, as he had demonstrated in the trees near the shoot.

‘Are you alone?’

The American shifted impatiently. ‘Of course. Look, you said you had something.’

Riley wasn’t sure whether to feign being helpful, hoping to draw something out of him that way, or to try and rattle his cage and shock him into saying more than he’d intended. Being nice wasn’t going to cut it; Henzigger wasn’t here for pleasantries, nor was he interested in London’s quainter locations.

And he hadn’t brought company because he was scared of the dark.

‘A body was found at Myburghe’s house last night,’ she told him.

‘So what?’ He stared down at her, his stance as tense as a steel hawser.

‘Don’t you want to know who?’

‘Like I should care.’ His voice was a growl, dismissive. ‘Who was it — your ex-military cop pal, Palmer? He shoulda stuck to divorce cases and construction sites.’

‘Not quite.’ Henzigger had clearly checked Palmer’s background, and in spite of seeing him at the shoot, had dismissed him as little more than a security guard playing out of his league. A big mistake.

‘So who then?’

‘You know him. A man named David Hilary.’

‘Never heard of him.’ The denial was automatic.

‘He was Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s bodyguard in Colombia. Big man, face like Mount Rushmore?’

‘Oh. Yeah, I remember.’ The admission was grudging. ‘He’s dead? Shame. How’d it happen?’

‘He was cut to pieces.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘The thing is, Toby,’ she continued, ‘the police are interested in three men who’d been staying in the stable block where Hilary was found. They moved out not long ago. The locals, who notice these things, thought they were Spanish grooms brought in to school Sir Kenneth’s horses. That’s rubbish, of course, because he doesn’t have any horses.’

‘So?’

‘Someone recognised the men’s dialect. Where was it from? Oh, yes, Bogotá.’

‘Wow. Sounds like you got illegal immigrants. Tough shit.’

‘Not these. A trundle through immigration records will probably show who they were — and where they came from. Put that together with the fingerprints and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Hunh?’

‘Never mind. They left a porn magazine behind. Colombian porn. I’m told the pages of glossy magazines are what the DNA and fingerprint boys call ‘high yield’. Must be all those sweaty fingers on that nice, shiny paper.’

While Henzigger digested that, which she hoped was even ten percent true, she turned her head to follow a speeding ambulance heading west, and caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing near the corner of Flood Street.

John Mitcheson.

Even as she spotted him, he stepped back into the gloom and disappeared.

‘You’re still not telling me anything I want to know,’ Henzigger muttered, but he no longer sounded so sure of himself. He glanced to one side, then quickly back at Riley.

‘But I thought you wanted to clear your name?’ she said.

‘I do. So?’

‘I did some checking of my own. I had a friend speak to a friend in Bogotá. He said you regularly attended meetings with members of a middle-ranking cartel. One of the places you used was a country club just outside the city.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Henzigger was quivering like a bowstring. But his voice gave him away. Riley had hit a nerve and Henzigger was shaken. ‘Who the hell told you that?’

‘You were being watched, Toby.’ She turned the screw a bit tighter. ‘You weren’t aware of it, but a British Intelligence officer was logging your every move. You and Myburghe.’

‘Jesus, you’re dreaming.’ His voice was a whisper.

‘What are you really doing here, Toby? And why come to me? It certainly wasn’t to clear your name. That would have been a neat trick, seeing as my influence with the authorities is less than zero. Was it a smokescreen while you got close to your old friend… and business partner?’

He said nothing. But Riley guessed his brain was working at fever pitch, planning an argument out of this place. With his background, he’d spent all his life saying only as much as he needed, relying on deception and cover stories to protect himself. Now it was beginning to wear thin under pressure.

‘Come on, Toby. You can tell me.’ She was taunting him, hoping to make him lose his temper. If there was one thing people like Henzigger hated, it was not having the upper hand. ‘Has Sir Kenneth let the side down?’

‘I don’t have time for this.’ He began to turn away.

‘Are you still DEA? I called your mobile number. You were speaking from the US embassy.’

‘I was there on business.’

As the automatic evasion left his mouth, she saw him hesitate. He hadn’t denied it. Then he looked around again and seemed rattled. If he was waiting for his Colombian friends to come and help him out, thought Riley, he’d be a long time waiting.

Riley stood up and walked away. It wasn’t what Henzigger was expecting. But he didn’t let her go without a parting shot.

‘That wasn’t smart, Riley,’ he called, his voice cutting across the traffic noise. ‘Not smart at all. There are other ways of getting Myburghe to cooperate.’

The threat was plain and chilling. Any pretense of wanting to clear his name was now gone. It could only mean one thing. The daughters.

She took out her phone and called Palmer.

‘You should check on Victoria and her sister,’ she suggested, and told him what Henzigger had said.

Palmer grunted. ‘Already done. I had them moved, just in case.’

‘How did they take it?’

‘They hissed a bit. But they’re safe. I’m going down to Colebrooke later to check the place out.’

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. Henzigger would hiss, too, when he found his ‘leverage’ had been spirited right out from under his nose. She told Palmer to be careful and rang off.

As she walked back up Flood Street, Mitcheson stepped out from the shadows and joined her, slipping his arm through hers.