Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Mitcheson turned to look at her. He was negotiating a sharp, plunging bend at the time. They made it with a whisper of leaves and a slight squeal of tyres.

‘What do you mean?’

She explained how rehearsed Lady Myburghe’s explanations had sounded about her husband’s gambling, and how readily she had disclosed such intimate details. ‘I suspect he deliberately cut himself off from his wife because he knew the kind of people he was dealing with. There wasn’t much he could do about his son without revealing what he was up to. His daughters were protected by being in London, but Christian wanted to be out in the big, wide world. In the end, Myburghe persuaded him to go abroad, probably convinced he’d be safer out there where nobody could find him. But his wife was a vulnerability he couldn’t control, so he did the only thing he could, which was to distance himself from her. It put her out of the picture.’

‘So she was party to it?’

‘She had to be, after all those years. She’d been through worse.’

‘He still did it,’ Mitcheson growled, his meaning clear. Whatever his reasons, Sir Kenneth had helped facilitate the importing of drugs to the UK, abandoning his principles, his honour and his loyalty, maybe even his soul. For money.

Riley couldn’t disagree. There was no escaping that what must have started out as an occasional harmless flutter all those years ago had eventually turned into something far worse than he could ever have imagined. The only way out was total disgrace — or coming to an arrangement. ‘Save some of the blame for Henzigger. He helped engineer this.’

‘How do you know?’

She told him about the failed drugs bust and Henzigger’s suspected part in it. ‘He and his suppliers lost everything. God knows what it cost them, but it was enough for them to put in extra insurance this time to make sure the next one didn’t go wrong.’

‘The Colombian grooms.’ Mitcheson nodded in agreement. ‘They killed Hilary.’

‘He must have known all about the schemes. He was the bodyguard your friend saw with Myburghe in Colombia. Sir Kenneth’s attempt at watching his own back.’

She shivered, recalling the terrible thing she had seen in the stable block. No man deserved to die like that. Thoughts of Colebrooke House made her wonder where Palmer was right now.

‘Can you make this thing go any faster?’

**********

Frank Palmer drove his Saab through the village and past the entrance to Colebrooke House. A line of police tape was stretched across the gateway, with a metal sign warning visitors to stay out.

He turned the car round and drove back. Across the road from the entrance, he spotted a narrow, disused track overhung with the branches of a horse chestnut tree. He stopped and reversed until the car was hidden beneath the foliage, then turned off the engine and climbed out, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.

He slipped across the road and over a section of dry-stone wall, and padded through the trees parallel with the long driveway. There was no sound save for the wind in the branches, the flapping of a pigeon somewhere overhead and the bark of a fox in the distance.

He reached the edge of the tree line and studied the house. The building was in darkness, but the ground security lights along the front threw up an unearthly glow across the walls and windows. In contrast to the glamour and glitz of the wedding party, the effect was cold and unwelcoming, as if all life had been sucked out, leaving a skeleton in its place.

He waited five minutes, totally immobile. Satisfied he was unobserved, he slid along the tree line to his left and crossed the drive, towards the rear of the house. If it turned out he was wrong, and Henzigger and his men were already here, their vehicles would be in evidence somewhere.

No cars.

He jogged back to the Saab, hugging the trees. He might need a fast exit from here, and his car was too far for a quick getaway. He climbed in and drove out of the track and straight for the main gate.

He slowed before the tape, steering past the police sign and allowing the plastic strip to slide up the bonnet and over the roof. It was a tight stretch, but he made it without snapping it. He doubted if the local police had the resources to send an officer to check the place around the clock, but leaving signs of a forced entry would certainly be enough to raise the alarm if one happened along. And Henzigger could read those signs just like anyone else.

He followed the drive to the rear of the house, pulling in alongside an old coach-house that was now used as a maintenance workshop. He edged the car back out of sight and went to check the house and surrounding gardens.

Ten minutes later, he’d covered the grounds and stables, and was about to try the house when he heard the hum of vehicles approaching. Headlights flared across the front of the house as two cars barrelled up the drive, spitting gravel. They skidded to a stop near the front door and a tall figure carrying a shiny briefcase jumped out of the first one, issuing orders.

Palmer guessed it was Henzigger.

The American was joined by three armed men. One was carrying a large canvas bag, grunting with effort. The other two men reached into the second car and dragged a figure from the rear seat, bundling him roughly towards the side of the house under Henzigger’s directions. The man was having trouble walking and had to be supported by the others.

In the glow of the security lights, Palmer recognised Sir Kenneth Myburghe.

He followed their progress to the rear of the house, where they pushed Sir Kenneth down against the wall. He sat uncomplaining, his head lolling back against the brickwork, and Palmer guessed they had sedated him.

Henzigger issued orders in Spanish, and two of the men ran across the gardens carrying the canvas bag between them. None of the motion-detector lights came on, and Palmer realised they must have been disabled. The men disappeared from sight, to reappear moments later in the distance, now several yards apart. As they ran, they each set something down on the ground, following parallel lines running from the house to the woods in the distance. As each object was left, it was glowing brightly.

They were laying out a landing strip.

Palmer was surprised. It looked far too short a space for a plane to land and take off. If the pilot misjudged his approach and speed even by a fraction, he’d hit the house or the trees. Unless, he reflected, it wasn’t the first time they’d done it. It explained why the security lights at the back had been disabled: the glare would have interfered too much with the pilot’s night vision.

The two men returned, the canvas bag discarded, their breathing laboured. Behind them, the twin line of lights curved away down the slope across the open ground.

Palmer thought about what he could do to stop the plane taking off once it landed. His options were limited. Four armed men were suicidal odds, and he wasn’t keen on ending his life just yet. He might be able to stop the plane physically, but that would mean using his car to ram it. And unless he timed it just right for when all the men were on board, that still placed him in danger of being riddled with gunfire in the process.

He stayed where he was. He’d deal with that problem when it happened

Henzigger, meanwhile, was pacing up and down, glancing repeatedly at his watch. He seemed in a state of high anxiety, his movements erratic. At one point he took out a mobile phone and made a call. Whatever the response, he clearly wasn’t happy, because he took the phone away from his ear and swore at the top of his voice: ‘God damn you to hell!’

His men were looking at him nervously. One of them asked a question. The reply was furious and curt, and the three Colombians exchanged looks and began shuffling their feet. Palmer didn’t need a translator to know they’d been given bad news.