Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

He heard a noise from out in the darkness. A footfall. Deliberate. If Henzigger heard it, too, he didn’t react. If it was one of the Colombians, Palmer knew he was in trouble. If not, he didn’t want to get in the way. But he might as well play for time.

‘Why did you have to do that to Hilary?’ he asked.

Henzigger shrugged. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. ‘Shit, that was the Colombians, not me. He got in the way and let Myburghe slip away. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I woulda just given him a slap, but they had their orders. That’s how they do things back there. It’s called — what’s it in French?’

Palmer supplied the answer. ‘ Pour encourager les autres .’ He’d been right. Hilary’s death had been punishment, not torture.

But Toby didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Well, can’t stand talking here all day,’ he said suddenly. He staggered away from the stable door and stood directly beneath the light illuminating the yard, suddenly larger than life. He even had a semblance of a smile on his face. ‘Things to do, places to go.’ He was talking louder than before, and making no attempt to hide, as if bidding goodnight to a fellow drinker in a bar.

Palmer stared at him. What was he playing at?

Then he had his answer. John Mitcheson stepped into the pool of light. He looked calm and steady and dangerous and was carrying his automatic by his side. He eyed Toby carefully, assessing the potential threat.

‘Whoa,’ grunted Toby. ‘Who’ve we got here?’ He turned his head unsteadily to stare at Palmer with almost comical accusation. ‘A new boy? You been playing sneaky, Palmer. That’s not cricket.’ He turned back to Mitcheson and said, ‘What’ve you done to my vaqueros , huh?’ He waved a vague hand, like a drunk talking to a lamppost. ‘No need to answer that. Believe it or not, they were supposed to be good. Top notch. Just shows, you can’t trust anybody these days.’ His voice trailed off into a faint gargle and he spat again, then shuddered as if in revulsion.

‘Put it down,’ Mitcheson urged him quietly. ‘It’s over.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Henzigger winced, then spoke in a rush, his chest heaving. ‘Can’t do that. If the black-hats get their hands on me, they’ll lock me up for a gazillion years. And that ain’t me. I’m too keen on the open air and the wind in my face.’ He smiled softly. ‘Sorry.’

As he finished speaking, he swung the gun with an almost casual air towards Palmer and pulled the trigger.

The shot was shockingly loud. But the bullet hit the ground a long way beyond Palmer and whined off into the darkness like an angry hornet, embedding itself in a stable door and tearing off a large slice of wood.

Henzigger swore and went to pull the trigger again. Mitcheson didn’t flinch. He fired twice. Both shots took Henzigger high in the chest and slammed him backwards against the stable wall. The gun fell from his hand, and with a long sigh, the American toppled lazily forward.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

By the time the first of Weller’s troops arrived in two blacked-out Range Rovers, the men inside scattering throughout the grounds with guns and torches, Palmer was standing with Riley at the front of the house under the porch light, hands empty and in clear view. Mitcheson had disappeared, pausing only to press the guns he and Palmer had used into the hands of Henzigger and the Colombians. When the forensics team came to match gunshot wounds with weapons on the scene, there had to be none that could not be accounted for.

Weller’s helicopter dropped in as Palmer and Riley were being searched and documented, and the body count being logged.

The man Riley had encountered up on the roof was still alive, although he’d taken a tumble off the scaffolding while trying to get away and was now nursing a broken shoulder and jaw. A member of the armed support unit had tried talking to him in broken Spanish, but he had remained sullen and defensive, claiming he was the victim of a misunderstanding.

His two fellow-countrymen were found dead among the trees. Both had died from gunshot wounds.

Riley glanced at Palmer when she heard this bit of news. He shrugged innocently. ‘I blame it on the films me dad took me to when I was a kid.’

‘Jesus, you two were lucky,’ commented Weller, after he’d been briefed by his senior man, a tall, grizzled figure in a dark jump-suit who gave Riley and Palmer a sceptical look before walking away to find someone to intimidate. ‘Especially with the rest of them managing to shoot each other so conveniently.’ His expression didn’t change as he stood over them, but it was clear he knew the scene wasn’t as clearcut as it seemed. He stared at Riley in her borrowed sweatshirt. She still had a smear of Myburghe’s blood on her cheek. ‘You look like you fought a battle on your face.’ He turned to Palmer and added knowingly, ‘Whereas you don’t. How’s that, then?’

‘I always carry a rabbit’s foot,’ explained Palmer, when the silence had lengthened to an awkward degree. ‘My mum swore by them.’

Weller almost smiled. ‘A resident in the village said he saw a vehicle leaving the scene shortly before my men arrived. Reckons it was a Toyota Land Cruiser going like the clappers.’ He took out a bag of mints and popped two together. For him, it was probably a sign of the stress he was undergoing. He didn’t offer the bag round. ‘You wouldn’t know who the driver was, I suppose?’

They shook their heads. With luck, Mitcheson would have got clear of the area before the police managed to throw up a cordon.

‘Didn’t think you would.’ Weller stuffed his sweets back in his pocket and lifted Palmer’s hands then Riley’s, sniffing at them in turn. If he had any thoughts about the unusual aroma of cleanser, a large tub of which they’d discovered in the main kitchen, he kept them to himself. ‘When we look — and we will look, believe me — are we likely to find any fingerprints where we shouldn’t?’

‘Yes,’ said Riley. ‘Mine. There’s a small machine-pistol thing somewhere by the side of the house. I threw it over the parapet because I couldn’t work out how to use it.’ She kept her face blank. ‘And I handled a shotgun the other day, but I’m not sure where it is now.’

Weller nodded sourly. ‘Regular little Annie Oakley, aren’t you?’ he murmured.

Up on the roof, a party of medics was preparing to bring down the body of Sir Kenneth Myburghe. He had died of blood-loss, which Riley thought was probably the best outcome. A trial would have served no useful purpose other than to hurt the wrong people. She felt sorry for Lady Myburghe. She really had now lost her husband for good, and his daughters their father.

The steel briefcase, which turned out to be packed with money, caused a stir when it was discovered in the stable where Henzigger had been lying in wait for Palmer. Not as much of a stir, however, as a confessional piece of paper in Sir Kenneth’s pocket listing details of where the money had come from and who else was involved in the drugs operation.

‘Looks like His Excellency decided to take a few people down with him,’ Weller commented, studying the list. He gave a carnivore’s smile. ‘There’s a Yank I know who’s going to owe me a lot of favours by the time I get through with this little lot.’

Riley knew he was talking about Portius, and felt almost sorry for State Department man. The list must have been Myburghe’s last-ditch attempt to account for his actions, and to gain some revenge for what had been done to his son. If only, she reflected sadly, he’d thought of it sooner.

‘How much of this is going public?’ she asked Weller.