Adrian Magson: No Tears for the Lost

‘Word of honour, Donald — and thank you! I’ll be in touch.’

She rang off just as the intercom buzzed three times in quick succession. Moments later, she heard footsteps on the stairs. She went to the door and opened it.

It was John Mitcheson. He was holding the downstairs door key.

‘Hi, babe,’ he said, and leaned through the doorway for a kiss.

‘Hi, yourself,’ she replied, responding in kind. She felt a strap curled over his shoulder, and followed it round until she encountered the bulk of a leather overnight bag. She pulled away reluctantly and with a mild feeling of disappointment. ‘You’re off on a job?’

‘Yeah. Not long, though. A day, maybe two at most, out of town.’ He followed her into the flat, dumping his bag on the floor. ‘If I can, I’ll drop by.’

She smiled and stood close to him. ‘We’re like ships that pass, you and I.’

‘Better than not, though, eh?’

‘I’ll say.’ She leaned back and looked at him, pleased to have someone else to think about for a few minutes. Especially this someone.

John Mitcheson was in his mid-thirties, tall and tanned, with smooth, dark hair and an easy smile. A former army officer, he now specialised in security work, sharing some of the same working pastures as Frank Palmer. The difference was, Riley suspected Mitcheson ventured closer to the line than Palmer when it came to the risks involved and the sort of assignments he undertook.

A couple of years younger than Palmer, his military experience had been cut short after becoming unwittingly embroiled in arms smuggling by soldiers under his command in Bosnia. Although he hadn’t been part of the ring, he had made the mistake of speaking up on the men’s behalf, while most other officers would have kept their distance.

Riley had first met him in Spain, while she was on the trail of a re-emerging London gang trying to promote itself back to the premier league through the traffic in drugs and illegal immigrants. Mitcheson had been working with the gang, but had changed sides in time to prevent himself meeting the same fate as some of its members — ironically, some of them the same men who had caused his earlier downfall in Bosnia. He and Riley had subsequently enjoyed an exciting, if sometimes remote relationship, as Mitcheson had, for a while, been persona non grata in the UK.

‘What’s cooking?’ He was referring to her work and eyed the laptop as he sat down on the sofa.

‘Something or nothing,’ she replied vaguely. ‘Rumours about a diplomat… might be pie in the sky. Donald’s not enthused because of the security thing surrounding them at the moment. I had to twist his arm.’

Mitcheson how stubborn Riley could be when following a good story. ‘Is it anybody I know?’

Riley shuffled up next to him and spun the laptop round so he could see the last message from Tristram.

‘Myburghe?’ He frowned. ‘Sounds familiar — I’m not sure why. What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘I don’t know yet. This Tristram is either a spotty kid having fun winding me up, or he knows something and wants to spin out the story for as long as he can. It could be a complete waste of time. I won’t know until I start digging.’

Mitcheson slung an arm across her shoulders. ‘Go with your instincts, like you always do. But watch your back. Donald’s right about the diplomatic scene — it’s touchy territory. Get too close and they might burn you.’

They kissed for a while, taking what advantage they could from snatched time together. It was a situation they had become accustomed to, and even Mitcheson’s continued presence in London had not led them to share space together on a more permanent basis. He had a small flat in Islington, and they met when they could, touching base by phone when they could not. It wasn’t perfect, but for now it was all they could manage, neither of them seeming keen to push for more. In the quiet moments when she was alone, Riley sometimes asked herself why, without coming to a firm conclusion.

Mitcheson eventually broke away and stood up. ‘Sorry — got to go. Will you be okay?’

‘Of course. Aren’t I always?’ She followed him to the door and watched him sling the bag over his shoulder. She experienced a small stab of something akin to loneliness each time he left, and wondered if he felt the same. For some reason, it was something she had never been able to ask him.

‘The Myburghe thing,’ he asked. ‘Is Frank in on it, too?’

Mitcheson got on well with Palmer, and understood the relationship Riley had with the ex-Redcap. If he’d ever harboured any feelings of jealousy about how close they were, he had long ago come to terms with them.

‘No. He’s off somewhere, doing his own thing.’ She smiled and leaned in for a parting kiss, aware of of the hidden subtext in his question. ‘Don’t worry. If I need to, I’ll scream for help.’

‘Liar,’ he said mildly, knowing she wouldn’t. The one thing he’d got to know about Riley was that she was far too tough and independent to play the weak female. But he also knew she would calculate the risks involved very carefully before wading in without a thought — at least, most of the time. It was an aspect of her character that had been a definite attraction ever since he’d met her. ‘Take care.’

When he’d gone, Riley returned to her laptop and stared at the screen. She was hoping for an answer from Tristram, giving her something more to work on, a hint, maybe, of what was driving him. But the Inbox remained resolutely blank. In the end, she switched the machine to Standby and stood up. Enough of this; it was time to do something constructive. She had just enough time for a quick spot of paper research before heading westwards along the M4.

She set off for the library, where the reference section offered a variety of valuable information unmatched by Google. The quiet, academic atmosphere always seemed to inspire her thought processes far more than researching on-line at home, and she still enjoyed the feel and texture of printed paper over the soul-less click of plastic keys. If she picked up anything useful, it might help her stray off the subject of the wedding and touch on other things.

The man calling himself Tristram stared at the screen of his computer, his forehead lined in indecision. He hadn’t been prepared for this development. Sending emails to the journalist, Gavin, had been easy; he’d picked the name off the page of a newspaper and trusted to luck. It was supposed to get things moving. It was part of the plan. But the idea of meeting face to face was something else entirely. He wasn’t good at face to face. He hadn’t been for a long time.

He looked up at a security monitor on the wall and saw two figures appear on the screen. One of the faces was familiar, the body language well known to him. Tristram momentarily forgot all about his computer and whether he should or could meet the journalist beyond the anonymous confines of his screen. He hurried out of the small room, banging the door back against the wall as he went, the sound echoing off the tiled walls like gunfire.

***********

Colebrooke House was Queen Anne in design, according to the details Riley had uncovered in her research earlier in the day. Built around 1700 by the original local landowner of the time, it was square and redbrick with large, high windows and clusters of tall chimneys, and she was sure she’d seen something like it in a bus tour of Hollywood a few years ago. That one had been a good two hundred and thirty years younger than Colebrooke House, courtesy of a major MGM star with more cash than dash, but the design was the same.

Unlike Hollywood, where houses vied for space close to droves of other celebrities, this place was located a respectable distance from its nearest neighbours, a clutch of impressive but obviously lesser, stone-built mansions with far fewer trees to shield them from prying eyes.