Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

When he looked over at the three men again, the one with the bag had slipped it from his shoulder and was tugging at one end. Then he realised what it was. His father used to have one just like it. It was a canvas rifle bag.

There was a movement by the fence. He watched in amazement as the man coming from the east suddenly jumped to his feet and began to run, his body crouched over like someone very old. Yet he ran quickly, although it could not have been easy over the rough ground.

With his heart pumping, Hemmricht had glanced at the tower, and saw that the guard had turned away, his head thrown back in a yawn. Then he saw movement from the three men, and saw that the one with the rifle was taking aim. But before anything could happen, there was a shout and a searchlight light came on. There were shots and the runner fell down. He did not get up again.

Hemmricht stopped speaking. There was a long silence, during which the three men sat looking anywhere but at each other.

Unger was the first to voice his thoughts. ‘It’s crazy!’ he whispered. ‘The man with the rifle was going to open fire on the border guard? What madness! I’ve never heard of such a thing. It would have started an international incident!’ He shook his head at the enormity of the situation and fell silent, clearly unable to voice the potential for disaster that had come so close.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Palmer, who had been watching Hemmricht all the while Unger was speaking. The young farmer was clearly still disturbed by what he had witnessed, and was shifting in his seat with barely suppressed agitation. No doubt having the opportunity to describe those scenes again was stirring up unwelcome memories. Then Hemmricht nodded emphatically and said something, stabbing his finger in the air, and Unger looked even more shocked.

‘The man with the rifle wasn’t going to shoot the border guard, was he?’ said Palmer, guessing what the farmer had said. He looked directly at Hemmricht for confirmation. ‘What do you think he was going to do?’

For the first time, Hemmricht seemed to understand fully without needing Unger’s intervention, and gave a loud sigh. It was as if the information was long overdue and he could now finally let it go. He stared down at his hands with an air of deep sadness, and when he finally spoke, Palmer needed no translation.

‘Ya. He was aiming the rifle right at him. At the running man. I think the man with the gun was there to shoot him as he came across. But he didn’t need to.’

Palmer nodded and thought back to the face he had seen in Harrow. Then he realised something that sent a dart of ice right through him. It was something he hadn’t even given a thought to. Palmer had recognised the man immediately, even after all these years. But what if the man had recognised him, too? If so, given what he had just heard, then he and Riley might be in more danger than they could possibly know.

He excused himself and took his phone outside, where he dialled Riley’s number. Engaged. He waited a few minutes and tried again. Still engaged. He rang Donald Brask, this time getting an answer, but the signal died before he could say anything. He swore and went back inside to finish the interview with Hemmricht.

Thirty minutes later, he was on his way back to Frankfurt airport, having said his goodbyes to Unger and Hemmricht. But it wasn’t until he was walking through the departure lounge that he was finally able to leave a warning message for Riley. He hoped it wasn’t too late.

Riley tried Palmer’s mobile again, followed by Charlie’s number, but both were switched off. It was probably too early to be chasing Charlie, anyway. Unlike Riley or Palmer, Charlie was constrained by layers of officialdom, prone to conducting audits on the movements and workings of its officers just in case one of them might be toiling away diligently on overthrowing the elected government of the day or trying to steal the keys to the tea money. Charlie would get to whatever information he could dig up, she figured, when he got to it and not before. She hoped it was sooner rather than later.

She called Donald, but he had no news, either. Eventually, concentration eluding her, she closed her laptop, threw on some jeans and a suede jacket and picked up her car keys. It was back to basics time. When all else failed in an investigation and the dots didn’t link up, you went back to the beginning and started again. Palmer’s favourite dictum.

‘See you later, cat,’ she told the sleeping animal in passing. But it ignored her. No support there, then.

She made her way across north London and found a parking space a short walk from Gillivray’s office. The weather was warm but blustery, and she wondered what it was doing wherever Palmer was.

The same security man was on duty behind the desk, a copy of The Sun spread out before him. The foyer was deserted. She nodded and approached the desk, and watched his face working through the process of recognition.

‘Morning, Miss,’ he said neutrally, and opened the visitor’s book for her. She wondered if the fact that his other hand was resting by the phone on the desk was mere coincidence or a touch of paranoia on her part. She’d soon find out.

‘Do you remember me?’ she asked him.

He nodded. ‘Of course. Three days ago, wasn’t it? You were here with the gentleman. An appointment with Stairwell Management, I believe. Floor six, Miss…?’ He waited, eyebrows raised.

‘Gavin,’ Riley supplied instinctively. ‘Riley Gavin.’

He spun the book round and flicked through the pages, then nodded again with a dry smile. ‘If you say so, miss. You and Mr Gavin, was it?’

His tone was pointed enough to make Riley look at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

He placed a finger on the page, and when she saw the way Palmer had filled in the boxes, understood why.

‘Oh.’ Damn Palmer. She hadn’t thought to check what he’d written. It was a squiggle, like a doctor’s writing, only less decipherable. But certainly not Gavin.

The man waited for her to speak. When he saw she wasn’t going to, he asked, ‘How can I help you, miss?’

On the way here, Riley had rehearsed what she was going to say. She had concocted a plausible-sounding story about fraud and identity theft: one that, in her own mind, had him hanging on her every word and eager to help. Now, faced with the man’s austere look and the realisation that Palmer had not given their real names, it all seemed so unlikely, she fell at the first fence. She wondered how she could explain it. Was he looking at her with just more than professional interest, or was she simply suffering from an attack of the wimps? Oh, what the hell, she thought. How about telling him the truth? Well, part of it, anyway.

‘My… colleague,’ she began, ‘he said you were in the army. Is that right?’

‘That’s correct, miss. Royal Artillery. Twenty-three years. Him, too, I’d guess?’ His questioning tone lobbed the ball fairly back into Riley’s court. She had been hoping to skirt round exactly what Palmer had done, but there was no way to bluff her way past this man. She had a feeling he might simply see right through it and toss her out on her ear.

‘Yes. But he was an MP.’

His eyebrows went up a fraction, but instead of the level of hostility she’d been expecting from a former soldier, he grunted and gave a ghost of a smile. ‘I should have known. My brother was a Redcap, too.’ He pulled a mock-sad face. ‘He always was the divvy of the family. How can I help?’

Riley experienced a rush of relief mixed with astonishment. ‘What is it with you guys?’ she asked, and at his puzzled look, went on, ‘Do you have some kind of secret code between you, like masons?’