Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

Riley looked at him. ‘Stasi. The East German security service?’

Jimmy nodded sourly. ‘That’s right. Hundreds of the buggers everywhere, like fleas on a hedgehog. Spying on us, spying on the Yanks, but most of the time, spying on each other. Hell of a way to live, you ask me.’

‘And playground duty?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s a trade term. We had a few kids on attachment to the embassy while I was there. Young women, mostly, in the secretarial pool. Nice girls but green as grass, most of them, and whenever they went walkabout in the city, one of us had to tag along to make sure they didn’t get into trouble. The Russians and East Germans were always up to something in the hopes of compromising one of our embassy staff and getting them to turn. Honey traps they called them.’

Riley felt her pulse quicken. ‘What about the older man — the one with the tan?’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘No idea, love. British, I think. He seems to be the boss man, but who knows, eh? Now what’s his name?’ He hesitated, screwing up his face. ‘Radnor, that’s it. Blimey, thought my memory must be going for a second. Arthur Radnor. Strange bloke. Never says much.’ He sniffed derisively. ‘Not that I’d trust him, either. It was him or Michael who got me pushed out.’

‘What for?’

‘Search me. It wasn’t long after I spotted the icons in their office. Maybe I saw too much.’

‘And the tall man — the one Nobby says might be an accountant?’

‘He doesn’t come in very often. I don’t recall his name. Nobby’s right — he’s a number-cruncher. Freelance, I think. Local, anyway.’

Riley sipped her tea and wondered if she wasn’t being dragged down a blind alley. On the surface, it didn’t add up to much. Even if the creepy Michael was Russian, he was hardly the only one now living and working in London. And if they were bringing in artwork from eastern Europe — and there was nothing to say it wasn’t completely legitimate — why wouldn’t a Russian be involved? He could be a middleman responsible for initiating the contacts and acquisition over there, with Radnor being the salesman on this side.

‘So where does all this artwork go?’

He shrugged. ‘Couriers come and collect it. I’ve never seen the labels, but I hear the States is a real hot market for that stuff. Lots of Russians over there now; stinking rich, some of them, like Abramovitch, the Chelsea bloke. Maybe it reminds them of home, being able to buy up stuff from the old country instead of football clubs.’

Riley took out a card and handed it to him. It might be worth looking further into it, but she still had to find out what Palmer was doing. At least she now had a name to give him.

‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ she said gratefully. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

He smiled. ‘No problem, love. I’m always here if you need anything else.’

Aware of the interest from the other customers, Riley leaned over and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek. He immediately struggled to his feet, flushing a deep red. But his pleasure was evident in the broad smile stretched across his face.

Riley found a parking space just around the corner from her flat, and was approaching the gateway leading to the front entrance, mulling over what Jimmy had told her, when a tall figure suddenly appeared in front of her. She gave a start and stepped sideways, muttering an automatic apology. The man carried on by, showing a flash of teeth as he passed. She was barely able to take in the dreadlocks and piercing grey eyes before he was walking away with long, athletic strides, his manner gracefully unhurried.

She wondered vaguely who he had been visiting, before hurrying upstairs to see if there were any messages waiting. He was probably one of the local community outreach workers visiting Mr Grobowski. The elderly Pole was involved with various local matters. As soon as she stepped in the flat, she noticed her answer machine flashing. She hit the playback button.

It was Palmer’s voice, sounding tense. The message kept breaking up, with gaps between the words. ‘Riley? Sorry…bunking off…that. …few things…check urgently. Listen, I’m…back to London…man I knew…careful who…answer door…Bye.’

Among the intermittent background noise, Riley heard a two-tone chime followed by the crackle of an announcement. She wondered where Palmer was calling from. Was it a railway station? An airport? ‘Back to London.’ Did that mean out of the city — up north, for example? Or out of the country? And what was that about answering the door? She replayed the message a couple of times, and finally worked out what the announcement in the background was saying. It came as a surprise.

It was a woman, and she was speaking German. Damn you, Palmer — what are you up to?

Ten minutes later, her phone rang. She snatched it up, ready to tear verbal chunks off Palmer for not keeping in touch. But it was Jimmy Gough. He sounded worried.

‘I thought you should know,’ he said without preamble, ‘There’s been some activity at the office in Harrow.’

‘Activity?’

‘Nobby just dropped me the nod. Asked me to pass it on. I hope your mate hasn’t been back there since you last called.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘A bloke named Gillivray — wasn’t he the one you called on? Bit of a wheeler-dealer, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he didn’t turned up for work this morning. He’s usually in about mid-morning, regular. His colleagues rang down, said they were worried about him, ‘cos he wasn’t at home and they wanted to know if he’d rung in. Nobby said he hadn’t seen the bloke, although his car was in the car park. He’s got one of those fancy Audi TT jobs. Anyway, a bit later, Nobby was doing his tour of the outside, checking doors and stuff, same as usual.’ Jimmy’s voice went flat on the final words, as if he was hoping he didn’t have to finish what he was saying.

‘Go on.’

‘He found him round the side of the building, in a soak-away. That’s a gulley round the building. You’d never see it unless you walked round there. From where he was lying, it looks like your Mr Gillivray took a dive right off the sixth floor.’

Riley thanked Jimmy for the information and rang Donald Brask. After what Jimmy had just told her, a leaden feeling was growing in her stomach. This was turning into a potential disaster. First Palmer sees a ghost from his past. Then he goes walkabout — to Germany, if her guess was correct. Now a man they’d called on to serve some papers, tricking their way into his office to do so, had died after plunging from a six-storey window. The police were going to have a field day with that one. She hoped Donald was still there; he’d know who to call to find out what was happening.

Donald answered after two rings, and she told him about Jimmy Gough’s news.

Donald sounded incredulous. ‘And you think Palmer-?’

‘No way. Why would he? Anyway, he’s been somewhere across the water.’ She related his brief if incomplete message. ‘But the police will probably make the connection sooner or later. Even I could hear Gillivray shouting as Frank left his office, so plenty of others will have done. As friendly as the security man was, he’ll have been forced to give them a description. Unless there was a whole procession of people that Gillivray upset that day, Palmer’s probably heading the list of candidates.’

‘Maybe not. If he’s been overseas, it might be his best alibi. Even so, I suppose it could be sticky for him. Okay, sweetie, leave it with me.’ She could hear Donald already tapping out a number on another phone. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ He disconnected, leaving her feeling strangely useless and adrift.