Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

It was three hours before he called back. He sounded subdued. ‘Sorry, sweetie. I’ve been unable to get hold of my usual contacts. So far the police haven’t issued any names or details, but they’ve got several leads they’re looking at. That’s all I could find out.’

‘It doesn’t look like suicide, then?’

‘Unlikely, from the noises they’re making. There was only one clue: Gillivray was a bit of a gambler on the side. He’d booked a weekend in Monte Carlo not long before he died. You don’t do that if you’re considering killing yourself.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘It seems he didn’t have the widest circle of friends, and owed serious money in some very murky quarters. A source inside the building told the police of two visitors within the last few days, one of whom they said had some sort of argument with Gillivray. Beyond that I couldn’t find out more.’

‘A source? It must be the receptionist.’

‘Probably. When Palmer does surface, tell him to keep his head down. In the meantime, the police might stumble on who really did push Gillivray into space.’

‘I’ll do that. You’ll keep me informed?’

‘Of course.’ Donald paused for two heartbeats. ‘One way or another, this business is looking as if it might have legs. I know you’re concerned about Palmer, but you might bear that in mind.’

Riley sighed. ‘Donald, you’re all heart.’ But she knew he was right. There was a story here, even in the death of the late, probably unlamented Doug Gillivray. And if it should turn out to be connected in some way with the men on the first floor, there was no way she could ignore it. There was also the question of Donald’s invaluable support; he had the resources she might need to get to the bottom of this.

‘So why exactly are you so interested in this Palmer guy?’ Szulu glanced in the mirror and caught the eye of the woman in the back seat. They had been sitting in the car off Holland Park Avenue for over an hour, and her sickly perfume was beginning to clog up his airways. He eased down the window a fraction, grateful for the near-inaudible hum of the vehicle’s electrics, and breathed in some fresh, exhaust-laden city air.

They were just down the street from a house divided into three flats. The area was quiet here, with just a few passing cars and fewer pedestrians, none of whom gave the car a second glance. There was no sign of life on the two upper floors of the house they were watching, but a lot of light was spilling out from ground level. The old guy who lived there, Szulu figured, didn’t have much to hide, otherwise he’d have used his curtains more. Maybe he liked living in a goldfish bowl. What was his name…? Grobowski, that was it. Polish, a shopkeeper down the street had let slip. ‘He done you on a deal or what?’

‘The why doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘I just want him found.’

‘Then what? Only, one thing you should know, right, I only get driver’s money.’

‘So?’ The response was a long time coming.

‘So it doesn’t mean I do other stuff.’

‘What do you mean?’ The street light reflected off the woman’s glasses, momentarily blanking her eyes. It made her seem sinister and unfriendly, like a large, malevolent fly.

‘Breaking arms, that kind of thing.’ Szulu shrugged easily. ‘Don’t mean to say I can’t, right? Just that there’s a rate for the job.’ He grinned, although he felt nervous. ‘Like a plumber.’

‘A plumber.’ Her voice echoed back at him, heavy with what sounded like contempt. He felt a rush of heat. This old bitch was really starting to push his buttons, talking to him like this. Come to think of it, she wasn’t actually talking at all. Not like other people he’d worked for. They had at least filled him in, making sure he knew what the score was. Treating him with respect. Not like her.

‘That’s right. A plumber would want to know what he was into, wouldn’t he? Then he’d tell you how much it would cost.’ He nodded, pleased at the comparison. ‘Me, I know nothing. Just find this — what’s this bloke — Frank Palmer.’

There was silence in the car, and Szulu wondered if she was about to take a.357 Magnum out of her bag and let him have a bullet in the back of the head. Or maybe she’d use a Glock, which was lighter. Now that would never have surprised him. But she didn’t move.

‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘You want to know more, I’ll tell you. But I’ll keep it short — you wouldn’t be able to handle the full version.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Frank Palmer did me a great harm a while ago. He disrupted some important plans and caused the deaths of at least two valued employees… and my dear husband.’

‘What?’ Szulu turned his head in surprise. He began to wish he hadn’t started this line of conversation. Getting mixed up with hit men was a whole different thing. Low-lifes and druggies he could handle, but people who killed for a living — now there was an irony — was something else. ‘He kills people? You never said nothing like that before.’

‘I didn’t see the need.’ The woman’s voice was sharp, cutting through his objections. ‘I said he caused the deaths, I didn’t say he killed them. Not,’ she added, ‘that the distinction will help him.’ She paused for a moment, then continued in a whisper, as if voicing her thoughts out loud. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this. Too long, in fact. But no longer.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s now time, before it’s too late.’

‘So it’s pay-back, yeah? All this?’

‘That’s right, Mr Szulu. Pay-back. You’re acquainted with the concept?’

‘Damn right.’ Szulu understood perfectly. Getting even was what kept some people going. That and fear. What he didn’t get, though, was how utterly cold this woman was. Revenge was something you did when you were fired up and white-hot, and nothing was going to get in your way. Revenge was all about blood and honour and not being seen as weak. The way this old crone spoke, it was like it was a discussion in a school class or something. Matter-of-fact, almost. Scary.

‘So it’s just him, then, is it — Palmer?’

‘No. There was a young woman as well. She lives right there.’ He glanced back to see her nodding towards the house up the street. The one where she’d earlier told him to sniff around and check out who lived there. All he’d come up with was the old Polish guy, a pensioner on the top floor whom nobody ever saw, and a journalist — the one called Gavin. He remembered the name from Palmer’s Rolodex.

‘You never mentioned no young woman.’ Szulu’s words carried an unmistakable tone of accusation, too late to rein in. This old witch still wasn’t telling him everything. It was like she was drip-feeding him. Then it hit him. ‘Hey — wait. You mean Riley Gavin is a chick’s name? Shit, that would have been good to know.’ He felt his stomach lurch as he recalled the young woman he’d nearly bumped into as he was leaving the house. Christ — that must have been her. And he’d seen her somewhere before, now he thought about it: coming away from Palmer’s place! He opened his mouth to tell the old woman, but thought better of it. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

There was movement in the back seat and he smelled her breath on his neck, sour and heavy with a hint of long-dead peppermint. When he turned and looked fully at her, he saw eyes like cold slate. Old as she was, and undoubtedly frail, too, so much so that he reckoned it would take no more than a quick grasp of her chicken neck to snuff out her lights, he still felt a palpable sense of threat coming off her.

‘Do you need a reminder of how I found you, Mr Szulu?’ she said quietly. ‘Found out you were… available?’