Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

‘It’s the same as the piece you found inside the art book in Radnor’s office,’ said Riley.

‘Funny, that. They’re getting careless.’

‘So, what now?’

Palmer considered their options for a moment. He had not forgotten the intruder of the evening before, and was sure Riley hadn’t. Was he connected with Radnor? Was he a contract ‘soldier’ hired to find out what Riley and Palmer were up to? If what Nobby had said about Radnor’s racist inclinations was correct, it didn’t seem likely. Then there was the woman named Fraser, who had hired the car and driver in the first place. But why the interest in Riley? ‘We’ve got two strands to look at,’ he concluded. ‘There’s the Fraser woman and her driver, and there’s Radnor and his little operation. Our problem is, we don’t know if they’re connected, and I get the feeling we’re running short of time.’

Riley nodded. She knew no more than Palmer about the people involved, but her instincts were telling her they were unconnected. ‘They feel… different in some way.’

‘I agree. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough hands to check them both.’

‘Not unless we split up.’

‘Makes sense,’ Palmer agreed. ‘Can you handle taking a look at the driver, see where he’s based?’ He studied her carefully. It would mean Riley coming close again to the man with dreadlocks. Some people might not be able to handle that. But Riley wasn’t some people. He gave her the note he’d made after Donald’s call with information from the DVLA. ‘Just nail down where he is. If you can get a look at the woman, that would help. At least we’d know what she looks like. But keep your distance until we know more.’

Riley folded the note into her pocket. ‘What are you going to do?’

He gave her one of his annoyingly enigmatic smiles and looked towards the VTS unit. ‘I’m going to hang around for a bit. I want to see what they’ve got in that storage area at the back of the warehouse. I’ll see you back at your place.’

Riley looked around at the lack of obvious cover in the area. Other than a regular flow of commercial vehicles into and out of the estate, there were few pedestrians, and passing traffic on the road running through the area was light. And it wasn’t as if Palmer could keep a watch on the place from a convenient café, because there wasn’t one. ‘They’ll spot you, Palmer. And how will you get back?’

But Palmer shook his head. ‘Drop me up the road. I saw some waste ground behind this estate, with a couple of abandoned buildings. It’ll do me nicely. I’ve coped with less.’ He smiled confidently and checked his mobile. ‘Don’t worry — when I need to bug out, I’ll call a cab.’

Riley double-checked the address on the slip of paper Palmer had given her. It turned out to be a ratty, run-down Victorian villa on the southern edges of Isleworth. Heavy net curtains hung drunkenly at the dust-blown windows, and the remains of an old trials bike was rusting in the small front plot behind a low brick wall topped with drunken coping stones. Six cracked steps led up from the pavement to the battered front door, and a panel showing a row of bell-pushes with name-tags. The house had once been proud, and no doubt the property of a single household. But over it now hung an air of despair, with peeling paint, frost-damaged brickwork and the grey tinge of a building dying of neglect.

Riley parked outside a deserted building site nearby and waited. She took out the note Palmer had given her and checked the registration and make against the cars at the kerb. None of them matched. Maybe it was parked in a secure lock-up nearby.

According to Donald’s information, the assigned driver of the car was a Raymond Szulu, whose address was given as Flat 3A. She studied the building carefully, wondering which window belonged to Mr Szulu. Like many large Victorian-style properties in the capital, this one had been broken up into small flats or bed-sits, catering to an ever-shifting population. She was tempted to take a closer look, but as Palmer had pointed out, Szulu now knew what Riley looked like. If 3A looked out onto the street, and Szulu was the cautious type. He’d have a clear view of everyone walking by. If he was brazen enough to make an entry into her house to frighten her, there was no saying how he might react if he saw her encroaching on his own turf.

She wondered if Palmer was having any joy at VTS. After her brief encounter with Szulu, she would have preferred to have Palmer here with her, but pride had prevented her saying so. Besides, he was probably enjoying himself, skulking around the commercial estate looking for an opening. Knowing Palmer, he’d probably come away with a job driving a forklift before the day was out.

The front door to Szulu’s house opened, and a woman came out, followed by two small children, both with their hair in mini-dreadlocks. Szulu’s, perhaps? She watched as the trio gathered together on the top step while the woman organised a clutch of bags and told one of the children to close the front door. It banged shut but, unnoticed by the woman, didn’t quite catch.

Riley waited, excitement building in her chest, as they walked away up the street. Risky or not, this might be the only opportunity she’d get to see Szulu’s place at close hand and check if he was in or not. Otherwise she could be out here for hours, waiting for him to put in an appearance.

She got out of the car and rummaged in the boot. Among the debris and clutter was an old fleece she kept for emergencies. She pulled it on over her jacket and swept her hand roughly through her hair from back to front, then the other way. A brief look in the side window to check that she now had a suitable air of untidiness, and she set off across the street, hoping that she wasn’t already in Szulu’s sights.

The broken steps rocked beneath her feet as she approached the front door. She ignored the name-tags on the panel of bell-pushes. If Szulu was in, the last thing she wanted was to announce her arrival. She pushed the door open. Inside was a large lobby with a cracked tile floor in a chequerboard pattern, and a battered table holding a scattering of envelopes, free papers and junk mail. Riley flicked through the pile, but saw nothing addressed to Szulu. In front of her was a broad staircase, the treads covered by a worn carpet. The air smelled of a cleaning product with a hint of lemon.

Two doors led off the lobby, both marked PRIVATE. She guessed these were the landlord’s or a tenant-manager, if there was one. She’d check out 3A first, then come back here as a last resort. A corridor ran along one side of the staircase, with a bicycle against the wall and a pushchair just beyond it. A glass-panelled door opened onto a garden at the rear.

Riley climbed the stairs, wincing as the treads creaked loudly. If this was one of Szulu’s warning signals of unexpected visitors, he’d now be on high alert and waiting for her.

She reached the first floor landing, with two doors in front of her and one at each end. Number 3A was to her right, but as she turned towards it, one of the doors facing her swung open, and an elderly black woman in a raincoat and scarf stepped out. She eyed Riley with suspicion before slamming the door behind her.

‘You don’t live here,’ the woman muttered in a Caribbean drawl, pulling herself up to her full height. ‘Who you looking for?’

Riley wanted to tell the woman to lower her voice in case Szulu heard and came out to investigate. But something in the woman’s eyes told her she wasn’t the sort to listen to any kind of advice, and probably saw herself as the house custodian. Maybe she and Mr Grobowski belonged to the same club.

‘His name’s Ray,’ she said hesitantly, pulling her fleece closely around her. ‘I met him… I met him in a club and he said to call by if I was in the area.’ She shrugged. ‘So I thought, why not?’