Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

The woman looked Riley up and down with narrowed eyes and shook her head. Her expression spoke of disapproval and pity in equal measures.

‘You mean Ray Szulu?’

Riley nodded. ‘I think that’s what he said. He’s got-’ She gestured to her head. ‘-dreadlocks.’

‘That’s the one.’ The woman gave a humourless smile. ‘What you doing calling on a man when you don’t even know his name?’ She gestured towards 3A and walked past Riley, stopping to add quietly: ‘He’s out. Best you take that as a good omen and look elsewhere, girl. He’s not what my mother would have called decent company you know?’ She nodded fiercely and walked down the stairs, slamming the front door firmly behind her.

Riley waited until the vibrations had ceased, then stepped over to Szulu’s door and put her ear to the woodwork. There were no sounds from inside, so she decided to cut her losses. Two minutes later, she was back in her car, watching the street.

Time ticked by slowly. Then a large, black Lexus saloon drifted neatly into a slot a hundred yards away and a tall, athletic figure stepped out and surveyed the street. Riley felt her skin crawl as she recognised the familiar shape. Even with the poor lighting in the stairway, there was now no mistaking him or the dark swirl of braided hair around his head.

He walked along the pavement with a graceful gait and disappeared inside the house. Five minutes later, he came back out and returned to the car, before driving smoothly away from the kerb, heading north.

Riley followed, keeping station four vehicles behind him. Her heart was thumping at the idea that she was so close to the man without being seen, and she remembered Palmer once telling her that the excitement of the chase was what often put the follower at risk of detection. Insert ‘amateur’ follower, Riley thought, and he would have been more accurate, although less kind.

The Lexus was heading west, Riley realised, towards the A30. Ahead lay the vastness of Heathrow, and beyond that, the more salubrious area of Windsor. According to Donald, this was where the woman named Fraser was staying. This could be interesting, getting the two heads together at once.

Szulu drove in a smooth, unfussy manner, using the road with evident skill. He rarely exceeded the speed limit, but took advantage of quiet stretches wherever he could. It was obvious he knew the road and the area well, a fact that made Riley take extra precautions to avoid being left adrift with no vehicles between them.

He eventually turned off the A30 and approached Windsor from the south east, through Wraysbury. When he gave a right signal just before a large hotel sign, Riley pulled into the kerb and watched as he drove into the front parking area and left the Lexus.

Riley’s patience lasted ten minutes before the temptation to do something became too strong. Locking the car, she dodged across the road and entered the hotel, scanning the foyer.

The reception area was all glass and aluminium, with large ferns and yuccas dotted about to counter the almost sterile atmosphere. A waterfall trickled into a pool to one side of a staircase, and tuneless musak hummed through the air. Through an archway to her right, Riley saw a dining room, and to the left a lounge. Just past the reception desk, a wall sign pointed towards the rooms and a lift.

The receptionist, a young blonde with high cheekbones and a glossy smile, was busy on the phone. There was no sign of Szulu.

Riley peered round the edge of the lounge door. There were club chairs, comfortable sofas but no people. She walked across to the dining area. Empty save for an elderly waiter, slapping crumbs off tablecloths with a folded napkin. It was evidently the dead hour for the hotel trade.

‘May I help you?’ The receptionist had finished with the phone and looked up with a faint frown. Riley was relieved she had discarded her tatty fleece.

‘I’m not sure,’ Riley replied. ‘I’m sure I saw a friend of mine come in here just now. Tall, black… with dreadlocks?’

‘A friend?’ The receptionist showed her teeth, and Riley realised she had probably blown it. It hadn’t occurred to her that Szulu might be well known here. If he really was a freelance driver-for-hire, this might be one of his regular collection and delivery points.

‘Well, not a friend, exactly,’ she admitted, aiming for a sister-in-need smile. ‘He owes me a key. He never returned it.’

The receptionist made a drawn-out ‘ah’ of understanding and pointed behind her. ‘He’s gone out back to the garden. His client’s waiting for him. She’s not feeling so good. I think she took a bit of a turn earlier.’ Her expression suggested that key or no key, barging in right now to settle a private spat would not be appropriate.

‘No problem,’ said Riley easily. ‘I’ll wait for him to come out.’

The receptionist went back to her phone, and Riley wandered into the lounge. She picked a chair within sight of the foyer and the front desk, and waited until the girl was busy, then stood up and slipped past her to the stairs. If she was lucky, she might be able to get a glimpse of the mysterious Mrs Fraser.

The upper floor was deserted, apart from a cleaner’s trolley outside one of the rooms. The sound of someone humming came from inside, and Riley moved by swiftly, heading for the rear of the building.

At the end of the corridor was a fire-escape door. She peered through the glass and found herself looking down on a stretch of lawn with a few bushes and trees. To one side stood a couple of parasols with tables and chairs.

Szulu was sitting on one chair, elbows resting on his knees. He was facing somebody, and judging by the shoes and legs, which was all Riley could see, that person was an elderly woman.

She waited for the woman to lean forward, impatient to catch a glimpse and leave. But it was soon clear that Mrs Fraser — if it was her — wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

Suddenly the trolley rattled behind her. Riley gave it a few more seconds before deciding enough was enough. As she turned to leave, her phone rang.

It was John Mitcheson.

‘You’re where?’

‘Heathrow. Landside. But don’t tell anyone. Can we meet?’ Mitcheson sounded undeniably breezy, and Riley could hardly take in the fact that he was just a few miles away from where she was sitting.

‘Are you mad?’ she demanded, momentarily forgetting where she was. ‘If some eagle-eyed immigration drone spots your name, you’ll be arrested!’

‘Well, I haven’t been yet. It’s risky, I know, but I’m fed up with all this subterfuge. I contacted a mate recently… he has connections with Immigration. My name isn’t on any of the lists he can access, and he doesn’t think there are too many others, not unless it’s on one the security bods keep close to their chests.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Riley desperately wanted to tell him to get on the first flight out, but a large part wanted to tell him to stay, to take the chance.

‘I’m leaving later this evening. My mate said if I was on a watch list, unless it was a priority, it would take at least seven hours to filter through the system. They’re more interested in Al Quaeda right now than a dodgy ex-army officer.’

‘You’re not dodgy,’ she protested fiercely. ‘That decision by the MOD was a travesty. Those men took advantage of you and the military let you take the fall.’

He chuckled, making goose-bumps stand up on her neck. ‘God, it’s great to have you on my side. Any chance of getting together — say, for a drink?’

Riley groaned. ‘John, your timing couldn’t be worse. I’m watching someone right now and can’t just… ‘ She chewed her lip. The idea of having Mitcheson within reach yet being unable to do anything about it was agonising. But would it be so bad to leave Szulu for a few hours? Surely Palmer wouldn’t object, since he knew their circumstances. She thought about it. Dammit, Palmer wasn’t her employer. ‘I’ll pick you up.’ There. Decision made. If Palmer didn’t like it, he could charge her with dereliction of duty or whatever the military cop jargon was.