Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

‘Now you’re talking.’ Mitcheson chuckled again. ‘But forget the pick-up. I’ll get the Underground to Acton Town or somewhere and grab a cab.’

‘That’ll take hours.’

‘No, it won’t. I’ll hi-jack it. See you later.’ He rang off, leaving Riley wondering if Mitcheson’s friend in Immigration had got his facts right about how long it took to spot an unwanted entry.

In the privacy of the small garden behind the hotel, Szulu looked at Lottie Grossman and felt something akin to pity. It wasn’t as if she looked that great normally, but right now, she looked like shit. Pale and trembling and surrounded by pumped-up cushions, she resembled a patient in a retirement home. When she’d tried to pick up a glass of water just now, she’d almost dropped it. Whatever was ailing her hadn’t worn down her nasty streak, though.

‘I tell you I’m all right,’ she hissed, her lips barely moving. ‘I’ve felt worse than this after a good night out.’

‘Well, you certainly don’t look all right,’ he muttered. ‘You sure that doctor knew what he was doing?’

Her fingernails scraped on the edge of the table as she leaned forward and pushed a slip of paper across to him. ‘He gave me a prescription for some pills. I need you to find a pharmacy for me.’ She nodded at a plastic bottle by her glass and added, ‘He left me those, just in case. Too many quacks forcing pills down our throats these days.’ She coughed, bringing a spasm of pain across her face. It added to the odd tilt her features had taken since he’d seen her last night, until it was like looking at a distorted reflection in a bad mirror. ‘I want to up the pressure on Palmer and the girl. Make them sweat.’

‘Yeah? You sure about that? He nearly caught me last time.’

In spite of her obvious ill health, Lottie Grossman managed a sneer, her features twisting even further. ‘What’s the matter? Scared of him, are you?’ Her voice was taunting, and suddenly Szulu wanted to reach out and kick her, ill or not.

‘I’m not scared of no-one!’ he snarled, before pulling himself together. Getting angry with this old witch would mean having to face the Ragga.

‘Good,’ she cooed. ‘Glad to hear it. You’d better be off, then. See if you can get the girl alone. Only this time,’ she reached out and slid one of her long fingernails across the back of his hand, making him want to snatch his hand away in revulsion, ‘this time, you can tell her,’ she thought for a moment, eyes pinpoints of pure wickedness. ‘Tell her Lottie’s back.’

‘Is that all?’ He felt relieved that she didn’t want him to do something worse. It was a sign that he needed to be done with her as soon as possible and get back to some normal work.

‘It will do for now. She’ll know what it means. Now go.’

Szulu crossed the lawn towards the hotel, feeling Lottie Grossman’s eyes drilling into his back. He wondered what kept her going. Hate, most likely. If so, it wasn’t doing her a lot of good. He dismissed that and tried to figure out how best to pick up on the Gavin woman’s trail and deliver the message. Maybe he’d try Palmer’s office first. If they were together, it would be two birds with one stone and all that stuff. As long as he took care to stay out of Palmer’s reach; the guy was way too quick for his liking. Then he remembered the.22 Llama in his car. A glimpse of the business end of that would slow the ex-military cop down. It wasn’t a big gun but only a fool would be willing to take a shot they didn’t have to. And Palmer most likely knew better than most what the effect of a.22 slug could be.

As he passed the front desk, he caught the receptionist looking at him. He automatically flashed a smile, but she turned away, giving him the cold shoulder.

‘Hey — what’s up?’ he said. Damn. He thought he was getting somewhere there, too. This was turning into a bad day all round.

‘You had a visitor,’ she told him without looking round. ‘You just missed her.’

‘Yeah? Who?’ He frowned. Who the hell knew he was here? But the receptionist had already turned to answer the phone.

When he got outside, there was nobody around. Then he heard a car start up across the road from the hotel. It was a VW Golf. As it pulled away from the kerb, he saw a woman with a familiar shock of blonde hair in the driver’s seat.

Szulu ran for his car.

Frank Palmer studied the rear of the VTS unit from the cover of an abandoned council road maintenance depot, pondering on the amount of foot traffic between VTS and the SkyPrint premises further along. Most of the time it had been the boss man with the white shirt, accompanied by faces Palmer hadn’t seen before. He assumed the faces were there to lift and carry, and this was borne out when they left VTS bearing boxes and packages Palmer was too far away to identify. On two occasions the big lug in the romper suit had walked out of the rear door of VTS carrying tied bundles of paper. He had dumped these into a large metal drum on a patch of open concrete. Judging by the scorch marks on the drum, it was used regularly as an incinerator, and Palmer wondered what it was they were so keen on torching, rather than consigning to the dustbin.

Apart from the activity here, there was also a lot of movement at the front of the building. He could guess what was happening: the VTS birds were clearing up and getting ready to fly. They had clearly been sufficiently shaken by Palmer and Riley’s visit to know they were on somebody’s radar. The SkyPrint premises were probably squeaky clean, and would therefore pass scrutiny. Given enough time for any problems to blow over, they could set up another VTS operation somewhere else without being compromised.

The rear door to VTS opened and the man in blue overalls appeared. He was carrying a bottle. He approached the large metal drum and emptied the contents inside, tossing the bottle into the grass nearby. He reached down into the drum, and there was a muffled whump and a thin ball of smoke lifted into the air. Moments later, the atmosphere around the drum began to shimmer as heat built up and flames licked hungrily around the rim. Giving the drum a kick, the man returned to the building, slamming the door behind him.

Palmer watched the smoke billow across the open ground, and fought a powerful urge to leave his hiding place and see what he could rescue. Burning papers meant they must be worth destroying. But rushing over there might entail coming up against Romper Suit and his friend. He had attended sites in the past where documents had been torched, and he’d always been surprised by how much survived the flames. Given that the man in overalls hadn’t even checked to see if the bundles thrown into the drum had been untied, he was content to take his chances and see what could be salvaged later.

He shifted his position to ease a touch of cramp and tried not to think of strong, hot coffee. He’d give it another hour. By then, they might have decided to pack up for the day.Then he’d slip across for a closer look.

Riley looked objectively at her flat. Untidy, maybe — even lived in if she was being generous — but nothing a quick, ten-second tour wouldn’t put right. It wasn’t as if John would be expecting a scene from Homes amp; Gardens. Too bad if he was.

She heard a burst of classical music coming from downstairs. At least they wouldn’t need violins to go with the atmosphere: Mr Grobowski was probably cooking up a huge meal for the community centre members while enjoying his favourite fellow compatriots’ musical compositions.

She plumped cushions and nudged the place into order, then put on some coffee. If John’s was a flying visit, they might have enough time to go out for a meal. Then she thought about Palmer. She should call and tell him she’d bunked off. With the thought came a renewed twinge of the guilt at not sticking with Szulu and finding out more about the mysterious Mrs Fraser. But it was too late now; as her mother used to say, make your decisions by all means, but live with the consequences and get on with it.