Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

Germany — 1989

Like nature’s sugar icing, a thin layer of snow began to dust the runner’s body.

Two hundred metres away, beyond the strip of barren land marking the border between the two Germanys, a watchtower loomed against the sky, a sinister symbol of repression that would, like the Berlin Wall 300 kilometres to the north-east, soon be a ghostly landmark in history. On the tower, a guard in a heavy coat scanned the scene through binoculars. Below him, a patrol vehicle’s engine gave a raucous clatter. A guard-dog yelped eagerly, its cries echoed by others in the distance, each a soulful, lonely message, drifting on the wind across the fields.

Minutes before, the runner had been a living, breathing being, hugging the ground among the thin brush growing in a tangle along the low ridge. He had inched with agonising care past warning markers and stones, checking for tell-tale ripples in the soil indicating a mine, or the hair-thin glint of trip-wires. Ahead lay a field, his route to the West. A US army tower in the distance was a reflection of its East German counterpart. The thick windows showed no sign of movement.

He flexed his shoulders, dislodging a layer of ice crystals formed while lying motionless in the night. In the tower, the guard yawned at the coming dawn, impatient for his shift to end.

The runner wormed free of the thin cover, sucking in deep, energising breaths. Then he was up and stumbling at a stomach-burning crouch, one hand reaching to touch the frozen earth. Twenty metres, thirty, forty…he was in full view if the guard should turn and look west. Not that he would, if all went to plan…

He ran faster, responding to the tantalising pull of safety. Suddenly, over the sound of his exertions, a shout. His stomach tightened. He ran harder, dancing sideways as a searchlight sliced through the thinning gloom. He tripped and fell, then pushed off again, coat flapping like broken wings. The searchlight caught him a glancing blow, moved away then darted back, bathing him in its glare. His shadow, thrown ahead by the light, raced on alone, unstoppable toward the west.

Another shout, followed by two flat reports snapping out across the cold morning air. The runner staggered, splay-footed, then pitched forward and lay still.

And the new dawn began edging the horizon.

On the western side of the border, clear of the searchlight’s reach, stood three men. Two wore leather jackets and boots, with woollen hats pulled down over their ears. One of the men was zipping up a long, slim bag, which he threw over his shoulder.

The third man wore a long, dark coat and a burgundy-coloured cashmere scarf. Middle-aged, of medium height and build, with thinning, sandy hair, his glasses were speckled with moisture. He nodded to the others.

‘Call it in,’ he said quietly, his voice tinged with what sounded like relief.

The man with the bag walked over to a mud-spattered Range Rover nearby. Placing the bag on the rear seat, he picked up a radio handset and began to speak.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he announced moments later. He clapped his hands, the sound echoing out across the field.

The man in the long coat checked the emerging outline of some woods half a mile away, and a farmhouse, huddled low as if clinging to the earth. He thought he’d seen movement earlier, but knew that couldn’t be. The area had been checked carefully.

‘When they stop playing with that bloody searchlight,’ he muttered, ‘go fetch him. Don’t leave anything behind.’ Then he turned to the Range Rover and climbed in. Picking up a flask, he unscrewed the top. The interior of the car filled with the smell of coffee. As he poured his drink, the searchlight dipped and went out, and his two companions looked at each other before stepping out warily across the uneven field.

Change was coming, the man was thinking idly, watching them. Change of a magnitude that would repaint this sorry corner of Europe forever. And God help those who hadn’t seen it coming.

The men returned with the body, placing it near the car. Twenty minutes later, a dark green Opel estate appeared, bouncing along the track from the main road, the headlights pushing back the gloom and highlighting the skeletal trees, withered grass and sagging fence posts marking the boundary of the farm’s land. The vehicle had a long radio aerial bolted to the tailgate, and contained two people.

The man got out to meet them, flicking away the remnants of his coffee.

London — 2006

‘So, why are we doing this again?’ Riley Gavin glanced at the lean figure of Frank Palmer as they walked down an alleyway and emerged onto a street lined with shops, small businesses and the occasional office block. They were in Harrow, north London. Traffic was light, with a scattering of pedestrians and window-shoppers, but that would change towards lunchtime. Then the pavements would be bustling with pale-faced office workers, making eager forays for food in the early summer sun.

‘I’m serving papers on a scumbag,’ replied Palmer dispassionately, skirting a gaggle of black bin bags outside a pizza restaurant. ‘If I do it right, I can send somebody an invoice, which means I get paid, which means I can eat.’ He looked sideways at Riley. ‘You’re not getting the jitters, are you? Only you said-’

‘Palmer, I wouldn’t be here if I was getting the jitters. Even though I do have work of my own to do. What I meant was, why do you need me to act as a decoy? Why not walk straight up to this… McGilligan or Gulligan or whatever his name is, and serve the papers? I thought you private eyes did it all the time.’

‘His name’s Gillivray, and if it was that simple, I’d have already done it.’ He dragged her out of the path of a delivery truck as they crossed the road towards a tall, brick-built office block set back off the street. ‘Doug Gillivray is as slippery as an oil-driller’s boot. I swear he’s got in-built radar. Here we are.’ He paused in the entrance and peered through the glass front, scanning the list of occupants on the inside wall. They seemed to be mostly insurance companies, shipping agents or accounting firms, along with a bank of somewhere he’d never heard of, a solicitor or two and a handful of companies with initials which probably meant something only to their financial advisers and clients.

‘Stairwell Management,’ he said, spotting the name on the panel for the sixth floor, ‘is a misnomer, because managing is what they do least. Gillivray’s not listed as such, but he’s a director, and he usually gets in at ten-thirty every morning.’ He checked his watch. ‘Five minutes ago. He stays for an hour, probably to write a few cheques and make sure they’re not all surfing the internet, then ducks out again, coming back in the late afternoon. So far I haven’t found out where he goes or what he does in between.’

‘So what has he done to have you on his case?’

‘Robbed people blind, mostly. He sells things that don’t exist — usually services that disappear after the first call. Property management is his current favourite. He’ll charge a fee to oversee a building, undercutting everyone else. He gets the contract, makes a few obvious moves to show willing, then does a bunk with whatever he can pick up. For an operation that sounds pretty crude, he’s very smooth.’

‘Okay. So you want me to go into Stairwell and punt for any security work, and you’ll follow me in?’

‘Correct.’

‘And you don’t think you’ll stand out, creeping about behind me dressed like that?’ Riley, who looked elegantly businesslike in a smart-casual trouser suit, blouse and moderate heels, looked sideways at Palmer’s casual slacks and battered jacket, his fit-all outfit for blending in. He rarely wore anything different on the grounds that after years as a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Military Police, he had done with being pigeonholed by dress or dictate, preferring the to-hell-with-it look. Somehow, though, she had to admit, it went with his easy smile and the way his fair hair seemed to flop into place without benefit of gel or effort.