Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

As she reached back into the car to pick up Henry’s leather bible, she heard a scrape of movement behind her. ‘Welcome to Broadcote Hall.’

It was too early for surprises. Riley spun round and saw a tall, gaunt man in a black coat and a charcoal shirt buttoned to the collar, standing against the dark backdrop of the trees. His near-skeletal face was the only pale detail, highlighted by flashes of light from a pair of rimless spectacles.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ she told him. ‘You could give someone a heart attack.’

The man tilted his head to one side, a gesture of apology. It was an oddly bird-like movement. For bird, Riley thought, studying the thin frame, read vulture.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He didn’t look sorry and his words were too cold and precise. He reminded Riley of a particularly spooky dentist she had once known. ‘I’m Mr Quine. Do you have an appointment?’

Riley shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. But I’d like to talk with the person in charge, if possible. I’ve driven out from London.’

His eyes had fastened on the bible in her hand. ‘I see. It’s a long way to come. I’m afraid we’re very busy today. We have an important function in progress.’ At least that explained the fancy cars. ‘But it may be possible.’ He held out one hand, palm upwards. ‘If I could have your car keys for safe-keeping?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I’m on a flying visit.’

His face remained expressionless. ‘I’m sorry — house rule. All keys are held in reception. It’s a precaution in case of emergencies.’

‘What sort of emergencies?’

Quine shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules, miss. It’s in case we need to move a vehicle quickly. The car will be perfectly safe, I promise. I’ll give you a receipt if you wish.’ The hand crept forward, insistent.

Riley debated refusing, then thought, what the hell. If she got snitty over her car keys, this might be as far as she got. And this character looked as if he’d enjoy bouncing her right back out of the gates. She needed to find out about Henry. With as much good grace as she could muster, she handed over the keys and received a numbered ticket in exchange. The man nodded and directed her with an open-palmed gesture towards the house.

Up close, the building was bigger than she had first thought, but with the solid, squat appearance of a fortress rather than a home. Architecture wasn’t her strong point, but she noted how the house appeared to be composed of a mixture of styles, with little regard for any overall sense of design or continuity. The tall windows overlooking the parking area revealed high-ceilinged rooms and enough wattage from inside to light a small town. The ‘important function’ was clearly in progress.

Inside the main entrance, Riley found herself in what she took to be the general reception area. It housed a huge oak desk with elaborately carved legs and a worn leather top. On top stood a telephone and a guest book. There was no other furniture and no sign of a receptionist. The walls were covered in dark panelling, with an almost dried-blood coloured carpet underfoot, though the overall impression lacked warmth. If the rest of the building was like this, she could understand why they needed the lights on during the day.

Riley was about to lift the telephone for directions when a door opened and a large figure appeared. He nodded to her in acknowledgement, leaving a steady buzz of conversation and laughter in the room behind him. After the austere atmosphere of the reception area and the strange man in the car park, such geniality seemed suddenly at odds.

Riley guessed the man was in his late fifties, with a broad expanse of stomach artfully concealed beneath a well-cut blue blazer with gold buttons. Smart slacks topped highly polished black shoes. She noticed he had small feet. The overall figure was topped by carefully-coiffured hair and a rather fleshy face with several chins rolling over a stiff collar and tie.

She half expected a degree of puzzlement at her unscheduled appearance, but he was smiling as if they were old friends. She half expected him to make some effusive comment about how long it had been. She also had the feeling he’d been informed the moment she’d arrived, and presumed Quine, the man in the car park, had called ahead.

‘Welcome,’ said the man heartily, holding out his hand. Even with the single word, she instantly recognised the voice from the recorded message. ‘Welcome to the Church of Flowing Light. It’s so nice to have more visitors. I am Pastor de Haan, head of this facility. How may I help you, Miss-?’

‘Riley Gavin. I’m sorry for intruding.’ Riley nodded towards the sound of conversation behind the door. ‘I’ve arrived at an awkward moment.’

‘No, not at all,’ he said, almost dismissively. His fingers were warm and dry to the touch, like old leather. He eyed the bible Riley was carrying in the same way Quine had done, although with a slight lift of one eyebrow. ‘A conference, that’s all. We’re just enjoying a coffee break. Perhaps you would like some?’ He held out a hand and gestured towards the door, moving smoothly for a man of his bulk.

Riley had no choice but to follow as he led the way into a vast, panelled room with ornate plaster cornices and heavy brocade curtains. At the far end was a podium with a microphone and lectern overlooking rows of chairs, and a large banner on the back wall bearing the Church’s name and motto. The room was filled with people, some standing, some sitting, but all holding coffee cups and chatting the way crowds do when they have been released from the rigid confines of listening to a speaker.

Pastor de Haan eased through the crowd, patting a shoulder here, pumping a hand there, plainly at ease. He stopped at a heavy oak table where a young man was pouring coffee and milk from silver jugs and offering plates of biscuits. Riley took the coffee but decided against the biscuits. She was already juggling the bible and a handful of bone china. She didn’t need to add to her anxiety.

‘Now,’ said the pastor, skilfully edging her to a quiet spot against the wall. ‘It’s true I haven’t much time, but I promise I will help as much as I can. That is our mission in life, after all.’ His smile was open and the voice was carefully modulated. For a brief moment, Riley felt as if she could tell this man almost anything, and reminded herself that she was probably in the presence of an expert at gathering funds and support for his good causes.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ she told him. ‘A friend called Henry Pearcy. I was hoping you could tell me where he is. He seems to have gone missing.’

For a fraction of a second Pastor de Haan’s genial expression wavered, and he appeared to adjust the way he was looking at her. Whether it was the mention of Henry’s name or the realisation that she was not about to dip her hand in her wallet and bestow a new wing on his elegant building, Riley wasn’t sure. But she had the feeling she was being deftly slotted into a different compartment to the one she might have occupied moments earlier.

‘I’m sorry — that’s not possible.’ The refusal came smoothly, the smile easing back into place. For the first time, Riley detected a slight American accent which had been buried earlier by something more overtly European. She had guessed Dutch, because of the name, but now she wasn’t so sure. ‘Not because I wouldn’t want to, Miss Gavin,’ he continued. ‘Far from it. It’s our policy never to divulge details of our members’ activities… or whereabouts.’

‘So you do know him, then?’ Alongside her rush of relief, Riley noticed a change of accent again, this time more American. She wondered which one was the original.