Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Riley wasn’t sure what to say. Position rather than love; status within a group instead of caring. It was certainly a different approach from the norm, and who was to say they weren’t right? But before she could comment there was a crackle of electronic feedback in the room they had just left, signalling the resumption of the conference. De Haan clapped his hands together with a smile, and what Riley could have sworn was relief.

‘I really must apologise,’ he said, ‘but I need to get back. We have a very busy programme to get through.’

A movement to one side made Riley turn her head. Mr Quine was standing just inside the entrance, hands clasped in front like a praetorian guard. Against the relative gloom of the wooden panelling, his dark clothing made him look even more like a bird of prey.

‘Thank you,’ Riley said. She wondered if knowing about de Haan’s organisation would have helped Katie Pyle. Something told her, maybe not. She extended her hand, but instead of taking it, de Haan stepped away. Clearly the audience was over.

Riley suddenly remembered Henry’s bible. She turned back and retrieved it from the pastor’s grasp. He looked dismayed for a moment, glancing quickly towards Quine, who began moving towards them. In that instant, Riley felt a sudden flicker of menace in the air. Then de Haan coughed and waved a quick hand, and Quine stopped in his tracks.

Riley had no idea what had just happened, nor why having the bible back was important. But she figured when Henry did turn up, she wanted to be the one to return it to him. If he turned up. Suddenly she was no longer sure that would ever happen.

She stopped in front of Quine and held out her hand. He stared at her without expression, then slowly handed back her car keys. She got the feeling he was imprinting her every facial detail on his mind for future reference, and the idea made her feel uncomfortable. She nodded coolly and walked past him out on to the drive.

She got back into the car and drove out to the main road, turning towards London. She felt unsettled by what had just happened; she’d been in the place little more than twenty minutes, and had learned precious little, save that pastor de Haan wasn’t quite what he pretended, and Quine was too spooky for words. What she had confirmed was that Henry belonged to a charity and had been under some stress lately. Or maybe it was just more of the stress he had carried with him all those years ago. It might explain his odd behaviour, such as leaving his job without telling anybody. But it still didn’t explain why he had wanted to see her so urgently, or how he came to know Katie Pyle’s name.

Odder still was that, in spite of doing good works, the charity wasn’t about to let her anywhere near him to find out. It was irritating but she could hardly force the issue; if Henry was one of them, it was presumably normal for the organisation to want to protect him. She mulled it over for a couple of miles, then pulled into a lay-by and took out her mobile. As she did so, a familiar car drove slowly by, the driver turning to give her a long look. It was the motorist she had seen staring into the engine compartment of his Nissan at the entrance to Broadcote Hall. Maybe he’d tried the power of prayer.

De Haan and the man called Quine stood in the doorway and watched Riley drive away. The pastor shook his head with a hiss of disapproval. When he spoke it was with a chilly tone of accusation.

‘It’s beginning to get out of hand. How did she get this far?’

Quine seemed unruffled. ‘Pearcy must have spoken to her after all.’

‘But you said he hadn’t!’ A bubble appeared at de Haan’s mouth. He checked himself, aware that anger achieved little. ‘If Friedman gets to her as well, everything will be ruined.’

‘He won’t.’ Quine casually re-arranged some pamphlets on a windowsill. One was slightly damaged. He tore it slowly in two, then put the two halves together and tore them again, before dropping the pieces in a waste bin. ‘I’ve got it covered.’

‘How?’

Quine smiled, his demeanour that of an equal. ‘He won’t get to her. That’s all you need to know.’

Frank Palmer’s office in Uxbridge hadn’t changed much since the last time Riley had called. In spite of a lick of paint, which had freshened things up slightly, it still exuded a faint air of gloom, as if the walls were in need of a good chuckle. Or maybe it was the ancient, battered furniture and the fluorescent lighting which killed any potential atmosphere at birth. Palmer was standing at the window overlooking the street. He seemed unusually thoughtful and waved a vague hand towards a mug of coffee already waiting for her on his desk. She guessed he had seen her arrive.

Riley joined him at the window. As views went, she couldn’t see what he found so enthralling.

‘What’s the problem?’ Palmer turned and sat down.

‘This is surprisingly good coffee, Palmer. Did I say there was a problem?’

‘First, thank you for the compliment — the Kenyans will be deeply chuffed. Second, I could hear it in your voice when you called.’

‘Clever Dick.’ Riley had called Palmer soon after leaving Broadcote Hall. He had just finished escorting his Saudi prince through check-in at Heathrow and was on his way back to the office clutching a cheque and trying to think how to spend it.

She told him about the phone call from Henry, the follow-up, the events at the hotel at Heathrow and the brick wall she had run into at the Church of Flowing Light. When she told him the background about Katie Pyle he looked sombre.

‘Sad business,’ he said. If he was surprised by the fact that she had never mentioned it before, he didn’t say. In fact, he said very little, absorbing everything like a sponge and occasionally drumming his fingers on his knee. It was one of his old de-briefing tricks, leaving her to do all the talking and probably saying far more than she might have intended. In the end he waved his hand in the air. ‘This Henry Pearcy bloke. You said you didn’t know much about his private life; for instance that he was a churgoer. Does that mean he wouldn’t have known much about you, either?’

‘We were colleagues, not bosom buddies.’

‘And Katie’s disappearance?’

‘I never told him. It wasn’t something I talked about. It was hardly my best journalistic moment.’

‘You were young and inexperienced. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’ It was Palmer’s usual pragmatic approach: change it if you can, if not, get over it and move on. ‘Not that I’m saying you’re not still young.’

‘How tactful.’

‘Yet this Henry calls Donald in the middle of the night, looking for you because there’s a mystery bloke trying to contact you. During which, he mentions a missing girl by name — a name you say he couldn’t — shouldn’t — have known.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘Sorry — I need to spell out the blindingly obvious. It gets the grey cells working. Going over old ground often yields surprising nuggets.’

‘Henry mentioned Katie by name, yes. But when I asked if this mystery caller did, he said not. I think that was a mistake.’

‘Unless he actually discovered you had been assigned to the story originally.’

‘I don’t see how. I only met Henry about a year afterwards. By then it was history. And the paper closed years ago.’

‘I see. And this bloke… the one he said was looking for you; no clues about what he wanted other than to talk about Katie?’

‘That’s right. Henry said he’d tell me about it face to face. He sounded stressed.’

‘Maybe he realised he’d said too much.’ Palmer held her look with a steady gaze, doing what he did best, which was to question everything and tease it apart. She suddenly knew how wayward members of the British army must have felt when he was in the Special Investigations Branch.