Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Then she felt as if she’d been punched in the chest.

The flyer.

Of course. The flyer she’d found in the coffee shop about Angelina Boothe-Davison, and the leather bible from Henry’s room. Suddenly the connection was blindingly obvious. She wanted to race back and confirm it with her own eyes before it slipped away.

Her mobile rang. It was Palmer. ‘Walk across the main entrance to the park and don’t look round,’ he said calmly. ‘Turn up Abbotsbury Road and keep walking.’

‘Why? What the hell are you talking about, Palmer? Anyway, I’ve just thought of something.’

‘Never mind that. You’ve got company.’

‘What?’

‘A white van’s been dogging you since you left home. Two men inside, and neither of them look friendly.’

‘What?’

‘One of them followed you through the park on foot… a tall bloke in a long coat. I don’t think they’re after your autograph.’

It took Riley a real effort of will not to turn her head and stare. The jogger she had spotted through the trees earlier? But what the hell was Palmer doing here? He must have been behind her all the way from the flat. Or Uxbridge.

Riley followed his instructions and turned to her right, walking along the pavement past the park entrance. The traffic on her left was a muddle of cars and buses flashing past, with a sprinkling of bikes and revving scooters weaving in and out to gain extra yardage. No white van, though.

‘Could they be police?’ Riley wondered if DC McKinley had decided to put a tail on her to check her story.

‘Nah. They’d find a spot and let you come to them, then double ahead. These two jokers like to keep on the move, as if they don’t want to get caught on a double yellow.’ He chuckled with evident satisfaction. ‘Seems you’ve perked up someone’s interest. This is good.’

‘Good? How the hell can it be good, Palmer? Did you get the number?’

‘Got it, logged it, phoned it in.’ He didn’t say where he’d phoned it in to, but her guess was a contact with a finger on a reliable vehicle-licensing database.

She continued walking with the phone clamped to her ear, pretending to ignore everything around her while scanning the surrounding traffic. She had a hint, but that was all: white, as Palmer had said, and nondescript, with no markings. You could see a hundred like them any day of the week, anonymous and unremarkable apart from their apparent disregard for traffic regulations and anyone else on the road.

‘Keep going,’ said Palmer calmly, as she took the first road to her right after the park. ‘If they keep to their pattern so far, they’ll turn off in a minute and go round the block, then come up behind you and play catch-up.’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘It’s criminal. I mean, if they’re going to play silly buggers, they could at least do it properly.’ He sounded genuinely offended, as if they were letting the side down. Then he told her to get ready, because as soon as they were out of sight, he was going to do a drive-by and pick her up. Riley crossed to the left-hand side of the road to make it easier for him.

Moments later a scruffy Saab 95 slid into the kerb alongside her and Palmer popped open the door. She slid inside and he took off again immediately. He drove fast and with a deceptively casual air, slowing only to negotiate speed bumps in the road. Then it was foot down on the accelerator, the engine humming so smoothly Riley could have balanced an egg on the bonnet. The thup-thup of the windscreen wipers filled the silence.

After dropping her off outside the flat, Palmer disappeared to park his car a couple of streets away, then trotted back. Once inside he stood at the window facing onto the street, scanning the traffic. A few minutes later he nodded with satisfaction. ‘Right on cue.’

Riley peered past him just as a white van drifted slowly past the front of the building. The windows were too dark to see through, but the passenger side window was lowered, showing a section of narrow, pale face and close-to-the-bone cropped hair. ‘They know where I live.’

‘Yes. I first spotted them a couple of days ago. I came round for coffee but you were out. Yesterday morning I saw them again. What they won’t know is how you got back here so quickly. It’ll have thrown them for a bit.’

‘They’ll assume by taxi.’ She looked at him. ‘If they’ve been out there a couple of days, why didn’t you mention it before?’

‘So you could do what — go out and kick their door in? I wanted to be sure first. I think it’s safe to assume they’ve been following you for some time, and they might know about me, too.’ His mobile beeped and he took it out and listened. Riley handed him a notepad and pencil, but he waved it away before thanking the person on the other end and switching off. ‘Well, well. Sometimes we find out more by what we don’t know than what we do.’ He didn’t explain the cryptic comment but looked hopefully towards the kitchen, rubbing his hands. ‘Coffee, I think.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Riley and left him to it. She knew he’d soon tire of the smug act and tell her what he was thinking. She didn’t really care how he got his information, as long as he didn’t keep her in the dark.

‘All right, so who are they?’ She felt annoyed at being the first to give way.

‘You first.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said earlier you’d thought of something. What was it?’

She picked up the missing persons flyer from the coffee shop and passed it to him. He studied it for a moment, front and back. ‘I saw this before. So?’

Riley pointed to the phone number underneath the picture of Angelina Boothe-Davison. Then she picked up the leather bible. When she flicked open the cover and pointed to the stamp inside, he looked puzzled.

‘The bible is from Henry’s hotel room,’ she explained. ‘The flyer was in a coffee shop down the street from here. Look at the phone numbers.’

He did. ‘It’s the same.’ He was staring at the bible with an odd expression on his face, as if genuinely surprised. That was another first. ‘Isn’t it usually the family who put out these things?’

‘Usually.’ She had helped Katie’s parents do the same, tramping around the streets pinning posters to anything solid. They’d probably been breaking all sorts of by-laws, but at the time she figured a missing teenager trumped regulations any day. She took over making the coffee while Palmer studied the piece of paper. While it brewed she took out her phone and dialled the number inside the bible, then pressed the button for loudspeaker. After three rings, there was a hiss of static, then a click, and de Haan’s familiar and theatrical voice echoed richly around the room to a faint soundtrack of organ music. This time, instead of the announcement about the important function, the words were more traditional, even quaint:

‘You have reached the message service of The Church of Flowing Light. If you have information about our missing persons, please press two and leave a message. If you require further information about our services, please press three and leave your name and address. We will get back to you. Thank you for calling.’

She switched off the phone.

‘Pretty one-sided,’ said Palmer. ‘For a church relying on sponsors, you’d think they’d want to grab every caller first time round.’

Riley nodded. ‘But it answers the question about that phone number and confirms what de Haan told me; they trace missing kids.’

‘Yes. And most likely on behalf of the families. Must be worth a few quid to some people.’ Palmer looked sideways at her, a glimmer of a smile on his lips.

‘You’re an old cynic.’