Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

‘How do you mean?’

‘You obviously feel bad about this Katie Pyle. I can understand that, although I think you’re nuts if you let it get to you. We’ve all had our Katie Pyle stories, believe me.’ She held up finger. ‘That’s one issue. Then there’s the question of timing. Things have changed hugely over the last ten years. Runaways now… they live differently. They’re not into it for the adventure, not like some were years ago, packing a few things into a rucksack and heading off on the hippy trail to get stoned, drunk and laid. For these kids it’s the only way of surviving. They take bigger risks because they have to; it’s a much nastier world out there, and after living on the streets for a while they don’t always care what happens to them. If they’re lucky they get help. Most don’t want to know because they see it as another form of control.’

‘You mean help from the agencies?’

‘Sure. They want to be free of all that. It’s very rare you get a kid leaving a good, safe, happy home. Most of them are rotten.’

‘But not all.’

‘No. Yes. Well, most of them — look at the statistics.’

‘Katie’s wasn’t.’ The thought made her wonder about Katie’s parents. She would have to check to see if they were still around. It was a long shot but if anything made them re-surface it would have been the discovery of their daughter’s body. No doubt the police would have searched for the next of kin, and the press wouldn’t be far behind. She would have to move quickly.

Nikki was staring off into space, ruminating. ‘Let me dig out what I can. To be honest, I think you’ll find it’s all to do with the home.’

‘It’s still worth looking, though.’

‘If you say so. But so what? What if they trot to church every Sunday and Brownies on a Tuesday evening? Social position, class, religion — none of that guarantees a caring environment. Some of the stories I’ve covered among the so-called upper socio-economic groupings would make your eyes water. Like, if the four-wheel-drive and green wellie set love their kids so much, why do they send them to boarding school from the age of six? No wonder some of them are so fucking dysfunctional.’ The words came out with such venom, Riley wondered whether the reporter was quite as cold as she liked to pretend.

‘I appreciate your help.’

‘Sure. But don’t hold your breath.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘Sorry — this time I’d better be off. I wouldn’t want to push my luck. These telly people can be so temperamental, darling.’ She smiled and rolled her eyes.

‘There’s one other thing.’ Riley was acting on instinct. ‘Have you ever heard of the Church of Flowing Light?’

‘It rings a bell. Is it important?’

‘It could be, but I can’t tell you why.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll ask around.’

As Riley walked outside, her phone buzzed. It was Palmer.

‘Are you busy?’ he asked. ‘I need your womanly charms.’

The Boothe-Davisons lived in a converted Regency town house just off Portland Place, midway between the BBC and Regent’s Park. Riley spotted Palmer waiting for her in the doorway to a smart building, calmly ignoring the looks of disapproval from two elderly tenants keeping guard over a small Cairn terrier sniffing nervously at a nearby lamppost.

‘Sorry to spring this on you,’ he said cheerfully, taking a last drag of a cigarette before flipping it into the gutter. ‘I blagged the address from Donald. I thought it might be useful to have a chat.’

‘Why do you need me?’ asked Riley. ‘You think I have some sort of secret power over Air Commodores?’

‘It’s not him I’m worried about; it’s his missus. She’s a bit touchy. She didn’t want to put me through at first until I mentioned I knew her husband from our time in the services. Said they didn’t want to talk about their daughter, because it’s all too unsettling.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you believe these people? Kid gone AWOL on the street and she doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Could be she’s strung up on something from her doctor. What do you want me to do — distract her while you talk to the husband?’

‘Sounds like a plan. I might get more out of him reminiscing about old times without her running interference.’ He turned and led the way through the front door and into a small lift, where they joined an elderly lady with pink hair and a tiny, aggressive dog with bug eyes and a fancy collar. Neither the lady nor the dog acknowledged Palmer, although the dog sniffed at Riley’s shoes before backing away with a quiver of alarm and a show of teeth. Round one to the cat, thought Riley. Extra food for you tonight, puss.

The lift stopped and Palmer followed his nose along a carpeted and marble-lined corridor to an impressive, gleaming door with a small bell push. He thumbed the button and waited.

‘Yes?’ The door opened to reveal a tall, hawk-nosed man in his fifties, wearing a crisp shirt and cardigan. He was holding a small watering can. He stared out at Palmer with a look of suspicion, a trickle of water dribbling out of the can’s spout onto the floor.

Riley stared in surprise, but managed to close her mouth in time. It was the man she had seen at the function at Broadcote Hall — the one with the sceptical expression and the dewy-eyed wife. She looked at Palmer to warn him, but couldn’t catch his eye.

‘Are you selling something?’ the man demanded. Then he peered closer at Palmer. ‘I know you. You were army, weren’t you?’ He snapped his fingers, recognition and the beginnings of acceptance coming together. ‘Of course… you rang earlier. The chap from the Salisbury ranges.’

Palmer nodded and confirmed that he had left the army and was now a private investigator. The former officer shook hands, but without any great show of enthusiasm.

‘It’s Angelina we’ve come to talk about,’ continued Palmer, and nodded towards Riley. ‘This is my colleague, Riley Gavin.’ He produced the poster, holding it up so the man could see the photo. ‘We’re looking into other disappearances which might tie in with your daughter’s.’

‘Really? How?’

‘We’re not sure yet. But she isn’t the first, and if we can establish a pattern, it might help us find out what happened.’

‘Who is it?’ A thin, reedy voice echoed down the hallway behind the former Air Commodore, and he shook his head in irritation.

‘It’s that chap Palmer, dear,’ he muttered, giving Riley a brief nod without any sign of recognition. ‘And a colleague. You’d better come in.’ He turned and led the way through to a spacious living room decorated with military prints and a large, Constable-style landscape, and indicated two armchairs for the visitors. He put the watering can down on the floor and stood by the window with his back to a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a rear garden. ‘Sorry about the chilly reception. We’ve been plagued by sales bods recently. Slick buggers can talk their way inside an elephant’s arse — oh, sorry, young lady.’

‘Well, who is it?’ The owner of the voice swept into the room and stopped short, staring at Palmer and Riley as if they had materialised out of the carpet. She wore a plain but expensive dress and court shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun pierced through with a tortoiseshell slide. Riley instantly thought of women who lunch. It was the dewy-eyed wife from the function. ‘Oh.’

‘They’ve come about Angelina,’ the man explained flatly. ‘D’you want a drink?’ He might have been unenthusiastic about their visit, but plainly wasn’t about to overlook the common courtesies.

‘Tea would be nice,’ said Palmer, smiling at Mrs Boothe-Davison and offering his hand. She took it with a look of surprise, and backed away out of the room. Seconds later they heard the sound of crockery being assembled. Riley tried not to smile. It was a neat move; get the woman out of the way so he could talk directly to the girl’s father.