Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Palmer smiled coldly and set off along the pavement. ‘You and me both.’

Riley stared after him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Things to do, places to be,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ His tone suggested she wouldn’t be welcome.

‘Don’t worry, Palmer,’ she muttered after him, startling another elderly passing local. ‘I’ve got some digging of my own to do.’

The area where Katie Pyle had lived hadn’t changed much over the years, and seeing it again brought back to Riley sharp memories of her visits here when she was covering the story. Situated close by Elstree Studios, where she remembered Katie’s father, John, had been employed as a technician, it was a comfortable, middle-class area of semis and detached houses with large gardens, set in broad, well-kept roads. Although the M1 motorway thundered north barely a mile away on the other side of a section of woodland, it was deeply rural by inner-city standards.

Riley called Donald on the way and asked him to confirm the address. He came back within minutes. ‘It’s the only one I can find, but it’s not recent.’ Then he asked bluntly: ‘Do we have a story?’ Once he knew there was something solid on offer, he’d be chasing her non-stop for progress reports. But he’d also be an invaluable mine of information should she need it.

‘We might,’ she told him cautiously, ‘but I’m not sure where it’s going. It could be nothing, but I’m going to see if Katie’s parents can tell me anything else… like whether they heard from her over the years. It’s hard to believe she’s been around all this time and didn’t make contact.’

‘Well, stranger things, sweetie. Stranger things. Keep in touch.’ He rang off to answer another phone warbling in the background.

Riley found the street on her third try, misled at first by a new sports centre now masking the approach to the road. She parked and walked up a brick-paved path to the familiar double-fronted house. It sported vertical blinds instead of curtains and a revamped fascia and remodelled porch. The garden was different, too, with signs of recent landscaping including newly laid turfs and flowerbeds, and a small cherry tree with straggly branches.

The woman who came to the door was tall and slim, and several years younger than Mrs Pyle would have been. She had a mobile phone in one carefully manicured hand. Riley introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit.

‘Susan Pyle? She moved a few years ago,’ said the woman with a sigh. ‘As I’ve been telling a stream of police and other reporters. We bought the place from her after her husband died. She’d pretty much done nothing to it.’ She nodded towards the garden. ‘That was a jungle; you wouldn’t believe the weeds we had to blast out. My husband hired one of those flame-thrower things — ghastly machine, it was — and that was just so he could see where the roots were. And the interior was simply Gothic… well, that’s how I describe it, anyway. So much dark cloth and furniture… I’m amazed the poor dear wasn’t blind with having to peer through the gloom all the time. And the smell!’

‘Bad, was it?’ said Riley with studied patience. She wondered if this woman had ever been through anything half as bad as Susan Pyle. Undoubtedly not, otherwise she’d have shown a bit more sympathy.

‘It was so thick you could cut it. And I’m not surprised; after all those incense sticks she burned night and day, the ceiling was black with the smoke. You can still smell it when the house gets hot. I swear it’s been absorbed into the brickwork.’ She shook her head and looked belatedly guilty. ‘I’m sorry — I’m not being very kind to her, am I? We heard about her daughter, what with the press and police still thinking she lived here. Poor woman must have had a terrible time.’ She turned away and picked up a slip of paper from a glass-topped side table inside the porch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know her new address, but this lady apparently does. I had my husband print them up because of all the callers. She’s a friend from way back, I believe, and lives down the road, although she doesn’t see callers. You’ll have to ring. But I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’

Riley thanked the woman and returned to her car. The piece of paper held a number and name. Gail Hunter. When she dialled the number it was picked up on the second ring.

‘Miss Hunter?’ said Riley. ‘I’ve been told you can help me contact Susan Pyle.’

‘Are you the press?’ The woman’s voice sounded tired but grudging, as if she had been fielding questions for days but didn’t want to simply slam the phone down. ‘Only, when is this going to end? I really don’t think-’

‘Mrs Hunter, I know Susan already; I met her when Katie disappeared. I was one of the reporters assigned to it. I think I was the only one she spoke to.’ Riley let that sink in, then continued: ‘If you say Susan won’t want to see me, that’s fine. But would you ask her, please? I think it’s important.’

‘Really? To whom?’

‘I’d still like to find out what happened to Katie.’

There was a long pause before Gail Hunter spoke. ‘Give me your number. If she wants to see you, I’ll let you know.’ There was no room for negotiation in the voice and Riley knew instinctively that there was no point in pushing. As soon as she gave the woman her number, the call was disconnected.

On the way back to town, her phone rang. She expected it to be Gail Hunter, calling to say there was no point to a meeting, but it was Nikki Bruce. Riley pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine.

‘I haven’t got the info about the other deaths yet, but I’ve just been on to a colleague who does social issues,’ said Nikki. ‘He says this Church of Flowing Light run soup vans around London, mostly into places the other agencies won’t go. They sound a tough outfit. They don’t use women and they don’t take any crap. Sort of benevolence with an iron fist by the sounds of it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. They dish out hot drinks and blankets to kids who have nowhere to sleep, but they don’t make a big thing about it. He thinks they have a place out in the Cotswolds but he doesn’t know where. That’s it, I’m afraid. They sound pretty genuine.’

‘Thanks. You’re probably right.’ Riley cursed inwardly. Soup vans. God, how emotive could a charity be? You didn’t get more down and personal than dolling out bowls of soup to the needy. And who would question their right to be anywhere, no matter what the time of day or night? ‘I’d better tell Frank.’

‘Frank?’

‘Frank Palmer. He’s the investigator friend I told you about. I wouldn’t want him charging in without warning.’

There was a silence for a few moments, then Nikki said, ‘That wouldn’t be Frank Palmer, late of Her Majesty’s Redcaps, would it? Tall-ish, thin-ish, vague-ish — seems half asleep a lot of the time?’

Riley was surprised. There couldn’t be two men with such similar descriptions. ‘You know Frank?’

‘Yes. I met him when I was doing a piece about bullying in the army. A colleague gave me his name and he supplied some background about the Special Investigation Branch. He promised to call me afterwards.’ Her tone indicated that he hadn’t.

‘When was this?’ said Riley. Putting Nikki Bruce and Frank Palmer together in her head was hard work; they were alike as chalk and cheese, and she couldn’t see Palmer putting up with a wannabe television performer, news or no news.

‘Nearly three years ago. It’s a good thing I’m not of a frail disposition; a girl could be quite insulted. Actually, Frank’s all right — but if you tell him I said that, I’ll report you to the Press Council.’