Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

He turned away from the riverside and eventually entered a narrower street bordered by blocks of flats. It was quiet here, even normal. He was about to turn back when he caught the smell of cigarette smoke. Too fresh to be far away, it held an underlying sweet tang familiar from his time prowling back-street dives in Germany, where squaddies hung out and thought they were being cool by indulging in banned substances.

He rounded a corner and found a narrow alley with two large rubbish skips parked inside, taking up nearly all of the available space. A profusion of building rubble and domestic cast-offs were barely held in place by nylon netting, and a scattering of debris on the floor of the alley betrayed the visit of skip pirates searching for treasure.

A faint fog of smoke hung in the rear of the alley, and a slither of noise came from the shadows. Palmer stepped forward, deliberately scuffing his feet. The last thing he wanted was to panic anyone into coming out in a rush, weapon at the ready.

He stopped when he saw movement beyond the skips, and a tall, stocky youth stood facing him. He was dressed in an oversized black coat and dirty jeans, and a pair of new Timberland hiking boots. His face was broad and weathered, with a wisp of beard around the chin and a cluster of sores at the edges of his mouth. The youth’s eyes were unnaturally bright, his whole manner tense with suspicion.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded aggressively, his accent betraying Tyneside origins.

Palmer put out a calming hand and stood still. Best not push it too far. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he explained. ‘A kid. I’ve got a photo.’ He pointed at his coat pocket.

The youth said nothing. In the shadows behind him, someone else stirred and a whisper came fast and furious, followed by a giggle. Palmer got the feeling he’d interrupted some urgent business. He prayed it wasn’t Angelina back there.

‘She’s too young for this,’ he said quietly. ‘The girl I’m looking for.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ muttered the youth with no sign of humour. He coughed and leaned forward, carefully dribbling a wad of yellow spit onto the floor in a show of indifference. When he looked up again he smiled, showing a discoloured front tooth. ‘Show us, then.’

Palmer stepped forward and held out the photo. The youth put out a hand, then dropped it with a subtle shift of his shoulders. Palmer heard a metallic click and felt a twitch in his gut. When he looked down he saw a glint of metal in the youth’s hand, just a few inches from his stomach.

Palmer tensed. He hated knives. He’d come across too many of them over the years, mostly in the hands of idiots. They were as indiscriminate as bullets and just as likely to cut you by accident as on purpose. Either way they could hurt. Or kill.

‘Put it away, sonny,’ he said softly, ‘or you’ll be wearing it.’

The youth blinked, as if unaccustomed to such cool indifference and unsure how to react. He hesitated a fraction too long. Palmer reached out and clamped a hand over his knife wrist, then pulled and twisted. It was no contest. The youth yelped and bent his knees to counteract the pain, which put him conveniently close to Palmer’s other hand. There was a sound like a paddle on meat, and the youth fell in a heap, his weapon clattering to the ground.

While the youth collected his senses, Palmer bent and retrieved the knife. It was a cheap mass-market item with a well-worn blade and scarred, imitation bone handle. But still deadly in the hands of someone prepared to use it. He stuck the point in a crack in the wall and snapped it cleanly, then flipped the handle into the nearest rubbish skip.

‘Bastard,’ the youth said sourly, sitting up and rubbing his wrist. Palmer wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed at the pain or the broken knife.

He flapped the photo in front of the youth’s face. ‘All I want is a yes or no. That’s not too hard, is it? Now, let’s try again. Have you seen her?’ The words were slow and deliberate, the gritty tone behind Palmer’s voice making the youth blink harder and shuffle urgently backwards on his rump until he bumped against the side of the skip.

‘Might have.’ He glanced sideways towards the shadows, but got no help from that direction. He sighed. ‘Aye, all right. She was down here yesterday. Pretty lass. That’s why I remember her. She was with us for a bit…then someone came by and she left.’

‘Who did she leave with?’

The youth shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some bloke. It wasn’t any of my business. He came, he spotted her and they went away. Maureen would know, though. Maureen knows everything.’ He looked up and smiled coldly. ‘That’s if you can get her to talk. She doesn’t like men much. You’d be best taking her a pressie. Know what I mean?’

‘Tell me where I can find her,’ said Palmer. ‘But set me up or try to screw me, and I’ll come back and haunt you.’

It was too much of a coincidence. Two men, one of them thin and dressed in dark clothing, asking about Katie. It was as if a veil had suddenly been drawn across the windows, dimming the sunlight. ‘Did the man say why?’

‘He wanted to know if she’d been in touch, and where she might be. Of course, Susan didn’t know — she thought the poor girl was dead. She told them that, but they didn’t believe her.’

‘You said Susan went downhill. Was it after these men called?’

‘Definitely. I don’t mean he did anything…physical. He asked questions, then he went away again. But the shock affected Susan. It was like something had been stirred up inside her. Not hard to guess what it was.’ She shook her head with a look of distaste. ‘Then, when the police called a day or so ago to tell her… well, you know, it seemed to be the end. I think you’d best speak to her. She’ll tell you what she needs to.’

Riley followed Mrs Francis back out into the hallway and up a flight of broad stairs, past three doors to a room at the end, overlooking the front of the house. The view was of a line of low sand dunes, and beyond them the grey tint of the sea. Mrs Frances nodded wordlessly towards the door, then disappeared downstairs.

The room was large and elegantly decorated, but sparsely furnished. Susan Pyle looked tiny and lost, staring up at the ceiling from the middle of a vast double bed.

Riley stepped across the carpet. Up close, Susan looked as frail as spun sugar; her hands had the knobbly appearance of twigs, and the veins stood out across her knuckles and wrists like blue snakes on cold marble. Her hair was almost white, and impossibly thin and lifeless after the rich, dark colour Riley remembered from years ago.

‘Hello, Miss Gavin,’ Susan said softly. The voice was the same, only weaker, less vibrant, as if all the goodness had been sucked out by the pain of the years. The eyes were different, too, lacking light as if that, too, had been dimmed almost to extinction.

‘Susan.’ Riley reached for the woman’s hand. It was cold and stiff, the flesh unyielding, though the answering grip was surprisingly strong.

‘Mary told you,’ she said. Her eyes searched Riley’s for confirmation. ‘Mary Francis.’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’ It seemed a pointless thing to say, but Riley couldn’t immediately think of anything else. She found a chair and sat down. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Katie-’

Susan shushed her. ‘No. Don’t say it. There’s no need.’ She swallowed with difficulty and took a deep breath. ‘What’s done is done. It’s time to accept things as they are… to let go.’ She sighed and looked down at her fingers, twisting the sheet in a knot. ‘I still can’t believe she was alive, after all this time. They say mothers always know. But I didn’t.’