Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Fifty yards along the path stood a battered golf caddy and leather bag. The youth had said she pulled it everywhere, her complete world in place of golf clubs. Across from it was a heavily bundled figure eating from a polystyrene tray, feet splayed out across the path. Nearby sat three other bulky figures, passing round a bottle. The youth had warned him Maureen wouldn’t talk while others were close, that he had to get her alone otherwise he’d be wasting his time.

A train rattled by. This was going to be hard enough, without the added barrier of having to shout to make himself heard. With the other three in close attendance, if what the youth had said was true, it would be impossible.

He stepped on past the path and walked away. Now he knew where Maureen hung out, he could try again later. Barging in right now, with the others close by, would only scare her off. And there was the added risk that setting up shockwaves in the area might cause Angelina to disappear further underground. In the meantime he’d got something else he needed to do.

It was close to lunchtime and Palmer was approaching his office when his phone rang. It was Riley, on her way back from Suffolk. He could hear the hubbub of voices and traffic in the background, and guessed she was calling from a filling station.

‘Any news of Angelina?’ Riley asked.

‘Getting closer,’ he replied. ‘But nothing solid yet. She’s moving around, probably with someone. But I did latch on to our two friends. They’re good; they know some neat ways of throwing anyone off their trail. Anyone would think they had something to hide.’

‘How did you find them?’

‘I got lucky; I picked them up near your place, then followed them down to the embankment and around the west end. Whatever they were doing, they were slick; the driver would slow to a crawl, the passenger would jump out and disappear, then be back by the time the van had gone fifty yards. I think they were checking contacts. Then they headed out to the M40.’ Palmer explained that he had followed them out through west London onto the motorway, hanging back until the traffic had become too light to avoid being seen. He was fairly sure they hadn’t spotted him, although they had taken a couple of unlikely detours which he was sure were meant to isolate anyone on their tail. At that point he’d backed off. The M40 led out towards Oxford and the west. A big space in which to get lost. ‘How about you?’

Riley filled him in on her talk with Katie’s mother and the girl’s pregnancy. ‘At least I got a name — a boyfriend who may or may not have been the one to get her pregnant. His name was Nicholas Friedman. He was about seventeen. Katie mentioned him in such a way, her mother said it plain she was in love. I’ll call Nikki Bruce in case she can turn up something from the archives. Failing that, there’s always Katie’s school. It might be a dead-end, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.’

Palmer agreed. ‘Did you say he was seventeen?’

‘He died. I’m not sure how.’

‘Oh. Anything else?’

‘Susan Pyle had a visit from two men a few weeks ago. They sound like our two.’

‘What did they want?’

‘Information about Katie. It sounds as if they knew she was still alive. They didn’t pull their punches, either.’ Riley told Palmer about the threats. ‘I’ve no idea what they meant by a scandal.’

‘They were trying to scare her. She ok?’

‘No. Not really. She’s very sick and unlikely to get better. If it was our two, it sounds as if they must have known where Katie was for at least some of the time.’ And probably, thought Riley, what had happened in her last few minutes down by the Thames.

‘Assuming,’ said Palmer, ‘they were the same two men in the white van. But we still don’t know who the other man is — the one who spoke to Henry.’

‘True enough.’ There was a pause, then Riley asked: ‘Are you still ok with this?’ She meant was he still on board. Even over the phone Palmer was sharp enough to know what she was getting at.

‘You kidding? You think I’m going to bail out just when the fun starts?’

‘Just checking. You don’t have to, you know.’

‘Forget it. Anyway, you know what an adrenaline junkie I am. Whereabouts are you?’

‘Not far. Just approaching the M25. I’m thinking of having another chat with de Haan. See if I can push him into letting me see Henry this time.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Worth a try, though. You want company?’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. Where shall we meet?’

Palmer pushed open the downstairs door to his office and climbed the stairs. After the morning he’d had, he needed a warm-up and a smoke before she arrived and began voicing her disapproval. ‘I’m at the office. Coffee’s on me.’

The iron gates to the headquarters of the Church of Flowing Light were wide open when Riley and Palmer arrived, and the lodge still looked deserted. Palmer lounged in the passenger seat, checking the surrounding scenery.

‘Open all hours,’ he commented. ‘Unusual, I’d have thought.’

Riley nodded. ‘Maybe they’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Nothing they don’t mind anyone seeing, anyway.’

He had said little since leaving the office at Uxbridge, and Riley guessed he was impatient to find out more about the identity of the two men who were following her. While they were on a long quiet stretch along the M40, he had made a couple of phone calls, one of them to an unnamed contact Riley guessed was in the Met, asking for details on Nicholas Friedman. The person on the other end had said something which left Palmer with a silly grin on his face.

‘So,’ said Riley with studied lightness, after he’d switched off the phone. ‘Your snitch in the records office is a girl.’ She hadn’t seen Palmer act this way before, and it made her want to laugh. She really didn’t know much about his private life, but at least there were signs every now and then that he had one, Nikki Bruce being an exception.

But Palmer wasn’t playing. ‘She’s just a friend.’ He stuffed his phone in his pocket and concentrated on the passing traffic, but Riley could see by the set of his jaw that he was still smiling.

‘Of course. And the relationship is strictly professional. Hah. Tell that to your mother. Incidentally, when you promise to call a girl, you should stick to it. Remember Nikki Bruce?’ She recounted with relish what the reporter had told her, and Palmer seemed to sink in his seat.

‘I wondered when that was going to come up. She’s not my sort, that’s all. She wanted bright lights and lots of attention. Not really my scene. Have you heard from John Mitcheson lately?’

The question was a curved ball to stop Riley asking more questions. When she didn’t reply, Palmer grinned knowingly and settled back with his eyes closed, the conversation over.

Unlike Riley’s first visit, there were no signs of life beyond the chorus of birdsong in the trees surrounding the main house. And when she parked, there was no spooky appearance by Quine from the trees, demanding her car keys. There were no rows of other vehicles in evidence, either. Evidently things were a little slack on the meetings front.

Riley had no specific plan in mind, and after chewing over the options with Palmer on the drive down, had decided to play it by ear. They still only had de Haan’s earlier admission that Henry was with them, but no real proof. All they could hope for was that he might let something slip about Henry’s whereabouts.

The front door was ajar. She pushed it back and stepped inside. The reception area was deserted, although voices drifted in from the direction of the meeting room. Riley walked across to the connecting door de Haan had led her through the other morning. It opened easily and she stepped through, with Palmer close behind.