Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

As the implications of what Riley was suggesting sank home, Nikki looked stunned. ‘Christ, am I glad to be getting out from this side of the business. Isn’t that a form of extortion?’

‘Why? They perform a service. If the grateful parents wish to make a donation to show their appreciation, where’s the harm?’

‘But these parents are all rich. It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. They know their market and target it, like any other service provider.’

‘Are you defending them?’

‘I’m simply saying how it would look to an investigation. I bet they can hold up their hands and prove beyond doubt that they’ve never asked for anything of the parents or the children.’ Riley recalled the way the Boothe-Davisons described their encounter with the Church, and the function she’d walked in on at Broadcote Hall. How many among that crowd were other parents whose wayward kids had gone walkabout and who, magically, had been contacted by the Church of Flowing Light with good news? And if they showed their gratitude then, it probably continued being carefully drawn on for a long time afterwards, like an emotional bank account. Generosity born of gratitude doesn’t always have a time limit.

Nikki looked at her notes. ‘But look at the jobs these parents have: MOD, army, navy, defence contractors, industrialists… are you saying they’re using blackmail, too?’

Riley shrugged and decided she needed another talk with Friedman. He could fill in some of the gaps — especially about the potential for extortion. Personally, after hearing about the kind of parents involved, and their closeness to authority, she had doubts. ‘I’m not sure they need to go that far. Why risk it? All they need is to target runaways from good homes. And these particular good homes are probably easy to read; high-flying parents, good jobs, newsworthy, they move around a lot and leave lots of footprints. The kids become disaffected through all the upset, being placed in boarding schools, lack of care, time, etc. Chuck in military or public school backgrounds and you get parents who are tough on their kids and have high expectations which can’t always be met. Add pressured jobs and positions open to scrutiny and the press, and the same parents have a hell of a lot to lose if their kids run off and end up begging for handouts or exchanging money for sex in some grotty underpass. If it is blackmail, it’s very subtle.’

As Riley left Nikki Bruce in the pub and hailed a taxi, Quine was watching from the passenger seat of the white van along the street. He was toying with a spray can of black paint, a tinny rattle indicating it was empty. The atmosphere inside the vehicle was pungent with the smell of cellulose, and he sniffed appreciatively.

‘We should see who she was with,’ said Meaker, and made to open the door. But Quine put out a hand and stopped him.

‘Forget it. We know who it isn’t, that’s the important thing. Let’s see where she’s going.’

The Puttnam Hotel had seen better days, and had the tired air of a stately home worn down by the passage of too many visitors. The carpets were dull and lifeless, the woodwork of the doors and stairways scarred by wear, and what had once been an elegant, if gloomy structure for well-heeled out-of-towners, was now simply a stop-off point for economy travellers seeking a cheap but convenient place to lay their rucksacks and holdalls.

Riley approached the front desk, where a young Asian girl was arranging brochures in a wooden rack, and asked for Eric Friedman’s room. The girl checked the key-board, saw number eighteen was empty, and rang the room. ‘Sorry,’ she said, flicking back her long hair and tapping glossy, dagger-like fingernails on the phone cord. ‘He must have taken his keys with him. Do you want to leave a message?’

‘Thanks,’ said Riley. ‘I’ll come back.’ She took a quick tour of the ground floor, checking there was no second entrance, then went outside and waited in a café across the street. If Friedman was still spooked from their meeting, he’d most likely head for somewhere he considered safe. She guessed that might be here.

Twenty minutes passed before she glimpsed a familiar figure ghosting along the pavement. Friedman. He was scanning the street with nervous darts of his head. She watched him disappear into the Puttnam and gave it two minutes before following him inside.

He answered the house phone with caution. His sigh of relief when he recognised her voice was audible. ‘I’ll come down,’ he said. ‘The room’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’ He hung up and Riley waited for him to appear on the stairs. When he did, he looked even more tired and drawn, his appearance not helped by the dull interior lighting.

Riley suggested a nearby pub where they could melt into the background. When they were seated with drinks, he gave her a look of apology.

‘I’m sorry about before,’ he said quietly. ‘I get a bit jumpy. Thought I saw a familiar face.’ He took a sip of beer and pulled a face. ‘You must think I’m a sad case.’

‘No,’ said Riley frankly, ‘I don’t. You’ve been through a horrible ordeal.’ She decided to steer the conversation back to Nicholas. As tragic as it was, it at least seemed to make Friedman appear more comfortable. She could always introduce the subject of who or what he was scared of later. ‘You were telling me about your son.’

He nodded and twirled the glass on the beer mat. ‘His being gay was the root of his problems at school. Nicholas had known for some time. He’d tried to fight it, but the older he became the more certain he was.’ Friedman looked up at her. ‘We couldn’t believe it, either. But in the end it seemed simpler to try and help him come to terms with it, rather than put up barriers. Unfortunately, some of the other boys found out. They wouldn’t let go. You know what children are like — they pick on the weakest and exploit their fears and failings. He tried to deny it, but they didn’t believe him.’

‘Is there any likelihood he tried to prove it?’

‘And Katie became pregnant by mistake? I don’t think so. Nicholas didn’t want to change. He was highly intelligent, and in spite of the… problems, he wasn’t ashamed of what he was. It was others who made living with it so difficult.’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘I was very proud of him for that. It took guts. I’m sorry, that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?’

‘Not really.’ So she was back to square one. If Eric Friedman was right, then all it did was raise the spectre of someone else in Katie’s life; another person who knew what had happened to her. But who? She took a deep breath. ‘Did the Church of Flowing Light initiate the contact?’

Friedman flinched. She’d obviously struck a nerve. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did the Church approach you or did you contact them?’

‘They rang me.’ He wasn’t looking at her now. It was as if he was retreating into himself, having used up a storehouse of energy coming this far and finally running out of steam. ‘I’d put out posters wherever I thought it would do some good; on walls, lamp-posts, trees — anywhere I thought he might see one. One day they rang with offers to help. They said they might be able to intercede on my behalf… to talk to Nicholas.’

‘So he was with them?’

‘Yes. But he wouldn’t come home. They were kind… understanding… considerate — the way you’d expect. Not at all judgmental. They spent hours talking to him, trying to get him to call us. But it was no use.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How do you know they spent hours talking to him?’

He didn’t answer right away, but stared right through her. It was almost unnerving, and Riley wondered if the question had ever occurred to him before. Eventually he nodded and gave a flinty smile. ‘You’re right. I don’t. I suppose I took it on trust. Not that I was the first.’