Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

‘What sort of database?’

‘About the runaways and their parents; names, addresses, employers — anything the Church asked for. I asked him why he did this and he said it cut some corners to help bring families together. The more information they had, he said, the easier it was to make a judgement on how to deal with each case. He explained that he had access to extensive data through his press job, and the Church paid for him to access other databases where needed. Some of the information was highly confidential, but in a way it all sounded logical and practical, if a little unethical.’ He pulled a face. ‘The fact is, when your child goes missing, ethics go out of the window.’

Riley was stunned. ‘So Henry could build a dossier on every family from scratch.’ It explained how he’d known about her connection with Katie Pyle; he must have stumbled on her name while trawling through some press archives. No doubt finding where Susan Pyle had moved to would have been no problem. It also explained why Henry had such a large collection of business directories in his study. All tools of his adopted trade.

‘That’s right. He knew things about me I’d almost forgotten; my schools, job details, colleagues, career path — even my wife’s family. The detail was frightening. I didn’t know our lives were so open.’

‘How did he explain that?’

‘As far as he knew they were exactly what they seemed to be: a charitable organisation helping the disadvantaged. He wasn’t really on the inside, and knew nothing about the Church’s previous history in the States. All he was doing was providing a resource for them to use in their work. For a while, that was enough.’

‘And you believed that?’

‘Sure. Why not? I think Henry had suffered tragedy in his own life, and belonging to the Church made him feel wanted, which is their speciality. Then, not long ago, he stumbled on something which revealed what they were doing with runaway kids.’

‘Did he say what?’

‘It was a bank transaction slip. He recognised the name and realised that all the time they’d been telling the parents they were still searching for the runaway, they’d got the child hidden away in a room at Broadcote. He thought he’d confused the dates, but his suspicions grew when he overheard Quine and Meaker talking about getting rid of somebody.’

‘The runaway?’

‘No. Me. By then I’d long been a thorn in their sides, constantly asking questions.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘I suppose I was pretty relentless over the years. I was lucky they decided to leave me alone for most of that time. Careful, too. Anyway, Henry started digging back in the files. When he began comparing dates with the time Nicholas left home, it all became clear. He found the entire edifice, far from being charitable, was actually based on something deeply sinister. I think the whole idea destroyed him. It was one shock too many. I haven’t been able to contact him since. I think Quine and Meaker may have taken him.’

Riley thought about the Henry she had known. In spite of his news background, in a vulnerable state, he would have been easy meat for someone to take advantage of. ‘Why did he give you my name?’

‘He said you’d been involved on the Katie Pyle story — and he’d always admired you, I think.’ Friedman smiled faintly. ‘He described you as tenacious and said he’d been following your career over the years. It seemed a natural idea to get you involved.’

‘But why has it taken so long for you to find me?’

‘Over the years, after I found out what was happening, I became ill. These things creep up on you; the twin evils of obsession and ill health, I suppose. My wife couldn’t cope — she claimed afterwards that she’d first lost Nicholas, then me. The marriage failed and I became very sick. I was out of action for a long time, some of which was in a private nursing home. It was very expensive.’ He smiled dryly, as if relishing a private joke. ‘Although ironically it may have saved me from the careful ministrations of Quine and Meaker; unwittingly, I’d put myself beyond their reach.’

‘But Henry knew where you were.’

‘Yes. He kept track on the quiet, and caught up with me during one of my spells outside. I had to go back in very recently, for checks.’

‘Checks?’ Riley held her breath; she didn’t like the sound of what was coming.

‘I have cancer.’

‘Oh.’ The word sat between them like a loathsome lead weight, a sentence of death with no repeal. The irony of his sharing the same fate as Susan Pyle was almost too cruel. There was nothing else Riley could say.

‘Now I just want to finish things. Before it’s too late.’

‘What happened to Katie?’ The question was out before she could stop it, the subconscious mind’s way of filling the gap. If Katie had been the Siren to draw in Nicholas, what had happened to her afterwards?

Friedman took a while to answer. ‘I don’t know. Nicholas never mentioned her again. She disappeared. My guess is, after the abortion, she couldn’t face going back and started a new life.’

Riley’s mobile rang. She excused herself and looked at the screen. It was Palmer.

He didn’t waste time on small talk. ‘I need your help right away. Can you come to Waterloo station?’

‘Sorry,’ Riley said to Friedman. She felt guilty at having to leave him, but guessed Palmer must have tracked down Angelina. ‘I have to go. I’ll call you later.’

Eric Friedman sat for a few minutes after Riley had gone, letting his thoughts settle. Talking about Nicholas always left him unnerved, even after all these years, and he had long ago ceased trying to pretend that he was in any way left normal by the experience. He wondered how other people coped.

Outside the pub the chilly air made him shiver. He hurried back to the Puttnam Hotel, glad to have found somewhere he felt safe, away from prying eyes and sidelong glances. It wasn’t much, but it was all he needed.

As he ducked through the entrance and walked upstairs, he failed to notice the thin man in the long, dark coat following in his wake.

Moments after reaching his room, there was a soft knock at the door. He guessed it was Riley Gavin. She must have forgotten something. He smiled, relieved at finally having found someone he could talk to about what had happened. Someone who understood. It had been a long time.

He threw open the door.

Riley bagged a passing taxi and told the driver where to go, then sat back and thought over what Friedman had told her. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the speed of events, and saddened by his shock news. It seemed so unfair after all he had been through.

She curled up in the corner of her seat, exhausted by the day’s events. In spite of the coffee and alcohol, but lulled by the warmth of the cab, she fell asleep.

The driver woke her outside Waterloo station. She paid him off and took a few deep breaths of cold air to shake off the cobwebs, then turned and hurried up the steps onto the station concourse. Instinct made her head for the main departure and arrival boards. Palmer hadn’t said where to meet, but she had a feeling he would find her soon enough.

She was passing the news stand in the centre of the concourse when he suddenly materialised at her side and told her to keep walking. She tried hard not to stare. With messy hair and a growth of stubble, he looked as if he’d been up all night.

‘Christ, Palmer, you look a sight.’

He hustled her to the far end of the concourse before answering, occasionally looking over his shoulder. Riley went along with him, allowing him to dictate the pace. They ducked through a narrow entrance and he stopped and turned to her. ‘I’ve got a line on Angelina. But I need your help.’