Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Riley noticed Palmer said nothing about Quine or the Church of Flowing Light, and wondered why. She decided to go along with him and leave out the presence of de Haan’s sinister colleagues.

Mrs Boothe-Davison intercepted them as they were leaving and took Riley’s arm. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked deathly pale, but managed a tight smile. Riley guessed she was tougher than she looked and would be the mainstay in getting Angelina through the next few days and weeks. ‘Thank you so much,’ the older lady said softly. She gestured towards the bedroom where a man’s voice could be heard speaking in a low murmur. ‘The doctor says she’s fine. A bit bruised here and there, and dirty, of course, but… I’m so grateful to you both.’

‘Hey, don’t mention it,’ said Riley airily, suddenly keen to escape. They needed time alone, the three of them. Mending fences. ‘It was Palmer who got all hairy-chested, not me.’ She took the older woman’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘Give her time.’

They left the family to begin the course of recovery and stood for a moment on the pavement, allowing the night air to flow around them. Palmer lit a cigarette, inhaled, then sent it spinning away into the gutter with a sigh. ‘I smoke too much. It’s the stress of being around you that does it.’

‘Did you mean what you said back there?’ asked Riley. ‘We can’t just let it go; there could be other kids like Angelina.’

‘I’m not going to. I’ll feed him the address in a day or two when he’s feeling calmer…and when they’re not expecting it. Any sooner and he’d send in the troops all guns blazing and get nothing.’ He turned to Riley. ‘Anyway, you’re writing the story, aren’t you? That’ll set the hounds running. I just don’t want them tramping all over us in the meantime. We need to finish this.’

Riley took his arm and they began to walk towards Portland Place, where they could pick up a cab. ‘We need to find Henry. He’ll fill in the blanks.’

‘If he’s still alive.’ Then Palmer stopped dead, snapping his fingers. ‘Christ, I must be getting slow. Henry’s car — didn’t you say it was missing from his garage?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So how did he get to the Scandair, if not by car?’

Riley saw where he was going and shook her head at her lack of foresight. Find Henry’s car and it might give up a clue they could use. ‘It must still be at the hotel. But wouldn’t the police have thought of that? The first thing they’d do would be to check the register. Unless… ‘ She paused, thinking back to something Henry had said on the phone.

‘What?’

‘I’ve just remembered. When I spoke to Henry the other morning, he sounded rattled. He’d switched off his mobile at one point, and when I finally got him back, he wanted me to meet him at the Scandair rather than talk over the phone. He said something about meeting me, but that he couldn’t get to his car… get to it easily, or something like that. I forget the exact words.’

‘He must have been on foot.’ Palmer stared at the pavement. ‘If he didn’t have it at the hotel, he’d parked it somewhere else. What did you say it was?’

‘An old Rover. Running boards, crank handle, the lot.’

‘There’s your answer. A classic — and easily identifiable. Anyone looking for him would only have to find the car to know he wasn’t far away.’

‘But the Church must have tracked him down by some other means.’

‘Unless they were already watching him. If they found out he’d been talking to Eric Friedman, it would be more than enough reason to want to shut him down. It explains why they got heavy-handed at the hotel.’

‘But would Henry have been thinking clearly enough to hide it? He’s hardly the ready-made secret agent type. The more I think about it, the more I get the impression he was simply running. All he wanted from me was… well, I can only guess.’ She thought about what Friedman had told her. If Henry really had been suffering acute pangs of conscience at what he’d discovered, he would have wanted to unload the information he had on to someone he knew could do something with it. And that would be reason enough for Quine to be after him. Given what Henry had been doing, according to Friedman, he probably had enough information in his possession to light up Broadcote Hall with blue lights for weeks.

‘Thinking straight or not, he’d still have enough sense to keep the car handy. He’d have needed it for the following morning, to get to the airport. You said he was flying out somewhere.’

‘But he was already at the airport. And the Scandair is served by a shuttle bus like all the others.’

Palmer pulled a face. ‘You’re right. But the parking around Heathrow is vast. There’s the official long-term and short-term car parks, the off-site private parking companies — they’re spread out all over the place — and God knows how many smaller firms. It could take weeks.’

Riley gripped Palmer’s arm. ‘What about the hotels? Some of them have parking arrangements. At least, the ones I’ve used do. The fees are a bit steep, but at least the car doesn’t get dumped miles from anywhere in a gravel pit and forgotten for two weeks.’

‘That narrows it down. But which one? There are dozens.’

Riley smiled triumphantly, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘I don’t know. But I know a man who might. And there’s something else I want to ask him, too. Remember the white van I saw the night Henry disappeared? I bet he saw it, too.’

‘Good thinking, Batwoman. Let’s hope his memory’s still good.’

She dug out her mobile and dialled the Scandair. After a brief chat, she switched off and nodded to Palmer. ‘He’s in tomorrow morning.’ She yawned. ‘I could do with a bath and bed. Where’s the nearest hotel?’

‘Forget it. You can doss down at my place as long as you don’t mind the settee.’

‘No, I couldn’t. Anyway, I need to pick up the car then arrange for the flat to be cleaned and redecorated.’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t face it. I’ll be fine eventually, but I can’t go back there until it’s spotless again.’

Palmer nodded. ‘I know someone who’ll do that for you. I’ll call him tomorrow. In the meantime, we can pick up the car on the way to my place. I’ll even throw in coffee and toast for breakfast at no extra charge.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. But if you snore, I’ll kick you out.’

Riley looked at him and blinked, then slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Palmer, stop it,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Christ, you’ll have me sobbing any minute.’ She took a deep breath and added, ‘Ok, deal. Have you got a shower? I prefer showers to baths. And how about some shampoo for colour-treated hair… and conditioner? I do like my conditioner.’

Palmer sighed theatrically. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have bothered.’

On the way back from the Boothe-Davisons, Palmer got the taxi to stop close to Riley’s flat. He walked by and checked the area carefully before allowing her inside to speak to Mr Grobowski about the cat. While she was doing that, Palmer drifted upstairs for a brief look. He came back grim-faced, then went outside to make a quick check of her Golf.

Riley found him standing by the car, staring into the night. His stance radiated suppressed anger.

‘You all right, Palmer?’ she asked. She was surprised, and wondered how many facets there were to this man’s character. He appeared to take so many things in his stride, yet here was one instance when he had not.

He nodded and opened the door before she could produce the key, proving he hadn’t lost all of his humour. ‘The cat all right?’

‘The cat’s getting fat and learning Polish,’ she said. ‘And Mr Grobowski wants to call him Lipinski, after a violinist.’