Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Palmer walked round to the passenger side and climbed in. He flipped open the glove box and checked beneath the floor mat, but all he found was a service manual and an old map book. He got out to check the boot, leaving Riley to scour the rest of the interior. She leaned over and slid her hands down the sides of the rear seats and under the rear carpets. These were modern additions with strips of Velcro to keep them in place, and made a loud ripping noise when she pulled them up. There were a few dried leaves and bits of gravel, but nothing else.

She went over it again from back to front, conscious that the security guard was watching impatiently. She concluded with the sun visors. Uncle Ray always used the visors to hold his revolving parking disk, she recalled, back when they used such things.

The floppy disk was held on the back of the visor by a rubber band. She slipped it out and checked the label. There was no title, but she had a feeling that didn’t matter. She climbed out, locking the doors.

‘Time to go, Palmer,’ she said quietly, giving him a quick smile of triumph. ‘And you the big search expert, too.’

‘You got lucky, that’s all,’ Palmer said dryly. He led the way out of the compound and back to the Golf, handing the security guard a note on the way.

Back in his office, Palmer switched on his PC and indicated the tower underneath. ‘While you’re checking the disk, I’ll get onto Dave about your flat.’

Riley looked at him, her mind half on the disk and what secrets it might hold. ‘Dave? You mean your friend the builder. He must be a good one, to ask him that.’

Palmer nodded. ‘Don’t worry — he’s seen worse.’

Riley slid into his chair and inserted the disk. Her heart was thumping and she wondered if she wasn’t getting her hopes up prematurely. For all she knew this could be nothing than a bunch of recipes for Indian cuisine. Not that she thought Henry was into cuisine in a big way.

The machine whirred and clicked, and suddenly Riley was staring at a database of names, addresses and figures. At first glance it appeared to be a basic system, devoid of any fancy drop-down menus or graphics other than a series of generic headings. But on closer examination she noticed a number of highlighted boxes which she guessed were probably hypertext links to other parts of the original database. When she clicked on them, which should have instantly taken her elsewhere in the data, nothing happened. She tried a few more, but with the same results. It was as if part of the puzzle was missing. Or had been left out.

She scrolled down and recognised one of the names: James Van de Meuve. It was one of the victims Nikki had mentioned. In the next box was a host of family data recording parents, ages, names, income and other personal details including the de Meuve’s positions on the board of at least three Dutch companies. The final box in the section made Riley go cold. Against James’s name was the single word: DECEASED.

‘Palmer, look at this.’ Riley hit EDIT and FIND, and entered Angelina’s name. It came up with a mass of Boothe-Davison data, complete with the Air Commodore’s service history, postings, courses and professional connections. No information about what might have happened to her, though. Next she entered Katie Pyle’s name. A split second later she was staring at Susan and John Pyle’s names, address and a mass of other family details. At the end of her file was another highlighted box, but no indication of what her fate had been. It came as no surprise that a cell had been inserted with Susan Pyle’s current address in Dunwich.

She sat back feeling numbed. The amount of stuff in this small section alone was amazing; the entire database would have been stunning. They must have literally scoured an enormous number of sources for this level of detail.

Palmer whistled. ‘How big is that file?’

Riley shrugged. ‘It’s only a 1.4 megabyte disk, so this is probably a fraction of what they have. There are cells linked to other stuff — probably databases or other files — but they don’t go anywhere. It’s as if Henry lifted sufficient to hand over without all the other material. But there’s probably enough on here to create a solid case against the Church to get an investigation started.’ She watched as the screen scrolled upwards, each batch of text and figures summarising the details of a family’s life, a twisted balance sheet in an annual report of criminal behaviour.

‘If nothing else, it proves they were gathering personal information. But that by itself might not be enough.’ He stared hard at one section of the screen. ‘Interesting. One of the parents is a senior officer in the Met.’ He took out a pen and notebook and began scribbling down phone numbers while Riley scrolled down the list. ‘I want to check something. Give me a few minutes.’

‘Fine. Where’s your email connection?’

Palmer pointed to an icon on the screen, and Riley clicked on it to begin the dial-up. Seconds later a copy of the file was on its way to Donald Brask and another copy to her own email. ‘Just in case we get separated from the disk,’ she explained neutrally. She would have to get a new laptop to access it, but the insurance company would have to take care of that.

Palmer was talking softly on the phone and making occasional notes. Twenty minutes later he dropped the phone onto its cradle. ‘That’s just six of the names of parents I’ve managed to contact. Every one of them said the Church of Flowing Light contacted them after their kids went walkabout, not the other way round. None had never even heard of the Church before.’

It confirmed what Nikki Bruce and Eric Friedman had said. ‘Which means the Church not only trawled for business…’

Palmer nodded and finished the sentence. ‘…they could have engineered it — or had a strong hand in drawing the runners in, anyway. Then they set about draining them of information or gossip — or both. Heads we win, tails you lose. Neat.’

‘What about the policeman?’

‘He wouldn’t talk. Just said his daughter was home and they wanted to forget it. I mentioned DS McKinley and he told me to forget it or he’d slap a harassment charge against me. End of conversation.’

‘So now we know where McKinley’s instructions to drop it came from.’

Palmer nodded. ‘Must be. Like I said, totem pole-’ There was a squeal of brakes outside and Palmer went across to the window. ‘We’ve got visitors. Leave that — it’s time to go.’

Riley joined him. The white van was parked at an angle to the kerb and the black-coated figures of Quine and Meaker were already crossing the pavement. Two other men were climbing from a large BMW and following them. It was the men from the arches.

Palmer snatched the disk from the tower beneath the desk and stepped over to the office door, pushing Riley ahead of him. ‘Turn right and go through the cupboard door,’ he urged quietly. ‘Don’t look back.’

Riley ducked through the door and found the cupboard was actually a narrow flight of bare wooden steps leading up to the roof. There was just enough room for one person, and she began to climb as Palmer closed the door behind him, shutting out the light.

Riley felt around at the top and found a trapdoor. She turned a handle and stumbled out onto a roof space overlooking the back of the building and a series of other rooftops stretching away into the distance. A large, peeling flagpole stood squarely in the centre of the roof space, which explained the original purpose of the steps. Now it was unused, a short strand of rotting hemp flapping uselessly from the pulley at the top.

The roof surface was laid with a thin screed of loose gravel on a waterproof membrane and cluttered with a series of vents pointing at the sky. Somebody had attempted to start a small garden on a trestle table. Most of the pots were dried to a crust, the remnants of plants withered and black.