Adrian Magson: No Help For The Dying

‘What’s this about, Henry?’ she’d asked him. She probably sounded equally terse to him, but it was difficult not matching his urgent manner. ‘You mentioned Katie Pyle.’

‘I’m near Heathrow,’ he said, as if that would explain things. ‘At the Scandair.’

She knew the hotel vaguely; it was a refurbished concrete-and-tinted-glass block catering to mid-range travellers and sitting a stone’s throw from the airport’s chain-link perimeter fence.

‘I’m flying out tomorrow — sorry, this morning,’ he continued. ‘Rush job, covering for somebody. You know the way it is. Can you come here? I’d meet you halfway but I can’t get to my car easily at the moment.’

‘Why not tell me over the phone?’

He hesitated. ‘It’s difficult. A man’s been looking for you.’

‘A man? What man?’

‘He wouldn’t give details. I heard about him through a colleague. He’s been asking questions about where you might be… how he could reach you.’

‘What does he want?’

‘I’d best leave that to him. He wants to talk to you. About Katie.’

‘He said that?’ This was becoming bizarre. What kind of peculiar twist of the gods could simultaneously bring back a name from the past, now turned into a dead body, an old news-hound from outside the circle, and a stranger with information? ‘Henry?’ Riley wanted to shout at him to open up and stop messing about. But she told herself to be patient. There was no telling how fragile Henry might be, and the longer she kept him talking, the more likely he was to tell her what was going on. Spook him, on the other hand, and she might never find out. The pause stretched for a few more seconds. ‘What did he say about her?’

‘Riley… it would be better if I saw you. I’m in room 210. This chap — the caller — has your name. But that’s all. I said I’d try to get in touch with you, that you’d moved on and so forth, and he said he’d call again.’

‘And did he?’

But Henry had gone, leaving a heavy silence. Riley hung up and stared at the phone, trying to make sense of his words. Whatever was bugging him involved this mystery man who was trying to contact her. But why not just tell her who he was, instead of acting as if the whole thing was a state secret? She couldn’t recall him ever being so evasive.

She’d gathered her things and slipped into Kickers, jeans and a warm jacket, then headed for her car and west London. The journey had taken an hour because of a spillage of timber on the westbound carriageway, leaving her raging in silence until the traffic cops and highway crews in their wet slickers managed to clear a path through the debris.

Riley got out of the car and approached the hotel entrance. A flatbed trolley loaded with luggage stood near the doors. One of the bags, a large, blue, canvas-sided piece with gold locks and a reinforcing strap hugging its middle, had fallen off the trolley and lay in a puddle like a beached whale.

A clutch of figures stood behind the misted glass under the ceiling lights, deep in conversation. Two of them wore police uniforms. Riley scanned the car park and saw the nose of a squad car partly shielded by a delivery van, steam drifting off the bonnet.

The double doors opened with a hiss, discharging a current of over-warm, recycled air. On the wall behind the desk a clock reminded everyone that it was nearly seven a.m.

Riley was accustomed to coming under the scrutiny of cops; approach a crime scene often enough and it became something you could almost ignore. A mixture of suspicion, interest and wariness.

‘Can we help you?’ One of the uniforms stepped away from the group and into her path. He was built like a prop forward and the brim of his cap was spotted with rain. He had the assurance of someone who was beyond directing traffic or filling in forms. Or maybe it was the black leather holster on his hip, which, Riley reflected, unless things had moved on dramatically in the past few hours, was not standard issue for all traffic patrols.

‘I need a room,’ she responded instinctively. It probably sounded lame, but on the other hand, asking to see a male guest at this time of day sounded even more unlikely. ‘What’s going on?’

For a second the cop said nothing. He looked down at Riley’s hands. ‘Travelling light?’

Riley bit back a reply and wondered if it was the gun which made him so pushy. ‘I’m on my way into London,’ she explained. ‘I thought I’d check availability first. If it’s not against the law?’

His eyes narrowed at the tone in her voice, but instinct told her sarcasm would be a natural response for someone tired and fractious and facing a nosy cop at this time of the morning when all she wanted was a room.

It worked, but only just. He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but we’ve had an incident here. You might like to find somewhere else.’ The way he said it meant: Leave now, we’re busy . Over his shoulder she saw the other cop watching, while a man and a woman who looked like hotel employees looked as if they wanted to be somewhere else.

‘Like where? And what sort of incident?’

The cop’s response was a flat stare, so she turned and walked back to the car, wondering what was going on. Maybe one of the guests had run amok with a meat cleaver. Or maybe there had been a terrorist scare. Whatever it was, it seemed to have everyone on edge. What struck Riley as odd was that armed police didn’t normally attend incidents unless there was a report of firearms or other deadly weapons. In which case, where was their back-up and incident unit?

She was about to climb in the car to call Henry when a youth appeared round the corner of the hotel. He was tall and skinny and dressed in a white shirt and porter’s waistcoat, hunched against the cold and jingling a large bunch of keys. A plastic badge gave his name as Andy. Riley stepped in front of him. ‘Do you know what’s going on? Why are the police here?’

He glanced towards the entrance, then back at Riley, his eyes doing the up-and-down trip but without conviction, as if his mind was hovering elsewhere.

‘Beats me,’ he offered. ‘I only got here fifteen minutes ago. The place was all lit up. Someone said there’d been a fight. The night manager said to go round and check all the exterior doors, and not to talk to anyone.’ He gave a half grin at his small show of defiance. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Wait.’ Riley needed to know what was happening inside the hotel, and at the very least get inside to see Henry. But she could hardly go back to reception while the police were there. Instinct told her this youth might be the only answer. ‘Pretty unusual, though, isn’t it — armed police at a fight?’ She was hoping he’d respond with a bit of speculation, leavened by some gossip or a piece of solid detail.

‘I suppose.’ He shrugged super cool, like it was old news and all too boring. ‘They’re most likely one of the armed response teams from the airport. They’d be the nearest. The night manager would have dialled 999. It’s what we have to do, when there’s trouble. There are more upstairs, only not in uniform. Maybe somebody died.’

Riley was surprised. This was all moving too fast. First the call from Donald, then the hesitant run-around from Henry and his directions to this hotel. Now this — and with plain-clothed officers to boot.

She dug out her mobile, along with a £10 note, which was the smallest she had. ‘Hang on,’ she said to Andy. ‘Please.’ He said something but didn’t move, anchored by the sight of the money. Riley hit re-dial, and Henry’s mobile number came up. After five rings it was picked up.

‘Who’s this?’ The voice was a man’s, solid and official sounding. In the background came a buzz of other voices and the hollow slam of a door, before somebody made a shushing sound. All she could hear then was the hiss of somebody breathing into the phone. She cut the call. Henry’s phone but definitely not Henry’s voice. Weird.