Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

The fabric of the hotel was old and worn, and had probably remained pretty well unchanged for decades, other than perhaps reducing room sizes by adding internal partitions, if the way in which a moulding in the ceiling suddenly disappeared into one wall was any indication. The doors were solid but old-fashioned, and had been painted over enough times for the panels to have almost merged with the frames. The Yale locks were yellowed and scratched from years of careless guests stabbing with their keys. He checked both ways again, then leaned against the door. There was a lot of give, especially at the top and bottom of the door, and the lock rattled when he pulled back, showing that wear and tear had reduced the effectiveness of the mechanism to near zero.

Palmer had passed a twin-drummed shoe-polishing machine at the top of the stairs. He walked back to it and prodded the START button. After a second or two it began to revolve, building to a clanking whine like a small but very sick jet engine. Then he returned to room eighteen where he set his weight against the lock and pushed hard.

The lock snapped out of its slot with barely a sound. Palmer quickly stepped inside and closed the door again, listening for sounds of alarm from the rooms on either side. Nothing. Maybe they were accustomed to people breaking the place up in the middle of the day.

When he turned towards the bed, he saw the man Riley had described as Eric Friedman lying across the mattress. He looked asleep, with his face on the pillow and his arms outstretched. But there was something too still about his body. Palmer knew he was dead, but he checked all the same, touching his fingers to the man’s throat. Cold skin, beginning to harden.

He pulled out his mobile and dialled Riley’s number. When she answered, he told her what he had discovered. ‘I’ll go through the room but I wouldn’t bet on finding anything.’

‘Why?’ Riley was obviously trying to sound casual for the receptionist’s benefit, but finding it hard. ‘I’ll give it another five minutes, then I’ll come back to the office. I’m sure Mr Friedman will be in touch — he’s probably just gone sight-seeing.’

It took barely a minute to find that, other than Friedman’s body on the bed, the room had been sanitised; no clothes, no paper and no luggage. Palmer had seen it all before. When professionals knew the authorities were going to come calling, they removed anything which could leave a trail.

He left Friedman where he was. It wouldn’t be pleasant for them, but the safest thing to do would be to let the hotel staff find him. That was unlikely to be before morning, which meant there would be nothing to connect Riley’s visit to the dead man in eighteen the day before. He stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him and wiping the handle. Then he turned and followed the signs for the fire escape stairs. Thirty seconds later he was back on the street waiting for Riley to emerge.

‘What happened?’ she asked, as they returned to the car. She looked pale beneath her make-up and Palmer guessed she had taken a liking to Eric Friedman and sympathised with his plight. Whether dying of cancer or not, it was a miserable end for a man who had already suffered so much.

‘At a guess,’ he replied grimly, ‘I’d say he was smothered. It didn’t look as if he put up much of a fight, either. There was no disturbance in the room.’

‘He was ill — he wouldn’t have been able to, poor man.’ She turned to him in shock as an awful thought occurred to her. ‘They must have followed me here.’

But Palmer shook his head with absolute certainty. ‘Don’t even consider it. You don’t know that. They could have been watching him for days. He was on borrowed time, even without the illness.’

‘But why kill him now?’

‘There’s only one reason; they’re cleaning up behind them.’

Unlike Riley and Palmer’s previous visit to the Church of Flowing Light’s headquarters, the gates to Broadcote Hall were fastened by a heavy steel chain and padlock. There were no signs of activity among the trees screening the mansion, and no sounds emanating from the direction of the house.

Riley fingered the padlock but it was too solid. That did away with the idea of using a hair pin, she thought sourly. Where was a decent hacksaw when a girl needed one?

‘I could give you a lift over the top if you like,’ Palmer offered, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette.

‘Dream on,’ said Riley, studying the railings either side of the gate. ‘Anyway, I bet I can climb better than you.’

‘I bet you can.’

Riley looked at him but Palmer was keeping a perfectly straight face. ‘This place will be clean, too, take my word.’

‘Of course, there’s no way,’ she said cuttingly, ‘that you could be wrong?’

‘Hardly, let’s be honest.’

‘But it’s still worth a look.’

‘You betcha.’ He flicked the cigarette away and went for a stroll along the verge, casually kicking at tufts of grass and studying the wall. Two minutes later he was back. ‘Cheapskates,’ he said critically. ‘The wall only runs for a hundred yards, then it’s iron fencing. My old granny could jump it.’

‘Pity she’s not here, then,’ said Riley, following him back towards the end of the wall. ‘We might need her help if de Haan and his mates turn up.’

The wall ended suddenly, as if the original owners had run out of funds to build more or had given up on the effort. A simple fence of rusting iron posts joined by simple square section iron rods now took over. Natural vegetation formed the main barrier, consisting of a thick layer of blackthorn. The ground on the other side was a tangle of dried grass and decaying deadwood.

Palmer found a stretch where the blackthorn had thinned out. Grasping the metal upright, he vaulted over. Not to be outdone, Riley followed, giving him a triumphant look before pushing past him and leading the way through the trees towards the mansion.

The thick grass formed a protective carpet underfoot, and by avoiding the branches and deadwood littering the ground, they were able to reach the trees bordering the parking area in front of the house with minimal sound. At the first flash of reflected light from the windows, Palmer tapped Riley on the arm and motioned her to stop.

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘Study the lay of the land. I was in the Girl Guides, you know.’

‘Jeepers.’ Palmer made a yuk-yuk sound and slid away, hunkering down behind a large cypress to watch the house, while Riley hid behind a laurel and peered between the branches. There were no lights in evidence from the building, and no cars in the parking area. The main doors were closed, too, something she had not seen on her two previous visits. Was that a good sign or a trap waiting to be sprung on the unwary?

‘It’s too quiet,’ Palmer said softly. ‘Not even the birds are singing.’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Riley. ‘They’re an endangered species. Anyway, we’ve come clumping along disturbing everything — what do you expect?’

Palmer nodded but said nothing, leaving Riley to reflect that he was right; it was too quiet.

‘Thanks, by the way,’ Riley commented after a few minutes.

‘What for?’

‘For sorting out the flat. I appreciate it.’ She’d heard him on the phone in his office, arranging for the work to be completed within a week. She hadn’t had a chance to thank him until now.

‘No bother. I’d feel the same if it was me. Come on.’ He stood up and walked across the car park and tried the front doors. Locked tight and too solid to force. He turned right, eyeing the ground and first floor windows in turn.

Riley decided to go left, looking for a second door or a set of French windows. If Broadcote Hall was like most large houses, there had to be one somewhere. Finding a door left open was a slim chance, but depending on whether de Haan and his men had planned on ever coming back, they may have been a touch casual in their departure.