Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

A man was sitting at the desk peering at a computer screen. Riley put his age at about forty, with a good head of dark hair and a face that would have been interesting if it hadn’t been screwed up in concentration. He wore a battered jacket of indeterminate colour and a button-down green shirt. Comfort winning out over style. He didn’t look up.

“I’m looking for Frank Palmer,” said Riley.

He raised a finger for a second, then stabbed it down on the keyboard with conviction. Whatever it did seemed to please him and his face lost the screwed-up look.

“Technology,” he announced, “can be a real bitch.” He had a pleasantly deep voice, with the huskiness of a smoker. “But I live in hopes of mastering it.” He smiled vaguely as if the likelihood was imminent but unimportant, and stood up. “I’m Frank Palmer. Who is the client — you or a third party?”

Riley suppressed a tug of irritation. He wasn’t exactly the jump-up-and-hit-'em type she had imagined. And his office was the pits. But she had enough faith in Donald Brask’s advice to know she needed this man — or one like him.

“I need someone to accompany me for a few days while I do some research,” she explained.

“Okay. My rate’s a hundred and fifty a day plus expenses.” He smiled. “I love saying that.”

“Make it a hundred including and I’ll think about it.”

“‘Bye,” he said, turning back to his computer. “Close the door on the way out.”

Riley felt the slow burn of anger. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. She was supposed to tell this Palmer what he was to do, he would then agree the terms and off they would go. Nobody had mentioned morons who could afford to turn away paying customers. Hell, it didn’t take much to see that Frank Palmer had a cash-flow problem.

She decided to give it another try. Better that than face Donald Brask’s inevitable sarcasm. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

He nodded towards the other chair. “Help yourself.”

Riley flicked at the patina of dust and sat down, while Palmer lit a cigarette.

“I need someone,” she started again, “to accompany me on some field research. I was given your name.”

“So you said.”

“My name’s Riley Gavin,” she continued, letting a little grit creep into her voice. “Donald Brask recommended you.”

“Good man, Donald.” He stubbed out his cigarette with a wince of distaste. “I’m trying to give up. It’s not easy. Which daily are you with?”

“I’m freelance. I work for whoever I can.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “How long have you been doing this kind of work?”

“Does that matter?”

“It might. I don’t want to end up holding the hand of an amateur and getting dragged into something messy.”

Riley counted to five. “What makes you think it could be messy?”

“Because it often is. Call it instinct, but hot news is never dull.”

“Maybe. But you won’t be holding anyone’s hand. I’ve been doing this for four years and if you don’t want the job-” She began to rise.

“I didn’t say that,” he said calmly. “I just need to know who I’m — might be working with, that’s all.” He smiled faintly and looked across his computer towards one of the grimy windows as if hoping for divine guidance.

“How about you?” She decided to go on the offensive. “How long have you been doing this… work?”

“Same as you,” he said readily. “Four years. Well, four years solo, anyway.”

“Police?” Donald hadn’t given out any information about Palmer’s background, which could be a good or a bad sign.

“Army — Special Investigations Branch. Redcaps to our clients.”

A military cop. Useful.

She told him as much as she knew, beginning with the murders of the two former gangsters and ending with the suspicions that a third person had been involved with them. It was the third person she needed to find.

“Who are the two stiffs?”

“John McKee and Bertrand Cage.”

Palmer leaned forward until the front legs of his chair settled with a faint thud on the floor. His face was still. In the silence a fly buzzed about his head before settling on the desk and cleaning its feet.

“I think someone’s having you on, Miss Gavin,” he said softly. “There’s nothing ‘former’ about McKee and Cage. They may be getting a bit long in the tooth, but they never left the business. Even I’ve heard of them. They and their type are not nice people.”

Riley stared him in the eye. “That’s where you come in, Frank. I do the digging — you watch my back.”

He returned her stare for a few moments, eyes blank. Outside, a van door slammed and a man laughed. It seemed to galvanise Palmer into a reaction. He shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

Riley stared at him. “Why not?”

“I’m busy. Permanently.”

It took Riley an hour on the phone to discover that London was suffering a shortage of willing, experienced men. She was down to three names and fast losing heart: two like Frank Palmer — one-man shows — the third an agency. So far, none had shown any great enthusiasm for the job. Only the agency had admitted any knowledge of the two dead men, and the man she had spoken to had hinted a warning about going ahead with the piece. He promised to get back to her after conferring with his colleagues.

She kicked off her shoes and jacket and padded around her Fulham flat seeking inspiration from the notes she had been given by Brask. The file on McKee and Cage was still depressingly thin and she felt an unusual lack of control; normally she had no problem in planning her strategy. Damn Brask and his warning!

There was a scratching sound at the door and Riley stopped prowling and let in the neighbour’s cat. The animal had decided she was worthy of his company a few days after she had moved in and took to calling whenever he was bored or hungry. Buying a tin of cat food hadn’t been her best ever idea, but it was cheaper than sharing her infrequent television dinners. Anyway, she had always been a sucker for strays.

She spooned out meat into a saucer and, as he ate, powered up her laptop and opened a new document. She typed everything she knew into the file, mind-mapping and adding a few random thoughts for expansion later, before running dry and closing down the machine in frustration. There were times when pushing too hard resulted in brain-fatigue and a blank screen.

“What am I going to do, cat?” she asked. The cat finished eating and climbed on Riley’s notes to clean himself. She hadn’t the heart to dump him off, so turned out the lights and got an early night.

Next morning she called Brask. He didn’t seem surprised at her difficulty in finding help, nor at Palmer’s lack of enthusiasm. “He’s still the best you’ll find,” he insisted. “Try him again, sweetie. I think he’ll change his mind if you talk nicely to him.”

Riley hung up and rang an agency she’d heard of in Luton. They were polite until she mentioned McKee and Cage, then found they had suddenly been awarded a big contract and couldn’t spare anyone. And they wouldn’t recommend anyone either. Better to forget the whole idea, their tone implied.

She rang two more. The wife of one said he was away on a long contract, while the other man’s answer machine seemed to mock her with its request to call back later. The industry workload suddenly appeared to have been given a boost, Riley reflected. Bully for the industry.

She got dressed and went to the local library where she began the task of dredging for gold dust. Her father, a beat copper, always said eighty per cent of activity was in research. It was a simple credo but one she found correct. It was a matter of knowing where to look. She concentrated on biographies of criminals from the fifties, trawling the indexes for familiar names that might give her a jumping-off point.