Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘They?’

‘Well, your employers. It’s all so cut-throat, these days.’ She sighed regretfully. ‘Still, Helen seems to manage. Although…’ She paused and gave him an uncertain look.

‘Although?’ Palmer waited.

‘Well, when she was here before, about a month ago, she was really excited. She’d picked up an assignment to do a story — an exclusive, she said. Nobody else had got a sniff of it. I asked her what it was about, but she wouldn’t say. It was all hush-hush, apparently, and she wasn’t allowed to divulge anything. I thought it was silly — I mean, it’s not as if I’d know anything about it, living down here. I don’t exactly trot off down the pub every evening and gossip, do I?’

Palmer forced himself to be patient. Was this something important she was about to reveal, or had it been one of Helen’s other normal jobs she was excited about? ‘But that sounds good, doesn’t it? Exclusives are hard to come by.’ Even as he spoke, he began to feel a trickle of unease. Knowing the nature of Riley’s work, he was aware that one of the big problems about so-called exclusives was that by their nature, they often entailed risk. Had Helen taken on too big a risk for the chance of a headline story?

‘Well, if you say so, dear. But the next time I spoke to her, she sounded a bit down. She’d been away for a brief holiday, but it didn’t seem to have done her much good. I asked what was the matter, but she just said it was pressure of work. It was so unlike her. The last time I’d seen her down like that was almost a year ago, I think it was, when she broke up with her boyfriend.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I was hoping it would go the distance, that one. But Helen… well, she’s not the sort to settle down. Not yet, anyway. A bit like her mother, I suppose: footloose and fancy free.’

Palmer shifted uneasily, disturbed by a flush of sadness. It was a mere flicker, but Mrs Demelzer caught it and eyed him in surprise, as if a switch had been thrown.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she exclaimed, then nodded without waiting for his reply. Reassured, she rattled on. ‘God, I must be having a senior moment. Frank. Of course. She lost her old briefcase…it got damaged. That’s right — and the new one you bought her had a shoulder strap and nice gold buckles. It was very smart.’ She squeezed her shoulders upwards in a gesture of enjoyment, eyes shining. ‘She was so pleased with that briefcase, you’ve no idea. She uses it all the time, cramming it with all sorts of stuff. Well, she loves being busy, doesn’t she — although I’ve no idea what she’s doing at the moment.’

Palmer waited, desperate to push the questions and get away from here. This suddenly didn’t look as if it would lead anywhere useful. Whatever Helen did when she was down here was unconnected with her work. And if she had sent money to her friend, so what?

Then the old lady gave him a lead in. ‘Still, I suppose you’d know more about that than me, wouldn’t you?’

Palmer thought his hold on the cup would snap the handle. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked casually.

‘You mean you haven’t seen your post?’

Palmer shook his head. ‘I’ve been abroad.’

‘Oh. Well, that explains it. She rang me a few days ago. Said I’d be getting some money, and not to bank it but spend it on something nice. It was so kind of her.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t want to take it, to be honest, but Helen can be very obstinate when she wants to — just like her mother used to be. I’ll probably use it to decorate her room, which will be honours even, don’t you think?’

Palmer nodded. ‘You weren’t a diplomat by profession, were you?’

She laughed outright. ‘Good gracious, no. I’m far too blunt. Anyway, the cheque came — from a place in London. She also asked me to bundle up any bits of paper she’d left in her room from her last visit. Doodles, they looked like to me — the sort people do when they’re on the phone a lot, like Helen always is, even when she comes down here. So I did what she asked: I went through her room and put everything in an envelope. Even the scraps in her wastebasket. Well, they were no good to the dustman and I didn’t want to throw out anything important by mistake.’

Palmer went still. ‘Did she say why she wanted them?’

‘Not really. I assumed she’d mislaid a jotting or something, and needed to find it. She was always making notes of one thing or another.’

‘What did you do with them?’

The old lady gave him a wary look, as if he was simple. ‘Well, I did what Helen asked: I put them in an envelope and sent them to you.’

‘Me?’ Palmer was stunned.

‘Yes. You should have received it by now.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Would you like more tea?’

By the time Palmer drove away from the cottage, his mind was in a spin. He felt guilty at not having told Mrs Demelzer about Helen’s death. But to have done so would have set off a train of action and reaction he would not have been able to explain. It was best to leave it to the police family liaison people. They were trained for it.

He thought about the briefcase, which the old lady said Helen had been so pleased with. Helen was the complete journalist and writer, virtually living by what she could carry: notepad, digital recorder, mobile phone — actually, ditch that, he remembered; she’d had a new Blackberry which did all of those things. She’d shown it to him one evening, when they’d been out for dinner. Later, as they were saying goodnight — Palmer had a late-night surveillance job on — Helen had placed her briefcase on the ground by his car. He’d forgotten about it and driven off, mashing one corner with a rear tyre. Fortunately, nothing else had been damaged, and buying her a replacement was the least he could do. He knew she liked black, but all he could find of a similar make was burgundy. It was lightweight leather with gold fittings, and she’d been thrilled with it. He could still recall her comment afterwards.

‘Frank,’ she’d teased him with a gentle hint of sarcasm. ‘Where on God’s earth did a man like you find a leather briefcase light enough not to pull a woman’s arm out of its socket?’ She had followed it with a comment about his idea of luggage being an army issue kitbag made of canvas with a rope handle.

‘Actually,’ he’d replied, feigning wounded pride, ‘I got it in a little place off Bond Street. I’m not a complete Philistine.’

By the time he was back on the M3 heading towards London, Palmer was wrestling with two major questions. The answer to one could be in the large brown envelope sitting among the junk mail on his desk. The envelope Helen had asked Mrs Demelzer to send him, even though it was months since they’d seen each other. Exactly why she’d done that was a mystery.

The other question was less likely to be answered so quickly. It concerned Helen’s burgundy briefcase with the gold fittings; the portable office that held every detail of her day-to-day work. If it had been in the car with her, the police would have known everything about her within minutes. There would have been no need to call Riley out in the hopes of an early identification.

So if it wasn’t in the car, where was it?

‘Miss Gavin? This way, please.’ The speaker was a slim, balding man with the colourless air of an academic. He was of medium height and build, and wore a plain grey suit with a maroon tie and black shoes. He was holding a clipboard and had appeared from nowhere within seconds of Riley approaching the frosted-glass reception desk of the modern hotel in Bloomsbury. It was a few minutes before two o’clock.

‘You will be meeting with our Mr Richard Varley,’ the man informed her. Varley was the name on the email Riley had received. Without introducing himself or giving Riley an opportunity to ask questions, the man turned and set off down a corridor towards the rear of the hotel.