Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘Annaliese Kellin was a freelance reporter, specialising in business and commercial matters. That was one. When she was found, her hands were tied together.’ He gave Palmer a grim look, waiting for a reaction.

But Palmer merely said, ‘Three. You said there were three similarities.’ Pell hadn’t mentioned how Helen had died. This had to be it. He could feel it.

The policeman let out a lengthy sigh that seemed to come from deep within him. ‘Early indications,’ he said carefully, ‘and they haven’t yet confirmed which, is that Helen Bellamy died the same way as Annaliese Kellin: of a broken neck and/or strangulation.’

‘And/or? What the hell does that mean?’ Palmer’s jaw clenched tight.

‘We think,’ Pell forged on carefully, ‘that the killer used a stranglehold method, placing the arm round the neck from behind. There was bruising under the chin consistent with someone standing in an elevated position behind and above the victim.’ He sounded as if he was reading from an official report, and his face showed he wasn’t enjoying it.

‘She was sitting down?’

‘Or kneeling, yes. I’m told the blood circulation would have been cut off, along with the air supply. Then the neck was broken. One of my colleagues is ex-Special Forces. He said it’s not as easy as it looks and takes considerable commitment.’ He paused. ‘I know it’s no consolation, but it would have been quick.’

Palmer thought about it. Killing someone like that was just about the most intimate way you could think of ending someone’s life. You had to get right up close. And killing a woman that way took a special kind of cold-bloodedness.

‘You’re wrong.’ His voice was soft but sure, cutting through the charged atmosphere in the room like a blade. He looked right through Pell as if the policeman wasn’t there. ‘If you know it’s going to happen, how can it ever be quick?’

Outside on the pavement, Pell breathed deeply and stood for a moment, glad to out in the fresh air. He hadn’t enjoyed the visit, especially the bit when Palmer had looked at him after his verbal blunder. It was like being skewered by the eye of a killer shark.

He wondered at the nature of the relationship between Palmer and Riley Gavin. Riley came across as a hard-nosed reporter, yet with a softness he found intriguing — and attractive. He thought the softness reflected the real person. At least, he hoped so. Palmer, on the other hand, was harder in more ways than one, in spite of his apparent easy going attitude. His background was clearly that of someone not unaccustomed to death or violence, and therefore hardened to it, but it hadn’t made him immune to its consequences.

The contrast made him wonder if there was anything deeper between them; the attraction of opposites, perhaps?

He walked over to his car, where the uniformed officer was waiting, and tried telling himself that he was not secretly hoping that the relationship was purely professional; that he might have a reason to speak to Riley Gavin again.

Riley scrubbed at her eyes. They felt gritty after staring at her screen and wading through reams of paper, absorbing thousands of lines of type. Apart from the folder Varley had given her, her own research was continuing to unearth further material, all of which was emerging steadily like a paper fungus from the belly of her printer.

She watched the cat sprawl inelegantly across the carpet as if it had been tossed from a great height, and envied it the lack of stress. What she would have given for a complete reversal of circumstances, for none of the awful news she had been given, and the ability to choose only nice subjects with pleasant endings to work on. Then she told herself that she was daydreaming. If she had wanted nice, she’d have taken up patchwork.

She got up and made some tea. The cat stopped sprawling, its radar on ‘scan’, then followed her, eyeing the fridge with an intensity which had Riley automatically reaching for a fork.

While it ate, she thought about what she had accomplished so far. With all the reading and the paperwork, she had ended up with little more than fairly strong rumour and a whole host of speculation about Al-Bashir’s intentions, and the so-called lifestyle of his young wife. She was going to have to do some more digging.

She picked up the copy of East European Trade Varley had given her, which had migrated out to the kitchen on one of her earlier coffee runs. She flicked through it, still undecided about what to do. She either went with the assignment and got her name in this magazine, or she returned Varley’s cheque in spite of his assurances that it was non-returnable, and got on with helping Palmer solve his problem. Given the choice, she knew which she’d have opted for.

Then she stopped. She was staring at the inside title page of the magazine, her face suddenly as pale as the paper she was holding.

I don’t believe it, she muttered softly, and snatched up the phone. She dialled Palmer’s number. He answered on the second ring.

‘I need you to confirm something,’ she told him. ‘Have you still got the postcard from the stuff Helen’s friend sent you?’

‘Sure.’ She heard his chair creak. ‘Okay, what about it?’

‘What’s the place name on the back?’

He read it out. ‘Sokhumi, Georgia. Unusual place for a holiday, unless you’re Russian.’ He paused. ‘Hang on, there’s something written alongside.’

‘I know,’ said Riley. She could almost picture the words; they hadn’t impacted on her when she’d first seen them. ‘Helen wrote Ercovoy, then Atcheveli 3-24.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Palmer’s voice was sharp with interest. She heard the chair creak as he got to his feet. ‘How did you know?’

‘The magazine I got for my new assignment,’ she told him, ‘is published by a company called Ercovoy. Their production office is at Atcheveli 3-24, Sokhumi, Republic of Georgia. It’s on the Black Sea.’

She ran out of words, trying to make sense of the information. How the hell could there be a connection between Helen and her own new assignment? It was crazy.

‘She must have gone out there for some reason.’ Palmer spoke softly. ‘But why — and why send the postcard?’

‘Maybe it was a genuine coincidence. She went out there for a break after getting the assignment and stumbled on the office. Stranger things have happened.’

‘Yeah.’ Palmer didn’t sound convinced.

‘There’s something else I found.’ Riley hesitated, then plunged in. ‘Some of the research notes for this job I’m looking at.’

‘What about them?’

‘A lot of the notes have been put together at random — as if someone went through a bunch of files and dragged out anything of interest. But some of it has been collated and written up by someone who knew what they were doing. A professional.’

The line hissed between them, then Palmer said, ‘A journalist?’

‘It feels like it. There was discussion about Al-Bashir’s bid for the telecoms licence in Eastern Europe, most of it very general. But one small entry, like a note to be added later, said his main opposition might come from wealthy Russian emigres.’

There was a longer silence, and Riley wondered if she’d done the wrong thing telling him. It was mere speculation on her part; an attempt to join up dots which might not be connected.

‘For emigres,’ he said finally, ‘read oligarchs.’

‘That word was in the file. It’s thin, but… ‘ She sighed, struggling to argue convincingly against her own thoughts and suspicions, and not liking what she was thinking.

‘I still don’t get it,’ said Palmer. ‘If she was worried about something, why didn’t she contact me?’ He sounded frustrated.