Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘Maybe she was going to but never got round to it.’ Riley wanted to drag the words back as soon as she uttered them. Palmer was already feeling bad enough about Helen’s death; he didn’t need the additional burden of knowing she had been scared enough to consider asking an old boyfriend for help, but had been prevented at the last minute. He appeared not to have noticed, so she continued, ‘There’s something about Helen that struck me.’ She told him about her earlier research into Helen’s publishing history via the Internet. ‘Helen had a steady work rate, with regular jobs going back three or more years, here and overseas. That’s good going for a freelance. Some were fillers, where she was probably asked to stand in for staff writers. Others were normal, freelance assignments, which was her bread and butter.’

‘Like the jobs she did for Johnson.’

‘That’s right. There were probably a few I didn’t find, but there were no huge gaps.’

‘Go on.’

‘Suddenly, for the last six weeks, nothing. It was like she’d dropped off the map. It was unusual.’

The silence lengthened, then Palmer said, ‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, stay there and I’ll come to you. Oh, one more thing,’ he added sombrely. ‘I just had a visit from Pell.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said Helen wasn’t the first female freelance found dead recently.’

In his Finchley base, one of Donald Brask’s phones purred softly. He reached out to switch it to loudspeaker. The display told him it was Tony Nemeth, a reporter based in Ankara, Turkey. Donald had tracked him down the previous day with an urgent task, on the promise of further work if he came up with anything useful.

‘Anthony, dear boy,’ he breathed softly. ‘What have you got for me?’ He had been disturbed by Riley’s information about the magazine East European Trade. He had never come across it before, and one thing Brask prided himself on was knowing about all the potential paying markets out there waiting for him and his clients. The other source of disturbance was that he had a bad feeling about it which wouldn’t go away.

‘It’s difficult to say, Mr Brask,’ Nemeth’s voice sounded furred, probably by too many cigarettes and strong brandy. Now it held a tone of regret, even puzzlement. ‘I went to the address you told me. I had to hire a sea-plane taxi to save some time — I hope you’re okay for the fare? I got a good deal, though, from my cousin, Mehmet.’

‘Of course I’m good. What did you find?’

‘It’s a big apartment block. But not a nice place, you know? Shit plumbing, rotting concrete, lousy Soviet design — I’m surprised it didn’t come down in the last earthquake.’

‘The devil looks after his own. What else?’

‘If there’s a publishing company there, nobody knows about it,’ Nemeth replied succinctly. ‘It’s residential only — and I’m not saying high class, you know? Half the tenants are illegals, the electricity and water don’t work every day, the sewers are more often blocked than not… you know the kind of place I mean.’

‘Actually, dear boy, I’m relieved to say I don’t.’ Donald stared at the ceiling. He’d had a feeling about this from the moment Riley had first mentioned it. Publishing companies weren’t in the habit of splashing money around on spec, least of all those in Eastern Europe. Not, at least, the legitimate ones with nothing to hide. He’d decided to check out the place after receiving Riley’s text message.

‘Lucky you. I took a look at the number you gave me. It looks no more than a crummy flat, like all the others around it. There was nobody in.’ He paused, then added, ‘Someone’s got an interest, though.’

Donald sat up. This could be Nemeth adding some spice to make it look as if he’d come up with something good. ‘Like what?’

‘None of the locals would say much. But I’d only been there half an hour when a car arrived and couple of men went inside. They came out with a pile of envelopes and stuff and took off.’

‘You think somebody warned them?’

‘I don’t think so. One old guy I spoke to said it was a regular thing. They come and go at odd hours, he said. He also said none of the local kids go anywhere near the place ever since one of them tried to break in. He disappeared the next day.’

‘We could do with some of that round here. What else?’

‘ He called it a party car. Then he spat on the ground.’

‘Maybe he’s asthmatic.’ Donald was only half joking. He had a growing feeling that Nemeth wasn’t the sort to push for a story where there wasn’t one. ‘What else?’

‘He clammed up after that. I hinted at cash, but he looked at me like I’d offered to buy his sister.’

‘What did he mean by a party car? A stretch limo?’ Donald tried to picture one of the monster vehicles used by hen-night organisers to carry clutches of drunken women on tours of their favourite pubs. Somehow, it didn’t quite gel. Nemeth confirmed it.

‘No. He was referring to the old Communist Party — the Interior Ministry. They used to drive around in big, black saloons with blacked-out windows. The only difference was, this was a black BMW X5 instead. Easy to follow,’ he added cheerfully. ‘I got a kid on a motorbike to tail them.’

‘That was bloody brave of you.’

‘They drove from the flat to a freight forwarding depot. When the passenger got out, he was carrying a box, all taped up and labelled. I think he’d parcelled up the stuff he’d collected from the apartment along the way.’

‘Anthony,’ Donald almost crooned down the line, ‘if you got the address where that parcel was going, I swear I’ll get you so much work, you’ll think your feet are on fire.’

Nemeth’s smile as he read out the address — one of the PO Box numbers Riley had provided — was evident in his voice and seemed to beam all the way into the room.

Donald had a sudden, chilling thought. ‘Wait. You said Interior Ministry. You mean it was a government car?’

‘The way they drove around the place, it had to be,’ the reporter replied. ‘I’m guessing the old guy spat because he was referring to the Russians. They’re currently called the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It’s the FSB to you. They used to be called the KGB.’

‘You should kick this job into the long grass.’ Palmer was looking grim.

After picking up Riley, they had decided to go to Donald Brask’s Finchley base for a conference. Palmer had just finished relaying Pell’s revelation about the murder of Annaliese Kellin. It had left a charged atmosphere in the room.

‘Why?’ Although shocked by the news, Riley instinctively challenged the notion of backing off from a job. Any job. ‘Are you going to let Helen’s murder go?’

‘That’s different.’

‘Crap,’ she replied with mild bluntness. ‘Pell’s jumping to conclusions. There might be no connection between the two murders. It could be random. Annaliese Kellin may have simply picked the wrong car for a lift.’

It was Palmer’s turn to look cynical. ‘She was tied up. That doesn’t sound very random to me.’

Riley shook her head obstinately and glared at him, daring further argument. She’d had the same thought herself. She switched her attention to Brask, who had remained quiet while Palmer was speaking.

The agent held up both hands. ‘Sweetie, I’m on your side. But Frank’s so right.’

‘I disagree. If there’s a connection here, it would be better if I was on the inside.’

Donald opened his mouth then shut it again. Instead, he changed the subject. ‘There’s something you should both know. The publisher’s address you sent me is a post box in a run-down residential block. Most of the flats are empty or used by illegals.’