Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘Sorry?’ Riley leaned forward.

‘This publication,’ the professor said, stabbing a finger towards the magazine, ‘is good. It has a good reputation. But so does Caravan Magazine. You go in caravans?’ She looked between her two visitors, but they merely stared back. She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Is cheap way to take a holiday if you don’t mind rudeness of other drivers and thin walls. But this, this East European Trade, does not make money for Richard Varley. Or anyone else. Believe me.’ She patted her chest again. ‘I know about such things.’

‘Maybe he has other interests,’ Palmer suggested.

‘Almost certainly.’ Natalya agreed. ‘But you must realise these magazines, they are not for direct commercial gain. They are for propaganda.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Is not to make money.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘They are to tell others what you want them to know. No more, no less. The west has them, too. It is nothing new.’ She pursed her lips again and looked longingly at the cigarette packet.

‘But propaganda,’ said Riley, ‘is put out by state organisations… like your former employers.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded vigorously, unaffected by the mention of her previous life. ‘And my former employers, as you call them — the KGB — were very good at this kind of thing. In the sixties, they had a single directorate which was bigger in publishing than many western newspapers.’ She brushed flecks of ash from her knee. ‘But the KGB is no more, of course.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Palmer spoke mildly, the scepticism evident in his voice. ‘And Vladimir Putin’s a boy scout.’

Natalya chuckled appreciatively, a twinkle deep in her eyes. ‘You know the KGB, Mr Palmer?’

He gave her a smile in return. ‘I had to know a bit about them once, for a while. I wouldn’t be overwhelmed if you told me their successors — the FSB — was still doing this kind of work.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded in agreement, and with what might have been a touch of pride. ‘The FSB is responsible for internal security, but also propaganda. Misinformation. It is the way it has always been.’

‘They haven’t changed, then.’

Her next words brought a chill into the small, smoke-filled room. ‘Why should they? If something is not broken, why fix it?’

The afternoon was fading by the time Palmer turned south off the King’s Road into Beaufort Street. The choke of exhaust fumes had been washed away on a sharp breeze from the Thames, replaced by the tinny, sour tang of the river itself a couple of hundred yards away. Only a few pedestrians were about, leaving him a clear view of the street all the way down to Battersea Bridge.

There were no obvious signs of a police presence, no figures lurking in doorways, and he turned into the block where Helen Bellamy had lived with the easy manner of someone who belonged.

After leaving Natalya Fisher, he had told Riley he had things to do, and that he’d see her later. He knew she hadn’t believed he was going home to a lunchtime nap and a cup of Earl Grey, but she hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.

The front entrance was locked, as he’d expected. He pressed one of the buttons on the security keypad and waited.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice screeched out of the box, tinny and stressed.

‘Police. Sorry to bother you.’

‘God, haven’t you lot finished? Okay.’ The door buzzed and Palmer stepped inside, grateful for the influence of cop shows and easy assumptions wrongly made.

He walked up the stairs, waiting for a door to open, for a head to appear. But whoever had admitted him was clearly uninterested or too busy.

Helen’s flat was on the second floor. There was no tape across the door, no signs that the police might have been here other than the woman’s comment and Palmer’s knowledge of their methods. He waited for his breathing to settle and for the sounds of the building to become familiar and recognisable. If the police — or anyone — were keeping an eye on the place, they wouldn’t be far away and Palmer would know it.

He allowed a few seconds to tick by, then took out a ‘soft’ key and inserted it in the lock. He flexed it gently from side to side, feeling the resistance change as the tumblers moved under the pressure. There was a click and the door opened.

The familiar smell washed over him. Helen’s perfume, softly fragrant and warm, still hung in the air. He closed the door and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere.

He suddenly wished he were somewhere else, far from here. A car horn sounded in the street, jolting him. He had to move, to get on with this. The police might decide to come back. He stepped left into the sitting room, and stopped.

The place had been trashed.

In an instant, what should have been familiar was gone. What should have been comfortable was dispersed like smoke. He stepped over a broken picture frame which had been ground into the carpet. A large, dusty footprint showed across the broken glass. A man’s shoe.

The photo was of Mrs Demelzer and Helen, smiling up at him, squinting against the sunlight. Nearby, a small vase was in fragments on the floor, and books had been pulled from their shelves, pages opened and scattered like wounded birds. The television lay on its face, the back ripped off, and several cushions were in tatters around the room, foam stuffing littering the carpet like brown soap suds.

The kitchen was the same. Drawers had been emptied, storage boxes up-ended and even the fridge and oven left gaping, like mouths opened in shock. He moved quickly through to the bathroom. The same treatment there, with a snowfall of talcum powder and pills to add to the disarray. He swallowed, remembering Helen’s pride in her home. It hadn’t mattered that she had spent more time out of it on jobs than inside; it was her sanctuary whenever she needed it. Or had been.

He’d deliberately left the bedroom until last. This had been Helen’s inner sanctum. But it hadn’t escaped the storm. The bed was ripped, the bedclothes flung across the floor, the wardrobe opened and gutted, with every piece of Helen’s clothing tipped out, the shelves laid bare. Drawers lay tumbled upside down, some on the floor, others on the bed, showing the trail the intruder had created. Even the carpet had been peeled back.

Palmer noted the personal effects, the papers, the clothing, the soft and the delicate, the workaday and utilitarian, all tipped out into the light with no respect, no thought for the owner.

He felt the resurgence of a deep, intense anger.

He turned back to the living room. There was no point in looking further. If there had been anything to find, a search like this would have uncovered it.

He picked up the broken photo frame, and fragments of glass fell to the floor, tinkling like mournful music. The back had already been torn off, revealing the white reverse side of the photo. It was dated three years ago, in black ink. And a notation.

Christine D and me.

A slim blue book caught Palmer’s eye. It was closed and had been placed on the edge of a coffee table, the positioning out of sync, almost, with the rest of the room. He picked it up and let it fall open.

It was an address book, divided alphabetically, two pages per tab. The tabs were made of coloured plastic. He flicked through it. There weren’t many entries, mostly phone numbers and a few email addresses. Helen would probably have had more on her mobile than in here. Some entries had been crossed through in a deliberate, end-of-an- era style, some altered to reflect new numbers or address details.

His own name had a line drawn through from left to right. Not heavy, he noted. Not angry. Simply drawn through. With regret, maybe? He tried not to think about it, and wondered why the police hadn’t taken the book with them.