Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

Unless the man who’d trashed the place had found it afterwards.

On an impulse, he checked the G tab. There was one entry, followed by a familiar phone number and Riley’s name. Underneath had been written: Any contacts?

Palmer stared at it. Helen must have been thinking of calling Riley about work. Johnson was right: she’d been getting restless. It explained why the Post-it was in her car.

He was about to close the book when he noticed a gap in the pages. The D tab was gone, a ragged edge where the pages had been ripped out. He saw why. An envelope lay on the floor near the coffee table. A friendship card lay next to it, a simple coloured wash with a piece of verse. It was signed Christine.

Christine Demelzer.

His neck went cold. The card, the photo and the address book. The intruder had made the connection and removed the details.

In its place he had inserted a folded toffee wrapper to mark the page.

Long Cottage huddled silent and still in the darkness of Cotton Hill. Palmer stopped his car a hundred yards away and stepped out, allowing the door to click shut. He listened for night noises, sounds he was familiar with from hundreds of night-time surveillance jobs, hunched in his car or under cover, listening to nature all around him. All he heard was the wind through the trees and a motorbike engine clattering in the distance. No birds, no foxes. Nothing.

He let the minutes drift by, breathing in the smells carried on the air. A hint of wood smoke, the sweet aroma of cut vegetation, the faintest tang of cooked food.

He left the car and walked along the edge of the road. Once he was close to the house, he stepped onto the verge to muffle his footsteps, his shoes swishing faintly through the grass. He felt as if he was being watched, but pressed on, the feeling familiar. The night could play tricks, no matter how experienced you were, and if you gave into it each time, you’d do better to stay at home and do crossword puzzles.

He walked down the side of the cottage and stepped over the back gate, which was little more than knee high. The flagstones in the path felt uneven and partially overgrown. He trod carefully, easing his toes forward to feel for obstacles in his way.

The back door was locked. A pale glow of blue-ish light showed from inside, reflected through from the front room. Palmer walked round to the front and knocked softly on the door.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Mrs Demelzer stood in the narrow gap. She looked wary but calm.

‘Sorry,’ said Palmer softly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You really shouldn’t answer your door to strangers without using the chain.’

‘You didn’t startle me. And it’s my door.’ The elderly woman stood aside to let him in. She sounded tired and her shoulders were slumped, as if she had been carrying a heavy load. ‘I heard about Helen,’ she said in explanation, and shuffled through to the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, then turned to face him, her eyes moist and accusing. She was rubbing her hands together in agitation, as if they itched. ‘You should have told me.’

Palmer nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I wasn’t supposed to know.’

She sat down at the table and signalled for him to do likewise. In the background, the kettle roared like an old steam engine. She toyed with a fold in her dress for a while, then looked at him with keen eyes.

‘The police came. They said Helen’s death was suspicious and it was being investigated. They wouldn’t give me any details, though, and said I should avoid reading the papers. I think they were being kind. They asked me if I knew anything about Helen’s recent movements. Her friends.’

Palmer didn’t say anything.

‘I didn’t tell them about the papers I sent you. Or your visit. Was that wise? I mean, I don’t really know you. But you were Helen’s friend and I know she liked you a lot. She told me not long ago that she was sorry it had ended. She said you made her smile.’

The kettle clicked off noisily, a forced punctuation, and she got up to make the tea. Palmer felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

She came back to the table with two mugs and set them down.

‘Has anyone else been here?’ Palmer asked. He had difficulty speaking calmly. A car rumbled by outside, and he felt the hairs on his neck stir.

‘No. Not that I’ve seen. Why?’

On the drive down, he’d thought about what he could say to this woman. Whatever he told her would be alien to her world, as dark and unlikely as anything she could imagine, set against this picture-perfect cottage and the garden she tended so lovingly. But leaving her here was unthinkable, especially after the way Helen’s flat had been turned upside down. Whoever had done that would eventually come here. It was the law of all search patterns: when all the most obvious possibilities have been covered, you start in on the rest.

And Mrs Demelzer’s name was top of the list.

‘Is there somewhere you could go for a few days?’ he asked her. ‘A friend, perhaps?’

She was no fool. She gave him a knowing look. ‘Why? Is my life in danger? Something to do with Helen’s death?’

‘I don’t know. It could be.’ He explained about Helen’s flat and how whoever had searched the place now knew her address and what she looked like.

‘Really?’ She seemed incredulous. ‘But why would they come looking for me? It was only a greetings card.’

‘It was enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what they were looking for, but they found the card and made the connection with your address book and the back of the photo.’

‘But what could I tell them? I don’t know anything about Helen’s work. It is about her work, I suppose?’

‘I think so. She may have got involved in something dangerous. I’m trying to find out what it was.’

Mrs Demelzer stood up, the tea forgotten. Her manner was suddenly brisk and decisive. ‘I’d better go and pack a bag, hadn’t I? If you can take me to my sister’s house — she lives about ten miles away — I’ll be safe enough there. Even if they ask anyone around here, they won’t be able to tell them anything.’ She started towards the stairs, then stopped and turned to Palmer with a strange expression. ‘What are you going to do?’

Palmer took a deep breath. ‘Find them,’ he said honestly. ‘Find the people responsible. Who did it, and why. After that,’ He shrugged enigmatically. ‘We’ll see.’

It seemed to be enough. Mrs Demelzer nodded and patted him on the arm with great tenderness. ‘I’m glad. I’m sure you’ll do what you think best.’ She smiled with enormous sadness and went to pack.

‘You’ve been up to something — I can tell.’ Riley walked into Palmer’s office the following morning and found him at the window, staring into the street. ‘I rang you several times last night. Your mobile was off.’ Her voice was deliberately accusing; he’d left her out of the fun.

‘I needed my beauty sleep. I had an early night.’

‘Palmer.’ Riley stared at him, eyes like flint. ‘You’ve never needed an early night in your life. Where were you?’

He told her about his visit to Helen’s flat, the destruction he’d found and the connection between the card, the photo and the address book.

‘What did you do?’

‘I moved her out of harm’s way. She’s safe for now.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have helped you. I thought we were working together on this.’

‘We are. But it was easier to go to the flat by myself. If we’d walked into a police surveillance unit, you’d have been compromised as well. Alone, I had a halfway believable reason for being there.’

‘Maybe,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘But next time, let me in on it.’