Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

Two men were standing outside the hotel. Varley passed almost between them, but they showed no interest in him other than a brief nod. Yet they were scrutinising everyone else very carefully.

To Palmer, it was an eerily familiar scene. Both men wore suits and were pretending to be deep in conversation, friends, perhaps, who had encountered each other by chance. But he knew a security detail when he saw one. The men looked fit and capable, and by their bearing were probably former military personnel. Blond hair and high cheekbones pointed towards origins in Scandinavia or somewhere further east.

As Palmer watched, another man came out of the hotel entrance and walked over to a gleaming black 4WD at the kerb. He tried the door, which was locked, and nodded in satisfaction. He was shorter than the other two, and heavier, but clearly of the same mould. As he stood there, three black youths walked past the front of the hotel, eyeing the 4WD. The newcomer ignored them. Seconds later, an older man in dreadlocks and a Rasta hat ambled past, carrying a white kitchen-style jacket slung across his arm. None of the security men gave him a glance.

After a few moments, the third man seemed to lose interest and walked away. He passed the other two and nodded briefly before disappearing round the corner.

Palmer continued walking, certain that brief instructions had just been passed between the men. Of one thing he was growing more convinced: whoever or whatever Richard Varley was, it was doubtful publishing was his first profession. Otherwise, why else would he require a security detail at the hotel where he was staying?

He decided to stay with him. So far, he had nothing definite to show for his labours, yet all his inner alarm bells were ringing. The problem was, Varley now knew what Palmer looked like. He needed to find someone else to take over and get close to him and his men. Someone anonymous.

He knew just the man for the job.

Isleworth had changed little since Palmer had last visited the area — this street, in fact, he recalled — nearly a year ago. Still busy, still wearing that slightly run-down air of too much movement and too little care, it seemed to slump wearily in the evening gloom as if exhausted after a long, hard day.

Palmer’s attention was fixed on a Victorian-style villa across the street. A low retaining wall wearing drunken coping stones fronted a neglected garden, which held a rusted motorcycle frame and a discarded kitchen unit with battered fibreboard sides swollen and distorted by rain. A set of broken steps led up to the front door, and the windows were draped carelessly with grey net curtains. A line of buttons and name slots sat on one side of the door.

Palmer checked his watch. So far, there had been no sign of movement at the house, and no sight of the man he’d come to see. But he couldn’t sit here all evening.

Just as he was about to cross the road for a closer look, a car pulled into the kerb. It was a plain black Mondeo with a cab licence plate on the rear skirt.

The driver got out and walked up the front steps with a spring in his step, scanning the street on either side. He made it look casual but Palmer knew it was anything but. A lifetime of staying one step ahead of dubious friends, unpredictable enemies and the eager reach of the law had given Ray Szulu a set of habits too ingrained to break. He disappeared inside and closed the door.

Palmer left his car and quickly crossed the street. He knew Szulu’s flat had a view over the front, and that he would probably look out of the window as a matter of habit as soon as he got in. He ran up the steps and tried the door. It was locked, but ill-fitting, the wood tired and loose. He grasped the central knocker to keep it still and pushed with his shoulder, concentrating on the centre of the door. The wood creaked once, then the lock clicked and the door swung open. Inside, the air was muggy, the atmosphere heavy and dark. He listened for sounds of movement, then walked up the stairs and knocked on the door of 3A.

‘Yeah, wha-?’ The door opened and the familiar face registered instant recognition. And dismay.

‘Hello, Ray,’ said Palmer, smiling genially. ‘How’s it hanging? I was in the area and thought I’d pop round for tea and cakes.’

‘No way!’ Szulu started to close the door, but Palmer slammed it back, propelling him into the room.

‘Not nice,’ Palmer chided him, and followed him inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room. It was furnished just as he remembered it, with large cushions, a sofa, a couple of armchairs and a CD player, mercifully silent. He remembered how Szulu liked to play music very loudly, even when he had visitors. ‘Have you decorated since I was last here? It’s not very ethnic, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He was taking a deliberate swipe at Szulu’s ability to dip in and out of his Rasta roots whenever it suited him. The man wasn’t quite as dumb as he liked to pretend.

‘What the fuck do you want, Palmer?’ Szulu was rubbing his arm and wincing, his dreadlocks forming a curtain across the side of his face. ‘You can’t come in here like this — I’ll call the cops.’

‘Of course you will. And they’ll come running because they so value your safety. Now we’ve got that out of the way, how about a cup of tea? I’m parched.’ He turned and found his way through to a small kitchenette. It was surprisingly neat and tidy, with evidence that Szulu knew his way around both kitchen and supermarket.

Palmer filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘So,’ he continued, affably, ‘how’s the driving job?’ He turned to face Szulu, who was looking at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘More importantly, how’s the arm?’

‘Go screw yourself,’ muttered Szulu, his voice sliding into a soft Jamaican twang. ‘And stay out of me place, man. You trespassin’.’

Palmer gave him a pained look. ‘See, that’s what I mean. Now you’ve gone all Bob Marley on me. I only came round to offer you some gainful employment. You haven’t gone all fussy about who you take money from, have you? Oh, of course, not — you drove for Lottie Grossman, didn’t you? Remember — that wicked old bitch who tried to kill Riley and me?’ He turned back to the kitchen and made two mugs of tea, and brought them back into the living room.

Szulu was scowling at the memory of his last encounter with Palmer and Riley, but took his mug and sat down. ‘What do you mean, employment? You need a driver or a heavy — what?’ He’d lost the twang.

‘What I need is someone who’s street-savvy. Someone who can melt into the shadows and move like a panther. Someone who knows all the moves. A surveillance job, in other words.’ Palmer took a seat and sipped his tea, waiting for Szulu to catch on and show some interest. ‘Know anyone like that?’

‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ Szulu looked offended. ‘I can do that. How much we talking about?’

‘A hundred. Cash. Shouldn’t take more than half a day. No risks.’

Szulu looked suspicious. ‘Like there’s no catch, man. How do I know it ain’t gonna turn tribal? Last time I had you and that Gavin woman near me, I got shot, remember? And what was that army nut’s name — Mitcheson?’ He went back to massaging his arm and glanced towards the door as if the assailant he was referring to was about to come charging into the room.

‘Mitcheson’s in the States,’ Palmer told him. ‘He’s got better things to do than follow you around.’ Szulu had earned his bullet wound after threatening Riley Gavin with a. 22 calibre automatic. Her then boyfriend, John Mitcheson, a former army officer, had appeared and calmly shot Szulu with his own gun. Szulu evidently still hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that making threats sometimes brought unforeseen consequences.