Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

Palmer checked this last one. They were in luck: they had an unobstructed view of Pantile House, barely eighty yards away.

The room they were in was long and narrow, probably a servant’s quarters many years ago. It was stripped bare, the rough wooden floor echoing with creaks and groans as the two men shifted their weight.

‘Is this safe?’ Szulu whispered, testing the boards. ‘This place is rotten as old grapefruit.’

‘It’ll do fine,’ Palmer assured him, studying the building across the way through the binoculars. ‘Just breathe in and don’t do any break-dancing.’

He located the fourth floor and immediately saw Varley. He was standing at the desk, talking on a mobile phone. The glow of the desk lamp threw his shadow across the room, highlighting the strong features and athletic build. A second man was standing nearby. Smaller and balding, he had a pale, almost anaemic look. He was staring at the floor, waiting for Varley to finish his call.

Palmer lowered the binoculars to scan the building at ground level. Two men were walking around the outside. They looked solid and determined, and as they passed beneath the soft glow of a street lamp, he recognised the two security men from the hotel at Lancaster Gate.

‘How many did you say left the hotel?’

‘Four,’ said Szulu. ‘Why?’

Palmer shook his head. He’d have felt easier if he’d known where the third man was — the one who had checked the 4WD. He shook off his disquiet; maybe they had a rota system and it was his night off.

Szulu moved up alongside him, breathing nervously.

‘What you said about this thing,’ he murmured softly, as if the men across the way might hear him. ‘You said it was personal, right?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So what did they do, these guys?’ He nodded towards the light on the fourth floor. ‘It was something serious?’

Palmer didn’t respond for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Somebody murdered a friend of mine. I can’t prove it was the men over there. But if they didn’t, they might know who did.’

‘Man, that’s bad.’ Bad for the men across the way, Palmer’s tone suggested. ‘Who was she, this friend — someone special?’

‘You could say that. They tied her up, snapped her neck and dumped her body in a ditch.’ The words dropped into the silent room like slivers of ice, and Szulu felt the hairs move on the back of his neck.

‘And you’re going after them.’

‘That’s the general idea.’ Palmer turned and looked at Szulu with a frown.

‘What?’ Szulu stepped back a pace. ‘What’s up?’

‘You said ‘she’.’

‘So?’

‘Did I say my friend was a woman?’

Szulu looked away, unable to meet Palmer’s gaze. ‘Man, the way you talkin’ right now, you didn’t have to.’

For once, the cat was being halfway amenable. It had allowed Riley to scoop it up and hold it while she stared into the street outside, watching as car and foot traffic gradually dwindled with the passing evening. Late commuters looking for a parking space, shoppers with carrier bags hurrying home from the supermarket, and even an early drunk — a short, squat man in a tight suit — holding up a lamp post across the way.

Riley wondered where Palmer was. She could have done with his steadying presence here. Maybe she would have to make do with the cat, purring like a small tractor and enjoying the rare occasion of shared comfort.

She still couldn’t explain why she had shied away from telling Varley that she no longer wanted the Al-Bashir job, especially now she was certain that she wasn’t the first person to have been hired to do it. That brought dark, unwelcome thoughts about who that might have been. But she wasn’t ready to face them just yet. For now, all she knew was that on a professional level, going ahead with the assignment based on unverified information would rightfully incur Al-Bashir’s anger. And that could be dangerous.

As she turned away from the window, the drunk in the street below let go of his lamp post and lurched away into the darkness. As he did so, his face turned up to Riley’s window and gave it a last, searching look.

The pavement outside the hotel in Bloomsbury was awash with a coachload of Italian tourists when Riley arrived just before noon. They scurried around like minnows, resplendent in dark glasses and immaculate clothes, eagerly grabbing their bags as the driver slid them out from the luggage compartment.

Riley eased her way through and entered the hotel, walking past the reception desk. There was no sign of Varley in the front lounge. She walked through to the room at the rear, where they had first met. The corner table was empty.

As she turned awat, she came face to face with a familiar figure.

‘Miss Gavin?’ It was Varley’s colourless associate, the man who had met her here last time. He was dressed in a plain grey suit and standing with his hands by his side, the image of a functionary waiting for orders.

Riley stepped back involuntarily, startled by a glint of steel in the way the man was looking at her. It was probably the coldest pair of eyes she had ever seen. ‘Where’s Richard?’

‘He has been detained.’ He spoke with deliberate care, his accent more obvious than before. Riley noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead, although the atmosphere in the hotel was cool. He gestured to the corner chairs. ‘But I can speak… on his behalf. ‘ He gave a ghost of a smile and led the way, sitting down without waiting for her.

‘And you are?’

‘My name is of no importance.’

‘Well, man of no importance,’ Riley replied curtly, ‘I’ve decided not to proceed with the assignment.’ She took out the cheque Richard had given her and placed it on the table. ‘Under the circumstances, I’m returning this. I don’t feel I’ve earned it. Please pass on my apologies to Richard, but I’m sure he’ll understand.’ She felt a sudden sense of relief at having voiced her decision, and of being free of any obligation by returning the cheque.

He showed neither dismay nor anger at her news. Neither did he attempt to pick up the cheque. Instead, he placed both hands together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. A buzz of traffic outside and a burst of laughter from the reception area sounded very distant, and alien.

‘That is disappointing, Miss Gavin,’ he said softly. ‘You see, we need someone of proven… credibility to complete this assignment. You realise how important this is? How late you have left it to tell us?’

‘I can’t help that.’ Riley’s heart began thumping at the coldly dispassionate way the man was looking at her, as if she were an unusual and mildly interesting specimen in a Petrie dish. ‘I told Richard I wasn’t prepared to put my name to an article based on someone else’s data. Neither do I like the slant of what he wants me to write. I thought he understood that.’

‘Perhaps. But I am not Richard.’ He reached in his jacket pocket and took out a square of thin, white card. He placed it on the table between them, reminding Riley of a similar move by Al-Bashir in his boardroom. ‘Is that your final word? You do not wish to re-consider?’ He looked at her and waited, head cocked to one side.

‘No. Why should I?’ Riley began to rise, eager to be away from this man and his penetrating gaze.

As she did so, he flipped the card over.

Riley stopped dead, suddenly wishing more than anything that Frank Palmer was in the room.

But Palmer wasn’t going anywhere fast. Stuck in an Underground tunnel near Tottenham Court Road with a few dozen other passengers, he felt the heat closing in around him like a stifling blanket. Any trace of cool air drifting through the carriage was obliterated by the increasing body heat as passengers fought a rising sense of panic at the delay. Most tried to hide their feelings by fanning themselves with whatever came to hand. Others fiddled vainly with their mobile phones, frustrated at finding the networks unavailable.