He nodded and checked the cloakroom, expertly flicking through coats and jackets and humming softly while he did it. He found a slip of paper and handed it to Riley. It carried a familiar phone number and name: Donald Brask.
‘He went out without his coat.’ Beneath the coats was a small padded case, the kind used for carrying a laptop. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. ‘Did you see a laptop anywhere?’
‘No. But there’s a power lead on the desk.’
‘Point one for the killer. He — or they — probably came here for the same reason we did and picked it up on the way out.’
‘Why not take the case?’
‘Less obvious…easier to hide a laptop under a coat…couldn’t be bothered. Maybe they panicked.’
Riley stepped across to the front door, where the white envelope she had seen from the outside was hanging from the letterbox. It was junk mail. She looked around; there were no other envelopes in evidence, which meant either the old lady had moved any recent mail or the killer had taken it.
As she moved away from the door, she heard the crunch of gravel outside. She peered through the side window. A police patrol car had pulled up in the driveway.
Chapter 15
They reacted simultaneously, grabbing their clipboards and running for the back door. For whatever reason the police were here, Riley guessed they weren’t collecting for the Annual Policeman’s Ball. They had been tipped off, possibly by the old lady’s killer.
Palmer led the way down the garden and over a fence, showing a surprising turn of speed. They ducked beneath some ancient apple trees and walked down a narrow path between two properties, out onto another street lined with trees and cars.
‘Someone,’ breathed Palmer, when they were safely back in the car and heading south, ‘knew we were there.’
Riley nodded. Either that or another nosy neighbour had seen them. ‘I vote we take a look at the Church. Soon.’
‘Seconded and unanimous.’
By the time Riley dropped Palmer off at his car and made her way back home, the light was fading and traffic was heavy. If anyone was following her, it was going to be virtually impossible to spot them. And the fact that she now couldn’t see any sign of a white van didn’t mean the men inside hadn’t changed vehicles.
When she opened the front door, she discovered a folded wad of newspaper pushed through her letterbox. She was about to toss it in the bin in the hall when she noticed someone had scrawled a vivid red circle on the outer sheet. She unfolded the wad and saw there were two separate cuttings: one a single paragraph about a woman’s body found along the Embankment near Chelsea, the other a report by Nikki Bruce, the same author of the previous report Riley had read about dead runaways. Both cuttings were from the early editions of the Post.
The report on the woman mentioned only that the body wore a crucifix and a bracelet and that the police were investigating. There was no mention of the victim’s name. The Nikki Bruce piece was on a different subject and more informative.
A further addition to the street mortality statistics was revealed today when photo shop manager, George Poustalis, 56, arrived at his premises just off Piccadilly and discovered the body of a young man beside a nearby builders’ skip. There were no indications of the youth’s identity, but police put his age at approximately 18 years. It is thought the youth may have been one of the regular homeless sleepers living rough in what is arguably one of the capital’s most exclusive postcodes. A post-mortem is expected to reveal that the death is drugs-related, although an officer at the scene suggested there were signs that the victim had died of choking. The death is not thought to be suspicious in nature. This now brings to eight the number of deaths of street sleepers in the capital, most of which appear drugs-related. Local drugs counsellors working with the homeless community have confirmed that contaminated drugs are circulating and are warning users against taking further risks by buying supplies from unfamiliar sources.
Riley went upstairs and peered out of the front window, wondering who had left this for her. Other than the usual street traffic there was nobody in sight. If someone was out there waiting for a reaction, they clearly weren’t standing out in the open to advertise their presence.
She read both cuttings through again, feeling a prickle of discomfort. Why had somebody chosen to push these cuttings through the door? Was this meant as some kind of pointer about what had finally happened to Katie? Had her death down by the river after all these years been simply as a victim of a drug her body had been unable to withstand?
Riley didn’t think so. The Katie she had known of, had shown no interest in drugs. Her parents had sworn it, her closest friends had confirmed it and there had been no indications in her room of a leaning towards the temptations of narcotics or alcohol. Even ten years ago, there were some 15-year old kids who already knew their own minds and what they would or wouldn’t touch.
She went downstairs and rang the bell to the flat below. She knew that Mr Grobowski, a Pole who ran a community centre down the road, always sat by his front window and watched the world go by. It was his idea of Neighbourhood Watch when he wasn’t organising social events for his fellow Poles. Not that his vigilance ever resulted in him catching anyone, but he routinely claimed that this was because they knew he was watching.
‘Yes, miss. How are you?’ he yelled with a generous smile when he saw her standing there. In spite of repeatedly asking him to use her name, he insisted on calling her ‘miss’. Built like a concrete block, with a craggy face and hair which looked as if it had been ironed on, he was slightly deaf and so figured the rest of the population was, too. His accent, unchanged after more than sixty years in London, mangled his words into a stew, from which, if Riley was fortunate, she got the general gist of what he meant. If she frowned, he simply shouted louder.
Riley showed him the cutting. ‘Did you see anyone put this through the door? It would have been in the last couple of hours or so.’
He snatched the cutting and tilted his head back to catch the light from inside, mouthing the words as he read carefully. Then he shook his head and handed it back. ‘No. I too busy doing thinks. What you think, miss, I got time to sit here and dreams all day?’
‘Worth a try,’ she said, wondering if he was having her on; everyone knew he used his window like a watchtower. She turned to walk over to the stairs, but his next words stopped her dead.
‘The other mens, though, they sittink out there a lot. You should maybe talk to the polices, I think.’
‘Other men?’
‘Sure. Mens in a white van. Bloody gangsters, probably. Why else they have those dark windows, huh? You tell me.’
She told him she had no idea, her attention suddenly distracted by a nagging thought.
‘But don’t to worry, miss,’ he continued, waving a meaty hand. ‘I look after thinks.’ He grinned proudly and pointed towards the front of the building as if it was his field of fire and therefore of no more concern.
Riley smiled gratefully. ‘It must have been one of them, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Grobowski.’
‘No worries, miss. And if the other mans come back, I get his names, you bet.’
‘Other man?’ Jesus, this was getting confusing. ‘You mean my colleague?’ She described Frank Palmer.
‘No, not hims. Hims I know look of. This mans he walk by several times. Last two days, he was here. Maybe three times. Smart suit, like banker, only look tired.’
‘He looked tired?’
‘No. Suit. Clothes good but tired like charity shop. Like he worn too long. Good stuff, though. Nice cut. I used to be tailor once… I know good clothes.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall mans, maybe six foot. Thin. Look hungry.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Yesterday. He walk by but don’t come near.’ He jabbed two fingers towards his eyes. ‘But I know he is looking at this house.’ Something hissed and spat in the background, and Mr Grobowski turned his head.
‘Excuse, miss… my dinner boil over. Moment.’ He disappeared, and Riley heard the clatter of a saucepan lid. He came back shaking his head, bringing with him an aroma of spices and a bead of moisture on his forehead. ‘I should get better timing clock. Recipes say only cook for ten minutes. Very specific, otherwise shit for food. Sorry, miss.’
‘You’ve been cooking?’ Mr Grobowski’s kitchen was at the back of the building, overlooking the communal gardens.
‘Sure. I very good cook. I chef once. Many times I do food for old mens at Polish Community centre. They have kitchen, but… ‘ He waved a contemptuous hand. ‘I prefer my own thinks. All afternoon in kitchen. Bloody hot, I tell you. Good for losing weight, like sauna.’ He laughed and patted his stomach to show it wasn’t working.
Riley thanked him for his help and asked him to let her know if the mystery watcher came back, then went back upstairs. She wondered how many of the day’s events right outside his front door were missed because of his various distractions. Enough, it seemed, for the mystery postman to have delivered a message without being spotted.
She checked the telephone directory, then made a call. It rang twice before a voice answered: ‘Evening Post.’ She asked to speak to Nikki Bruce and waited while being treated to a piece of modern classical music.
‘Bruce.’ The single word snapped down the line, as if she had just been caught on her way out of the office on important business.
Riley introduced herself. ‘The piece you ran about the dead runaways,’ she said shortly. ‘I might have some information for you.’
Thirty yards along the street, a shadow detached itself from the gateway of a house under renovation and walked away. The owner was tall and wore a suit, and as he passed beneath a street light, the glow briefly highlighted a gaunt, tired face, before he vanished into the next pool of shadow.
Chapter 16
Nikki Bruce in the flesh turned out to be older than her picture in the Post suggested. Tall and bony, with pale skin and a brittle smile, she wore a burgundy designer suit with knife-edge creases. A rattle of jewellery accompanied her as she pushed through the door of the coffee shop and checked out the pre-lunchtime crowd.
Riley waved and indicated the chair on the other side of the table. The Post reporter sat down and gave her a wary once-over. ‘Well,’ she said dryly, ‘this is different.’ The coffee shop was an independent, situated just off Wardour Street, and what it lacked in big-chain glitz and bustle, it more than made up for in atmosphere.
‘Sorry it’s not the Savoy,’ said Riley. She wondered if this had been a mistake. She had met many reporters in her time, and found most were generous in the help they would give to a fellow journo. Others jealously guarded every scrap of information as if the next acquaintance was going to wrestle it away and sell it for a small fortune. Time would tell which category this woman fell into.
‘You said you had information,’ said Bruce, flicking back her sleeve to reveal a slim gold watch. ‘I’ve got twenty minutes.’ She had agreed to meet Riley without particular enthusiasm, and then only if it was in the Soho area.
Riley ordered coffees, then said: ‘I was intrigued by your story about the dead kids. It might tie in with something I know, and I wondered how far back it goes.’
‘Not far. Why the interest?’
It as the question she’d been expecting. After setting up the meeting yesterday evening, she had wondered how much to tell Bruce. If the Post reporter was generous, it would be no problem. But right now she wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s a personal thing… a story I worked on some years ago. A fifteen-year-old girl walked out of her house one day and disappeared. It seems she did so voluntarily, but it made no sense at the time. There was nothing in the family background and no obvious reason which drove her away. The usual stuff, on the surface. Your piece set me thinking about what might have happened to her, that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not after your story, by the way.’
Bruce looked faintly sceptical, but shrugged as if it was no big thing. ‘My stuff doesn’t go back that far. My boss put me on it weeks ago because he thought it would run. In my opinion they’re just rough sleepers being fed poor quality shit by dealers who couldn’t care less. To be honest,’ she allowed a hard smile to edge around her lips, ‘it’s not as if I need to worry about it anymore. Not after today.’
‘Really?’ Riley felt a flicker of irritation at the woman’s coldness. She was dismissing those dead kids as no more than detritus cluttering the streets of the capital.
‘I’m moving into telly. The pay’s fantastic and my contract means I won’t be scratching around with all the other cruddies for stories nobody wants to read. Sorry — no offence — but give it a few more days and I’m out of here.’
‘Good for you.’ Riley felt like throwing her coffee over the snooty bitch, but kept her cool. She’d never been called a cruddy before. ‘So who’s the lucky channel?’
‘Star Central. You won’t have heard of them, darling; to be honst, until they contacted me, neither had I. They’re an offshoot of a Japanese/Aussie tie-up. They cover society and celeb news anywhere between here, LA and the Pacific Rim.’ She smiled coolly, her eyes drifting off centre for a moment as if picturing the future. ‘And that’s a hell of a lot of society, believe me.’
‘So you can’t help me.’ Riley felt an odd sense of deflation and got ready to leave. If Nikki Bruce had any interest in news, it no longer mattered unless it carried the glitzy tag of fame, wealth and fortune. ‘Can I ask why you agreed to meet me? You obviously know what I do.’
Bruce shrugged again. ‘Habit. Curiosity. Professional interest… I wanted to see what you were like.’ She looked Riley squarely in the eye for the first time. It was a bit like being studied by a feral cat. ‘I’ve heard your name quite a bit recently. Is it true you nearly got killed in Spain a while ago? Gossip mentioned a bunch of mercenaries and a mine-shaft. Sounds hideous.’
In spite of herself, Riley was surprised. She never gave much thought about her standing in the business; as far as she was concerned she did her job and others did theirs. Reputations were hard-earned but transitory, like the news itself. ‘Gossip got it wrong. The Spain bit was right, though. Listen, I appreciate this is old news for you, but I’m just trying to make sense of a situation. I thought you might have some information I could use.’
Nikki Bruce stared at Riley with raised eyebrows. ‘What are you offering — a trade-off? I show you mine if you’ll show me yours?’
‘I haven’t anything to trade.’
‘Oh, that’s right — it’s personal. Listen, that’s professional suicide.’
‘Maybe. But can you think of a better reason to follow a story?’
Bruce conceded the point. ‘Fair enough. Look, I’ve picked up a lot of stuff over the last few weeks. Some of it makes sense, some not. Most of the deaths were explained away, like dirty drugs or infection — or both. That’s it.’
‘Most of them?’
‘Well, two, maybe three were borderline. There were possible natural causes like choking — this latest one, for instance — or the effects of pneumonia, stuff like that. They could equally have been helped along; a fight, maybe… being in the wrong place at the wrong time — a spat over drugs. It happens all the time.’
‘I know. I’ve been there.’
Bruce raised her eyebrows again. ‘Really? Yeah, I guess you have. Anyway, I think the police took the easy way out when they were offered it, and because nobody turned up to make a fuss and demand an investigation. Sad, really, when you think about it. Everyone should have somebody who cares.’ For an instant she actually sounded less like the hard face and more like someone with human instincts. She shook her head and looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Riley nodded, deflated by the lack of information. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘No problem. I’m sorry it doesn’t help with your girl, but I don’t think the circumstances are the same. She might turn up again one day. Some do, you know
.’
Riley considered the news Donald had given her about Katie Pyle. She took out the cutting about the dead woman and passed it across the table. ‘Actually, she won’t. Katie’s dead.’
Nikki’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding. This was her?’ She sat down again and read the cutting, then looked at Riley. ‘I can see why you’re intrigued.’ She gave a grudging smile and seemed to relax. ‘And I can see why you weren’t too quick to give away the bit about her being dead. I wouldn’t have done, either, in your position.’
To her surprise, Riley felt herself warming to the other woman. ‘You’d better go to your meeting.’
Nikki sat back and waved her hand. ‘To hell with it — I can be a bit late. We’re only meeting to sort out a couple of minor contractual points.’ She chewed her lip and stared off into space. ‘Look, I don’t know how I can help. People go missing all the time… mostly to get away from bad marriages or impossible debts. Some just discover they’ve had enough of the life they’ve got. They’ve run out of mental gas or something. The archives are stuffed full of people who went walkabout and never came back.’
‘But that’s older people. Your reports are about kids.’ A kid like Katie, she wanted to say.
‘Sure. But name a reason for running away and there’s a kid out there to match it; abuse, neglect, bullying, alcoholism, fear of failure, broken hearts, drugs — even a row over the colour of the school uniform. It’s a tough time — some just pick up and run without thinking. By the time they look at the issues clearly, it’s often too late to go back. Too much water and all that.’ She looked at Riley with what could have been sympathy. ‘Is that the problem here?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You obviously feel bad about this Katie Pyle. I can understand that, although I think you’re nuts if you let it get to you. We’ve all had our Katie Pyle stories, believe me.’ She held up finger. ‘That’s one issue. Then there’s the question of timing. Things have changed hugely over the last ten years. Runaways now… they live differently. They’re not into it for the adventure, not like some were years ago, packing a few things into a rucksack and heading off on the hippy trail to get stoned, drunk and laid. For these kids it’s the only way of surviving. They take bigger risks because they have to; it’s a much nastier world out there, and after living on the streets for a while they don’t always care what happens to them. If they’re lucky they get help. Most don’t want to know because they see it as another form of control.’
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