No Help For The Dying rgafp-2

by Adrian Magson

  When he turned towards the bed, he saw the man Riley had described as Eric Friedman lying across the mattress. He looked asleep, with his face on the pillow and his arms outstretched. But there was something too still about his body. Palmer knew he was dead, but he checked all the same, touching his fingers to the man’s throat. Cold skin, beginning to harden.

  He pulled out his mobile and dialled Riley’s number. When she answered, he told her what he had discovered. ‘I’ll go through the room but I wouldn’t bet on finding anything.’

  ‘Why?’ Riley was obviously trying to sound casual for the receptionist’s benefit, but finding it hard. ‘I’ll give it another five minutes, then I’ll come back to the office. I’m sure Mr Friedman will be in touch — he’s probably just gone sight-seeing.’

  It took barely a minute to find that, other than Friedman’s body on the bed, the room had been sanitised; no clothes, no paper and no luggage. Palmer had seen it all before. When professionals knew the authorities were going to come calling, they removed anything which could leave a trail.

  He left Friedman where he was. It wouldn’t be pleasant for them, but the safest thing to do would be to let the hotel staff find him. That was unlikely to be before morning, which meant there would be nothing to connect Riley’s visit to the dead man in eighteen the day before. He stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him and wiping the handle. Then he turned and followed the signs for the fire escape stairs. Thirty seconds later he was back on the street waiting for Riley to emerge.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, as they returned to the car. She looked pale beneath her make-up and Palmer guessed she had taken a liking to Eric Friedman and sympathised with his plight. Whether dying of cancer or not, it was a miserable end for a man who had already suffered so much.

  ‘At a guess,’ he replied grimly, ‘I’d say he was smothered. It didn’t look as if he put up much of a fight, either. There was no disturbance in the room.’

  ‘He was ill — he wouldn’t have been able to, poor man.’ She turned to him in shock as an awful thought occurred to her. ‘They must have followed me here.’

  But Palmer shook his head with absolute certainty. ‘Don’t even consider it. You don’t know that. They could have been watching him for days. He was on borrowed time, even without the illness.’

  ‘But why kill him now?’

  ‘There’s only one reason; they’re cleaning up behind them.’

  Chapter 39

  Unlike Riley and Palmer’s previous visit to the Church of Flowing Light’s headquarters, the gates to Broadcote Hall were fastened by a heavy steel chain and padlock. There were no signs of activity among the trees screening the mansion, and no sounds emanating from the direction of the house.

  Riley fingered the padlock but it was too solid. That did away with the idea of using a hair pin, she thought sourly. Where was a decent hacksaw when a girl needed one?

  ‘I could give you a lift over the top if you like,’ Palmer offered, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Dream on,’ said Riley, studying the railings either side of the gate. ‘Anyway, I bet I can climb better than you.’

  ‘I bet you can.’

  Riley looked at him but Palmer was keeping a perfectly straight face. ‘This place will be clean, too, take my word.’

  ‘Of course, there’s no way,’ she said cuttingly, ‘that you could be wrong?’

  ‘Hardly, let’s be honest.’

  ‘But it’s still worth a look.’

  ‘You betcha.’ He flicked the cigarette away and went for a stroll along the verge, casually kicking at tufts of grass and studying the wall. Two minutes later he was back. ‘Cheapskates,’ he said critically. ‘The wall only runs for a hundred yards, then it’s iron fencing. My old granny could jump it.’

  ‘Pity she’s not here, then,’ said Riley, following him back towards the end of the wall. ‘We might need her help if de Haan and his mates turn up.’

  The wall ended suddenly, as if the original owners had run out of funds to build more or had given up on the effort. A simple fence of rusting iron posts joined by simple square section iron rods now took over. Natural vegetation formed the main barrier, consisting of a thick layer of blackthorn. The ground on the other side was a tangle of dried grass and decaying deadwood.

  Palmer found a stretch where the blackthorn had thinned out. Grasping the metal upright, he vaulted over. Not to be outdone, Riley followed, giving him a triumphant look before pushing past him and leading the way through the trees towards the mansion.

  The thick grass formed a protective carpet underfoot, and by avoiding the branches and deadwood littering the ground, they were able to reach the trees bordering the parking area in front of the house with minimal sound. At the first flash of reflected light from the windows, Palmer tapped Riley on the arm and motioned her to stop.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘Study the lay of the land. I was in the Girl Guides, you know.’

  ‘Jeepers.’ Palmer made a yuk-yuk sound and slid away, hunkering down behind a large cypress to watch the house, while Riley hid behind a laurel and peered between the branches. There were no lights in evidence from the building, and no cars in the parking area. The main doors were closed, too, something she had not seen on her two previous visits. Was that a good sign or a trap waiting to be sprung on the unwary?

  ‘It’s too quiet,’ Palmer said softly. ‘Not even the birds are singing.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Riley. ‘They’re an endangered species. Anyway, we’ve come clumping along disturbing everything — what do you expect?’

  Palmer nodded but said nothing, leaving Riley to reflect that he was right; it was too quiet.

  ‘Thanks, by the way,’ Riley commented after a few minutes.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For sorting out the flat. I appreciate it.’ She’d heard him on the phone in his office, arranging for the work to be completed within a week. She hadn’t had a chance to thank him until now.

  ‘No bother. I’d feel the same if it was me. Come on.’ He stood up and walked across the car park and tried the front doors. Locked tight and too solid to force. He turned right, eyeing the ground and first floor windows in turn.

  Riley decided to go left, looking for a second door or a set of French windows. If Broadcote Hall was like most large houses, there had to be one somewhere. Finding a door left open was a slim chance, but depending on whether de Haan and his men had planned on ever coming back, they may have been a touch casual in their departure.

  She was on the opposite side of the house, where the windows overlooked a large expanse of lawns and flowerbeds, when she sensed someone close by. Expecting to see Palmer coming up behind her, she turned in time to catch a blur of movement as somebody charged out of the tree line and bore down on her. Before she could react, she was hit a stunning blow on her shoulder and sent spinning against the wall of the house, her head smacking into the brickwork.

  Riley felt nauseous and tried to get up, her head pounding from the blow she had received. She was vaguely aware of a dark form standing over her, and of a man’s heavy breathing. Whoever it was wore a long dark coat. Quine? No, the outline was too broad. Meaker, then. His mate. The unknown quantity. She waited, wondering what he was going to do. If she tried to get up now, he’d simply slap her down. She scrabbled with one hand for some gravel off the path, the only weapon available to her.

  Suddenly Meaker turned and was gone.

  Riley climbed shakily to her feet, puzzled but relieved at his sudden departure. The gravel thing only worked in corny films, anyway. Maybe he’d been spooked by Palmer moving around on the other side of the house. She was about to retrace her steps to warn Palmer that the American was on the loose when she heard a distinct noise from inside the building. She turned and continued her search for an entry. Palmer would have to look after himself.

  She hurried along past more windows, and was on the point of giving up
hope of finding a way in when she came across a single glass door set into a recess. Peering through the small panes, she saw it opened into a small room fitted out with rows of books and a large desk. The door was locked tight.

  She cast around and spotted a piece of rockery the size of a football which had rolled loose from the edge of a border. She debated the wisdom of what she was about to do for about three seconds, them muttered, ‘Ah, what the hell.’ With her head still pounding and with a swift prayer to the god of all ethical burglars, she picked up the boulder and heaved it through the glass close to the handle.

  The noise was spectacular, showering the carpet inside with shards of glass and splinters of broken framework. She felt around for the handle, and with a quick twist, felt the retaining rods slip free of their moorings at the top and bottom of the door. With a push she was inside.

  The air was musty and heavy, like an overheated room left too long undisturbed. She listened, straining for a telltale sound while trying to ignore the heavy-metal beat of her heart. This was a bad idea. She should have waited for Palmer.

  She stepped out of the study and walked down the centre of a corridor, dark with heavy panelling. The carpet underfoot deadened any sound she might have made save for her breathing. On her left was the meeting room where she had first seen de Haan. She peered round the door, but the room was deserted, save for a few cardboard boxes with bibles and literature spilling from them, and a roll of parcel tape. It looked like someone had been interrupted in the middle of packing. The chairs were still stacked against the wall as they had been before, except for one in the centre of the room, lying on its side. She felt her pulse quicken, and the bruise on the side of her head began to throb with a vengeance. Attached to the chair back was a length of frayed blue nylon string, bizarre and out-of-place.

  She heard a noise from overhead, muffled and distant. Riley swallowed, wondering why her throat had chosen this moment to dry up, and wishing she had some water. That and a couple of pain killers and a nice cup of tea…

  Whatever the noise had been, it clearly meant someone — or something — was in the building in spite of the locked gates, doors and windows. A cat maybe? An opportunist thief? But waiting down here wasn’t going to answer the question.

  In the empty reception area, there were more boxes. The stairs were to her right. She went up two at a time, the effort making her head even worse, and pulled out her mobile, intending to ring Palmer when she got to the top. Failing that, she could always throw it at whoever was up there.

  As she reached the top step, she heard what sounded like a cry of pain from a corridor to her right. She followed the noise to a door that was slightly ajar, allowing a shaft of light to cut through the gloom of the corridor, followed by the sound of… someone humming?

  Riley was ready to run, feeling all kinds of nameless horrors lining up in her imagination. Whatever was on the other side of the door was no cat. It had to be human.

  She pushed the door and stepped into the room.

  It was about fifteen feet square and virtually devoid of furniture, apart from a single bed and cabinet against one wall. On the floor lay a heavy glass decanter on its side, near a ceramic bowl and a syringe, all no doubt knocked off the cabinet, the crash she’d heard earlier.

  On the bed, a body moved, and an arm flopped over the edge, pale, thin and clutching at air. Riley started forward, her stomach tense. Then, from the edge of her vision, a dark figure swam into view from behind the door. Unable to turn away in time, her mobile was knocked from her hand and sent skittering away across the bare boards.

  Chapter 40

  Palmer barely heard the first noise from the inside of the house. Then came footsteps, heavy and obviously running — too heavy for Riley — followed by the crash of breaking glass. He swore fluently and set off at a sprint, abandoning caution. If it was Riley, the noise she had just made would have been heard in the next county. Seconds later he skidded along the back of the house and found the smashed window, but there was no sign of Riley apart from a set of muddy footprints across the carpet inside.

  Instinct and training made him stop and hold his breath. One of his first instructors had had a mantra which said: two seconds of listening is worth thirty seconds of useless action. More importantly, he recalled the man saying, it might also save a careless Redcap from having his head bashed in. Palmer took a deep breath and stepped across the study and out into a corridor, trying to get his bearings. The house was a warren.

  He heard a faint scuff of noise from upstairs. Footsteps? Then what could have been a shuddering moan which stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. He pushed through a half-open door and found himself in the large room where he had last seen de Haan. He noted the chair in the centre, and recognised its purpose. A door to his right was open, and the room beyond looked familiar. The reception area. The main stairway. He ran through the door and heard a creaking of floorboards from above his head. Taking the stairs at a run, he reached the landing with a main corridor leading off either side. He hesitated. Left or right?

  More sounds, the clatter of something hard hitting the floor. Then a scrabble of movement, fast and violent.

  ‘Riley!’ he yelled.

  ‘Palmer!’ Riley’s voice, shrill, from somewhere down to his right. He sprinted along the corridoruntil he saw an open door. He stopped, taking in a snapshot of the scene beyond.

  Riley. Kneeling on bare floorboards by a single bed. She was hunched over, her hair hanging down over her face. A glass decanter lay on he floor close by. Other than a single bed and bedside cabinet, the room was bare, little more than a prison cell. He took in the bed, with a huddled shape dressed in pyjamas, the material soiled and crumpled.

  ‘Riley?’

  She didn’t respond. She was breathing heavily, holding herself across the middle, her shoulders shuddering as if in pain. Hurt or winded? Her mobile lay nearby, the back of the casing several inches away. Palmer tried to make sense of it as he stepped through the door. Had she fallen? Tripped? Was the decanter on the floor significant? Then another shape floated into view and stood before him, dark and still, and his questions were answered.

  Quine.

  Palmer breathed softly, allowing the tension to ease away. Whatever was about to happen here required concentration and fluidity. There was a click and Palmer saw the glint of a knife in Quine’s hand. Bugger. This man was a whole different box of tricks from the youth in the alley near Waterloo. He was fitter, looked far stronger and had the added motivation of needing to get past Palmer without stopping.

  Quine seemed to do an odd shuffle dance on the bare boards, a deadly Astaire caught in the sunlight through the window, the knife blade flicking back and forth like a lizard’s tongue. He still wore his long black coat and rimless glasses, and his soft boots seemed to move a millimetre above the floor, a deadly figure almost without substance.

  Palmer stepped towards him, making the man shuffle backwards, light as a drift of smoke. He glanced down at the blade to see if there was any blood on it. Riley’s blood. But it looked clean. He shook his head. He needed to stay focussed. Instead, he edged sideways, putting himself between Quine and Riley. Whatever happened now, Quine wouldn’t get past. Not unless he was very, very good.

  Then Palmer realised Quine had engineered the move, planning on Palmer’s protective instincts to out-manoeuvre him. With a brief smile, the man stepped over to the door, the knife held at head level in front of him, daring Palmer to approach.

  ‘Sorry, Palmer.’ Quine’s voice held a note almost of regret, and Palmer was surprised by how soft it was. There was none of the aggression he had expected, no taunting, no vicious undertone. Except for the knife, he could have just stepped out of a pulpit or a radio studio. ‘I’d stay and chat, but I have an appointment.’ He flicked his eyes over to Riley on the floor. ‘She’s not hurt… well, nothing but her pride, anyway.’

  ‘Why? Are you saying you don’t kill women?’ said Palmer. ‘Or is it just g
irls?’

  Quine’s face gave nothing away. On the other hand, who was going to prove he had killed anybody? If the man was as clinical in his habits as he was in his dress and manner, then he would have covered his tracks very carefully. To have killed Riley here and now would have been too open. Too obvious.

  ‘Who’s that on the bed?’ said Palmer. He would feel a lot happier about Riley when he saw for himself how she was. He stepped towards Quine, closing the space between them. But Quine mirrored the movement and stepped into the doorway. His way was now clear to flee.

  ‘A nobody,’ said Quine. ‘Don’t worry about him. I doubt he’s going to be as lucky.’

  ‘Henry Pearcy.’

  ‘You got it.’ Quine looked at the knife and his hand seemed to drop as though suddenly tired. ‘I should have slotted him at the outset.’ He smiled, his thin face creasing like a mask. ‘I bet you know that word, don’t you, with your background? Poor old Henry gets slotted for — what? Straying beyond the lines of his responsibilities, shall we say? Not the loyal trooper we thought he was, I’m afraid. Just can’t get the staff these days. It wasn’t me who did him, though.’ His eyes glittered behind the lenses and Palmer decided the statement wasn’t as casual as it might have sounded. Quine evidently wasn’t stupid enough to go for the classic stand-off confession. He knew better. Things could always go wrong. The laws of inevitability.

  It made him wonder about Quine’s background. Slotted was a military term, slang for dead. Killed. Shot. It figured. It would have taken someone with a military sense of duty to have performed the tasks Quine and his colleague, Meaker, had undertaken. A clean-up squad with a perverted distortion of the old military credo: if it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t, paint it. For ‘moves’, read ‘slot’.

  A phone trilled somewhere close by. Quine looked down at his pocket and shrugged. ‘Oops. Sorry — business calls. Things to do, places to be.’