NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘Love, you mean?’ This was ground she had trodden before, when she felt herself drawn into the cloying atmosphere surrounding the disappearance of Katie Pyle. The questions were invariably the same: was it lack of love that had caused her to leave? Had her parents and friends been negligent in some way? Could they have done more for her?

  De Haan looked almost affronted. ‘We don’t offer love, Miss Gavin. That would be too simple… and in the end, meaningless. What we offer is something much more lasting.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Too often these unfortunates have had no place, no status, no meaning. They have been educated, it is true - sometimes very expensively. Clothed, of course, even indulged, if mere possessions can be termed an indulgence. But in the end they have been all too often rejected, ignored and, very often, treated with indifference… or worse.’ He blinked, his mouth curling in a faint expression of distaste at the idea. ‘Far worse, some of them, poor souls. What we seek to do is redress the balance, either by bringing them back to their families in a caring and beneficial way when they have strayed or, if they have chosen their own path, by giving them a place in another, wider family. It’s the least we can do.’

  Riley wasn’t sure what to say. Position rather than love; status within a group instead of caring. It was certainly a different approach from the norm, and who was to say they weren’t right? But before she could comment there was a crackle of electronic feedback in the room they had just left, signalling the resumption of the conference. De Haan clapped his hands together with a smile, and what Riley could have sworn was relief.

  ‘I really must apologise,’ he said, ‘but I need to get back. We have a very busy programme to get through.’

  A movement to one side made Riley turn her head. Mr Quine was standing just inside the entrance, hands clasped in front like a praetorian guard. Against the relative gloom of the wooden panelling, his dark clothing made him look even more like a bird of prey.

  ‘Thank you,’ Riley said. She wondered if knowing about de Haan’s organisation would have helped Katie Pyle. Something told her, maybe not. She extended her hand, but instead of taking it, de Haan stepped away. Clearly the audience was over.

  Riley suddenly remembered Henry’s bible. She turned back and retrieved it from the pastor’s grasp. He looked dismayed for a moment, glancing quickly towards Quine, who began moving towards them. In that instant, Riley felt a sudden flicker of menace in the air. Then de Haan coughed and waved a quick hand, and Quine stopped in his tracks.

  Riley had no idea what had just happened, nor why having the bible back was important. But she figured when Henry did turn up, she wanted to be the one to return it to him. If he turned up. Suddenly she was no longer sure that would ever happen.

  She stopped in front of Quine and held out her hand. He stared at her without expression, then slowly handed back her car keys. She got the feeling he was imprinting her every facial detail on his mind for future reference, and the idea made her feel uncomfortable. She nodded coolly and walked past him out on to the drive.

  She got back into the car and drove out to the main road, turning towards London. She felt unsettled by what had just happened; she’d been in the place little more than twenty minutes, and had learned precious little, save that pastor de Haan wasn’t quite what he pretended, and Quine was too spooky for words. What she had confirmed was that Henry belonged to a charity and had been under some stress lately. Or maybe it was just more of the stress he had carried with him all those years ago. It might explain his odd behaviour, such as leaving his job without telling anybody. But it still didn’t explain why he had wanted to see her so urgently, or how he came to know Katie Pyle’s name.

  Odder still was that, in spite of doing good works, the charity wasn’t about to let her anywhere near him to find out. It was irritating but she could hardly force the issue; if Henry was one of them, it was presumably normal for the organisation to want to protect him. She mulled it over for a couple of miles, then pulled into a lay-by and took out her mobile. As she did so, a familiar car drove slowly by, the driver turning to give her a long look. It was the motorist she had seen staring into the engine compartment of his Nissan at the entrance to Broadcote Hall. Maybe he’d tried the power of prayer.

  De Haan and the man called Quine stood in the doorway and watched Riley drive away. The pastor shook his head with a hiss of disapproval. When he spoke it was with a chilly tone of accusation.

  ‘It’s beginning to get out of hand. How did she get this far?’

  Quine seemed unruffled. ‘Pearcy must have spoken to her after all.’

  ‘But you said he hadn’t!’ A bubble appeared at de Haan’s mouth. He checked himself, aware that anger achieved little. ‘If Friedman gets to her as well, everything will be ruined.’

  ‘He won’t.’ Quine casually re-arranged some pamphlets on a windowsill. One was slightly damaged. He tore it slowly in two, then put the two halves together and tore them again, before dropping the pieces in a waste bin. ‘I’ve got it covered.’

  ‘How?’

  Quine smiled, his demeanour that of an equal. ‘He won’t get to her. That’s all you need to know.’

  Chapter 11

  Frank Palmer’s office in Uxbridge hadn’t changed much since the last time Riley had called. In spite of a lick of paint, which had freshened things up slightly, it still exuded a faint air of gloom, as if the walls were in need of a good chuckle. Or maybe it was the ancient, battered furniture and the fluorescent lighting which killed any potential atmosphere at birth. Palmer was standing at the window overlooking the street. He seemed unusually thoughtful and waved a vague hand towards a mug of coffee already waiting for her on his desk. She guessed he had seen her arrive.

  Riley joined him at the window. As views went, she couldn’t see what he found so enthralling.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Palmer turned and sat down.

  ‘This is surprisingly good coffee, Palmer. Did I say there was a problem?’

  ‘First, thank you for the compliment - the Kenyans will be deeply chuffed. Second, I could hear it in your voice when you called.’

  ‘Clever Dick.’ Riley had called Palmer soon after leaving Broadcote Hall. He had just finished escorting his Saudi prince through check-in at Heathrow and was on his way back to the office clutching a cheque and trying to think how to spend it.

  She told him about the phone call from Henry, the follow-up, the events at the hotel at Heathrow and the brick wall she had run into at the Church of Flowing Light. When she told him the background about Katie Pyle he looked sombre.

  ‘Sad business,’ he said. If he was surprised by the fact that she had never mentioned it before, he didn’t say. In fact, he said very little, absorbing everything like a sponge and occasionally drumming his fingers on his knee. It was one of his old de-briefing tricks, leaving her to do all the talking and probably saying far more than she might have intended. In the end he waved his hand in the air. ‘This Henry Pearcy bloke. You said you didn’t know much about his private life; for instance that he was a churgoer. Does that mean he wouldn’t have known much about you, either?’

  ‘We were colleagues, not bosom buddies.’

  ‘And Katie’s disappearance?’

  ‘I never told him. It wasn’t something I talked about. It was hardly my best journalistic moment.’

  ‘You were young and inexperienced. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’ It was Palmer’s usual pragmatic approach: change it if you can, if not, get over it and move on. ‘Not that I’m saying you’re not still young.’

  ‘How tactful.’

  ‘Yet this Henry calls Donald in the middle of the night, looking for you because there’s a mystery bloke trying to contact you. During which, he mentions a missing girl by name - a name you say he couldn’t - shouldn’t - have known.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘Sorry - I need to spell out the blindingly obvious. It gets the grey cells working. Going over old ground often yields surprising nug
gets.’

  ‘Henry mentioned Katie by name, yes. But when I asked if this mystery caller did, he said not. I think that was a mistake.’

  ‘Unless he actually discovered you had been assigned to the story originally.’

  ‘I don’t see how. I only met Henry about a year afterwards. By then it was history. And the paper closed years ago.’

  ‘I see. And this bloke… the one he said was looking for you; no clues about what he wanted other than to talk about Katie?’

  ‘That’s right. Henry said he’d tell me about it face to face. He sounded stressed.’

  ‘Maybe he realised he’d said too much.’ Palmer held her look with a steady gaze, doing what he did best, which was to question everything and tease it apart. She suddenly knew how wayward members of the British army must have felt when he was in the Special Investigations Branch.

  ‘But why would he lie?’ Now she was doing it, only she wasn’t yet convinced that Henry had done anything wrong. It was becoming clear that he’d not been entirely truthful, either about still working or telling her everything he knew about the caller. But maybe his intention had been simply to meet up with Riley and tap her for work.

  ‘Good point. But without him to tell us, or this mystery man turning up, we’re never going to know.’ He yawned. ‘So where do we go from here, boss?’

  ‘You mean where do I go. I wanted to pick your brains, that’s all. I can’t pay you. And as stories go, this might fizzle out into nothing.’

  ‘You don’t have to pay me. Call it reciprocal co-operation. I might need your help one day. We’ll work something out. Cook me a meal, iron my socks… something menial.’ He grinned and stood up. ‘I’ve got some contacts in the Met. I could ask around, see if they’ve got anything on the dead woman. Might be worth having a look round Pearcy’s gaff, though.’

  ‘On the grounds of?’ Riley didn’t bother arguing with him; he’d insist on sticking his nose in whether she wanted him to or not. Besides, he was good at this sort of thing.

  ‘On the grounds that if somebody else found it worthwhile paying a visit, then we should, too. Anyway, people rarely disappear without leaving something behind.’

  ‘But he hasn’t disappeared. He’s with the Church of Flowing Light.’

  Palmer looked cynical. ‘Yeah, right. And whose word have you got for that?’

  Riley felt a rush of relief. At least Palmer shared her feelings about de Haan and Quine – and he hadn’t even met them. She had previously dismissed the idea of going back to Pinner. But Palmer brought with him a wealth of experience and a fresh perspective, and might uncover something she would have missed. She recalled writing Henry’s address on the missing person flyer, and showed it to him.

  He looked at the address long enough to memorise it, then glanced at the photo on the front. He was about to pass it back, then did a double-take. ‘Christ - I know this kid.’ He checked the name. ‘If it’s the same one, her old man was an Air Commodore in the MOD. He’d been given the job of a desk jockey… something to do with procurement.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Definite. I remember the name. He brought her down to a test firing on the Salisbury ranges a few years ago. I was there to boost security and he asked me to look after her while he was out watching squaddies make banging noises. She was a nice kid.’

  ‘According to her family, so was Katie Pyle.’

  Chapter 12

  Riley returned to Holland Park to find another message on her machine from John Mitcheson. Maybe the fates were trying to tell her something.

  ‘Riley? Sorry I’ve missed you again…what a pain. I’m off to Florida for several days on a job. Pity you can’t make it over here. We need to talk. I miss you. You’ve got my number.’

  She punched the stop button with a degree of venom. Maybe this was his idea of psychological torture. What would be next – the sound of him singing in the shower? The rattle of his snoring? She wished she could tell him about the assignment. He would have had a way of reducing things to their bare essentials and cutting though all the froth. A bit like Frank Palmer, only less deliberately irritating.

  She booted up her laptop and focussed on what she had so far. If she didn’t get something in to Donald soon, to show there was a story, he was going to start bothering her. But after five minutes of typing, she had pathetically little on the screen in the way of hard facts, with more conjecture than solid, provable detail. It wasn’t enough, any more than her feelings about de Haan and his spooky colleague, Quine. And trying to construct a story which confessed to her invading a crime scene at the Scandair Hotel was a sure way of committing professional suicide. She leapt up and roamed the flat, making coffee and letting it go cold while the cat vied for her attention, head-butting her whenever she came within range until she got the message. In between strokes, she mulled over what was puzzling her most. If there was a connection between Katie and Henry and his subsequent disappearance, then she still couldn’t see it. The two events were totally disconnected by time and circumstance. Yet there had to be a link.

  She was also bugged by the idea of someone looking for her. Was it someone she had met while working on Katie’s story? If so, he had left it a long time to try and make contact. Unless he knew something about Katie’s disappearance. With Henry out of the picture, would he continue looking for Riley or would the necessity to find her wither and die?

  She picked up the leather bible where she had left it on the coffee table and idly fanned through the pages, hoping perhaps that some divine inspiration might fall from them. But other than the musty book-smell of print and paper, nothing did.

  Something about it was bothering her. It was tugging away at her consciousness like a fish pulling at bait on the end of a line; you know something is there but until it surfaces, you have no idea what it might be. It was something familiar… yet it stayed just beyond reach. The last bible Riley had seen was probably in the church at her father’s funeral.

  After a while she gave up and went for a walk, leaving the cat to finish cleaning itself. Maybe some fresh air would help clear her mind. The sky was the colour of dirty sheets, and it was grey and cold enough to keep people indoors, which suited her fine.

  Riley crossed Holland Park Avenue, dodging with casual ease through a gap in the traffic, then cut through to the park. As usual it was like entering another world - one of tranquillity and continuity, with the whisper of the trees and the scurrying sound of wildlife in the undergrowth. Along the trails between a stretch of beech trees were the usual baby walkers and doggie freaks, today hunched under umbrellas against drops of water falling from the branches overhead. Most were tucked inside fleeces and thick jumpers to ward off the cold wind, the exception being a group of four women, apparently impervious to the elements and chattering away in Russian, pausing only to dart off and retrieve an errant child making a bid for freedom in the bushes. She skirted the pond with its statue of Lord Holland and crossed an expanse of green towards the gardens and Orangerie. A jogger flitted between the trees on a trail to her left, moving with an easy gait. He was sporting a long coat rather than the usual designer wear favoured by local jogging freaks, but Riley doubted anyone would notice; stranger things were seen every day in this area.

  She walked through the Arcade with its 19th century murals, and wandered out to the sports field, where she stood and stared across the open space. Another shower of rain was gusting towards her, so she went back and bought a cup of tea from the park café and stood under one of the archways, sipping it and watching two old men playing chess. They seemed frozen in place, staring at the board as if eyeball contact alone would move the pieces into a winning position.

  The air was cold enough to chill salmon. She dumped her empty cup in a bin and began walking across the park.

  She emerged on to a damp, wind-swept Kensington High Street with no clear thought of where to go next. Home seemed a good idea. She had walked enough. Time to get back and do something construct
ive.

  As she turned to retrace her steps, a rectangle of pale paper taped to a street light caught her eye. It had the forlorn look of another ‘missing’ flyer, with a photo and contact details. This time the subject was a small terrier named Ralph. It wasn’t only humans who went missing, she reflected. And no matter how big or small, they each lefet behind a vacuum in somebody’s life.

  Then she felt as if she’d been punched in the chest.

  The flyer.

  Of course. The flyer she’d found in the coffee shop about Angelina Boothe-Davison, and the leather bible from Henry’s room. Suddenly the connection was blindingly obvious. She wanted to race back and confirm it with her own eyes before it slipped away.

  Her mobile rang. It was Palmer. ‘Walk across the main entrance to the park and don’t look round,’ he said calmly. ‘Turn up Abbotsbury Road and keep walking.’

  ‘Why? What the hell are you talking about, Palmer? Anyway, I’ve just thought of something.’

  ‘Never mind that. You’ve got company.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A white van’s been dogging you since you left home. Two men inside, and neither of them look friendly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of them followed you through the park on foot… a tall bloke in a long coat. I don’t think they’re after your autograph.’

  Chapter 13

  It took Riley a real effort of will not to turn her head and stare. The jogger she had spotted through the trees earlier? But what the hell was Palmer doing here? He must have been behind her all the way from the flat. Or Uxbridge.