NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  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.’

  ‘You mean help from the agencies?’

  ‘Sure. They want to be free of all that. It’s very rare you get a kid leaving a good, safe, happy home. Most of them are rotten.’

  ‘But not all.’

  ‘No. Yes. Well, most of them - look at the statistics.’

  ‘Katie’s wasn’t.’ The thought made her wonder about Katie’s parents. She would have to check to see if they were still around. It was a long shot but if anything made them re-surface it would have been the discovery of their daughter’s body. No doubt the police would have searched for the next of kin, and the press wouldn’t be far behind. She would have to move quickly.

  Nikki was staring off into space, ruminating. ‘Let me dig out what I can. To be honest, I think you’ll find it’s all to do with the home.’

  ‘It’s still worth looking, though.’

  ‘If you say so. But so what? What if they trot to church every Sunday and Brownies on a Tuesday evening? Social position, class, religion - none of that guarantees a caring environment. Some of the stories I’ve covered among the so-called upper socio-economic groupings would make your eyes water. Like, if the four-wheel-drive and green wellie set love their kids so much, why do they send them to boarding school from the age of six? No wonder some of them are so fucking dysfunctional.’ The words came out with such venom, Riley wondered whether the reporter was quite as cold as she liked to pretend.

  ‘I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Sure. But don’t hold your breath.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘Sorry – this time I’d better be off. I wouldn’t want to push my luck. These telly people can be so temperamental, darling.’ She smiled and rolled her eyes.

  ‘There’s one other thing.’ Riley was acting on instinct. ‘Have you ever heard of the Church of Flowing Light?’

  ‘It rings a bell. Is it important?’

  ‘It could be, but I can’t tell you why.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll ask around.’

  As Riley walked outside, her phone buzzed. It was Palmer.

  ‘Are you busy?’ he asked. ‘I need your womanly charms.’

  Chapter 17

  The Boothe-Davisons lived in a converted Regency town house just off Portland Place, midway between the BBC and Regent’s Park. Riley spotted Palmer waiting for her in the doorway to a smart building, calmly ignoring the looks of disapproval from two elderly tenants keeping guard over a small Cairn terrier sniffing nervously at a nearby lamppost.

  ‘Sorry to spring this on you,’ he said cheerfully, taking a last drag of a cigarette before flipping it into the gutter. ‘I blagged the address from Donald. I thought it might be useful to have a chat.’

  ‘Why do you need me?’ asked Riley. ‘You think I have some sort of secret power over Air Commodores?’

  ‘It’s not him I’m worried about; it’s his missus. She’s a bit touchy. She didn’t want to put me through at first until I mentioned I knew her husband from our time in the services. Said they didn’t want to talk about their daughter, because it’s all too unsettling.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you believe these people? Kid gone AWOL on the street and she doesn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Could be she’s strung up on something from her doctor. What do you want me to do - distract her while you talk to the husband?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I might get more out of him reminiscing about old times without her running interference.’ He turned and led the way through the front door and into a small lift, where they joined an elderly lady with pink hair and a tiny, aggressive dog with bug eyes and a fancy collar. Neither the lady nor the dog acknowledged Palmer, although the dog sniffed at Riley’s shoes before backing away with a quiver of alarm and a show of teeth. Round one to the cat, thought Riley. Extra food for you tonight, puss.

  The lift stopped and Palmer followed his nose along a carpeted and marble-lined corridor to an impressive, gleaming door with a small bell push. He thumbed the button and waited.

  ‘Yes?’ The door opened to reveal a tall, hawk-nosed man in his fifties, wearing a crisp shirt and cardigan. He was holding a small watering can. He stared out at Palmer with a look of suspicion, a trickle of water dribbling out of the can’s spout onto the floor.

  Riley stared in surprise, but managed to close her mouth in time. It was the man she had seen at the function at Broadcote Hall - the one with the sceptical expression and the dewy-eyed wife. She looked at Palmer to warn him, but couldn’t catch his eye.

  ‘Are you selling something?’ the man demanded. Then he peered closer at Palmer. ‘I know you. You were army, weren’t you?’ He snapped his fingers, recognition and the beginnings of acceptance coming together. ‘Of course… you rang earlier. The chap from the Salisbury ranges.’

  Palmer nodded and confirmed that he had left the army and was now a private investigator. The former officer shook hands, but without any great show of enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s Angelina we’ve come to talk about,’ continued Palmer, and nodded towards Riley. ‘This is my colleague, Riley Gavin.’ He produced the poster, holding it up so the man could see the photo. ‘We’re looking into other disappearances which might tie in with your daughter’s.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet. But she isn’t the first, and if we can establish a pattern, it might help us find out what happened.’

  ‘Who is it?’ A thin, reedy voice echoed down the hallway behind the former Air Commodore, and he shook his head in irritation.

  ‘It’s that chap Palmer, dear,’ he muttered, giving Riley a brief nod without any sign of recognition. ‘And a colleague. You’d better come in.’ He turned and led the way through to a spacious living room decorated with military prints and a large, Constable-style landscape, and indicated two armchairs for the visitors. He put the watering can down on the floor and stood by the window with his back to a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a rear garden. ‘Sorry about the chilly reception. We’ve been plagued by sales bods recently. Slick buggers can talk their way inside an e
lephant’s arse - oh, sorry, young lady.’

  ‘Well, who is it?’ The owner of the voice swept into the room and stopped short, staring at Palmer and Riley as if they had materialised out of the carpet. She wore a plain but expensive dress and court shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun pierced through with a tortoiseshell slide. Riley instantly thought of women who lunch. It was the dewy-eyed wife from the function. ‘Oh.’

  ‘They’ve come about Angelina,’ the man explained flatly. ‘D’you want a drink?’ He might have been unenthusiastic about their visit, but plainly wasn’t about to overlook the common courtesies.

  ‘Tea would be nice,’ said Palmer, smiling at Mrs Boothe-Davison and offering his hand. She took it with a look of surprise, and backed away out of the room. Seconds later they heard the sound of crockery being assembled. Riley tried not to smile. It was a neat move; get the woman out of the way so he could talk directly to the girl’s father.

  ‘You obviously haven’t found any trace of her, then.’ Boothe-Davison stared hard at Palmer and wiped his nose on a chequered handkerchief, then turned towards Riley. ‘Sorry if I seem matter-of-fact about this, but we’ve had a rough time. All this waiting. Can’t help being cynical, you see.’

  ‘About what?’ said Riley. She had debated going into the kitchen with Mrs Boothe-Davison, but this line of talk looked far more productive. If the man became difficult, she could always take his wife outside on the balcony and threaten to throw her over.

  ‘Where she is… what she’s doing.’ He looked at Riley. ‘You ever had anybody go missing? It’s not pretty, I promise you. Bad enough they walk away, without charlatans coming out of the woodwork to feed off your hopes.’

  ‘Charlatans?’

  ‘People promising to find them.’ He blinked with a faint sign of recognition. ‘I’ve seen you before, young lady. You in the forces as well?’

  ‘No,’ said Riley. ‘We almost met a few days ago. Broadcote Hall?’ She waited while the name registered. When it did, he snapped her a second look, this one less friendly. ‘But I’m nothing to do with the Church,’ she added quickly, before he ordered her to leave. ‘I was looking for a friend of mine.’

  He nodded and relaxed, then blinked at Palmer. ‘Will you find her, do you think?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Palmer carefully. ‘I’ll certainly try. I’ll need a briefing first.’

  The terminology seemed to help. ‘Good man. Ah, here’s the tea.’ He watched as his wife entered with a large tray and poured tea, then everyone sat down. ‘All right, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Why did Angelina leave?’ Riley asked. She was looking at the woman as she spoke.

  Mrs Boothe-Davison hesitated momentarily, glancing at her husband before answering. Riley guessed there had been a discussion before their arrival, and she had been snapped into line. ‘Arguments, mostly,’ she said. ‘About all sorts of silly things. Everything was a trial, you see, to be fought over. We wanted her to go to boarding school, but she wanted to stay on in London, at the local school. She wasn’t getting on academically. We felt her school was allowing her to coast. She’s always been a bit airy-fairy, unfortunately, keen on doing her own thing. There was also a bad element… into drugs and all that stuff. She seemed to gravitate towards them. We wanted to take her away from that.’

  ‘Kids that age are rebellious,’ her husband put in, his voice showing signs of softening. ‘They push the envelope… it’s part of growing up. Not that we were allowed to in my day. But we - my wife and I - tried to move with the times and relax the reins a bit. It didn’t seem to work. We had her late in life, you see, what with all the travelling. Foreign postings aren’t the best places to bring up kids. Maybe that’s part of the problem. We’d give anything to have her back.’ He looked at them with a faint mistiness in his eyes and shook his head. ‘Anything.’

  ‘What about the poster?’ said Riley. ‘Who arranged that?’

  Boothe-Davison looked at his wife and made a gesture. It was clearly something she had done, possibly without his agreement.

  ‘The Church,’ said his wife, sitting upright. Her tone gave the organisation instant status. ‘Some friends had heard of their work, and recommended them. We - I - called them and they said they might be able to help.’ The way she looked at her husband showed he had not been keen on the idea.

  ‘Did they say how?’

  ‘Not at first. They said they had people on the ground, here in London, and that if she was still in the area, there was a chance they could find her. We were ready to try anything. We were going to hire some private detectives, but they suggested they could work faster because it was their speciality.’

  ‘So it was you who approached them,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Yes. They were very good… they seemed to know about Angelina. Maybe our friends told them.’

  ‘Did they ask many questions?’

  ‘Lots. They wanted to know all about her… her likes and dislikes… friends… habits. Even things about us as a family. We told them everything they wanted to know. It seemed only reasonable.’

  ‘And you, sir?’ Riley looked at her husband.

  ‘Me?’ He gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘I did what I always do - I went along with it. Answered all their impertinent questions, gave them more than I thought was necessary, to be honest. But what else could I do? We even went along to their blessed meeting the other day. No idea what that accomplished, save them getting a fat donation, although I suppose that’s fair enough, someone has to. We are talking about our daughter. She’s important to us, d’you see? Our Angel.’ He coughed and dried up.

  ‘This donation,’ said Palmer after a few moments. ‘How much did you give them?’

  They exchanged a look, then the husband said, ‘A thousand pounds. I said I’d double it if they found her.’

  ‘Who suggested that figure?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It… came up.’

  ‘It’s a fairly specific figure, though.’

  ‘They told us they were hoping to set up a drop-in centre for the homeless here in London,’ said Mrs Boothe-Davison. ‘I thought it was a marvellous idea. Mr de Haan said they were planning to raise money for it by asking for fixed blocks of donations, but he was trying to come to a reasonable idea of the amount of each. He thought anywhere between five hundred to a thousand pounds would be acceptable, and my husband said we would contribute a thousand.’

  ‘That was very generous,’ said Riley. ‘And he accepted?’

  ‘Damn near took my arm off,’ said Boothe-Davison sourly. ‘I don’t mind the money, to be honest - it’s not as if we can’t afford it. But I’d like to see some action in return, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat loudly, his expression edged in pain. ‘I never thought I’d do such a thing… but you find yourself ready to do almost anything in this situation. We just want to know she’s safe.’

  ‘Have they found anything?’

  ‘So far? Nothing. I had a call yesterday, saying they had some promising news, but nothing concrete. There have been a few crank calls but that’s not unusual, apparently. They said something about how these groups of kids move around a lot in the daytime to avoid the law, which makes them difficult to track down. Then some twaddle about belonging and fellowship and praying. Fat lot of good that’ll do.’ He glared at his wife as if she might contradict him, but she remained silent. Riley wondered if her starry-eyed demeanour at Broadcote Hall had been because of de Haan’s presence, and whether being away from it had allowed a cold dose of reality to creep in. Not, she thought, that it could have been all that far beneath the surface. Forces wives were generally made of stern stuff.

  Palmer stood up. ‘Do you have a recent photo of her?’

  Boothe-Davison nodded and turned to a burnished mahogany side table, where he opened a slim drawer. He took out a photo from a small stack and handed it to Palmer. ‘No need to bring it back,’ he said gruffly. ‘I had several done in case… ‘ He shook his he
ad and said nothing more.

  ‘Ok. Leave it with us.’ Palmer handed Boothe-Davison a business card. ‘My number, in case they call with any news. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘Wait.’ Boothe-Davison stepped forward, looking puzzled. ‘You’re not asking for payment?’

  ‘No.’ Palmer shook his head. ‘It’s not an issue.’

  Outside on the street, he looked at Riley. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ said Riley, ‘they are two very vulnerable people who were carefully lined up and allowed themselves to be conned out of a thousand quid. Or am I being cynical?’

  Palmer smiled coldly and set off along the pavement. ‘You and me both.’

  Riley stared after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Things to do, places to be,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ His tone suggested she wouldn’t be welcome.

  ‘Don’t worry, Palmer,’ she muttered after him, startling another elderly passing local. ‘I’ve got some digging of my own to do.’

  Chapter 18

  The area where Katie Pyle had lived hadn’t changed much over the years, and seeing it again brought back to Riley sharp memories of her visits here when she was covering the story. Situated close by Elstree Studios, where she remembered Katie’s father, John, had been employed as a technician, it was a comfortable, middle-class area of semis and detached houses with large gardens, set in broad, well-kept roads. Although the M1 motorway thundered north barely a mile away on the other side of a section of woodland, it was deeply rural by inner-city standards.

  Riley called Donald on the way and asked him to confirm the address. He came back within minutes. ‘It’s the only one I can find, but it’s not recent.’ Then he asked bluntly: ‘Do we have a story?’ Once he knew there was something solid on offer, he’d be chasing her non-stop for progress reports. But he’d also be an invaluable mine of information should she need it.

  ‘We might,’ she told him cautiously, ‘but I’m not sure where it’s going. It could be nothing, but I’m going to see if Katie’s parents can tell me anything else… like whether they heard from her over the years. It’s hard to believe she’s been around all this time and didn’t make contact.’