NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘Well, stranger things, sweetie. Stranger things. Keep in touch.’ He rang off to answer another phone warbling in the background.

  Riley found the street on her third try, misled at first by a new sports centre now masking the approach to the road. She parked and walked up a brick-paved path to the familiar double-fronted house. It sported vertical blinds instead of curtains and a revamped fascia and remodelled porch. The garden was different, too, with signs of recent landscaping including newly laid turfs and flowerbeds, and a small cherry tree with straggly branches.

  The woman who came to the door was tall and slim, and several years younger than Mrs Pyle would have been. She had a mobile phone in one carefully manicured hand. Riley introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit.

  ‘Susan Pyle? She moved a few years ago,’ said the woman with a sigh. ‘As I’ve been telling a stream of police and other reporters. We bought the place from her after her husband died. She’d pretty much done nothing to it.’ She nodded towards the garden. ‘That was a jungle; you wouldn’t believe the weeds we had to blast out. My husband hired one of those flame-thrower things - ghastly machine, it was - and that was just so he could see where the roots were. And the interior was simply Gothic… well, that’s how I describe it, anyway. So much dark cloth and furniture… I’m amazed the poor dear wasn’t blind with having to peer through the gloom all the time. And the smell!’

  ‘Bad, was it?’ said Riley with studied patience. She wondered if this woman had ever been through anything half as bad as Susan Pyle. Undoubtedly not, otherwise she’d have shown a bit more sympathy.

  ‘It was so thick you could cut it. And I’m not surprised; after all those incense sticks she burned night and day, the ceiling was black with the smoke. You can still smell it when the house gets hot. I swear it’s been absorbed into the brickwork.’ She shook her head and looked belatedly guilty. ‘I’m sorry - I’m not being very kind to her, am I? We heard about her daughter, what with the press and police still thinking she lived here. Poor woman must have had a terrible time.’ She turned away and picked up a slip of paper from a glass-topped side table inside the porch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know her new address, but this lady apparently does. I had my husband print them up because of all the callers. She’s a friend from way back, I believe, and lives down the road, although she doesn’t see callers. You’ll have to ring. But I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’

  Riley thanked the woman and returned to her car. The piece of paper held a number and name. Gail Hunter. When she dialled the number it was picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Miss Hunter?’ said Riley. ‘I’ve been told you can help me contact Susan Pyle.’

  ‘Are you the press?’ The woman’s voice sounded tired but grudging, as if she had been fielding questions for days but didn’t want to simply slam the phone down. ‘Only, when is this going to end? I really don’t think-’

  ‘Mrs Hunter, I know Susan already; I met her when Katie disappeared. I was one of the reporters assigned to it. I think I was the only one she spoke to.’ Riley let that sink in, then continued: ‘If you say Susan won’t want to see me, that’s fine. But would you ask her, please? I think it’s important.’

  ‘Really? To whom?’

  ‘I’d still like to find out what happened to Katie.’

  There was a long pause before Gail Hunter spoke. ‘Give me your number. If she wants to see you, I’ll let you know.’ There was no room for negotiation in the voice and Riley knew instinctively that there was no point in pushing. As soon as she gave the woman her number, the call was disconnected.

  On the way back to town, her phone rang. She expected it to be Gail Hunter, calling to say there was no point to a meeting, but it was Nikki Bruce. Riley pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine.

  ‘I haven’t got the info about the other deaths yet, but I’ve just been on to a colleague who does social issues,’ said Nikki. ‘He says this Church of Flowing Light run soup vans around London, mostly into places the other agencies won’t go. They sound a tough outfit. They don’t use women and they don’t take any crap. Sort of benevolence with an iron fist by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. They dish out hot drinks and blankets to kids who have nowhere to sleep, but they don’t make a big thing about it. He thinks they have a place out in the Cotswolds but he doesn’t know where. That’s it, I’m afraid. They sound pretty genuine.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re probably right.’ Riley cursed inwardly. Soup vans. God, how emotive could a charity be? You didn’t get more down and personal than dolling out bowls of soup to the needy. And who would question their right to be anywhere, no matter what the time of day or night? ‘I’d better tell Frank.’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Frank Palmer. He’s the investigator friend I told you about. I wouldn’t want him charging in without warning.’

  There was a silence for a few moments, then Nikki said, ‘That wouldn’t be Frank Palmer, late of Her Majesty’s Redcaps, would it? Tall-ish, thin-ish, vague-ish - seems half asleep a lot of the time?’

  Riley was surprised. There couldn’t be two men with such similar descriptions. ‘You know Frank?’

  ‘Yes. I met him when I was doing a piece about bullying in the army. A colleague gave me his name and he supplied some background about the Special Investigation Branch. He promised to call me afterwards.’ Her tone indicated that he hadn’t.

  ‘When was this?’ said Riley. Putting Nikki Bruce and Frank Palmer together in her head was hard work; they were alike as chalk and cheese, and she couldn’t see Palmer putting up with a wannabe television performer, news or no news.

  ‘Nearly three years ago. It’s a good thing I’m not of a frail disposition; a girl could be quite insulted. Actually, Frank’s all right - but if you tell him I said that, I’ll report you to the Press Council.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, Frank never airs his laundry in public-’ Riley stopped, an image springing out of nowhere into to her mind. ‘God, I’m so stupid!’ The words came out before she could stop them.

  ‘What?’ said Nikki. ‘Are you all right?’

  White vans and tinted windows. She was seeing a rolling flashback of images and remembered where she had seen the white van for the first time. A white van, anyway. It had been there, right at the beginning, only it hadn’t registered at the time because she’d been distracted with something more important. White vans are like black taxis - part of the scenery, but invisible. And this one had been at Heathrow… right outside Henry’s hotel. She remembered it now: it had been parked there when she’d arrived, next to the police car. Then, as she was leaving, a white van with tinted windows had pulled out of the hotel car park right in front of her. If it had penetrated her consciousness enough to question it at the time, she would probably have assumed it was a laundry van. After all, why else would a commercial vehicle be calling at a hotel at that time of night if it wasn’t a service delivery? Only they weren’t making a delivery… and the package hadn’t been bed linen.

  ‘Riley?’ Nikki’s voice pulled her back to the present. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve just remembered something. My problem is going to be proving it.’

  Back at the flat, she fed the cat and picked at her laptop while sipping a glass of red wine. It was a moot point which one would give her a headache first, but she needed the familiarity and comfort. In between sips she updated what she had learned so far, along with random thoughts as they occurred. With a bit of hard work, it would eventually begin to distil down into the coherent outline of a story.

  Tired with the keyboard and with too many gaps in the data that she had no way of filling, she switched off the laptop and slumped onto the sofa with her wine, hoping relaxation would generate some clear thinking. It would be some time before Nikki got back to her with details of the other deaths, so there was nothing to do but wait. Tomorrow she would bring Palmer up to date with what sh
e had so far. When the cat oozed onto her lap and began purring, she was asleep within seconds.

  It seemed only moments later that she was being dragged out of a fractured dream by the phone. She had a crick in her neck from the sofa’s low back and a mouth made gummy by too much wine. The cat was nowhere to be seen, and the readout on the VCR told her it was five in the morning. Christ, this was becoming too much of a habit. She leaned across to the phone and snatched it up.

  ‘Is that Riley Gavin?’ The woman’s voice was soft, with a faint rural burr, and her tone suggested she was deliberately keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard.

  ‘Yes. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m calling on behalf of Susan Pyle. Katie’s mother.’

  Riley sat bolt upright. God that was quick. She stood up and made for the kitchen. She had a feeling she was going to need some coffee. ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry it’s so early, but… she insisted. We heard you were looking for her, and she just woke up and said she didn’t want to wait. Can you come here?’

  ‘I’m sure I can. Where are you?’

  ‘Near Dunwich in Suffolk. Minsmere Lodge. We’re right on the coast.’ The woman gave brief instructions, as if the place was so well known it would be impossible to miss. ‘I’m Mrs Francis, by the way. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Riley grabbed a pen and notepad and scribbled down the address. ‘When can I come? Later this morning?’

  ‘That would be best, I think. The earlier the better, in fact.’

  Something ominous in the woman’s tone made Riley straighten up, hand poised above the notepad. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Forgive me. I hate to tell you this, Miss Gavin, but Susan’s sick. Very sick.’ Her voice dropped further, as if weighed down by ineffable sadness. ‘She’s not expected to last very long.’

  Chapter 19

  Minsmere Lodge was a squat Edwardian building sitting at the end of a narrow, sandy lane which appeared to have run out of tarmac and destination within earshot of the sea. Other than the faint wash of a close tide and the occasional shriek of gulls dipping and swooping across the dunes, it wore a cloak of tranquillity beneath the thin morning sun, as if nothing here could possibly disturb its end-of-nowhere remoteness. The air was sharp with the tang of salt and a faint undertone of something not quite fresh.

  Riley parked to one side of the gravelled drive, which was vacant save for a rotting old Rover with flat tyres parked to one side. A cat curled up on the bonnet and a bicycle leaning against the side seemed to confirm that the vehicle wasn’t about to go anywhere soon. She approached the house and touched a bell in the wall next to the front door, partially covered by a hanging growth of ivy. The colour of the original green paint was faded by the salt sea air, and around her feet the flagstones were all but covered in a layer of fine, wind-blown sand.

  The door clicked open to reveal a small, neat woman in a starched blue overall. Riley guessed this was the woman who had called her.

  ‘Miss Gavin,’ the woman said softly in confirmation, and stood to one side. She didn’t offer to shake hands, but closed the door and led the way silently across the small reception hall into a cramped study. It was a masculine room, cluttered and stuffy and smelling faintly of old paper. All that was missing was the heavy tick of a grandfather clock. The woman indicated an armchair and said, ‘I’m Mary Francis. I live in with Susan. Thank you for coming. Would you like some tea?’ She smiled and disappeared before Riley could decline, closing the door softly behind her.

  Riley took the opportunity to check her phone for messages. She had called Palmer’s mobile before leaving, to tell him of her trip to see Susan Pyle. Unless Mrs Francis possessed an unfortunate sense of the dramatic, her brief explanation had left little doubt that Katie’s mother wasn’t long for this world.

  ‘She might know something useful,’ Palmer had agreed. In spite of the early hour, he’d sounded surprisingly awake, and Riley thought she detected the noise of traffic in the background. Somehow the idea of a dawn jog round the park didn’t quite fit her vision of Palmer, but she decided not to enquire. ‘What about the father?’

  ‘He died some years ago.’ Riley went on to tell him about Nikki’s call and what she had picked up about the Church of Flowing Light and their charitable activities. She also mentioned remembering the van she had seen outside the Scandair hotel.

  ‘How sure are you?’

  ‘It was there, but I don’t know how significant it might be.’

  ‘Be handy if we could get confirmation – even if only to eliminate it.’

  ‘I was thinking I might ask my friendly hotel employee if he can help. It could be entirely innocent, of course.’

  Palmer was more pragmatic. ‘It was there, so worth checking. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get a closer look at the two boys who’ve been following you. Remember to watch your back.’ He rang off, leaving Riley wondering what would happen if Palmer and the two men came too close. They might discover that he wasn’t quite as laid-back as he liked people to think.

  She wondered what she would find when she finally got to see Susan Pyle. The last time they had spoken had been some time after Katie’s disappearance, when the most obvious mechanics of the search had begun to scale down. The posters had produced no response other than one or two crank calls, and short staffed, and with no obvious evidence of foul play, the police had been forced to move their attention to other cases. Even Riley had been forced to call it a day by then, and had called on the couple to explain her position. It had been a difficult meeting; John Pyle had been stiff and resentful, although his wife had seemed more understanding. Or maybe, thought Riley with hindsight, she had been too weighed down with grief and internalised sorrow at life’s wickedness to put up much of a fight anymore.

  The atmosphere in the house had been heavy and sombre, not much helped, she now recalled, by the dark décor - especially in Katie’s room - and the lingering smell of incense. It hadn’t meant much at the time because of the circumstances, but now the new occupant of the house had reminded her, she found herself reliving those first impressions. Odd, really, because neither John nor Susan Pyle had seemed the sort of people to use incense, nor had they come across as naturally sombre in their everyday lives, in spite of the tragedy which had suddenly overshadowed them.

  And now it looked as if it had called yet again, with the discovery of Katie’s body.

  ‘How long is it since you last saw Susan?’ The study door had opened without a sound, and Mrs Francis’s voice dragged Riley sharply back to the present. The older woman was already juggling cups and saucers on a side table, and she paused until Riley nodded, before adding milk to a cup.

  ‘Nine years - maybe ten.’ Riley wondered to what extent Katie’s mother would have changed in ten years.

  ‘Susan’s condition,’ Mrs Francis began carefully, as if reading her thoughts, ‘has not been good just recently. I know something of the history, but she has never been too keen to talk about the circumstances surrounding her daughter. I just wanted to clarify that.’

  ‘I understand. How long has she been here?’

  ‘She bought the house about four years ago, following the death of her husband. I was taken on as a residential companion a year later.’ She looked at Riley over her cup and a flicker of distaste touched her face. ‘They prefer the term ‘carer’ these days. Such a horrible word in my view. It sounds so false. My role is - was - more as a companion than anything.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m a qualified SRN, so it usually involves a degree of nursing as well as companionship. But some people are better served by having another person about the place.’

  ‘Like Susan, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. She told me a little about Katie, but it was very difficult for her. It must have been a sad business… but I suppose you’d know more about that. In spite of that she’s been happy here, Miss Gavin. Very happy… until
recently. She has had cancer for some years, you see. We thought it was in remission, but then she went downhill very suddenly.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need, my dear. It’s part of life. I do know she never got over losing Katie.’ She stared out of the window. ‘In a way, it was as if she tried walking away from the past instead, hiking along the coast day after day. I never knew anyone who could walk the way she did. I couldn’t keep up, so I stopped going. After a while she seemed to take a better hold on things; she settled and seemed to find some peace. Then one day about three months back, she was out walking on the shore and got caught out in a storm. She fell and broke her ankle, but managed to make her way up the beach. She began to get well, then about four weeks ago something upset her terribly and she suddenly got worse.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Mrs Francis took a sudden deep breath, and flicked an imaginary crumb from her overall before folding her hands into her lap. ‘She was home here, doing really well. Still weak, of course, but improving. The consultant at the hospital said she simply needed plenty of rest, although, to be honest, I think we all knew it couldn’t go on indefinitely. Then, one day when I was out, two men arrived.’

  Riley felt a chill of apprehension. ‘What men?’

  ‘Susan described one as thin, as if he didn’t eat much. And very hard-faced. Dressed in dark clothing, like those characters in the movies. Like… what was it, Matrix or something. We watched it on video once. The other man stayed in the car.’

  ‘What did this man want?’

  ‘He demanded to know where Katie was.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Never seen her.’ The man in the stained army surplus coat shook his head at Palmer and turned away, eyes already slipping into half-focus. He was as thin as a slate and just as grey, with an unnatural greasy sheen to his skin, and didn’t react when Palmer slipped some coins into his hand. Yet another refusal in a long line of similar responses.