NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘He must have been on foot.’ Palmer stared at the pavement. ‘If he didn’t have it at the hotel, he’d parked it somewhere else. What did you say it was?’

  ‘An old Rover. Running boards, crank handle, the lot.’

  ‘There’s your answer. A classic – and easily identifiable. Anyone looking for him would only have to find the car to know he wasn’t far away.’

  ‘But the Church must have tracked him down by some other means.’

  ‘Unless they were already watching him. If they found out he’d been talking to Eric Friedman, it would be more than enough reason to want to shut him down. It explains why they got heavy-handed at the hotel.’

  ‘But would Henry have been thinking clearly enough to hide it? He’s hardly the ready-made secret agent type. The more I think about it, the more I get the impression he was simply running. All he wanted from me was… well, I can only guess.’ She thought about what Friedman had told her. If Henry really had been suffering acute pangs of conscience at what he’d discovered, he would have wanted to unload the information he had on to someone he knew could do something with it. And that would be reason enough for Quine to be after him. Given what Henry had been doing, according to Friedman, he probably had enough information in his possession to light up Broadcote Hall with blue lights for weeks.

  ‘Thinking straight or not, he’d still have enough sense to keep the car handy. He’d have needed it for the following morning, to get to the airport. You said he was flying out somewhere.’

  ‘But he was already at the airport. And the Scandair is served by a shuttle bus like all the others.’

  Palmer pulled a face. ‘You’re right. But the parking around Heathrow is vast. There’s the official long-term and short-term car parks, the off-site private parking companies - they’re spread out all over the place - and God knows how many smaller firms. It could take weeks.’

  Riley gripped Palmer’s arm. ‘What about the hotels? Some of them have parking arrangements. At least, the ones I’ve used do. The fees are a bit steep, but at least the car doesn’t get dumped miles from anywhere in a gravel pit and forgotten for two weeks.’

  ‘That narrows it down. But which one? There are dozens.’

  Riley smiled triumphantly, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘I don’t know. But I know a man who might. And there’s something else I want to ask him, too. Remember the white van I saw the night Henry disappeared? I bet he saw it, too.’

  ‘Good thinking, Batwoman. Let’s hope his memory’s still good.’

  She dug out her mobile and dialled the Scandair. After a brief chat, she switched off and nodded to Palmer. ‘He’s in tomorrow morning.’ She yawned. ‘I could do with a bath and bed. Where’s the nearest hotel?’

  ‘Forget it. You can doss down at my place as long as you don’t mind the settee.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. Anyway, I need to pick up the car then arrange for the flat to be cleaned and redecorated.’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t face it. I’ll be fine eventually, but I can’t go back there until it’s spotless again.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘I know someone who’ll do that for you. I’ll call him tomorrow. In the meantime, we can pick up the car on the way to my place. I’ll even throw in coffee and toast for breakfast at no extra charge.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. But if you snore, I’ll kick you out.’

  Riley looked at him and blinked, then slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Palmer, stop it,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Christ, you’ll have me sobbing any minute.’ She took a deep breath and added, ‘Ok, deal. Have you got a shower? I prefer showers to baths. And how about some shampoo for colour-treated hair… and conditioner? I do like my conditioner.’

  Palmer sighed theatrically. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have bothered.’

  Chapter 35

  On the way back from the Boothe-Davisons, Palmer got the taxi to stop close to Riley’s flat. He walked by and checked the area carefully before allowing her inside to speak to Mr Grobowski about the cat. While she was doing that, Palmer drifted upstairs for a brief look. He came back grim-faced, then went outside to make a quick check of her Golf.

  Riley found him standing by the car, staring into the night. His stance radiated suppressed anger.

  ‘You all right, Palmer?’ she asked. She was surprised, and wondered how many facets there were to this man’s character. He appeared to take so many things in his stride, yet here was one instance when he had not.

  He nodded and opened the door before she could produce the key, proving he hadn’t lost all of his humour. ‘The cat all right?’

  ‘The cat’s getting fat and learning Polish,’ she said. ‘And Mr Grobowski wants to call him Lipinski, after a violinist.’

  ‘Better that than Paderewski.’

  In spite of everything, Riley slept surprisingly well, and at eight in the morning, they drove out to the Scandair, where the reception area was busy with a group of late arrivals, fighting over a tangle of luggage. Palmer spotted a woman pushing a cleaning trolley along a corridor and dodged after her, beckoning Riley to follow.

  ‘Is Andy around?’ he said heavily, flashing his wallet. His manner said routine cop asking routine questions and don’t be awkward.

  The woman looked too tired to care, brushing away a strand of greying hair that made her look older than her years. She pointed up at the ceiling. ‘He’s on the first floor, fixing a leak.’

  Riley thanked her and followed Palmer up the first flight of stairs, hoping the policeman she’d seen before wasn’t waiting round the corner. They pushed through a connecting door and walked along the corridor listening for sounds of maintenance work. As they passed an open door someone swore fluently and there was the sound of metal clattering on a tiled floor.

  Andy was crouched under a sink unit with the guts of the piping exposed. A liberal layer of hotel towels was soaking up a spreading pool of water, and all the signs were that he was losing the battle as a steady drip-drip of water fell to the floor.

  Riley tapped him on the shoulder and he ducked out with a start, his head narrowly missing the sink. ‘Yeah? Is that Mario-?’ When he saw who it was, he pulled a face. ‘Oh, it’s you. I thought you were the plumber. He was supposed to be here forty minutes ago.’ He stood up and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Sod it - there’s nothing more I can do. Bloody thing’s knackered.’ He eyed Palmer with a wary look, then wiped his hands on a spare towel. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You had visitors the other night,’ said Riley. ‘The night of the fracas. They weren’t guests but they were allowed upstairs. When they left, they were carrying a parcel.’

  Andy looked between them, eyes shifting nervously. ‘I wouldn’t know. I told you, I didn’t come on until later.’ He glanced at the gap between Palmer and the door as if judging his chances of escape. Palmer smiled and moved to block the way .

  ‘That’s right,’ Riley agreed. She could feel Andy’s tension and wondered what he was worried about. ‘So you did. But your colleague told you about the visitors, didn’t he? And you decided not to say anything to the police.’

  Andy sighed and shrugged. ‘They were only Holy Joes, you know? What was the harm? They said they were covering the whole strip, replacing stocks, like.’

  ‘They?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Two blokes, he said.’

  ‘Is that normal, replacing bibles?’

  ‘It happens. People nick anything these days. The night manager said they wanted to do the empty rooms while it was quiet, to avoid getting in the way.’

  ‘I bet,’ muttered Riley. ‘And he let them?’

  ‘Yeah. He said it was ok as long as they went up the back stairs.’ He looked worried, as if realising he had broken another, deeper confidence and was going to regret it. ‘You won’t say nothing, will you? He’s not supposed to let anyone in who isn’t a registered guest. But like I said, they were only replacing bibles.’

  ‘Do you know what these men looked like?’ Riley aske
d.

  Andy hesitated, then said: ‘I can do better than that. I can show you the tape.’

  Riley gave Palmer a surprised look. ‘Tape?’

  ‘Yeah. The CCTV tape - from the front of the hotel.’

  ‘Didn’t the police take it?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘No. They checked the system, but it wasn’t working, so they assumed it was bust then, too.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘So bleedin’ clever, aren’t they?’

  ‘Let’s see the tape,’ said Riley.

  ‘Sure.’ He shrugged and led them back downstairs to a small office containing a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet and a video player. He hit some buttons and watched as the screen flickered, then walked over to the door. ‘I’m going for a fag. I narrowed it down to the one you want, to save time. You got two minutes.’

  They watched the screen. The picture was poor quality but clear enough to make out details of vehicles in the car park outside. A shuttle bus passed silently to one side, heading away from the front entrance, leaving a man and a luggage trolley in the background. As he moved out of shot a white van nosed into view and stopped against a shrubbery. The van was unmarked and had dark windows. Two men got out and walked round to the rear of the van, then came back, one of them carrying a cardboard box. Both men wore long dark coats and had short-cropped hair.

  ‘Bibles,’ said Riley. She pointed to the man with his hands free, a glint of light showing off the lenses of his spectacles. ‘That’s Quine. The other must be Meaker.’

  The two men walked out of shot. Palmer hit FAST FORWARD and they watched as other vehicles and pedestrians came and went in double time. When they saw a movement near the white van, Palmer hit PLAY again. The film slowed to show Quine’s colleague helping another man, holding him by the arm. This man was dressed in a jacket and trousers, and seemed unsteady on his feet. Then Quine came into view, looking briefly over his shoulder.

  ‘They must have come out of a side door,’ said Palmer. ‘Quick and neat.’

  The door opened behind them and Andy’s head appeared. ‘Seen enough?’

  Riley nodded. ‘Plenty.’ She knew he must have already watched the tape to stop it in the right place, and had drawn his own conclusions about what was happening to the third man. ‘So did you. And you haven’t told the police?’

  He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t, could I? We’d all be in the shit.’ He appeared to reflect on what had happened. ‘He’s ok, isn’t he? I mean, they definitely left some bibles around, so they must have been on the level, right?’

  Palmer switched off the video and slipped the cassette into his jacket pocket. ‘Where would a guest park a car they didn’t want left in the normal car parks? This one’s an old Rover - a bit like an old gangster car from the thirties.’

  ‘If they didn’t use a private place, there’s a small pound behind the Sheraton along the road. We use it, so do other hotels.’ Andy’s eyes glinted with interest. ‘Does the car belong to the bloke who disappeared?’

  ‘It might. Don’t worry - we’re not going to steal it. We just want to take a look inside.’

  ‘Give me some dosh and I’ll even tell you the number of the bay it’s parked in.’

  Palmer stepped forward and stared at him. The youth backed off with a sickly grin. ‘Ok – no need to get heavy. You’ll have to drop my mate something, though. He’s the security guard on the pound.’ He picked up the phone and made a brief call, then replaced the receiver and gave them directions. ‘The guard will be waiting at the gate. He’ll give you five minutes. Much more and someone might start asking questions. Bay fourteen.’

  The Rover was a dark, glossy burgundy, and although it had evidently seen better days, was still eye-catching among the other modern cars in the pound. The security guard, a young, brooding Jamaican, showed them through the gate, then stood waiting, solid and sombre in a maroon-and-grey uniform and heavy boots.

  ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ he warned them. He’d already pointed out the security cameras on poles. ‘People don’t normally come and look round the inside of cars unless they plan on boosting the CD player.’ He handed them the keys. ‘If anyone asks, you forgot your credit cards or something, yeh?’

  Riley thanked him and walked across to the car. When she pulled open the door, it emitted a strong smell of old leather, which reminded her of her Uncle Ray’s car, an old Riley. He’d had it for years, according to her mother, and was where her name had originated. She thanked God Uncle Ray hadn’t driven a Mini. ‘I always wanted a car with real leather seats,’ she said, sliding behind the wheel and taking a deep breath. It made her old Golf seem like a shoebox in comparison.

  Palmer walked round to the passenger side and climbed in. He flipped open the glove box and checked beneath the floor mat, but all he found was a service manual and an old map book. He got out to check the boot, leaving Riley to scour the rest of the interior. She leaned over and slid her hands down the sides of the rear seats and under the rear carpets. These were modern additions with strips of Velcro to keep them in place, and made a loud ripping noise when she pulled them up. There were a few dried leaves and bits of gravel, but nothing else.

  She went over it again from back to front, conscious that the security guard was watching impatiently. She concluded with the sun visors. Uncle Ray always used the visors to hold his revolving parking disk, she recalled, back when they used such things.

  The floppy disk was held on the back of the visor by a rubber band. She slipped it out and checked the label. There was no title, but she had a feeling that didn’t matter. She climbed out, locking the doors.

  ‘Time to go, Palmer,’ she said quietly, giving him a quick smile of triumph. ‘And you the big search expert, too.’

  ‘You got lucky, that’s all,’ Palmer said dryly. He led the way out of the compound and back to the Golf, handing the security guard a note on the way.

  Back in his office, Palmer switched on his PC and indicated the tower underneath. ‘While you’re checking the disk, I’ll get onto Dave about your flat.’

  Riley looked at him, her mind half on the disk and what secrets it might hold. ‘Dave? You mean your friend the builder. He must be a good one, to ask him that.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Don’t worry - he’s seen worse.’

  Riley slid into his chair and inserted the disk. Her heart was thumping and she wondered if she wasn’t getting her hopes up prematurely. For all she knew this could be nothing than a bunch of recipes for Indian cuisine. Not that she thought Henry was into cuisine in a big way.

  Chapter 36

  The machine whirred and clicked, and suddenly Riley was staring at a database of names, addresses and figures. At first glance it appeared to be a basic system, devoid of any fancy drop-down menus or graphics other than a series of generic headings. But on closer examination she noticed a number of highlighted boxes which she guessed were probably hypertext links to other parts of the original database. When she clicked on them, which should have instantly taken her elsewhere in the data, nothing happened. She tried a few more, but with the same results. It was as if part of the puzzle was missing. Or had been left out.

  She scrolled down and recognised one of the names: James Van de Meuve. It was one of the victims Nikki had mentioned. In the next box was a host of family data recording parents, ages, names, income and other personal details including the de Meuve’s positions on the board of at least three Dutch companies. The final box in the section made Riley go cold. Against James’s name was the single word: DECEASED.

  ‘Palmer, look at this.’ Riley hit EDIT and FIND, and entered Angelina’s name. It came up with a mass of Boothe-Davison data, complete with the Air Commodore’s service history, postings, courses and professional connections. No information about what might have happened to her, though. Next she entered Katie Pyle’s name. A split second later she was staring at Susan and John Pyle’s names, address and a mass of other family details. At the end of her file was another highlighted box, but no indication of wha
t her fate had been. It came as no surprise that a cell had been inserted with Susan Pyle’s current address in Dunwich.

  She sat back feeling numbed. The amount of stuff in this small section alone was amazing; the entire database would have been stunning. They must have literally scoured an enormous number of sources for this level of detail.

  Palmer whistled. ‘How big is that file?’

  Riley shrugged. ‘It’s only a 1.4 megabyte disk, so this is probably a fraction of what they have. There are cells linked to other stuff - probably databases or other files - but they don’t go anywhere. It’s as if Henry lifted sufficient to hand over without all the other material. But there’s probably enough on here to create a solid case against the Church to get an investigation started.’ She watched as the screen scrolled upwards, each batch of text and figures summarising the details of a family’s life, a twisted balance sheet in an annual report of criminal behaviour.

  ‘If nothing else, it proves they were gathering personal information. But that by itself might not be enough.’ He stared hard at one section of the screen. ‘Interesting. One of the parents is a senior officer in the Met.’ He took out a pen and notebook and began scribbling down phone numbers while Riley scrolled down the list. ‘I want to check something. Give me a few minutes.’

  ‘Fine. Where’s your email connection?’

  Palmer pointed to an icon on the screen, and Riley clicked on it to begin the dial-up. Seconds later a copy of the file was on its way to Donald Brask and another copy to her own email. ‘Just in case we get separated from the disk,’ she explained neutrally. She would have to get a new laptop to access it, but the insurance company would have to take care of that.