NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  Palmer was talking softly on the phone and making occasional notes. Twenty minutes later he dropped the phone onto its cradle. ‘That’s just six of the names of parents I’ve managed to contact. Every one of them said the Church of Flowing Light contacted them after their kids went walkabout, not the other way round. None had never even heard of the Church before.’

  It confirmed what Nikki Bruce and Eric Friedman had said. ‘Which means the Church not only trawled for business…’

  Palmer nodded and finished the sentence. ‘…they could have engineered it – or had a strong hand in drawing the runners in, anyway. Then they set about draining them of information or gossip – or both. Heads we win, tails you lose. Neat.’

  ‘What about the policeman?’

  ‘He wouldn’t talk. Just said his daughter was home and they wanted to forget it. I mentioned DS McKinley and he told me to forget it or he’d slap a harassment charge against me. End of conversation.’

  ‘So now we know where McKinley’s instructions to drop it came from.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Must be. Like I said, totem pole-’ There was a squeal of brakes outside and Palmer went across to the window. ‘We’ve got visitors. Leave that – it’s time to go.’

  Riley joined him. The white van was parked at an angle to the kerb and the black-coated figures of Quine and Meaker were already crossing the pavement. Two other men were climbing from a large BMW and following them. It was the men from the arches.

  Palmer snatched the disk from the tower beneath the desk and stepped over to the office door, pushing Riley ahead of him. ‘Turn right and go through the cupboard door,’ he urged quietly. ‘Don’t look back.’

  Riley ducked through the door and found the cupboard was actually a narrow flight of bare wooden steps leading up to the roof. There was just enough room for one person, and she began to climb as Palmer closed the door behind him, shutting out the light.

  Riley felt around at the top and found a trapdoor. She turned a handle and stumbled out onto a roof space overlooking the back of the building and a series of other rooftops stretching away into the distance. A large, peeling flagpole stood squarely in the centre of the roof space, which explained the original purpose of the steps. Now it was unused, a short strand of rotting hemp flapping uselessly from the pulley at the top.

  The roof surface was laid with a thin screed of loose gravel on a waterproof membrane and cluttered with a series of vents pointing at the sky. Somebody had attempted to start a small garden on a trestle table. Most of the pots were dried to a crust, the remnants of plants withered and black.

  Palmer closed the trapdoor and led Riley across the roof towards the rear of the adjacent building. Stepping over a series of cables and guttering, he used a key to open another trapdoor set at an angle in a slated roof, and ushered Riley inside. Another set of steps disappeared down into the gloom.

  ‘How long have you had this bolt-hole?’ Riley asked him, as he followed her and closed the door.

  ‘Ever since that time I got my office re-arranged with baseball bats,’ said Palmer pointedly, referring to when two former marines were ordered to warn him and Riley off an investigation. ‘It put me off having only one way out.’

  Minutes later they were walking down an alleyway between two office blocks and into a small car park, where Palmer kept his Saab. He opened the door and climbed in. ‘I’m a genius,’ he said, turning the key. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is get away without being seen.’

  He nosed out of the car park and turned away from the main street, circling the block to bring them up a hundred yards away from his office. Riley kept one eye on their rear while Palmer studied the side streets, ready to take off. There was no sign of the BMW.

  ‘Is that it?’ she asked. ‘You lost them just like that?’

  Palmer looked at her. ‘What did you expect – a re-run of Bullitt? This is Uxbridge, not San Francisco.’

  He had spoken too soon. ‘Palmer!’ Riley yelled. A flash of movement behind them indicated that the BMW had shot into view from a side road. The men from the arches must have decided to circle round and cover the rear of the property.

  ‘Got it.’ Palmer nodded calmly and put his foot down, making the Saab engine howl. A horn sounded behind them as the BMW narrowly missed broadsiding a small Fiat nosing out of a driveway, and a flash of lights came from another car as the larger car swerved across the road.

  The streets blurred as Palmer increased speed, and Riley decided it was better not to look at the speedometer. Palmer knew what he was doing. She looked back momentarily and was horrified to see the other car gaining on them.

  They took a mini roundabout with barely a swerve, the suspension thumping briefly over the low-profile circle. Down a long gradual slope with cars on one side and a high kerb on the other, and round a sharp curve with the faintest hint of tyre squeal.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Riley asked. She figured Palmer had some kind of plan in mind, and would have computed the eventuality of a chase some time ago. It was the kind of thing she had come to expect of him, given his training in the military police and his current line of work. ‘Or is the plan top secret?’

  He glanced across at her with a studiously blank look. ‘Plan? What plan? I’m just driving. I was hoping you were going to get the A-Z out of the glove box and navigate us out of here.’

  ‘Palmer!’ Riley nearly hit him. She dived into the glove box. No A-Z. ‘Where do you keep it?’ She turned and peered over the back seat, but the rear of the car was as clean and tidy as the rest of the vehicle. She turned to face the front again as Palmer steered them round a corner with a gentle hint of a slide, correcting the drift with an easy nudge of the wheel. She didn’t know this part of the world, and had no idea where they could go to lose the men following them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Suddenly Palmer was slowing down, allowing the other car to get closer. After the heavily built-up area near his office, they were now driving along an open road with playing fields on one side and large, detached properties on the other, set back off the road.

  ‘Buckle up tight,’ said Palmer. ‘And keep your head away from the window.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to do?’ Riley didn’t like the sound of this. When Palmer went quiet, it was a bad sign.

  ‘See the end of the road?’ he said, and nodded to a line of trees barely two hundred yards away. Behind the trees was a short expanse of green, then a stretch of heavy metal fencing. The road they were on took a sharp right, but was hard to see with the rolling movement of the car.

  ‘I see it.’ Riley felt sick. She suddenly knew what he was planning.

  Palmer hit the accelerator, the Saab jumping forward and catching the BMW by surprise. For a few brief moments they surged away, leaving the other car behind. Then the bigger engine brought it rapidly closer again, and Riley could see the driver’s face quite clearly. It was the knife man from the arches, grim and intent, with the other man mouthing something at him. She turned back to the front and was horrified to see the trees suddenly right in front of them.

  ‘Now!’ Palmer hit the brakes at the very last second and hauled the car round to the right. Riley just had time to brace herself and avoid slamming into the door as the energy of the turn tugged at her body. The Saab tyres squealed and the car drifted across the road and began to bite into the edge of the verge, throwing up a volley of grass, dust and gravel which hammered against the car body. In the wing mirror, Riley caught a glimpse of the other car trying to follow and failing. The cruel scream of rubber seemed to go on for a long time before the BMW hit the grass. Then came a crash, followed by a grinding noise of twisting metal and glass.

  Palmer was already changing down and braking, with one eye on the mirror. ‘You all right?’ he said to Riley without breaking his concentration.

  She nodded and kept her eyes to the front, wondering if he was going to turn back. But he showed no signs of stopping. ‘What about them? Shouldn’t we check?’
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br />   Palmer shook his head. ‘Nobody else was involved – they went through the fence into an abandoned site. They took their chances.’ His voice was calm and cold. Then he added softly, ‘Don’t forget they had Angelina… and God knows how many kids before her.’

  Riley had nothing to say. She knew he was right.

  Chapter 37

  The house where Madge and George Beckett lived was a large Victorian villa situated in a quiet cul de sac half a mile from Chesham town centre. Various owners had added to the building over the decades, giving the place the haphazard appearance of a giant Lego structure. It was screened from the road by a jungle of mature trees and towering rhododendron, and whoever was responsible for the gardens had an obvious laisser-faire attitude to mowing, planting or pruning. The overall effect was dated, yet oddly attractive.

  ‘Stone me,’ said Palmer. ‘Very Agatha Christie. Margaret Rutherford could potter out at any moment.’

  Riley stared at him. ‘Margaret who?’

  ‘An actress my mother used to talk about.’

  As they climbed from the car, Riley felt the tension of the chase beginning to fade. It had been Palmer’s idea to come straight here, partly, he said, to have something to do, partly to stay out of the way of Quine and his friends. Riley had agreed willingly, although she was anxious to see where Katie Pyle had been hiding herself all these years.

  She pressed the lower button marked ‘Beckett’ and waited. Eventually, a large, comfortable shape appeared at the front door and a man looked out at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Not more of you - haven’t you finished?’

  ‘We’re not police, Mr Beckett,’ said Riley. She explained who they were and why they were here. ‘We think it’s possible that the woman you knew as Jennifer used to be known as Katie Pyle. Can we come in?’

  Beckett led them along the hall to a conservatory at the rear, where a grey-haired woman with fleshy arms was folding some laundry. The room was light and airy and furnished with cane chairs, and it was evident by the books and magazines scattered around that they spent a lot of their time here.

  This time Riley explained fully her connection with the missing teenager, Katie Pyle, and that they were looking for some confirmation that she and Jennifer Bush were one and the same. The Becketts stared at her throughout, evidently stunned by the idea that their tenant had been leading a second life.

  ‘We can only tell you what we told the police,’ said George, fiddling with a pair of reading spectacles. ‘She arrived here one day in answer to our advert in the local paper. We liked the look of her, she agreed to the rent… and here she’s been ever since. To us she was Jennifer Bush.’

  ‘She never mentioned anything about where she came from?’ asked Riley. ‘No mention of family… no names of friends?’

  ‘Not a word,’ said Madge. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t our business to ask, was it? She was a lovely girl, very polite, but quiet. She taught some autistic kids, she said, although we never found out where. There’s a couple of places in the area - one over near Rickmansworth - which do that sort of thing.’ She shrugged. ‘To tell the truth, when you get a tenant like Jennifer, it’s like having a good neighbour: you don’t ask questions. It’s like the Barnhams next door.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve lived there as long as we have. But do we know anything about them? Not a thing. They’re friendly, and cheerful enough, but that’s as far as it goes.’ She squeezed out a smile at Palmer. ‘It’s the British way, isn’t it?’

  ‘So in all the time she was here,’ said Palmer, ‘she never had visitors?’

  ‘Not one,’ said George. ‘Quiet as the proverbial. Apart from the music.’

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘Far from it. Sitar… guitar… whatever. Eastern music. I didn’t hear it too clearly, but most days you could pick up a faint tone in the distance.’ He looked upwards. ‘Good walls in this place. Keep out most of the noise. Didn’t do much for the smell, though.’ ‘Stop it,’ said Madge, glaring at him. ‘Honestly, he’s such a moaner. Jennifer - well, you know her as Katie, I suppose - liked to burn incense in her room. It was all part of her thing, I suppose - although that’s speaking with hindsight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we never saw it until the other day, when we went to her room, but one of the policewomen explained it was to do with Buddhism. She had a couple of pictures on the wall, and some incense sticks that she burned in a pot with sand in it, and a couple of other bits and pieces. The WPC said she must have been quite serious about it.’ She stopped and looked at George. ‘I thought they shaved their heads and wore yellow.’

  ‘Saffron,’ said George. ‘They call it saffron. And it’s only the monks who shave. And a few western supporters.’ He glanced at Palmer and shook his head with a feigned air of patience. ‘I’ve tried to educate her in the ways of the world, but what can you do, eh?’

  ‘No tea for you tonight,’ Madge muttered, but by the look she gave her husband, it was plain she was teasing him back. Riley wondered what it took for two people to have such a close and loving friendship after so many years.

  ‘Could we see inside the flat?’ asked Palmer.

  The Becketts exchanged a look. ‘Why would you want to?’ asked George. ‘The police already did that.’

  ‘Just to get a feel of the place,’ interjected Riley, looking at Madge Beckett. She had a feeling the woman would understand. ‘We’d like to know what happened to her. There might be a clue which will help her family.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ Madge nodded immediately. ‘Those poor people - they must be distraught.’ She bustled George out of the way and led Riley and Palmer upstairs, and opened the flat. Then she left them to it, clearly not willing to go inside until she had to.

  ‘Toss the place?’ said Riley, closing the door softly.

  Palmer stood in the centre of the beige carpet, looking round at the walls and furniture. ‘The police will have already done it,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything hidden here, it won’t be easy to find without going into the fabric. And we don’t have the time or justification for that.’

  Riley nodded in agreement. This room was so ordinary and uncomplicated. And it was so obviously a home – or had been. Yet it revealed so very little about its former occupant. Whatever had driven Katie Pyle to become Jennifer Bush, it must have gradually possessed her, until she probably no longer knew what her former life had been. If there was anything of Katie left in her, it had been buried very deep. Maybe it was the only way she could handle it. The only exception would have been the bracelet found on her body, bearing her original name. The final link taking her back to the beginning.

  Riley stared up at a large, colourful poster on one wall, showing a stylised portrait of a woman - or was it a man, it was hard to tell - sitting with legs crossed and dressed in elaborate swathes of cloth and ornate jewellery. It was obviously a deity, although Riley didn’t know which one. And on a bedside table was a heavy square frame with a picture of Buddha. Serene, gentle, smiling out at them. She wondered if the Buddha’s smile was enigmatic or whether his followers would prefer to think of him as all-seeing and wise.

  Palmer picked up an object from a small cabinet and twirled it between finger and thumb. ‘A prayer wheel,’ he said. ‘Well-used.’ He put it down and rubbed a half-burnt incense stick. ‘But no sign of a bible. So why the crucifix on her body?’

  ‘De Haan’s final sign of control? Or is that too petty?’

  He nodded. ‘It would fit. If they knew she was a Buddhist, it could have been a last turn of the screw for her parents.’ He frowned.

  ‘You’re frowning.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen some ordinary places in my time, but never one as plain as this. Apart from the Buddhist stuff, there’s nothing personal here. Not a trace. But there’s no sign of the place having been sanitised. It’s just… ordinary - and the Becketts obviously didn’t notice anything unusual. I bet we could tear this place apart and not find a thing
.’

  Back downstairs, they thanked the Becketts for their time. As they were leaving, Palmer looked at Madge Beckett. ‘Did Jennifer ever wear any jewellery?’ he asked casually.

  Madge shook her head without hesitation. ‘No, dear. Just a bracelet, that’s all. She was very… well, plain in that way. Didn’t seem interested. A pity, really, because she was quite pretty - especially when she smiled.’

  They left and climbed back in the car, where Riley looked at Palmer. ‘It’s hard to believe anyone could leave a life without a ripple like that.’

  ‘Is it?’ Palmer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen professionals who lived that way because they had to. No history, no footprints. Maybe that’s how Katie Pyle decided it should be.’

  He started the car and headed back into London. While he drove, Riley tried Friedman’s number again. There was no reply. She chewed her lip, feeling a frisson of apprehension. Eric Friedman hadn’t seemed the sort to leave his phone unattended, not after all the years spent searching for answers about his son’s death. And after his meeting with Riley, he would surely have been even more attentive, not less. She told Palmer to put his foot down.

  Chapter 38

  There was no reply from Friedman’s room. The receptionist shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him, sorry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Riley. ‘I’ll wait for a while.’

  With the receptionist engaged, Frank Palmer slipped away and found room eighteen on the first floor. The hum of a vacuum cleaner sounded from the level above, but there was no sign of movement anywhere close. As he knocked on the door he also checked for security cameras, but there were none in evidence. He counted to ten and knocked again, then tried the door handle. Locked.

  The fabric of the hotel was old and worn, and had probably remained pretty well unchanged for decades, other than perhaps reducing room sizes by adding internal partitions, if the way in which a moulding in the ceiling suddenly disappeared into one wall was any indication. The doors were solid but old-fashioned, and had been painted over enough times for the panels to have almost merged with the frames. The Yale locks were yellowed and scratched from years of careless guests stabbing with their keys. He checked both ways again, then leaned against the door. There was a lot of give, especially at the top and bottom of the door, and the lock rattled when he pulled back, showing that wear and tear had reduced the effectiveness of the mechanism to near zero.