No Sleep for the Dead

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘Friendly atmosphere,’ muttered Palmer. He nodded towards a door to their right. ‘This way.’ It opened onto a bare, uncarpeted corridor. The first door on the left was to an office containing a desk, wastebasket and a small cupboard. It smelled unused, with a thin layer of dust over everything. It was the same with the next room and the next, each roughly ten by ten and intended for single use.

  They retraced their steps to a door on the opposite side of the foyer. This opened into a well-appointed office, with decent carpeting, pleasant décor and comfortable furniture. A large desk in the centre of the room was blank save for a telephone, a wire correspondence tray, a small clock and a blotting pad. A bookcase stood against one wall, the shelves lined with a selection of volumes interspersed with statuettes and some glassware. A small fridge stood in one corner next to a table holding some glasses and a bottle of mineral water.

  Palmer tried the desk drawers. They were unlocked and full of office desk clutter from notepads and paper to paperclips, spare pens and personal detritus. He was about to flick through them when he noticed the way in which the contents were so evenly scattered. Everything looked just a little too casual, too neat, as if it had been set up to look like a million other desk drawers. Yet it wasn’t.

  He carefully closed the drawers and moved over to the bookcase, where Riley was using a pen to shuffle aside each book, checking for items in between. They were standard office tomes on company law, administration and accounting, all too old to be of current use and plainly bought by the yard. But one looked out of place, with a glossy cover and cantered at an angle to fit into the shelf space. Palmer took it down. It was a hardback edition of ‘A Guide to Russian Imperial Art’, and looked well thumbed, with yellow Post-it notes protruding from the edges of the pages.

  He flicked through it. The notes highlighted an array of icons, portraits, glassware, gold and silver, all elaborately decorated and set against a backdrop of display cases lined with plush material to highlight the rich colours. One or two pages had neat notations in the margins, although they were in Russian and Palmer couldn’t read them.

  Close to the back, he found two slips of paper. One could have been a shopping list, containing references to page numbers in the book. The other was smaller and heavy in texture, with a glossy feel. It had jagged edges, as if torn from another, larger piece. He slipped this into his pocket, and replaced the book exactly as he had found it.

  In the fridge, they found two bottles of lager, a bottle of vodka and one of whisky, with six small tins of tonic and soda. A plastic tray of ice cubes. No peanuts, no chocolates, no little nibbles. Whatever Messrs Radnor and Michael were into, they didn’t lean towards the wild side when it came to alcohol.

  ‘This isn’t where they do their main business,’ said Riley. ‘Is it?’ She was staring round with a grim expression. ‘It’s too blank.’

  ‘Right,’ Palmer agreed with her. ‘It’s a place to hang, that’s all. A cover. No working office is this bare – not when there are two of them and they come in here every day. They haven’t even got a computer. When was the last time you saw an office without one?’

  ‘Laptops,’ Riley guessed, nodding towards a coiled power cable on one of the shelves. ‘Safer than leaving a PC lying around. With the right hardware, they can make a connection to anywhere they like.’ Even the phone had a thin covering of dust. ‘But what about the stuff Jimmy said they bring in from time to time? And the packing stuff in the skips?’

  ‘More cover. My guess is, they move a bit of stuff through here, just to keep it real. If so, it’s probably genuine and clean. I’d like to know where the other place is.’

  ‘Could be they’ve flown.’ Riley thought back to when they had seen Radnor and Michael leaving the building earlier. They had been carrying briefcases and coats, but hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry. But then, if Radnor was who Palmer thought, he would have been trained not to give anything away, and to act normally, especially if he thought he was being watched.

  Palmer walked over to the window. Standing to one side, he peered down to where a couple of forensics officers investigating Gillivray’s death were studying the ground in minute detail, while a young woman took shots with a digital camera.

  He wandered back to the desk. Something about the contents had rung a small alarm bell. It wasn’t simply the layout, which he thought too contrived to be normal, but something else. He slid the top drawer open again, careful not to disturb anything, and studied the interior.

  ‘What is it?’ Riley knew Palmer’s body language fairly well and realised he had noticed something.

  ‘Without touching anything,’ he said, ‘tell me what you see.’ He turned away and stared out of the window.

  Riley glanced at her watch. She was concerned about the accountant arriving early. With only one way in, they’d be caught red-handed if he decided to be overly conscientious today.

  ‘We’ve got time, don’t worry.’

  Riley turned to the drawer and studied the contents. ‘Okay. There’s a stapler, paperclips, elastic bands, pens, pencils, ink cartridges, a book of stamps, scissors, sticky tape, some string, a gold something - could be a tie clip - some Euros, a retractable craft knife, earphones, a pen-torch-’

  ‘Go back.’ Palmer turned and joined her at the desk. He looked down. ‘Where’s the gold tie clip?’

  ‘There.’ Riley pointed to where a small bar of gold with a clip attached to one side was sitting in one corner of the drawer, partly concealed beneath a stapler. The clip was bent back away from the main bar.

  ‘Damn,’ said Palmer, with a faint look of surprise. He’d been concentrating so hard on the layout of the drawer and not leaving clues, he’d missed the obvious. ‘Well, now we know who killed Gillivray.’

  Riley stared at him. ‘Radnor?’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Or Michael. He looks more the type.’

  ‘But why? I wouldn’t have thought they even knew each other.’

  ‘They probably didn’t. You said yourself that Michael was asking questions about us. The visitor’s book would have shown who we were calling on – even if the security guy downstairs hadn’t told them. It’s a short step from there to wondering what we were doing here, and following the trail up to the sixth floor. Radnor must have got worried and set Michael on to them, to find out what they were up to. Knowing Gillivray, he probably told him to shove off. After that, it was a link they couldn’t leave, in case he blabbed.’

  ‘But killing him? That’s a bit extreme.’

  Palmer wasn’t so sure. It went with the background of people like Radnor. ‘It’s what they do, covering their tracks.’

  Suddenly the phone rang. They stared at it, both rooted to the spot. Palmer let it ring four times before reaching forward and picking up the receiver with his fingertips.

  ‘Incoming!’ The voice was Nobby’s, speaking from the front desk. ‘Twenty seconds – half a minute, tops.’

  **********

  Chapter 18

  Palmer replaced the phone and gently eased the desk drawer shut to avoid disturbing the contents. Riley was already making for the door.

  ‘Across to the other side.’ Palmer said quietly. ‘First door on the left.’

  They crossed the foyer to the opposite door. Just as Palmer closed it behind him, he heard a key turning in the front door. He followed Riley into the first office and clicked the door shut behind him.

  They heard the newcomer close the front door, whistling tunelessly as he moved away from them across the foyer. Then came the sound of the door to Radnor’s office opening.

  Palmer turned to look at Riley, to warn her to be ready to go, but she was peering into the wastebasket by the side of the desk. Ten seconds later, footsteps approached and the door to the corridor was flung open. Palmer readied himself, but the newcomer walked on by and disappeared down the corridor and through another door, humming to himself.

  Riley looked at Palmer and mouthed the question, ‘Toilet?’

&
nbsp; Palmer nodded and opened the door, then beckoned Riley to follow, silently thanking the God of weak bladders.

  Thirty seconds later, they were downstairs and crossing towards the desk where Nobby sat waiting, his face drawn with worry.

  ‘Christ, that was close!’ he breathed. ‘I was waiting for him to start screaming blue murder.’ He stood up and came round the desk. ‘I spoke to Jimmy, like you asked. He said you’ve got to be joking about the black guy.’

  ‘Why?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Because a cleaner here was fired two weeks after Azimtec moved in. They complained he was incompetent and implied stuff had gone missing. He was black. When an Asian took over running a sandwich service into the building, they stopped taking food from him. They also insisted they’d only use white cabbies. Jimmy says from other comments they made, if those two on the first floor aren’t card-carrying members of the British National Party, they should be.’

  Back at the car, Riley and Palmer watched the building for signs of alarm. The police presence appeared to have been scaled down, and only one or two uniforms were in evidence around the outside, with an occasional glimpse of forensics personnel. But it was soon clear that if the accountant had noticed any signs of their visit, he was not saying. Even so, there was always the unexpected to take into account. It had been a close call, especially with the police right under their feet.

  Palmer reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper he had found in the art book. It was heavy and greasy to the touch, and crisscrossed with folds. He turned it between his fingers and sniffed at it, then handed it to Riley.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. She rubbed her fingers across the glossy surface, then followed Palmer’s example and sniffed at it. ‘Oil? Linseed or something like it.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Waxed paper. Used by some manufacturers to wrap weapons and ammunition. Keeps out moisture and dirt during shipping and storage.’

  Riley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Either that or they’ve had access to something wrapped in the same type of paper. I’ve no idea what that might have been, but it certainly wasn’t filing cabinets and desk tidies.’ He took back the scrap of waxed paper. ‘By itself, though, it’s not enough.’ He looked at her. ‘Unless you’ve got something?’

  Riley tried to hold a straight face but failed. ‘What?’

  ‘You found something. In the waste bin.’

  Riley grinned and held out her hand. She was holding a slim piece of green metal, two inches long. ‘It was in the bottom of the bin in the empty office. It looked… I don’t know – out of place, so I picked it up. Any ideas?’

  Palmer held it up and studied it, and his face relaxed into an expression of understanding. ‘Yowsa. Big peanut to the lady. If I’m not mistaken, this is part of a spring mechanism from the magazine of an automatic weapon. If it is, Radnor and his friend Michael have got their fingers in a bit more than east European artwork. No wonder they’re so cagey about visitors: they’re moving weapons right through the capital.’ He looked at Riley. ‘Pity we don’t know the name of the couriers they’re using.’

  ‘We don’t,’ agreed Riley, digging out her mobile and a notebook. ‘But I know a man who might.’

  Five minutes later, she thanked Jimmy Gough and handed Palmer a sheet from her notebook. On it was the name and address of a courier company: VTS Transit. ‘They use the same driver and loader each time: it’s a small firm in Hayes. Jimmy says they seem to have a good relationship with Michael in particular. Jimmy never got friendly with them because they didn’t speak great English. Miserable gits, is what he called them.’

  Palmer studied the details Riley had written down. He reached in his pocket and took out the note he’d made from Donald’s call the previous evening. He juggled the two for a moment, then said: ‘Let’s go visit VTS. It’s a solid connection with Radnor, so it’s a start. Then we’ll see about the mysterious Mrs Fraser and her cool dude driver.’

  Szulu wasn’t feeling so cool. His hands were sweating and his head pounding as he gripped a shoebox and walked along the pavement in Chiswick. He had foregone breakfast in favour of an early errand, and was feeling sick with what he tried to convince himself were merely hunger pangs, but which he knew was an acute case of nerves.

  He unlocked the hire car and slid behind the wheel, taking care not to bump the shoebox, which he placed carefully on the floor next to the passenger seat. His mouth felt dry. If he was caught with what was in there, he’d go down for a very long time. But after last night’s near miss at the Gavin woman’s flat, and the feeling he was being watched just a little too closely by both the old woman and Ragga, he’d decided that drastic measures were called for. Which was why he’d called on a friend who ran a shoe shop, among other things. A brief transaction in the stock room, surrounded by piles of trainers, and he now had the means to protect himself against all-comers.

  He shook his head, still debating the wisdom of what he’d done. Was self-protection something to be ashamed of? No way. Especially after learning from the old woman last night that Frank Palmer wasn’t just some private dick, but had once been a military cop. Yet another little fact she’d forgotten to mention. Szulu didn’t know much about army cops, but he figured they were trained in the use of weapons. He’d also read that they were highly rated as official bodyguards, which meant they could react to danger and kill if they had to. No wonder Palmer had been so quick to get on his arse.

  He breathed deeply and wiped a hand across his face. He was certain the old woman was losing whatever marbles she had left. She’d suddenly announced the news about Palmer as if she was imparting a hot tip on the 3.30 at Haydock. Like he couldn’t have done with knowing it before he went anywhere near the guy’s office. Or near the girl, come to that. They were most probably at it, anyway, the two of them, which would make Palmer act all hairy-chested, even if he wasn’t some kind of ex-army super-cop.

  He checked the street, then ducked down under the dashboard and flipped off the thick elastic band holding the lid of the shoebox in place. Inside was a heavy object wrapped in tissue paper advertising a brand of trainers. He peeled back the paper and touched the darkened metal beneath. It felt oddly cold, and he experienced a frisson of fear. According to his friend, who sold more than just shoes, he was looking at a Spanish .22 calibre Llama automatic pistol with a five-inch barrel. His friend had rattled on about capacity and stuff, and even showed him how to hold it steady, but Szulu hadn’t taken much in. He was more concerned with worrying about if, when it came down to it, he’d have the balls to use it.

  *********

  Chapter 19

  VTS Transit occupied the end unit in a row of small, single-storey shell structures on a commercial estate in Hayes, a few minutes from the M4 motorway and to the west of London. Overshadowed by a variety of gaudily sign-posted businesses including double-glazing fitters, panel-beaters, design workshops and printers, VTS was almost insignificant, veiled behind a busy clutter of cars, skips, trailers and tractor cabs. The air smelled of hot plastic, metal and some unidentifiable cooking aromas, and the atmosphere was one of industry and urgency.

  Riley and Palmer approached a glass door marked OFFICE, set alongside a blue roller door with a hand-scrawled VTS Transit sign, as if identifying the occupants had been an afterthought. The roller was three-quarters open, revealing a small warehouse containing a jumble of pallets and boxes, and a scattering of discarded cardboard packing on a concrete floor. Along one wall stood a workbench, and beyond it, in the rear corner of the unit, was a stretch of mesh steel fencing secured with a padlocked door. Inside this cage were several heavy-looking wooden crates. A man was standing at the workbench, writing on a pad. If he was aware of their approach, he did not bother looking up, but continued with his task.

  ‘Hi,’ said Palmer, ducking beneath the roller door. Riley followed, scanning the interior for signs of other staff.

  The man turned and stared at them with a strange lack of c
uriosity. He was tall and bulky, dressed in blue overalls and heavy work boots. A patch of dark bristle covered a weak chin, and his skin had an unhealthy, doughy appearance as if he spent too much time indoors. He looked from Palmer to Riley and back and lifted his chin.

  ‘What you want?’ His voice was heavily accented.

  ‘We’re looking for a reliable courier company,’ said Riley, making the man drag his eyes away from Palmer. ‘A friend said you offered a good service.’ She indicated the estate outside. ‘We were in the area and thought we’d drop by.’

  ‘Friend? What friend?’ The man turned back to his work. He wrote heavily, stabbing the pen onto the paper as if he hated his job and would rather be dissecting small animals with a chisel.

  ‘A place in Harrow.’ She named the building, but it brought no obvious reaction. ‘He said you seemed pretty switched on and reliable.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Switched on? I not know this. We are busy. Big contract take long time. No take on new business.’ If the man had ever attended any kind of training course, he had plainly fallen asleep before they got to the part about customer relations.

  ‘Not enough vans?’ Palmer said, looking around. The dust of the concrete floor revealed a single set of tyre tracks. In spite of the clutter, the building did not indicate signs of a fleet of vehicles.

  ‘Correct.’ The man said slowly, and ripped the form from the pad, folding it into a plastic see-through envelope with a sticky surround. He bent and slapped the envelope onto a large cardboard package on a nearby pallet.

  ‘You ship overseas, I see,’ put in Riley, indicating the form he’d just completed. ‘Anywhere specific?’

  ‘All over. States of America, Europe.’ He shrugged.