No Sleep for the Dead

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘You’re not dodgy,’ she protested fiercely. ‘That decision by the MOD was a travesty. Those men took advantage of you and the military let you take the fall.’

  He chuckled, making goose-bumps stand up on her neck. ‘God, it’s great to have you on my side. Any chance of getting together – say, for a drink?’

  Riley groaned. ‘John, your timing couldn’t be worse. I’m watching someone right now and can’t just… ‘ She chewed her lip. The idea of having Mitcheson within reach yet being unable to do anything about it was agonising. But would it be so bad to leave Szulu for a few hours? Surely Palmer wouldn’t object, since he knew their circumstances. She thought about it. Dammit, Palmer wasn’t her employer. ‘I’ll pick you up.’ There. Decision made. If Palmer didn’t like it, he could charge her with dereliction of duty or whatever the military cop jargon was.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Mitcheson chuckled again. ‘But forget the pick-up. I’ll get the Underground to Acton Town or somewhere and grab a cab.’

  ‘That’ll take hours.’

  ‘No, it won’t. I’ll hi-jack it. See you later.’ He rang off, leaving Riley wondering if Mitcheson’s friend in Immigration had got his facts right about how long it took to spot an unwanted entry.

  In the privacy of the small garden behind the hotel, Szulu looked at Lottie Grossman and felt something akin to pity. It wasn’t as if she looked that great normally, but right now, she looked like shit. Pale and trembling and surrounded by pumped-up cushions, she resembled a patient in a retirement home. When she’d tried to pick up a glass of water just now, she’d almost dropped it. Whatever was ailing her hadn’t worn down her nasty streak, though.

  ‘I tell you I’m all right,’ she hissed, her lips barely moving. ‘I’ve felt worse than this after a good night out.’

  ‘Well, you certainly don’t look all right,’ he muttered. ‘You sure that doctor knew what he was doing?’

  Her fingernails scraped on the edge of the table as she leaned forward and pushed a slip of paper across to him. ‘He gave me a prescription for some pills. I need you to find a pharmacy for me.’ She nodded at a plastic bottle by her glass and added, ‘He left me those, just in case. Too many quacks forcing pills down our throats these days.’ She coughed, bringing a spasm of pain across her face. It added to the odd tilt her features had taken since he’d seen her last night, until it was like looking at a distorted reflection in a bad mirror. ‘I want to up the pressure on Palmer and the girl. Make them sweat.’

  ‘Yeah? You sure about that? He nearly caught me last time.’

  In spite of her obvious ill health, Lottie Grossman managed a sneer, her features twisting even further. ‘What’s the matter? Scared of him, are you?’ Her voice was taunting, and suddenly Szulu wanted to reach out and kick her, ill or not.

  ‘I’m not scared of no-one!’ he snarled, before pulling himself together. Getting angry with this old witch would mean having to face the Ragga.

  ‘Good,’ she cooed. ‘Glad to hear it. You’d better be off, then. See if you can get the girl alone. Only this time,’ she reached out and slid one of her long fingernails across the back of his hand, making him want to snatch his hand away in revulsion, ‘this time, you can tell her,’ she thought for a moment, eyes pinpoints of pure wickedness. ‘Tell her Lottie’s back.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He felt relieved that she didn’t want him to do something worse. It was a sign that he needed to be done with her as soon as possible and get back to some normal work.

  ‘It will do for now. She’ll know what it means. Now go.’

  Szulu crossed the lawn towards the hotel, feeling Lottie Grossman’s eyes drilling into his back. He wondered what kept her going. Hate, most likely. If so, it wasn’t doing her a lot of good. He dismissed that and tried to figure out how best to pick up on the Gavin woman’s trail and deliver the message. Maybe he’d try Palmer’s office first. If they were together, it would be two birds with one stone and all that stuff. As long as he took care to stay out of Palmer’s reach; the guy was way too quick for his liking. Then he remembered the .22 Llama in his car. A glimpse of the business end of that would slow the ex-military cop down. It wasn’t a big gun but only a fool would be willing to take a shot they didn’t have to. And Palmer most likely knew better than most what the effect of a .22 slug could be.

  As he passed the front desk, he caught the receptionist looking at him. He automatically flashed a smile, but she turned away, giving him the cold shoulder.

  ‘Hey – what’s up?’ he said. Damn. He thought he was getting somewhere there, too. This was turning into a bad day all round.

  ‘You had a visitor,’ she told him without looking round. ‘You just missed her.’

  ‘Yeah? Who?’ He frowned. Who the hell knew he was here? But the receptionist had already turned to answer the phone.

  When he got outside, there was nobody around. Then he heard a car start up across the road from the hotel. It was a VW Golf. As it pulled away from the kerb, he saw a woman with a familiar shock of blonde hair in the driver’s seat.

  Szulu ran for his car.

  Frank Palmer studied the rear of the VTS unit from the cover of an abandoned council road maintenance depot, pondering on the amount of foot traffic between VTS and the SkyPrint premises further along. Most of the time it had been the boss man with the white shirt, accompanied by faces Palmer hadn’t seen before. He assumed the faces were there to lift and carry, and this was borne out when they left VTS bearing boxes and packages Palmer was too far away to identify. On two occasions the big lug in the romper suit had walked out of the rear door of VTS carrying tied bundles of paper. He had dumped these into a large metal drum on a patch of open concrete. Judging by the scorch marks on the drum, it was used regularly as an incinerator, and Palmer wondered what it was they were so keen on torching, rather than consigning to the dustbin.

  Apart from the activity here, there was also a lot of movement at the front of the building. He could guess what was happening: the VTS birds were clearing up and getting ready to fly. They had clearly been sufficiently shaken by Palmer and Riley’s visit to know they were on somebody’s radar. The SkyPrint premises were probably squeaky clean, and would therefore pass scrutiny. Given enough time for any problems to blow over, they could set up another VTS operation somewhere else without being compromised.

  The rear door to VTS opened and the man in blue overalls appeared. He was carrying a bottle. He approached the large metal drum and emptied the contents inside, tossing the bottle into the grass nearby. He reached down into the drum, and there was a muffled whump and a thin ball of smoke lifted into the air. Moments later, the atmosphere around the drum began to shimmer as heat built up and flames licked hungrily around the rim. Giving the drum a kick, the man returned to the building, slamming the door behind him.

  Palmer watched the smoke billow across the open ground, and fought a powerful urge to leave his hiding place and see what he could rescue. Burning papers meant they must be worth destroying. But rushing over there might entail coming up against Romper Suit and his friend. He had attended sites in the past where documents had been torched, and he’d always been surprised by how much survived the flames. Given that the man in overalls hadn’t even checked to see if the bundles thrown into the drum had been untied, he was content to take his chances and see what could be salvaged later.

  He shifted his position to ease a touch of cramp and tried not to think of strong, hot coffee. He’d give it another hour. By then, they might have decided to pack up for the day.Then he’d slip across for a closer look.

  Riley looked objectively at her flat. Untidy, maybe – even lived in if she was being generous – but nothing a quick, ten-second tour wouldn’t put right. It wasn’t as if John would be expecting a scene from Homes & Gardens. Too bad if he was.

  She heard a burst of classical music coming from downstairs. At least they wouldn’t need violins to go with the atmosphere: Mr Grobowski was probably cooking up a huge
meal for the community centre members while enjoying his favourite fellow compatriots’ musical compositions.

  She plumped cushions and nudged the place into order, then put on some coffee. If John’s was a flying visit, they might have enough time to go out for a meal. Then she thought about Palmer. She should call and tell him she’d bunked off. With the thought came a renewed twinge of the guilt at not sticking with Szulu and finding out more about the mysterious Mrs Fraser. But it was too late now; as her mother used to say, make your decisions by all means, but live with the consequences and get on with it.

  The cat wandered in and sat licking his lips in a meaningful manner, and she decided not to make him wait. There was no saying how he’d react to Mitcheson’s presence, anyway, so if he was going to slink off in a huff at having another male about the place for a couple of hours, he might as well do it on a full stomach. She spooned a generous portion of meat into his bowl and left him to it, then returned to the living room and opened her laptop.

  Now they had a link between Radnor’s office and Gillivray’s death – no matter how tenuous it would seem to a defence lawyer – they might be able to fill in any missing pieces. Donald Brask might be able to help there. It didn’t sound as if the police had made any connections between the sixth and first floors of the building yet, but the journalist within her hoped that would be the case for some time while she and Palmer carried on digging. All they had to do was forge a provable link without showing they had broken into Azimtec’s offices in the process.

  A knock at the door made her jump. She saved her work and closed the laptop, trying to control the smile that had been hovering since getting Mitcheson’s call. As she reached out to open the door, the defensive part of Riley’s brain wondered how Mitcheson had got inside without buzzing. If he’d met Mr Grobowski on the way in, surely she would have heard the elderly Pole’s booming voice.

  The inner warning came too late: as she tried to close the door again, Szulu burst in on her, dreadlocks swirling about his head.

  This time he was carrying a gun.

  ***********

  Chapter 22

  ‘Who else is here? Tell me right now!’ The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth in a rush as he drove her away from the door, the gun barrel level with her face. His eyes had a wild, intense look, as if he had been winding himself up into a state of readiness before coming up here. ‘Don’t shit with me, you hear!’

  Stunned by seeing the gun, Riley back-pedalled until she felt the sofa behind her legs, barely managing to prevent herself from falling. Whatever else you do, she told herself frantically, stay on your feet.

  ‘There’s no-one here,’ she replied. ‘Just me. What do you want?’

  Szulu reached out and grabbed her shoulder with his free hand, looking around the room and pulling her close, then swinging her in front of him like a shield. When he seemed satisfied that nobody was going to jump on him, he let her go and shoved her away. He continued to wave the pistol, though, nodding to himself and pacing about, his breath whistling between his teeth.

  ‘You Riley Gavin, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. You listen, you hear? That’s all you got to do and you won’t get hurt. I got a message for you. You and the ex-cop – what’s his name – Palmer? Yeah, him. Where is he, by the way?’ He glanced around as if expecting Palmer to materialise from nowhere.

  ‘He’s working,’ said Riley, eyeing the gun. Instinct told her that if Szulu had come here to shoot her, he would have done it by now and be gone. But she wasn’t about to take any chances. She looked around for a weapon – anything – but couldn’t see anything even remotely useful against an armed man. Damn. So much for tidying up. Why couldn’t she have the odd baseball bat lying around? She edged towards the door, which was still open from when he’d charged into the flat. She was surprised she could think so clearly, even though he was here, right in front of her, especially after the other evening. She instinctively grabbed her laptop, the repository of all her work. If she could get close enough, she could be through and downstairs. Providing he wasn’t much of a shot, she might be able to get out into the street and yell for help.

  ‘Wait!’ He lunged forward, raising the gun. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s my laptop, you moron,’ she retorted, anger giving her words added venom. ‘You’re not having this, gun or no gun. It cost me too much.’

  Szulu pulled an incredulous face. ‘You what? You think I’ve come here to steal your precious laptop? Where the fuck you get that idea? You think I’m some cheap crack-head?’ He blew out a mouthful of air, hugely indignant. ‘Cheeky bitch!’

  A sound came from the kitchen, and Szulu spun round, dragging the gun with him. ‘Who’s that? Come out here!’

  The cat edged past the door frame and looked at him. Instantly sensing danger, it arched its back and bared its teeth, hissing at Szulu like a high-pressure steam valve. Szulu lowered the gun to cover the perceived threat, his finger tightening involuntarily on the trigger. There was a loud click and he swore angrily and stared at the gun in dismay. ‘Shit!’

  ‘No!’ Horrified at the idea that he would shoot the cat - even by reflex - Riley hurled the laptop with all her strength, aiming for Szulu’s face. It connected to the side of his head with a sickening smack before tumbling to the floor with a crash. Momentarily stunned, Szulu let go of the gun. It landed on the tip of the barrel, spun in the air, then hit the floor again and skittered towards Riley, ending up at her feet. Szulu, clutching his face and cursing, seemed to have temporarily forgotten the weapon, and blundered about the room, disorientated.

  Fuelled by a mixture of fury and fear on behalf of the cat, which had disappeared back into the kitchen, Riley scooped up the gun in one smooth movement. Coming up to a half crouch, she steadied her knees the way she had seen on television and cupped her right hand with her left, supporting the weight of the gun. She was surprised by how light it was, and how warm to the touch after Szulu’s hand.

  She lifted the gun and peered down the short barrel at Szulu’s face, now turned towards her with a growing expression of horror. If she hadn’t been so scared, it would have been comic. He raised one hand and shook it frantically at her, palm outward to ward off the inevitable.

  ‘No, lady – don’t do that!’

  ‘Why not?’ Riley felt a sudden release of anger. A part of her brain wanted to give way to logic and reason, and listen to the tiny echo that was Palmer’s voice, telling her why shooting someone was such a bad thing, why it was easy to do yet so hard to live with. But a greater part wanted to feel the trigger move beneath the deliberate pressure of her finger, wanted to feel the recoil and see the barrel jump, and witness the man in front of her realise that he had taken a step too far and with the wrong person; that there were consequences to forcing your way into someone’s home and threatening them. She felt the pressure give way as the trigger moved. God, it was going to be so easy…

  Then Szulu’s face changed and his eyes shifted to a point just over her shoulder. A scuff of movement came from behind her and a powerful hand moved past her shoulder, clamping down on hers and gently but firmly forcing the gun away until it was pointing at the floor.

  ‘Easy does it.’ It was John Mitcheson, the familiar smell of him suddenly close by, his presence enveloping her like a soft, warm blanket. She allowed him to take the gun away, and felt herself moved gently aside until he was standing in front of Szulu, the gun by his side. He looked tanned and fit, taller than Szulu by a few inches, dominating the room without trying.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Szulu demanded indignantly. ‘Did you see that? The bitch was going to shoot me!’ He pointed a trembling finger at Riley, apparently forgetting that he had been the first to pull the trigger after bursting in uninvited.

  ‘Really?’ Mitcheson looked down at the gun. ‘Funny. I thought I heard it misfire.’

  ‘Yeah. Piece of junk – I should get my money back!’ Szulu edged backwards, eyes
searching for an escape route now things had gone so badly wrong.

  Mitcheson looked up and stopped him with a warning shake of his head, then worked the slide on the gun with an expert hand. The unused shell spun through the air and landed with barely a noise on the carpet. ‘Semi-automatics, you see,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘They do have a tendency to jam sometimes. You just have to be quick to clear them, that’s all. Especially if you’re facing a live threat.’ He looked at Szulu as if to check that he was paying attention. ‘The second round usually works fine, though, if you’re lucky. Like this.’

  He calmly pointed the gun at Szulu and shot him.

  ***********

  Chapter 23

  Palmer stepped cautiously over a patch of nettles and ducked through a gap in the wire fence to the commercial estate. He was now behind the VTS Transit unit, just a few feet away from the incinerator drum. A wisp of smoke was curling lazily into the air, which was heavy with the smell of petrol and scorched paper.

  Twenty minutes had passed since the last sign of movement between the two buildings, and there had been no sounds of activity from the front. It was difficult to be certain from here, but Palmer guessed the VTS building was now deserted.

  He stepped past a stack of metal storage bins and stood alongside the rear door. There were no shouts of alarm, so he tried the door. It was unlocked. He eased it open and glanced inside. Nothing. No voices, no movement, just a scattering of packaging, pallets, waste paper and clutter, and the unmistakable echo of an empty building.

  He closed the door again and walked across the yard to the drum. A wave of heat was still coming from inside, but there were no flames and whatever effect the accelerant had possessed was now spent. The bottom of the drum held a shifting mass of ashes and scorched paper, with some of the print showing silver and still readable against the grey background. He picked up a length of wooden batten. Digging into the mass inside the drum, he felt something solid under the topmost layer. But as he disturbed the contents, the passage of air fanned the smouldering ashes and flames sprang up once more, feeding on the untouched paper beneath.