‘I see.’
‘I needed quick confirmation of her ID — from you if I could get it — so we could back-trace her movements.’
‘You knew I was a journalist?’
‘One of the SOCO team recognised your name. He’d read your stuff. He’s a fan. I figured it was worth a try calling you. We’ve got a hell of a caseload at the moment and we need all the help we can get.’ He scrubbed at his face with his fingers, suddenly looking bone-weary, as if any energy he’d been harbouring until now was seeping away with the approach of daylight. Riley guessed he had broken with procedure by calling her in at this stage and was now regretting it. His next words confirmed it. ‘I’ll be in deep shit if my boss knows I did this.’
Riley felt a flicker of sympathy, and glanced across to where the man in the forensics suit was stepping carefully around the edge of the ditch, pointing a large flashlight at the ground. ‘Is that why he was so unfriendly?’
‘Yes. I had to lean on him to let you in.’
‘Will he tell anyone?’
‘No. He owed me a favour. Now I owe him a bigger one.’
Pell eventually let her go, with instructions not to publish anything and to call him if she thought of anything relating to the dead woman. In spite of a reluctant smile, which softened his face considerably, the implications behind the first instruction were clear: the presence of her name on a piece of paper at the death scene meant that Riley was far too close to this case to be allowed any leeway as a reporter.
She climbed out of the white suit and returned to her car. As she drove away down the track, she passed other vehicles, some with interior lights on behind misted windows. Crime-scene members snatching a quick break in an attempt to dry off and down some refreshments. As she hit the main road, more cars were arriving and heading up the lane. Probably the press pack, all vying for an exclusive on the story. That was going to make Pell even more unhappy.
She checked the dashboard clock, surprised to see it was already gone five. A pale dawn was nudging through the heavy clouds like a wash. With the arrival of daylight, the investigators would be able to get a clear scan of the surrounding area. She didn’t envy them the hours to come. For once, she was relieved not to be part of the press melee.
She pulled in at the first lay-by and dialled a number. The recipient wouldn’t thank her for waking him this early. But circumstances warranted it.
What she hadn’t told DI Pell was that she was aware of one person who had known Helen Bellamy a lot better than she did. Just a few months ago, Frank Palmer, a former military policeman, now a private investigator, had for a brief while been close to Helen. Work had thrown them together by chance and something had clicked. During that time, Palmer had gone around with a soppy smile on his face. Then circumstances and the pressures of their respective worlds had tugged them apart.
The other thing she had avoided telling Pell was that she had met Helen a couple of times, although both occasions were fleeting, and there had been no time to gain more than the briefest of impressions. Frank Palmer liked Helen, which was good enough for her.
The phone rang four times before switching to Palmer’s voice-mail. She didn’t leave a message; she couldn’t trust herself not to sound like the voice of doom. Instead, she switched off and thought about what to do next. Sooner or later, Pell and his colleagues would unearth something to show that Palmer had known the dead woman. When they did, they would descend on him like vultures on a corpse. Ex-army man, a bit of a loner, private detective and security consultant, for which some would read bodyguard and therefore no stranger to violence; they’d salivate and find plenty of precedents for making all the wrong assumptions.
She wondered what Palmer’s reaction would be when he heard.
She dialled another number. This one was in Finchley, north London. It rang twice and was answered. She said simply: ‘I’ll be with you in forty-five minutes. Can you trace Palmer? It’s urgent. There’s been a murder. He knew the victim.’
The man on the other end sounded not the least bit surprised at being called so early in the morning with such news. ‘Will do,’ he replied, his voice plummy and rich. In the background she heard a high-pitched electronic two-tone and the purr of another phone. ‘I’ll get some croissants and coffee on the go.’
‘Good idea. Make it strong, will you? I need the hit.’
She switched off the phone and headed towards Finchley.
4
Donald Brask listened intently while Riley explained what she had seen in the dark wetness of the Essex countryside. He sat with Buddha-like stillness, absorbing her words like a sponge, his plump chins clustered above a shimmering silk dressing gown and fat hands clasped over his stomach. A mug of coffee and a croissant sat untouched beside him, forgotten in the shock of her revelations. For once, Riley had stolen a lead on a breaking story before one of Donald’s contacts in the Met had been able to drop a whisper in his ear.
As her long-time agent, she knew he had grown to rely on her professional approach. She never over-glossed a story, no matter what the circumstances, and always stuck to the facts. It was something she had heard him lament on long and loud about a couple of his other clients who could be relied on, as he’d put it acidly, ‘to turn a cow-pat into a Faberge egg — with trimmings.’
‘I don’t think Palmer had seen Helen Bellamy for a while,’ she concluded, after describing the crime scene. ‘A few months, maybe. But we need to find him and let him know before anyone else does.’
Donald pursed his lips. ‘He’s a big boy. He’ll know how to handle it.’
‘True. But a thing like this?’ Frank Palmer was something of a contradiction. He was probably the most irritatingly laid back man Riley had ever met, with a tendency to under-play most situations like a sloth on Valium. But he was also the most loyal and committed friend she’d ever encountered — and the toughest. Show him a friend in peril, and it was like lighting the blue touch-paper.
The danger, she reflected, was if the police treated him with even the remotest hint of suspicion, based solely on the fact that he had once had a relationship with Helen Bellamy, or if they pushed him too hard in their questioning.
Donald grunted and waved a vague hand. ‘I’ve called, but he’s not answering.’
‘He’s not on a job through you, then?’ Riley knew that Donald Brask occasionally used Palmer for the kind of specialist skills reporters didn’t possess. Palmer’s background in the Special Investigations Branch of the Royal Military Police had trained him in what Brask had once referred to as the dark arts — skills he had used to good effect to help Riley in her work, where danger had threatened something more concrete than a volley of abusive language or a threat of court action by a disgruntled subject.
‘Not this time. He must be on a surveillance job.’
As they were both aware, when Palmer was on an assignment, he gave it his all — including turning off his phone to avoid distractions. Whether performing close-protection duties for a client or their family, or running surveillance on a questionable employee or business contact, he simply dropped out of touch until he was able to surface again. The ability to completely focus on their needs was what made him so valued by his circle of clients.
‘What have you got on at the moment?’ It was Donald’s signal to return to any work in hand. Riley didn’t have to take on the assignments he passed her way, but when she did, Donald could be every bit as engaged and committed as Palmer.
‘Not a lot.’ Donald knew exactly what she had on. He had a mind like one of his computers and could keep track of several reporter clients and their assignments — and give them any data backup they needed. As he liked to boast to editors when the occasion demanded, he was as capable of doing in-depth research as any reporter and better than most. ‘I’ve got two follow-up stories to look at,’ she added, ‘which you know about.’
He nodded. ‘And?’
‘They can wait.’ She paused, wondering how to approach this
one. ‘I had a job offer yesterday. I was going to talk to you about it.’
Donald reached for his coffee, an interested glimmer in his eye. He always delighted in something new, and the bigger the better. If it was obscure, he loved the challenge; if it involved people of note, he couldn’t wait to set the wolves running. Getting a head start over the opposition was all part of the game, and made his day that much brighter. ‘Do tell, sweetie. Is someone trying to poach my ace reporter?’
She smiled. He wasn’t joking. Donald believed in protecting his turf like an ill-bred alley cat. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you have full details as soon as I can.’
‘I’d appreciate that. Did they give you an outline?’
‘It was an email asking if I’d be interested in pitching to do a profile piece. It’s for a business journal.’
‘Who’s the subject?’
‘They didn’t say. Someone big, though. The fee scale is better than good and syndication is mine to deal with. It’s a rush job, apparently. I’ve got a meeting to discuss it later today.’
Donald looked sceptical. ‘If it’s a rush job, sweetie, then someone, somewhere, has dropped it like a hot, flabby turd.’ He shook his jowls in disapproval. ‘Still, it’s up to you. I wonder if anyone else was up for it? I could ask around, see who might have turned it down.’ The suggestion that Riley might not have been first in line for the assignment, or that she could be even mildly insulted by it, didn’t seem to have occurred to him.
‘They didn’t say.’ Riley knew what was bugging him, and it wasn’t the possibly dubious aspect of the assignment. There was very little Donald didn’t know about in the reporting field, and the likelihood that a high-profile job had come up without appearing on his radar was remote. But if there was one thing likely to sting his professional pride, it was the idea that he might have ducked and missed something newsworthy.
‘I was thinking,’ she continued, before he could get all bitter and twisted. ‘In between looking at this job, I might take a background look at Helen Bellamy.’
‘Why?’ Donald’s tone lifted a notch. He looked at a clock set in a chunky piece of quartz on the sideboard. ‘The nationals will have scoured off the best meat by now. Even if the police get lucky and come up with anything, it’ll be old news by tomorrow.’
Riley knew he was right, but something else was bothering her. There had been an edge to DI Pell’s demeanour which she couldn’t put a finger on. It wasn’t as if he was dealing with a random murder — the fact that he’d called her out to the murder scene was an indication of that. Usually, the police preferred to keep the press as far away as possible until they had something to say or unless they needed media cooperation in turning up witnesses or locating a missing person. She was pretty sure this wasn’t one of those cases. Pell had been too guarded, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt he’d been holding back something important. The answer might be staring her in the face.
And there was the Palmer connection, which she couldn’t ignore, even if she’d wanted to.
‘I’ve got to do something,’ she replied. ‘When Palmer finds out what happened, he’ll be all over it like a tiger shark. I can help give him a head start.’
Donald nodded, recognising the futility of arguing with her. She and Palmer worked well together, each very capable in their separate disciplines. Palmer was tough and resourceful, with all the directness his army training had given him. All were elements which had proved useful in the past. He was also a first-class investigator. Riley was equally direct in her own way — alarmingly so, with her own personal safety often taking second place to a story — but she was steady and relentless, even under pressure.
He was almost envious of their relationship, and had sometimes wondered what would happen if one suddenly found the other’s life at risk. This could be as close as he got to finding out, without either of them being the victim. He felt almost sorry for anyone who came under the spotlight for Helen Bellamy’s murder. Especially if they came up against Frank Palmer.
‘How will you handle it?’
‘I’ll see if I can back-track her last assignments. Helen was really committed to her job. Palmer once told me she’d left him sitting at a restaurant table to go interview someone she was after. Maybe something she was working on went horribly wrong.’
‘You don’t know that. It could have been pure chance. It happens. Maybe she met up with the wrong man.’
Riley shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. The whole thing looked so…deliberate. She was working, I’m sure of it.’
Donald gave a lengthy sigh. She was probably right. Not all reporting jobs involved nice, civilised interviews over glasses of wine or cups of tea. There were times when all the usual rules went right off the board. It took people with Riley’s instincts to realise it. Then he remembered something. He rose from his chair. ‘Actually, I may be able to help you. I believe I have details of her last couple of jobs.’
Riley was surprised. ‘I didn’t know she worked through you.’
‘She didn’t. She normally used a Brussels agency. But a couple of assignments came my way with her name attached, so I agreed to use her.’ He waddled through to his office, a large, converted sitting room full of computer equipment, printers, scanners and telephones, which formed the hub of his agency. He ran his fingers across a keyboard and gave a grunt of satisfaction as several lines of text appeared on the adjacent monitor. He moved the mouse and a printer hummed into life on a nearby shelf. He took out the single sheet of print and handed it to her. It contained the name and address of a business magazine publisher near Covent Garden. ‘The editor’s name is David Johnson. I’ll tell him you’re on the way. He owes me a couple of favours. It could be a dead end, but it might turn up something useful.’
‘What about Frank?’ Riley folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into her pocket. ‘I’d like to let him know about Helen before the police pile in on him.’
Donald agreed. ‘He’d rather hear about it from you than some faceless copper plodding through an address book. I’ll ring round, see if I can trace him. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.’
Riley left Donald’s Finchley house and drove straight towards the West End, joining an already growing stream of traffic. It was still early, but by the time she arrived at Covent Garden, the business community would be buzzing. She still had no clear plan in mind, no idea even as to why she was contemplating looking into this other than as part of her instincts as an investigative reporter. All she knew was, she needed to get the ball rolling. Whatever had happened to Helen Bellamy, she had to do more than stand by and wonder. She knew Palmer would feel the same.
Traffic soon reduced her progress to a crawl, and she reached down and hit the speed-dial key for Palmer’s mobile. A part of her was hoping he wouldn’t answer until she had some information about Helen’s last job from the editor she was going to see. Anything she could come up with might help, she tried to tell herself, no matter how vague. Anything that would give them some direction — some hint as to what had happened in Helen’s final hours.
She was almost disappointed when Palmer picked up on the second ring. She felt even worse when he drawled in a cheerful, mock-American accent down the line.
‘Frank Palmer. A man for all seasons. I have the talent if you have the money. How may I help you?’
5
‘You’re late.’ Alex Koutsatos, the proprietor of MailBox Services, a mail forwarding business, waited impatiently on the doorstep of his shop as a delivery driver heaved a large cardboard box out of his van and dumped it on the pavement. The van usually arrived at six am, before most of the surrounding businesses were open and Koutsatos still had the street more or less to himself. Now it was nearly nine and he was already anxious. Too many around here were interested in other people’s business. Deliveries often attracted attention, and attention was something he and his customers preferred to avoid.
‘Mains burst in Aldgate,�
� the driver muttered shortly, and held out an electronic pad and stylus for a signature.
Koutsatos scribbled as directed and waved the driver away. He would have to leave the main splitting up of the parcel until this evening now, when it was quiet. Maybe even tomorrow. This was a bigger consignment than usual, and couldn’t be rushed.
Of mixed Armenian and Ukrainian parentage, Koutsatos had done many things in his life, most of them confined to the darker recesses of his memory. Born in a charity hospital in the northern Black Sea port of Odessa, his life had been at an all-time low and his prospects zero, when he had been shown how to gain entry to the UK. The papers, he had been assured, would pass the closest inspection — for a while. As he had discovered later, this was because the original owner, a predatory homosexual on holiday from Glasgow, was now buried in an unmarked grave in Tangiers.
In return for the freedom, independence and a home in London, Koutsatos had agreed to eventually assume a Greek name and to set up a mail forwarding shop in the capital. There was one major condition involved: he would be called on from time to time to assist in the movement of papers, parcels and, just occasionally, people.
Koutsatos dragged the box inside the shop. It was heavy and he was soon out of breath. Fortunately, there were no customers around. He had just enough time to check the contents and make sure the labels were included. He worked in silence, using a lethal-looking fisherman’s knife to slice through the heavy-duty tape and bindings. He found the packing list and made up five of the largest bundles, putting them to one side. These would be collected by a motorcycle courier for onward delivery to Heathrow. He never studied the contents of the packages, and had never queried — out loud, at least — why they were so important. But once, a careless slash of his knife had ripped into one of them, and he had disposed of the damaged item carefully in the yard behind the shop, in a small brazier.
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