No Sleep for the Dead Read online

  NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD

  Gavin & Palmer – Book 3

  by

  ADRIAN MAGSON

  Copyright © Adrian Magson 2012

  The right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

  This ebook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only and should not be sold, given or loaned to any other person.

  Previously published in paperback - 2006 - ISBN: 0-955158915 – by Creme de la Crime Ltd (now part of Severn House Publishers)

  Books by Adrian Magson

  Riley Gavin/Frank Palmer series

  No Peace for the Wicked

  No Help for the Dying

  No Sleep for the Dead

  No Tears for the Lost

  No Kiss for the Devil

  Harry Tate spy thriller series (Severn House)

  Red Station

  Tracers

  Deception

  Retribution (Sept 2012)

  Inspector Lucas Rocco crime series (Allison & Busby)

  Death on the Marais

  Death on the Rive Nord

  Death on the Pont Noir

  Young Adult (Gate Way Publishers)

  The Lost Patrol

  Non-fiction (Accent Press)

  Write On! - The Writers' Help Book

  See website at: http://www.adrianmagson.com

  Chapter 1

  Germany – 1989

  Like nature’s sugar icing, a thin layer of snow began to dust the runner’s body.

  Two hundred metres away, beyond the strip of barren land marking the border between the two Germanys, a watchtower loomed against the sky, a sinister symbol of repression that would, like the Berlin Wall 300 kilometres to the north-east, soon be a ghostly landmark in history. On the tower, a guard in a heavy coat scanned the scene through binoculars. Below him, a patrol vehicle’s engine gave a raucous clatter. A guard-dog yelped eagerly, its cries echoed by others in the distance, each a soulful, lonely message, drifting on the wind across the fields.

  Minutes before, the runner had been a living, breathing being, hugging the ground among the thin brush growing in a tangle along the low ridge. He had inched with agonising care past warning markers and stones, checking for tell-tale ripples in the soil indicating a mine, or the hair-thin glint of trip-wires. Ahead lay a field, his route to the West. A US army tower in the distance was a reflection of its East German counterpart. The thick windows showed no sign of movement.

  He flexed his shoulders, dislodging a layer of ice crystals formed while lying motionless in the night. In the tower, the guard yawned at the coming dawn, impatient for his shift to end.

  The runner wormed free of the thin cover, sucking in deep, energising breaths. Then he was up and stumbling at a stomach-burning crouch, one hand reaching to touch the frozen earth. Twenty metres, thirty, forty…he was in full view if the guard should turn and look west. Not that he would, if all went to plan…

  He ran faster, responding to the tantalising pull of safety. Suddenly, over the sound of his exertions, a shout. His stomach tightened. He ran harder, dancing sideways as a searchlight sliced through the thinning gloom. He tripped and fell, then pushed off again, coat flapping like broken wings. The searchlight caught him a glancing blow, moved away then darted back, bathing him in its glare. His shadow, thrown ahead by the light, raced on alone, unstoppable toward the west.

  Another shout, followed by two flat reports snapping out across the cold morning air. The runner staggered, splay-footed, then pitched forward and lay still.

  And the new dawn began edging the horizon.

  On the western side of the border, clear of the searchlight’s reach, stood three men. Two wore leather jackets and boots, with woollen hats pulled down over their ears. One of the men was zipping up a long, slim bag, which he threw over his shoulder.

  The third man wore a long, dark coat and a burgundy-coloured cashmere scarf. Middle-aged, of medium height and build, with thinning, sandy hair, his glasses were speckled with moisture. He nodded to the others.

  ‘Call it in,’ he said quietly, his voice tinged with what sounded like relief.

  The man with the bag walked over to a mud-spattered Range Rover nearby. Placing the bag on the rear seat, he picked up a radio handset and began to speak.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ he announced moments later. He clapped his hands, the sound echoing out across the field.

  The man in the long coat checked the emerging outline of some woods half a mile away, and a farmhouse, huddled low as if clinging to the earth. He thought he’d seen movement earlier, but knew that couldn’t be. The area had been checked carefully.

  ‘When they stop playing with that bloody searchlight,’ he muttered, ‘go fetch him. Don’t leave anything behind.’ Then he turned to the Range Rover and climbed in. Picking up a flask, he unscrewed the top. The interior of the car filled with the smell of coffee. As he poured his drink, the searchlight dipped and went out, and his two companions looked at each other before stepping out warily across the uneven field.

  Change was coming, the man was thinking idly, watching them. Change of a magnitude that would repaint this sorry corner of Europe forever. And God help those who hadn’t seen it coming.

  The men returned with the body, placing it near the car. Twenty minutes later, a dark green Opel estate appeared, bouncing along the track from the main road, the headlights pushing back the gloom and highlighting the skeletal trees, withered grass and sagging fence posts marking the boundary of the farm’s land. The vehicle had a long radio aerial bolted to the tailgate, and contained two people.

  The man got out to meet them, flicking away the remnants of his coffee.

  **********

  Chapter 2

  London - 2006

  ‘So, why are we doing this again?’ Riley Gavin glanced at the lean figure of Frank Palmer as they walked down an alleyway and emerged onto a street lined with shops, small businesses and the occasional office block. They were in Harrow, north London. Traffic was light, with a scattering of pedestrians and window-shoppers, but that would change towards lunchtime. Then the pavements would be bustling with pale-faced office workers, making eager forays for food in the early summer sun.

  ‘I’m serving papers on a scumbag,’ replied Palmer dispassionately, skirting a gaggle of black bin bags outside a pizza restaurant. ‘If I do it right, I can send somebody an invoice, which means I get paid, which means I can eat.’ He looked sideways at Riley. ‘You’re not getting the jitters, are you? Only you said-’

  ‘Palmer, I wouldn’t be here if I was getting the jitters. Even though I do have work of my own to do. What I meant was, why do you need me to act as a decoy? Why not walk straight up to this… McGilligan or Gulligan or whatever his name is, and serve the papers? I thought you private eyes did it all the time.’

  ‘His name’s Gillivray, and if it was that simple, I’d have already done it.’ He dragged her out of the path of a delivery truck as they crossed the road towards a tall, brick-built office block set back off the street. ‘Doug Gillivray is as slippery as an oil-driller’s boot. I swear he’s got in-built radar. Here we are.’ He paused in the entrance and peered through the glass front, scanning the list of occupants on the inside wall. They seemed to be mostly insurance companies, shipping agents or accounting firms, a
long with a bank of somewhere he’d never heard of, a solicitor or two and a handful of companies with initials which probably meant something only to their financial advisers and clients.

  ‘Stairwell Management,’ he said, spotting the name on the panel for the sixth floor, ‘is a misnomer, because managing is what they do least. Gillivray’s not listed as such, but he’s a director, and he usually gets in at ten-thirty every morning.’ He checked his watch. ‘Five minutes ago. He stays for an hour, probably to write a few cheques and make sure they’re not all surfing the internet, then ducks out again, coming back in the late afternoon. So far I haven’t found out where he goes or what he does in between.’

  ‘So what has he done to have you on his case?’

  ‘Robbed people blind, mostly. He sells things that don’t exist – usually services that disappear after the first call. Property management is his current favourite. He’ll charge a fee to oversee a building, undercutting everyone else. He gets the contract, makes a few obvious moves to show willing, then does a bunk with whatever he can pick up. For an operation that sounds pretty crude, he’s very smooth.’

  ‘Okay. So you want me to go into Stairwell and punt for any security work, and you’ll follow me in?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And you don’t think you’ll stand out, creeping about behind me dressed like that?’ Riley, who looked elegantly businesslike in a smart-casual trouser suit, blouse and moderate heels, looked sideways at Palmer’s casual slacks and battered jacket, his fit-all outfit for blending in. He rarely wore anything different on the grounds that after years as a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Military Police, he had done with being pigeonholed by dress or dictate, preferring the to-hell-with-it look. Somehow, though, she had to admit, it went with his easy smile and the way his fair hair seemed to flop into place without benefit of gel or effort.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Palmer checked his clothes with a critical eye. ‘They’re decent threads, I’ll have you know. I paid good money for these.’ He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, I told you a long time ago, I have the power to merge in anywhere and become as one with the scenery. Especially when preceded by a pushy blonde with a cheesy smile and all her own teeth, to act as a distraction.’

  Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I know – Frank Palmer, the original west London ninja. But thanks for the compliment, even if you don’t mean it.’

  ‘Distract the receptionist,’ he continued, ignoring the barbs, ‘long enough for me to get past her. She has a panic button which lights up in every office when anybody official shows up. With a bit of luck I’ll catch Gillivray with his laughing gear wrapped around a cup of Starbucks’ finest and,’ he produced a digital camera from his pocket, ‘get a shot of his ugly mug in the process.’

  ‘What if the receptionist doesn’t play ball? I’m no security expert – I can barely remember how to lock my own flat.’

  Palmer curled his lip. ‘You’re an investigative reporter; it’s not like you’d ever run out of things to say, is it? Come on.’ He walked through the entrance and faced a large, middle-aged security man in a dark suit and blue shirt, sitting behind a steel-topped desk. Both it and the man had seen better days. The rest of the foyer was empty, functional and bland, as welcoming as a bus stop.

  ‘We’ve an appointment with Mr Gillivray at Stairwell Management,’ said Palmer briskly. The security man, busy leafing through a copy of the Sun, stood up sharply and pushed two adhesive badges across the desk.

  ‘Right, sir.’ His eyes assessed the two visitors, flicking away to give Riley the barest of glances before switching back to Palmer. ‘If you’d fill out the book and these badges, sir, Stairwell’s reception desk is on floor six.’ He indicated a pair of lifts to the rear of the foyer, and flipped open a visitors’ book.

  Palmer scribbled in the required boxes and did the same with the badges. Handing a badge to Riley, he nodded to the security man, then walked over to the lifts and pressed the call button.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ asked Riley, as the doors closed behind them and the lift began its upward journey. ‘Or did you hypnotise him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just now. You had that poor man standing to attention as if he was on parade.’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘Beats me. Habit, I suppose.’ He began to hum as the lights flashed through the levels, and gave her a quick smile, something he knew had the ability to annoy her when he was being obtuse. When they reached the sixth floor, the lift stopped and the doors opened to reveal an identical space to the foyer downstairs, but without the welcome desk. A glass wall was at one end, with the letters STAIRWELL MANAGEMENT marching impressively across it in plain black script, and beyond that, a polished wooden counter holding a small block of wood sprouting a clutch of international flags. A receptionist was sitting behind the counter, one cheek bearing a dinky little mouthpiece the size of a match-head.

  Palmer ushered Riley ahead of him out of the lift. ‘You’re punting for work, that’s all,’ he reminded her. ‘If it gets sticky, bail out and we’ll meet down in the street.’

  Riley stared at him. ‘Sticky? You never mentioned sticky. Or bailing out.’

  But Palmer had already reached past her to thumb the entry button beside the glass-panelled door. There was a buzz as the locks disengaged and the door clicked open.

  ‘Can I help?’ The receptionist smiled automatically, taking in Riley’s no-nonsense make-up and sleek blonde hair. She switched her attention to Palmer, who smiled and raised his eyebrows, but showed no reaction. Assessment over, she relaxed and pulled back her hand which had been hovering out of sight below the counter.

  ‘I rang to speak to your human resources director,’ said Riley. ‘He wanted to talk about internal security-’ She broke off as she noticed the receptionist’s attention was suddenly riveted on something just past her shoulder. When she looked round, she saw Palmer had doubled up, clutching at his stomach, his face red and strained. He coughed, and a dribble of spit oozed from his lips and ran down his chin.

  ‘Palm-’ Riley yelped and instinctively dodged sideways, caught unawares. Palmer waved a hand and clamped a handkerchief to his face.

  ‘Quick… I need a washroom,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry – food-poisoning.’

  The receptionist looked horrified at the prospect of Palmer being violently ill right in front of her. Flicking away the tiny mouthpiece, she jumped up and flapped a carefully-manicured hand towards a corridor to one side. ‘Down there… right at the end. There’s a washroom. Quickly…’ She glanced at Riley as Palmer hurried away down the corridor, hand clutching his gut. ‘Is he all right? He’s not having a heart attack, is he?’

  Riley shook her head. She would get even with Palmer for springing this on her. Not that she could fault his acting; he’d genuinely looked as if he was having a nasty turn. Now all she had to do was display the same degree of talent until she either got tossed out on her ear or Palmer returned and gave her the sign to bail out.

  Palmer found himself in a corridor that ran arrow-straight to the end of the building, then turned sharply to the left. He could hear the soft buzz of conversation and the burr of a phone beyond the wall on his left-hand side, and wondered where Gillivray had his nest. Somewhere at the back, no doubt, with a fire escape conveniently close by. People like Gillivray rarely conducted their business up front, preferring to avoid the cold scrutiny of their victims should they come calling.

  He ignored the washroom door and followed the corridor, tucking his handkerchief into his jacket. More doors on the left, and to the right, a row of windows overlooking a tiny inner courtyard filled with heating and ventilation equipment, speckled with pigeon droppings and a layer of air-borne city dirt.

  A door opened to his left, and a woman stepped out juggling a large pile of computer printouts. Palmer moved to one side and flapped his wallet with a smile.

  ‘Is Doug about? I’ve got his wallet. Dozy bugger left it in my car.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh. Yes.’ The woman smiled vaguely over the printouts and shuffled sideways, using her chin to indicate a door further along. ‘He’s in there.’ She smiled again and disappeared with her burden, heels clacking on the bare tiles.

  Palmer put his wallet away and checked his digital camera was ready to shoot. He took a long, white envelope from his inside pocket, then pushed open the door and marched up to the bulky figure of Doug Gillivray, who was standing on the other side of a plain mahogany desk, counting out a pile of notes. He was short, stocky and dressed in a tight, pin-stripe suit, with a garish, spotted tie held against his lower chest by a gold clip. His pudgy fingers flashed with heavy rings as he flicked through the money with the practised ease of a bank clerk, and Palmer wondered how much all the gold weighed.

  ‘Doug Gillivray?’ Palmer stood in front of him.

  Gillivray stopped counting, mouth open in annoyance, and automatically took the envelope. ‘What’s this?’

  As Palmer aimed the camera and fired off two quick shots, Gillivray’s expression changed from surprise to anger. ‘Here, what the hell are you doing? Who let you in-?’

  But Palmer was already on his way out, closing the door behind him and striding back down the corridor. He smiled as a loud bellow followed him, no doubt signalling Gillivray’s discovery of the envelope’s contents.

  Riley was still in conversation with the receptionist, who seemed to be steadfastly holding her ground against her pleas to speak to someone about security. Grabbing Riley’s arm, Palmer stabbed the exit button on the door and smiled at the receptionist. He hoped she wasn’t about to get fired, unless she was related to Gillivray and knew what he was up to, in which case she probably deserved it.