No Tears for the Lost Page 14

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  ‘It was a programme set up about twenty years ago. A focus group in the Department of Justice decided it would be a neat idea if they had some special agents who knew how to hold a knife and fork, to blend into the embassy circuit. Their job would be to work the corridors, mix with the foreign mucky-mucks and look for sources, contacts, that sort of stuff. But they weren’t to get involved with the day-to-day anti-drugs war. They’d concentrate on the people at the top, their aides and secretaries, while the rest of the DEA troops would work the streets. It was a good plan, too. It brought in great intelligence from both ends, some of it top grade. You’d be amazed what those stiff collars hear at some of those fancy trade gatherings. And Walt knew how to work ‘em. He was good.’

  Riley saw where he was going. ‘But somebody found out what his true function was?’

  ‘Must have. He was way too experienced after all those years to have let it slip. Hell, I’m not even sure his wife knew.’

  Riley shrugged. Maybe, after all the years working under such circumstances, Walter Asner had simply become careless. ‘Could it have been suicide?’

  Henzigger shook his head with measured emphasis. ‘Not a chance. Walt and I went back a long way. He wasn’t the type.’ He held up a quick hand to forestall argument. ‘I know, the shrinks say everyone’s got it in them; that everyone’s got their breaking point. I hadn’t seen Walt for months, but I spoke to him before he quit. He wanted to enjoy life, not end it. He had lots of plans, all of them involving his wife, Margie and their boat.’

  ‘This still doesn’t explain why you’ve come to me after all this time. Are you saying Myburghe was involved?’

  ‘Myburghe,’ Henzigger said, appearing to have only heard part of what she’d said. His eyes glinted sharply. ‘I hear he’s been getting some letters and stuff.’

  Riley was surprised. She wasn’t sure how much Henzigger knew or how much was guesswork, but by ‘stuff’, did he mean the fake bomb, or his son’s finger and ring?

  ‘There’s been some crank mail. How did you hear about it?’

  He showed his teeth, ignoring the question. ‘Crank mail? Is that what you call it over here? Jesus.’ He sniffed and added, ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘What do they want? What’re the demands?’

  She shrugged. ‘There haven’t been any – at least, not yet.’ She wondered if he knew about the fake bomb. If he was as well informed as he claimed, he probably did. But she decided to try it out. ‘Apart from the bomb, anyway.’

  He looked stunned. ‘Bomb?’ He dropped his voice and hissed, ‘What freaking bomb?’

  Got you, she thought. So you’re not as well informed as you think. ‘It was a fake. The police think it was a disgruntled former worker.’

  ‘And no follow-up note?’

  ‘No.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Kinda strange, don’t you think? If someone sent me a fake ticker through the post, I’d expect I’d have to pay out, in case they sent a real one.’

  ‘Perhaps whoever’s behind it is playing a waiting game.’

  ‘Sure. And in the meantime, you and your buddy have been hired to watch his back?’

  Riley frowned. Pinning this man down was like dealing with a hyperactive kid. ‘Are you saying this business with Myburghe is connected to your friend Walter?’

  He gave her a sour look. ‘Damn right. If there’s one thing I learned after all the years I put in this business, it’s that connections to Colombia always rise to the surface sooner or later like dead fish in a pool. Walt died after working there; my career and reputation went in the can after Colombia, and now Myburghe is being threatened – and he was there longer than most. Even money says the common thread must be Colombia.’

  ‘And you want to find out to clear your name.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Riley wasn’t sure how much to believe. Yet she couldn’t argue with his logic. Looking for a common link to all three men, the most obvious conclusion was the place they had last worked. Except that each case appeared to be different. It wasn’t what anyone would have called a definite pattern.

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Work with me,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’m trying at my end, through contacts at the embassy and a couple of DEA offices here in Europe.’ He smiled coolly. ‘I’ve still got friends who don’t believe all the mud they threw at me. I’m trying to find out what Walt was working on before he retired. I know what I was working on before I got shafted, so it’s a matter of seeing where the connections are.’

  Riley stifled a feeling of anger at his arrogance. ‘And you’re hoping I’ll investigate Myburghe for you? Why should I do that?’

  ‘I came over to do it myself… but I’m open to any help I can get. I know you’re smart and capable, and you’re pretty tough.’ The look behind his eyes had suddenly become wild and unsettling, and Riley noticed that where his hands were gripping the table, the skin was white with tension. It made her want to move her chair back and put distance between them.

  ‘You expect me to spy on him for you?’

  ‘You’re in a position to keep an eye on him. See what he does, who he meets, that’s all. Okay?’

  The way he said the final word was like fingernails down a blackboard. Was he taking it for granted that she would help, as if she had rolled over, easily seduced by his hard luck story? Or was it the hard edge of desperation that she could hear in his voice? Either way, she heeded the instinctive alarm bells and said vaguely, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Sure.’ As if throwing a switch, he was suddenly reasonable and calm again. ‘You’re being cautious. I guessed you would be.’ He slipped a hand in his shirt pocket and took out a slip of paper. It held a phone number. ‘You can get me on that number anytime. You could be a big help, you know – and get yourself a mega-bucks story.’

  With that, he stood up and walked away.

  *********

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Riley returned to her flat to find Weller strolling along the pavement outside. He had his tie loosened and seemed to be enjoying the air. She looked round for a snatch-squad, but he was alone.

  She said, ‘What do you want, Weller? This is getting annoying.’

  ‘Just passing,’ he replied breezily, and looked around at the buildings. ‘Nice neighbourhood, this. Bit outside my bracket, though.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ She thought the idea of Weller just passing was as likely as Father Christmas in July. Besides, she was convinced he would have already been here to ascertain where she lived before buttonholing her in Caffé Nero a few days ago.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, fingering a luxurious bay tree in a wooden tub. The old lady next door had placed it there with Mr Grobowski’s approval, and was now watching Weller like a hawk through a side window. By the scowl on her face, Riley reckoned that if Weller so much as bent one of the leaves, she’d be out with a broken chair leg to beat him to a pulp. ‘I wanted to ask if you’d seen Henzigger yet?’

  Riley almost admitted she had. Then she thought better of it. Let Weller do his own dirty work. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Well, he did have your name on him. It seems an odd thing to carry if he had no intention of contacting you.’

  ‘You said you had no interest in Henzigger.’

  ‘We didn’t. Then we found out a bit more about him. Seems the Yanks fibbed a bit. He’s got history.’

  Riley worked hard at keeping her face straight. Did Weller know she’d just been talking to Henzigger? Was this chat some sort of test? ‘What kind of history?’

  ‘Classified stuff. Goes back years. Panama, Nicaragua, Chile… he’s knocked around a bit, mostly in the southern hemisphere. One thing’s sure, he wasn’t just a journalist.’

  ‘What?’ Riley felt her face drain of colour and thought about the line of chat Henzigger had fed her not twenty minutes ago. How could anyone be so convincing? What the hell e
lse had he lied about?

  ‘We think he was DEA,’ Weller continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. ‘Might still be for all we know. But if the Yanks don’t want him, why should we get stuck with him? We’ve got enough undesirables of our own.’

  ‘Good point,’ Riley agreed, recovering quickly. ‘So why not pick him up and put him on the next plane?’

  ‘I’d love to. Trouble is, we can’t find him. I thought he might have contacted you.’

  Riley smiled. If she were to believe this man, the Met couldn’t locate Frank Palmer when he was with Sir Kenneth Myburghe, and now they’d lost an unwelcome American with a dodgy past who’d come into the country on a false passport. ‘Sorry. I can’t help.’

  ‘No matter.’ He rocked back on his heels and sniffed the air as if he was on the sea front at Brighton, then said carefully, ‘I’m probably wasting my time, but I’d hate to think you were getting into something nasty, Miss Gavin.’

  ‘What’s this, Weller? Fatherly concern for my well-being?’

  He shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose,’ he said. ‘But if you’re being too adventurous, I’d rather know about it before I have to come along and scrape you up with a shovel. This thing with Myburghe, for example.’ This time there was no title. ‘A little birdy tells me you’re on the team now.’

  Riley had been wondering how long it would be before he mentioned that. No doubt he was plugged into the same information network as Keagan.

  ‘He’s been receiving hate mail,’ she said truthfully. ‘He wanted someone to watch his family during the wedding. He employed Palmer, who asked me to help out.’

  ‘Mmm… I heard about the mail. A fake bomb, too. Pity he didn’t keep any of the evidence. I thought that was a bit careless for a man with his background.’ He made it sound as if he didn’t believe it possible. ‘Probably a disgruntled servant, I imagine, trying to put the frighteners on him. What do they call it - below-stairs friction? Paying you well, is he?’

  Riley was ready for the sudden switch in questions. ‘Yes, actually. Why, are you jealous?’

  Weller snorted gently. ‘Not me,’ he said amiably. ‘But a word of advice: if you haven’t been paid yet, I’d get it quick if I were you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The last I heard, which was just the other day, so it’s still hot news, is that Sir Kenneth Myburghe is as flat, financially speaking, as one of Gandhi’s flip-flops.’

  Riley thought about the building works and the wedding. Could it be true? Had Myburghe over-extended himself? ‘Doesn’t his wife have money?’

  ‘Did have, years ago. She divorced him last year, cutting off any funds at source.’

  ‘Why the divorce?’

  ‘No idea. Gossip says his gambling. But it could be the fact that he’s no longer being considered for foreign postings. I’m surprised he hasn’t had to sell the country pile by now. Still, I suppose he could always offer it to the nation in perpetuity. A rehab centre for heroin addicts – now that would be useful, don’t you think?’ He gave her a shark-like display of teeth, then turned and walked away, whistling softly and leaving Riley to speculate on how much he hadn’t told her.

  And why the reference to drugs?

  Riley went inside and typed up some notes, always useful therapy when she felt pressured about a job. The pounding of the keys was oddly soothing in a way, the end result often producing clarity where none had existed before. When she had reached a hiatus, she brewed coffee and ruminated, before calling Palmer and telling him all about her visit to Barnston, the sudden appearance of Toby Henzigger and ending with Weller’s latest information.

  ‘Hellfire,’ he commented dryly. ‘It’s like moths to a flame with you, isn’t it? Does anyone insure you?’

  ‘Very funny, Palmer. Don’t you see where all this is leading? We – you - need to talk to Jacob to find out what he knows.’

  ‘Possibly. He sounds like a case of Post-Traumatic Stress to me. What then?’

  ‘After that,’ she said carefully, ‘it might be useful talking to Lady Myburghe.’

  There was a long silence before Palmer replied. ‘I don’t think I’d recommend that.’

  It wasn’t a definite no, but a long way from yes. ‘It’s important,’ said Riley.

  ‘Why? Because wives know their husbands best?’

  ‘Partly. I think she might have information about Sir Kenneth that we won’t get from any other source.’

  ‘How does that affect our current situation?’

  Riley sighed. She wasn’t sure if it was Palmer’s instinctive code of in-built discretion, but he seemed determined not to make this easy. She told him what Weller had said about Myburghe’s finances. He listened without interrupting.

  ‘Even without that,’ said Riley, ‘I’d be interested to know why Lady Myburghe left him after all those years of marriage. And exactly how is he funding the wedding and the renovations at Colebrooke House when, according to Weller, he’s flat broke.’

  The line ticked and hissed, and for an instant she thought of Weller, and men with electronic boxes running a tap on her telephone line. She dismissed it as burgeoning paranoia and waited for a reply.

  ‘Palmer?’

  Eventually he said, ‘Do you believe Weller’s being straight?’

  ‘I can’t see why he’d lie about something like this. What would he have to gain? You’ve met him – what do you think?’

  Palmer didn’t bother denying that he knew Weller. ‘Maybe. I only met him once. He seemed okay, but he’s bound to have an agenda of some sort.’

  ‘I agree.’ The fact was, the more she saw of Weller, the more she was certain that he was using her and – by association – Palmer, to stir up whatever pot he’d got bubbling before him. But that was tactics.

  Another long pause, then Palmer said, ‘I’ll call you back.’ He rang off.

  Riley sat and waited, partly because she wasn’t sure what to do next. She was worried that her friendship with Palmer was approaching a watershed, and was beginning to regret having pressured him to take sides. True, he was quite capable of making decisions for himself, but clearly he was also fighting his own moral code about making judgements on the people he worked for. And having Riley pushing him with information he wouldn’t normally have been privy to was plainly clouding his deep-seated issues of loyalty.

  He called back after twenty minutes. ‘One hour’s time,’ he said briefly, and gave her an address in Belgravia. ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘Will you be there?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He disconnected.

  ***********

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Fifty-five minutes later, Riley arrived outside a splendid town house in a smart white-stucco terrace, with an imposing portico and a shiny black front door not unlike the one at Colebrooke House. The litter-free street was lined with cars, all gleaming as if in testimony to their owners’ status, and she felt a frisson of nervousness as she mounted the steps and rang the bell.

  She was half expecting to see another version of Rockface, stiffly formal in a suit and tie. But the door was opened by a tiny Filipino woman in a smart royal-blue dress, who didn’t look as if she could throw a fit, much less a punch. She smiled and invited Riley in with a timid gesture, and it was obvious she had been told about Riley’s appointment.

  Riley stepped past her into a large hallway furnished with a deep pile carpet and several impressive pieces of antique furniture. The walls were exquisitely decorated in soft shades of sage and oatmeal, and she felt relieved at having changed into a smart skirt and decent shoes before coming here.

  ‘Please go through to the drawing room,’ the maid asked her, indicating a door to the right. Then she turned and walked away with tiny, elegant steps.

  Lady Susan Myburghe was flicking through a glossy magazine and sipping at a porcelain cup of colourless liquid. She wore a beautiful silk dress of burgundy and black, off-set by a string of black pearls, yet her feet were encased in a pair of flu
ffy pink bedroom slippers with frayed toes, a startling contrast in colour and style. It was only when she looked up that Riley saw her eyes bore a deep sadness and her skin lacked lustre, like faded parchment.

  She felt a twinge of guilt for coming here with what she had in mind, but reminded herself that this woman had been her husband’s close companion for many years, and consequently should know more about him than anyone on the planet.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Gavin.’ The invitation was crisp and authoritative, promptly shooting down in flames any thoughts Riley might have had about sweet, defenceless old ladies. And up close, she judged her age to be somewhere in the late fifties. This was a woman accustomed to being in charge, no matter how saddened by the hand that fate had decided to deal her. She reminded Riley of a young-ish Nancy Regan, only without the former First Lady’s brittle outer casing. She gave a signal to the maid, who had slipped into the room without a sound. ‘You’ll take tea?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Riley agreed, since it didn’t seem to be in any doubt, and sat on a hard, low-backed couch which must have been reserved for short-stay visitors. She hoped she didn’t tumble over the back and disgrace herself.

  Lady Myburghe went back to her reading and sipping, which Riley decided meant she wasn’t supposed to speak until tea was poured. She thought about Palmer and what he would have done if he’d been here. No doubt he’d have had this old biddy eating out of his hand.

  After an age, the maid returned and poured tea, including one for herself. Then she sat in a chair by the window and studiously ignored them both.

  ‘Don’t mind Jenny,’ said Lady Susan. ‘She barely understands English and acts as my chaperone. So. Frank Palmer speaks very highly of you. He says I should help you.’ A faint softening of her features made Riley wonder if there was a member of the Myburghe clan that Frank Palmer hadn’t made a good impression on.

  ‘Frank and I sometimes work together,’ she explained. ‘As we are at the moment.’