NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer) Read online

  Palmer shook his head. ‘No, not really. God gave up on me a long time ago.’

  De Haan looked almost shocked. ‘I doubt that, Mr Palmer. God never gives up on anyone. Perhaps you need to re-establish contact.’ He let go of Palmer’s hand and turned to Riley. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d still like to see Henry,’ replied Riley. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s much better. But still not up to visitors, I’m afraid.’ Pastor de Haan gave a brief smile. ‘Perhaps in another day or two, when he’s feeling stronger.’

  ‘Stronger?’ This from Palmer.

  ‘Yes. He’s been through a traumatic time. It’s taken its toll and he needs complete rest. I’m concerned that anything stressful will put him back completely. Do you suffer from stress, Mr Palmer?’

  ‘Me? No. At least, only when I think I’m being given the run-around.’ He smiled enigmatically, his eyes never leaving de Haan’s face. ‘That gets to me quite a bit.’

  ‘Oh.’ De Haan glanced at Riley with a flicker of nerves and she wondered if he was hoping for Quine to appear like a genie out of the aged woodwork and rescue him. But she had a feeling Quine wasn’t around, otherwise he’d have been out here by now.

  ‘I was talking to Henry’s neighbour the other day,’ she said chattily. ‘She’s looking after Henry’s cat and sends her regards, by the way. She said Henry showed her some snaps once, of a day out with some young people. I got the impression it was here.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ de Haan murmured, with a faint frown. ‘We have held barbecues and functions here from time to time, but it’s not something I encourage. The main thrust of our efforts lies in the cities. I suppose Henry might have taken some photos at one time.’ He brushed at a sudden hint of perspiration on his brow, his eyes shifting between Riley and Palmer.

  ‘So he helps with the young people, then? I thought his efforts were purely on the admin side.’ Riley wondered why de Haan was so nervous. She started to turn away, then looked back at him. ‘I didn’t realise he was so public-spirited. He’s such a dark horse. Still, just like him to record everything.’

  De Haan looked as if he wanted to gag, and his face lost its colour. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just that Henry’s a newsman through to his socks. And we tend to over-record everything. You never know when you might stumble on a story. Like these missing kids that are in the news at the moment.’

  De Haan’s expression hardened, but he managed a brief nod. ‘A sad sign of the times, I fear.’ Riley pulled out the folded flyer from the coffee house, showing Angelina Boothe-Davison’s details and photograph. It was a spur of the moment thing; until they had entered the building, she’d forgotten all about it. ‘Like this girl. Is this one of your flyers?’

  De Haan looked at it as though it might bite, then nodded. ‘We try to help when asked, yes. I remember this one vaguely. A tragic case.’ His expression softened as if to reflect his concern, as if the missing girl was a personal burden he had to bear alone. ‘Poor girl. She stepped off the path. We can only hope she can be persuaded to come back.’

  ‘So you haven’t found her yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Why do you need to know?’

  Riley ignored the question. ‘But the parents asked for your help? Why would they do that?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘How did they know to approach you? You’re not exactly in Yellow Pages.’

  He studied her for a second, a pulse beating in his throat, and glanced at Palmer before answering. ‘Actually, it was a bit of both,’ he admitted carefully. ‘If I remember correctly, a friend of the family asked if we could intervene. I suggested they got the parents to call us.’ He shrugged with elaborate vagueness. ‘I don’t recall the specifics. It seemed more important to get the notices out there so we could begin the search before it was too late. People have very short memories, Miss Gavin. Life moves so quickly, demanding our every spare moment. It’s vital to get people to think before they forget what they have seen. Is this important to you - a family friend, perhaps? Because if you have any ideas about where she might be, you should tell me.’ His words sounded almost syrupy in their sincerity, but Riley thought she detected a sub-text which was more about suspicion. She was also certain he was lying about remembering how the Church became involved. He got the feeling that de Haan was a man who forgot very little.

  She folded the flyer away and shook her head. ‘I don’t. But when we spoke last time, I got the impression you only took people in - and then only if they came to you for help. This sounds as if you actually go out looking for missing people on behalf of their families.’ She waited for a response.

  He inclined his head as if dealing with a persistent and not terribly quick child. ‘Well, we do that, too, of course. When we’re asked. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear before. But I fail to see why this should be of interest to you or-’ he glanced at Palmer, ‘your friend, here. We have certain facilities and skills which allow us to perform that function. It would be wrong to waste them. Now, if you don’t-’

  ‘In exchange for a fee?’

  He stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. The grateful parents show their gratitude, is what I mean.’

  De Haan took several seconds to answer, as if willing himself under control. ‘Some do, of course. But it is not and never has been a condition of supplying our expertise. That would be little better than bounty-hunting.’ His mouth clamped shut on the words in evident distaste.

  ‘And Mr Quine?’

  De Haan frowned. ‘Mr Quine is a valuable asset. He has a great deal of experience in this area. I would be foolish if I denied anyone the opportunity to use his skills. I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with Henry Pearcy?’

  ‘Where does he get them?’ Palmer put in, taking the lead.

  ‘Get what?’ De Haan looked confused by the switch.

  ‘His skills. Finding missing kids isn’t something you get through the Open University or as an NVQ. What is he - ex-police?’

  ‘I really have no idea. I seem to recall he may have once worked in the law enforcement field, now you mention it. As far as our work is involved, he has an understanding of the habits and networks in current use among the young, which is invaluable. As I said to you before, over the years we have built up some expertise at tracing runaways. It’s not our main activity, but I’m proud to say we have an enviable record of success… when we’re permitted to work freely, that is.’ He bit the words off with a snap, which Riley took as a sign that she was finally getting under his skin.

  ‘Permitted?’

  ‘Unhappily, not all those who are found wish to go home.’ He shrugged impatiently, wanting rid of the subject and, no doubt, the two of them. ‘There’s very little we can do to force them, under those circumstances. We do our best, but sometimes prior… events are against us.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Family matters. I’m sure I don’t have to go into that. Adults, you see, usually find their own solutions, Miss Gavin. One way or another. The young do not have that luxury, and it is they who have most need of guidance when they feel the need to tread their own paths. But you probably know that already.’

  Riley felt the sudden force of de Haan’s anger. From irritation at being questioned, he now looked as if he had stepped over an invisible line he had not intended to cross. Or was it the passion of the true believer? He ducked his head, his cheeks showing a sheen of perspiration, and Riley wondered if he was always this affected by his own rhetoric. ‘Forgive me,’ he added lamely. ‘It’s simply that I feel… very strongly about what we do here.’

  ‘I can tell. Thank you – you’ve been very helpful.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘By the way, has Mr Quine been to the Suffolk coast recently?’

  De Haan’s eyes flared in surprise before he clamped down on his reactions. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Suffolk. It’s on the e
ast coast. Has he been there?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, Miss Gavin. You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?’ His expression was suddenly ice cold, all attempts at geniality gone.

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  Riley turned and walked out, leaving Palmer to follow. Her head was ringing with the echo of de Haan’s words: ‘But you probably know that already.’

  She had deliberately not told de Haan about Katie, yet she was certain that he knew. Could Henry have told him about her? She wondered if it was the real explanation for his unease. Pastor de Haan had allowed his control to slip a fraction, letting Riley know that he knew more about Katie’s past than he had any right to.

  Back in the car, Riley glanced at Palmer. ‘What do you think?’

  Palmer toyed with a cigarette, flicking it against his thumbnail. He wore a slight frown. ‘If I was a betting man,’ he said finally, ‘I’d say Pastor de Haan, along with his changeable accent, is as bent as a dead dog’s dick.’

  ‘How quaint. Should we tell DS McKinley? He might be able to force them to produce Henry. At least then he might take me off his list of possible suspects.’

  Palmer shrugged and said nothing, so Riley stopped the car by the gates and took out the card the police officer had given her. He answered after three rings. ‘McKinley.’

  ‘You asked me to call if I heard anything about Henry Pearcy,’ Riley announced.‘

  Did I?’ McKinley sounded tired. ‘Yes. Sorry, that’s no longer an investigation.’

  What?’ Riley was surprised. ‘But you said his disappearance was suspicious.’

  ‘So it was. But not any longer. Word came from on high; Mr Pearcy had some kind of breakdown. As a result of taking some anti-depressants, he had a fall in his hotel room. He’s now staying with friends. There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid. Now, if that’s all, I have an urgent call.’

  ‘Breakdown? But that’s crazy-’ But the line was dead. McKinley had hung up.

  Riley switched off her mobile and dropped it in her lap. ‘Do you believe that? What does that mean, word from on high?’ She drove out of the gates, causing a spurt of gravel behind her.

  Palmer pulled a face. ‘It means a senior person on the totem pole pulled rank. You don’t argue with that if you value your pension. De Haan must have got to somebody.’

  ‘And that’s it? That’s all you’re prepared to do?’ She looked at him in exasperation. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and light your cigarette; it might give you some inspiration.’

  ‘Well, if you wanted me to tie de Haan to a chair and beat him over the head with a rubber hose, you should have said. I said he’s bent, but that doesn’t mean he’s involved in Katie Pyle’s death. And if he’s convinced the Met that Henry’s safe, there’s nothing we can do.’ He gave a wry smile and put the unlit cigarette back in the packet. ‘All the same, it might be interesting to go back and take a quiet look around.’

  Riley smiled with relief and put her foot down.

  When they were close to Uxbridge, Palmer gave her directions to s small block of flats set in a leafy back road. He asked her if she wanted to come in.

  ‘I don’t know. Is it safe?’

  ‘Perfectly. Why shouldn’t it be?’ He gave her a shark-like smile. ‘If I’d wanted to tie you up and do unspeakable things to you, I’d have done it before now.’ He punished her by taking out a cigarette and lighting it, and blowing the smoke around the inside of the car.

  Riley ignored the provocation and tried another tack. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to risk upsetting your girlfriend. Or doesn’t she mind you inviting strange women into your lair?’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘God, you women are so transparent. Actually, my girlfriend, as you insist on calling her, doesn’t mind. In any case, she’s a lot stranger than you are.’ He opened the door and got out. ‘Tea, coffee or see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Palmer, you’ve got a real way with women. Make it tea.’ She followed him into a two-storey block of apartments, where he led the way to the first floor. He unlocked the door and ushered her into a neat, well-ordered sitting room with a small kitchen. The furniture was good quality and comfortable, and the colour scheme pleasing if unspectacular. Riley was surprised by how tidy the place was, in spite of needing a dusting.

  Palmer noticed her look as he walked through to the kitchen. ‘I don’t do dust. I prefer to wait for the local electricity sub-station to build up a bit of static.’ While he made tea, Riley nosed around, peering at bookshelves and out into the rear gardens. She resisted the temptation of intruding into the bedroom. When he came in with two mugs of tea, she sat and sipped hers.

  ‘You just don’t get this, do you?’ said Palmer with a smile, stirring his tea. ‘You’d have been happier if I’d turned out to be a slob with pizza boxes piled up on the table and empty beer bottles rolling around on the carpet.’

  Riley felt guilty. ‘Actually, I didn’t know what to expect. Something a little less orderly, I suppose.’

  He licked his teaspoon and shrugged. ‘So, you reckon I’ve burned my bridges with Nikki Bruce, then?’

  ‘Burned and dropped in the river. Unless you fancy a girlfriend in the broadcasting media.’ She couldn’t help hoping he’d say no.

  ‘Forget it. Anyway, I prefer police uniforms to designer jackets.’ He tried to give what Riley guessed was a deliberately boyish snigger, but missed it by a mile. They talked a little about what they would do next, then Riley left him to it and drove home.

  What she didn’t expect to find was a stranger sitting on the front steps.

  Chapter 25

  It was the man Mr Grobowski had seen hanging around. He was thin, wore glasses, and his clothes bore the crumpled and over-pressed look of constant wear and cleaning, like someone governed by upbringing and habit but constrained by a limited wardrobe. Riley put his age at anywhere between forty and sixty; it was hard to tell.

  He stood up as she approached and brushed at the seat of his pants before stepping down onto the path. He was taller than she’d thought, and slightly stooped, like a spent reed. Then she realised she had seen his face before; he was the Nissan driver from outside the headquarters of the Church of Flowing Light. She stopped a cautious three paces away, and wondered if he was a friend of Quine’s.

  ‘Miss Gavin.’ If he was nervous he hid it well, and clearly knew who she was. Riley wondered what had prevented him from making himself known before. She doubted it was shyness. ‘My name is Eric Friedman.’

  She kept her expression blank. Friedman. Another building block suddenly began to fall into place. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you. I think you know what it’s about.’ His voice was well modulated, the words carefully pronounced, and Riley wondered what his profession might be.

  She gave it a few seconds of deliberation, then mentally tossed a coin. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, and led the way up the stairs. There was no sign of Mr Grobowski, so she guessed he was out. She picked up her mail on the way and unlocked the door to the flat. As she pushed it open, she felt the air go out of her in a rush.

  The walls either side of the hallway were covered in red spray paint; vivid and garish, it was a hideous pattern of meaningless scrawl and foul words, a mish-mash of graffiti. A thick spray of the same colour ran down to the floor, across a small, semicircular antique table where Riley usually kept her keys and bits and pieces, and up again in a wild slash across a row of hooks holding a windcheater, scarf and spare jacket. A large, dripping cross, glittering with black paint, stood out starkly on one wall, with smaller ones on each door. As Riley stepped inside, her feet crunched through pieces of broken crockery. Plates, saucers… her teapot – even an unused butter dish. It must have been kicked or thrown from the kitchen. As she stepped over the shards she heard Friedman take in a deep breath and mutter softly behind her. It might almost have been a prayer.

  The hallway was merely a taster of what lay ahead. As she entered the living room,
she recoiled with the shock. More crosses and more spray paint. A lot more. They were daubed across every surface, soaked into fabrics, ghosted across the ceilings and walls in a mad, obscene frenzy, a venomous mix of crazy art exhibition crossed with inner-city underpass. Nothing had been spared.

  The other rooms were the same, with food from the fridge trampled into the carpets alongside broken glassware and slashed chairs. Cans of beans and tomatoes had been opened and sprayed around and the vivid slash of orange juice arced across the floor and up one wall like a grotesque smile. A jagged hole pierced the television screen, exposing the guts of electronic circuitry and coloured wiring, and her laptop lay on its side, mangled beyond repair. In the bedroom, the mattress had been opened up like a dissected corpse and the duvet was a tangled frenzy of scarred fabric, gaping holes and feathers mixed with faeces and urine. The human smell hung heavy in the air, choking and vile, and deeply personal. Riley backed out and closed the door, too stunned even to feel sick.

  Eric Friedman stood in the centre of the devastation that had been the living room, watching her. He looked greyer than he had a few minutes before, but somehow resigned, as if this was nothing new. His first words since speaking outside confirmed it.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen this before. It’s… appalling.’

  ‘Christ, when?’ She’d seen vandalism, too. But never this close and never directed at her.

  ‘Somebody crossed them once before.’ He looked around and shook his head. ‘But that wasn’t as bad as this. Not as… extreme. They must feel very threatened.’

  ‘They? You mean you know who did this?’

  ‘I think so.’

  With a guilty start she remembered the flat’s other occasional inhabitant. Cat. She ran through to the bedroom, peering beneath the bed and behind overturned furniture, looking for any space small enough for a cat to hide in. ‘Cat? Where are you, Cat?’ But she knew there was nowhere left that hadn’t been trashed. She went back out to the hallway, convincing herself that he’d have taken one look at intruders and bolted for safety.