No Tears for the Lost Page 17

  Riley was torn between the instinct to check for life signs and the scalp-tingling desire to run from this awful place and get help. But even as she overcame her fear and stepped closer, she realised that the former bodyguard was beyond any assistance she or anyone else could give him.

  His blood had splashed on the wall behind him, vivid and glossy, like dark lipstick. More had run in sticky streams down his torso and legs. The hair on his chest was matted with it, as was the area around his groin, and more was puddled thickly on the floor beneath his feet. A heavy globular trail led to the sink, beneath which lay a wide pool of water. On it, a collection of soap bubbles floated silent and still, like little boats on a lake.

  The analytical part of Riley’s brain kicked in. She was no expert, but the blood was coagulating, which meant this must have happened within the past few hours. Long enough for whoever had done this to have slipped away. She realised that the killers – surely it would have taken more than one man to do this - would have had to wash themselves afterwards. She forced herself to cross the room and look into the basin. Just visible beneath the surface of the reddened water was a large kitchen knife, the blade heavy with streaks of red clinging to the shiny metal.

  She concentrated on maintaining her breathing and backed away, then turned and walked out of the anteroom and down the corridor. Gone was any idea of stealth; instead she used speed and intent to overcome the fear brought on by the horror of what she’d just seen. She kicked open each door with a crash, the pitchfork held out in front of her, half expecting at any moment for someone to come rushing out. But nobody did.

  The rooms were the same as before: cold, unoccupied and soul-less. Just rooms. She went back to the anteroom and stared at the body. She was tempted to do something, to cut it down. But she couldn’t bring herself to go near, telling herself that it was evidence, like the knife, and that she shouldn’t touch.

  She rang Palmer and told him.

  ‘Two minutes,’ was all he said.

  While she waited, she busied herself searching for the dead man’s clothing. It had to be here somewhere, unless his attacker had stripped him before bringing him to this place. She couldn’t imagine the big man coming in here willingly unless he had known his attacker, or unless he’d arrived by chance and had been overcome before being stripped and mutilated.

  She found his things bundled inside one of the lockers. Black shoes and socks, dark pants, light blue shirt and t-shirt. But whoever killed him had already searched the clothes; the pockets were turned inside out, the hems and cuffs rolled back and checked. Whatever Rockface had carried on him – if anything - was gone.

  Riley replaced the clothes in the locker, wondering why they had taken the trouble of putting the clothes out of sight in the first place. Why bother- after this? Then she realised: shock value. In this white room, they wanted nothing to detract from the horror of seeing the body against the stark background.

  Palmer whistled a warning before stepping through the door. He looked up at the body, his jaw muscles clenching, then took in the rest of the room at a glance. He eyed the pitchfork in Riley’s hands.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Why would anyone torture him like this?’ Riley muttered thickly.

  ‘More than one,’ Palmer said quietly, echoing her earlier assumption. ‘It would have taken at least two men to get him up there.’ He nodded at the brackets, then moved closer to study the string looped under Rockface’s chin. It had been tied tight across the top of his head. It looked painful, even in death. ‘It wasn’t torture,’ Palmer concluded. ‘This was punishment. He wasn’t meant to speak.’

  Riley’s throat felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. She needed a distraction. ‘Was there anything in the house?’ It was going to take a long time to wipe this sight out of her mind, and she suddenly didn’t want to think about the agony Rockface must have suffered or why he had been killed in such a horrific manner.

  ‘Nothing useful,’ Palmer replied. He moved across to the microwave and sniffed at the door. ‘And no sign of Myburghe.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘If Myburghe was away, why was Rockface here? Bodyguards never, ever leave their charges.’

  ‘Unless whoever killed Rockface took Myburghe.’

  ‘Possibly.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘His name’s David Hilary, by the way. I found a bedroom with his stuff in it – papers and couple of ID cards.’

  At least, Riley reflected, the dead man now had a name. Funny how she’d never thought to ask what it was before. It made her feel guilty.

  Palmer bent and touched a spot of blood with his fingertip and held it up. ‘This was fairly recent,’ he said. He led the way outside and they stood for a few moments in a pool of shadow, watching and listening. The killers were probably long gone, but neither of them was anxious to go rushing back across the gardens and discover the hard way how wrong they might be.

  ‘What do we do?’ said Riley. She felt somehow disconnected, as if she had stumbled into a nightmare and hadn’t the strength to pull herself out.

  ‘We leave,’ said Palmer. ‘Now. There’s nothing we can do here.’

  They made their way by a circuitous route through the perimeter trees and out across the lawns at the back, Riley allowing Palmer to lead her by the arm. There was no sign of life other than a couple of owls and the sinuous outline of a fox slinking unhurriedly into the bushes. The sight of the animal, natural and free, merely served to heighten the contrast of what they had just seen in the stable block.

  The walk back to the car was quicker than the trip in, and Palmer wasted no time getting back out onto the road. After a few miles, he stopped at a public phone to call the police, leaving a brief, anonymous message, then hanging up and wiping the phone before getting back in the car.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ said Riley eventually, as they entered the glow of lights along the Western Avenue on the outskirts of London. She was relieved to be back in civilisation. The regular strobing of overhead lights should have been making her sleepy, but she hardly noticed. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to sleep again after what she had seen.

  ‘Myburghe,’ said Palmer, muttering beneath his breath. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  It was obvious that if a bodyguard went down, then the principal was immediately at greater risk. No bodyguard, no shield. Only they’d found no trace of Myburghe, which was odd. He should have been screaming from the rooftops, or at the very least, summoning help by phone. Unless he was unable to.

  Palmer dug out his phone and dialled a number. ‘Sir Kenneth’s mobile,’ he explained. They listened to a recorded message telling them that the subscriber was unavailable. He dialled another, but it rang several times with no response. He switched off. ‘I’ll drop you off and we’ll meet up in the morning. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He looked keenly at her. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

  The truth was, she felt anything but.

  **********

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Whenever sleep evaded her, Riley got up and drank tea and ate biscuits. It usually worked a treat, but not this time - there were too many vivid images floating about in her head. The cat wandered in and sat close by her leg, purring softly and allowing her to reach down and pet him. He seemed to be acknowledging for once that it was Riley who needed the consolation of unspoken companionship.

  Succumbing just before five in the morning, she slept fitfully for three hours, then showered and dragged herself round to Nero’s. Although the images of the anteroom were beginning to recede with the passing hours, she needed normal sights and sounds to help the process along.

  She found Palmer lounging in a chair by the back wall, nursing a large mug of coffee and eating a croissant. If he had any remnants of nightmares left over after seeing Rockface, he was dealing with it in his own way. With Palmer, she reflected, you couldn’t always tell.

  ‘Didn’t
you sleep either?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Of Myburghe?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’

  They sat and deliberated on the events of the previous evening. There had been nothing in the tabloids, which was hardly surprising. By the time Palmer’s anonymous tip-off had been acted on, it would have been too late for the morning editions. The evening editions and broadcast media, however, would probably have a field day, and Colebrooke would be awash with reporters and film crews for days.

  ‘Something’s bothering me,’ said Palmer finally, as if he’d been tapping into her thoughts, ‘about the stable block.’

  ‘Is that all?’ The whole place had bothered Riley, especially the bit with the body in it.

  ‘The microwave – it smelled odd. Did you notice?’

  ‘Spicy food, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I thought they were abandoned weeks ago. It smelled fresher, somehow.’

  Riley shrugged.’Rockf- sorry - Hilary said the place was used by the grooms.’ She was having trouble thinking of the man by his proper name. Not that it mattered any more. ‘They must have cast iron constitutions, all those early mornings and cold saddles.’ She remembered the piece of magazine paper she had found on the floor, and rummaged in her pocket. She’d stored it away without giving it further thought. ‘I found this in one of the stable block rooms, the night of the wedding party.’ She handed it to him.

  Palmer studied the few words of text. ‘Could be nothing,’ he commented. He stood up. ‘But you never know. I’ll just be a minute.’ He drifted out, tapping into his mobile as he went.

  It gave Riley time to think about what to do next. Tracking down Myburghe was a priority, but for that, they needed somewhere to begin – a jumping-off point. And without a single clue as to where he could have gone, the world was far too big a place. She found her thoughts drawn towards Weller, and whether he would even give them the time of day once he found out what had happened at Colebrooke House.

  When Palmer came back he was looking pensive. ‘The grooms employed by her father,’ he said, ‘spoke Spanish.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Victoria Myburghe.’ He gave her a sideways look as if to forestall any further comment.

  ‘Isn’t that what we thought?’

  ‘True. Except Victoria says they arrived after the horses had been sold.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So what were they there for?’

  ‘Sir Kenneth would know,’ Riley said. Stating the blindingly obvious may not have been original, but it filled a gap in their line of thought. But where the hell was he? The unsettling thought was that they hadn’t had time to look around the rest of the estate, and he could still be there somewhere lying dead or seriously hurt. On the other hand, if the place was besieged by reporters, it wouldn’t be long before one of them stumbled over the body.

  Hell of a way, she thought, to get an exclusive.

  ‘What about Myburghe’s daughters? Do you think they know where he is?’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘I asked. They don’t. Anyway, he’d be dragging them further into his troubles, and I can’t see him risking it.’ He stood up and stared at the ceiling, eyes narrowed in thought.

  ‘You’ve thought of something,’ Riley said, seeing the signs.

  ‘There’s one person who might know,’ he said at last. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Palmer,’ Lady Myburghe greeted him with a faint smile as they were ushered into the sitting room by the diminutive Jenny. ‘How nice to see you. And Miss Gavin.’ In spite of her courtesy, the dullness in her eyes seemed more pronounced than ever, leaving her drained of colour.

  When Jenny finished serving tea, Palmer looked pointedly at Riley.

  She caught the signal and said, ‘Lady Susan, your husband once kept horses at Colebrooke House.’

  ‘Yes. He bought them years ago, when he was flush for once. God knows why - his interest in horses was and still is limited to how long they take to run round a race track. I doubt he’s ridden one in fifteen years. I’m sure he only kept them because it was the thing to do. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Did he hire some Spanish grooms to look after them?’

  She frowned. ‘Hardly. He had a couple of local lads from the village. Until the wedding, I hadn’t been there for months, of course - not since… well, since returning from South America. But Victoria and Annabel told me about some men he’d brought in with some silly explanation about giving work to people who needed it. It was just a few weeks ago, I believe. But he no longer had the horses – he’d sold them all – and he’d got the local lads work in other stables. So what he was doing bringing in foreign grooms, I’ve no idea. They left, too, in the end.’ She looked at them in turn, lingering on Palmer the longest. ‘Why?’

  ‘We were puzzled, that’s all,’ said Palmer. ‘It seemed… odd to us, too. Do you know who they were?’

  ‘No idea. But according to Annabel, they weren’t Spanish.’ She had developed a sudden gleam in her eye as if pleased at being able to get something off her chest.

  ‘What made her think that?’ Riley was developing a faint throb of confusion.

  ‘Like Victoria, she spent some time in South America with us, before coming back here to boarding school. Then there were holidays, of course. Being younger, she picked up the language remarkably quickly - especially the local slang, which is particular to the region where it’s used. Annabel said the three men spoke Spanish, but like born-and-bred Colombians, most probably from the countryside around Bogotá. She didn’t like them. She found them rather crude.’

  Palmer and Riley exchanged a look. Why hadn’t Lady Susan made any kind of connection between the country her husband used to work in, and the nationality of the men who had been staying in his stables? Or was it that she hadn’t wanted to? Fortunately, she had gone back to staring into the distance and didn’t appear to notice the silent questions bouncing back and forth over her head.

  Questions like, If the ‘grooms’ were Colombians, where were they now?

  ‘Do you have any idea,’ Riley said hesitantly, feeling a knot forming in her stomach, ‘where your husband might be?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ The older lady stared down at her hands. Had she been anyone else, Riley would have accused her of lying, but she held herself in check.

  Palmer wasn’t quite so tactful.

  ‘Really?’ His tone was gentle, but it was clear he didn’t believe her, either. If she had any doubts, the look on his face was confirmation.

  ‘I do not,’ she insisted firmly. But her eyes told a different story.

  ‘David Hilary,’ Riley asked, choosing her words with care. ‘He’s been with your husband a long time, hasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. When Kenneth was promoted, he was advised to take protection for the family. There weren’t always official people available, and someone recommended David… I don’t recall who.’ Then her aura of rigid self-control seemed to collapse in on itself, and she sank back into her chair like an elegant beach ball slowly deflating. ‘I… I’m sorry. I’d like to be alone for a while - would you mind?’ She closed her eyes and touched a hand to her cheek.

  Riley frowned. If the older woman was feeling faint, it had come on rather suddenly – and conveniently. Then, as she stood up to join Palmer, the realisation came to her: Lady Susan still loved her husband. The split was all an act.

  Jenny appeared as if by magic, before Riley could say anything, and they left, leaving behind them a host of unanswered questions.

  ‘That wasn’t so good,’ Palmer observed as the front door closed behind them. They walked down the steps and stood on the pavement. ‘She’s hiding something. Those grooms have been around fairly recently – I’d bet money on it.’

  Before Riley could mention her thoughts about Lady Susan’s cover-up, a car pulled in at the kerb alongside them. The rear door opened to disgorge a familiar figure.

  ‘Well, well.’ W
eller stepped across the pavement, straightening his cuffs. ‘Two of London’s finest busybodies. Been anywhere near Colebrooke House in the last twelve hours, have we?’ A uniformed PC emerged from behind him and stood to one side, waiting.

  ‘You really must stop following me around like this, Weller,’ Riley told him. ‘People are beginning to talk.’ She spread her smile to include the PC, but he stared back with a cold expression.

  ‘That’s truer than you know,’ Weller replied, eyeing her with a touch of flint. ‘And it’s pointless making eyes at PC Hennings. He’s on duty.’ He threw a studied look at Palmer, who stared back with an expression of boredom. Palmer’s way of dealing with officialdom was to pretend it wasn’t there.

  ‘Dead bodies turning up always worry me,’ Weller continued enigmatically. ‘Where were you two last night?’

  ‘Out walking,’ said Riley.

  ‘Together?’ He glanced at Palmer, who shrugged and said nothing.

  Weller didn’t seem offended or surprised by the silence. He glanced up at the windows of the house behind them. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Myburghe’s ex-missus lives here, doesn’t she? Nice place. Must be worth a packet. Are they in?’

  Riley caught Palmer’s look and instinctively shook her head. His meaning was clear: the last thing they needed right now was Weller talking to Lady Myburghe. In her fragile state she might let on that they had been asking questions about the Spanish ‘grooms’ and the stable block, a subject a little too close to home, given what Weller had just intimated. ‘You were right about the money thing, Weller,’ she said. ‘But he’s out. What bodies are you talking about?’

  Weller ignored Riley and stepped up close to Palmer. ‘Last night at Colebrooke House,’ he explained, ‘an ex-squaddie named David Hilary was murdered. Seems someone didn’t like him. He was Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s butler and bodyguard. You probably knew him.’