No Sleep for the Dead Page 20

  ‘And you can’t tell who they’re watching?’ queried Riley, twirling her glass on a beer-soaked mat. She didn’t want to push Charlie’s friendship with Palmer too far, but she sensed he needed to be guided towards disclosing any information that could help them, rather than giving it out too freely. Palmer was sitting back with his eyes on the yellowed ceiling of the bar, content to let her lead the way with the questions.

  ‘No idea. Not listed. But if I was laying odds, I’d say it was your feller Radnor, or maybe his east European partner in crime. There’s no-one else in the building with the right profile, as far as I can tell.’ He gave Palmer a twisted smile. ‘At least, not since Frank tossed Gillivray out of the window. Allegedly.’

  Palmer rode the jibe with forbearance. ‘Very allegedly. Presumably Six must know Radnor’s there, though?’

  ‘MI6?’ said Riley.

  ‘Yes. They must keep tabs on their former employees.’

  ‘If he is former.’ Charlie looked wary. ‘I can’t tell that, either, so don’t ask. All I know is, it appears he left MI6 several years ago and went private, but nobody knows where. He seems to have dropped out of sight before re-emerging in London. My guess is, they either think – or know - he’s up to something, which is why they’re keeping the place under observation. He wouldn’t be the first spook who hopped the reservation and went freelance. People like Radnor are hardly trained for the pipe and slippers option once their time is up. They’ve got too much invested in a different kind of lifestyle. It looks like he chose to go bent.’

  Riley frowned. ‘So these watchers will have recorded our visits, then?’

  ‘Probably. Time in, time out, faces, feet, the lot. But don’t panic yet; it’ll take time to process all the faces. But you can be sure you’ll show up sooner or later. Bad pennies.’ He finished off his beer and looked cheerfully at Riley. ‘No offence to you, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Purely by chance, after your call the other day while Frank, here, was taking in the delights of the German hinterland, I stumbled on some info about Radnor’s little mate, Michael. If it’s the same bloke, and I think it is, he’s got himself a small file in one of Five’s archives. His name’s Mikhail Rubinov, aged thirty-eight. He was a junior officer in one of the Soviet security departments. Not KGB as was, but close enough to make him interesting. He did some work in Afghanistan – undefined, as you’d expect, although that could mean he was just some low-level junior spook - then he was assigned to a trade directorate in Berlin about five years ago. That was where he came to the notice of the watchers over there, which automatically got him a file. I think he got bored, because he jumped ship after a few months and re-surfaced in Switzerland on the open job market. He’s had his fingers in various enterprises ever since – mostly bent, like currency scams.’

  ‘He might have known Radnor in East Germany, then,’ Riley guessed.

  ‘Highly probable. It’s a small world and shit attracts flies. Whatever, they must have formed a partnership, which is why there’s a flag on the building.’ He looked at them in turn. ‘You mentioned a woman in Streatham… the dead runner’s sister? There’s no record of her that I could find. It doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be here – just that she hasn’t come to anyone’s attention. She could be clean. What did you get from her?

  ‘Not much,’ said Riley. ‘She showed us a photo of Radnor and her brother, though.’

  ‘It was taken in East Germany,’ Palmer put in. ‘It doesn’t prove anything…except that they knew each other.’

  Charlie’s eyebrows rose at the implications. ‘If he had some dealings with a local who was killed trying to cross the wire and never reported it, I’d say that breaks a few rules.’

  ‘How do you know he didn’t report it?’

  ‘Because Radnor’s name doesn’t come up in the report of the border shooting, nor on the sheets about Sergeant Paris’s death afterwards. I can only guess it must have been suppressed. A bit iffy, I’d say.’

  ‘Iffy?’

  ‘If he didn’t disclose that he was actually there when – who was it – Wachter? – was shot, nor that he’d been around with Paris just prior to his death, then he was hiding something.’

  ‘Isn’t that standard procedure for spies, hiding things?’ said Riley.

  Charlie suppressed a snort. ‘I know they’re supposed to be the Secret Service, but not that bloody secret. They’re accountable to their bosses if nobody else.’ He looked at Palmer. ‘You said something about art works. Radnor’s listed as an art dealer, although I suppose that could cover anything.’

  ‘I know.’ Palmer handed Charlie the scrap of greased paper he’d found at the VTS premises. ‘He must have been bringing in works of art for years, starting when he was working in the east. But they wouldn’t wrap canvases or icons in this stuff. I think they’ve been mixing the shipments with something a bit more interesting.’

  Charlie nodded, studying the piece of paper before slipping it into his breast pocket. ‘It would explain why he teamed up with Rubinov. The Russian would have the contacts in the east, or at the very least, know where the various arms dumps are located.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘The security over there is a joke. There are stashes of weapons everywhere, and every quartermaster with a brain is selling to the first person to come along with ready cash – dollars or euros.’ He paused. ‘I’m surprised they’re risking bringing in icons and stuff, though. The Russian police have really cracked down on it. Still, it must be worth the risk.’

  ‘Who would Radnor be selling the weapons to?’ said Riley.

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Depends. If he’s got the right contacts, he could be choosy and ship in stuff to order – weapons or valuables. That would jack up the price. If not, anyone with the right amount of ready cash.’

  ‘I’d bet on a specialist market,’ Palmer said. ‘Radnor’s training wouldn’t let him get tied up with any old team. He’d want solid connections and selected goods.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I’d go with that. Less risk.’

  ‘But if he’s being watched,’ said Riley, ‘why are they letting him carry on?’

  Charlie gave a faint smile. ‘Wheels within wheels. They might be hoping he’ll lead them back to his suppliers, or they could just be tangled in red tape, unable to make a decision.’ He tapped his pocket where he’d placed the piece of paper. ‘This will help, though. I’ll pass it on as ‘information received from interested parties’. But,’ he stared at them seriously. ‘You two stay clear of the place in Harrow from now on, got it? You get in the way, and you might find a lot of violent young men in black jump-suits and goggles trampling all over your faces.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date.’

  They stood up with him, and Palmer shook his hand, aware that his friend was risking his job by having contact with them on what was a sensitive subject.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ he said warmly. ‘I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Of course you do, Frank. And my auntie’s a member of the Bader Meinhof.’ He smiled nonetheless. ‘By the way, what happened with Lottie what’s-her-name?’

  ‘Grossman,’ said Palmer. ‘We’re not sure, but it looks like she may have bitten off more than she could chew.’ He related what Szulu had told them about Ragga Pearl taking Lottie away.

  ‘Jesus.’ Charlie took out a fold of paper and made a quick note, then stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘I’ll pass that on to a mate in SOCA. He’ll be pissed off that I know more than he does.’

  ‘Since when has the MOD had connections with the Serious Organised Crime Agency?’ asked Riley.

  ‘Ah, well, we’re all one big happy family now, didn’t you know?’ said Charlie sourly. ‘It’s called information pooling. Ever since the Sovs went belly-up and stopped pointing their nasty rockets our way, the various agencies have been scouting around for more work to keep themselves busy. And this new lot have got something to prove.’ He paused and eyed them both
. ‘As a matter of interest, you don’t think Radnor and this Ragga Pearl would do business, do you?’

  ‘God forbid,’ breathed Riley. The prospect of the man described by Szulu in such horrific terms getting hold of some serious firepower was something she didn’t like to think about.

  Palmer shook his head, unable to see a valid connection. ‘Forget it. From what we’ve heard, Radnor wouldn’t deal with a man like Pearl.’

  ‘It was just a thought. It’s all about budgets, see? More work equals more allocation. And we can’t have our common criminals going round killing each other, can we? Think of the mess on the streets.’ He gave Palmer a penetrating look. ‘How come this Szulu character was so talkative? You’re both white and sworn enemies of his current employer; that hardly makes you bosom buddies.’

  Palmer cleared his throat heavily to forestall Riley saying anything. Mention of persuasion and gunshot wounds might lead to Mitcheson. Charlie was a friend, but he didn’t want to place him in a difficult position. ‘He became disenchanted with his old employer.’ He nodded towards the note Charlie had just placed in his pocket. ‘Can you hold off doing anything with that information for a while?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Charlie conceded. Then he studied them in turn and his mouth dropped open. ‘Christ, you’re never going looking for the old witch? Are you nuts?’

  ‘Call it unfinished business,’ said Riley. ‘While Lottie’s out there, we’ll be looking over our shoulders all the time. She sounds seriously ill, but from what Szulu said, she’s in worse danger than that if Ragga Pearl’s got her.’

  ‘So? That would solve your problem, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. But Lottie’s as devious as a barrel of eels. We just want to make sure she hasn’t talked Ragga Pearl into helping her.’

  ‘How are you going to find that out? These guys don’t exactly see people by appointment. It’s not like popping into your doctor.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Actually, with my doctor, that’s bollocks – it’s probably easier.’

  ‘We’ve got Szulu working on that right now,’ said Palmer. ‘He’s currently without paid employment, so we asked him to set up a meeting.’

  ‘Asked? I’d love to hear how you did that.’ Charlie eyed them both, then shook his head. ‘On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t.’ He could see he wasn’t going to change their minds. ‘Okay, but don’t blame me if it all goes sour and he holds you both hostage. I’ll see myself out.’ He turned and walked away.

  As the door closed behind him, Riley’s mobile rang. It was Szulu. She listened for a moment, then switched off and looked at Palmer with a wary smile.

  ‘Szulu says Ragga will see us tomorrow at noon.’

  **********

  Chapter 32

  By ten-thirty the following morning, the sun was already warm when Riley knocked on the door to Cecile Wachter’s house. Palmer was carrying a small photocopier he’d borrowed from a friendly office supplier, so he could copy the precious photo of Cecile’s brother and Radnor.

  ‘You don’t think she took fright, do you?’ said Riley, when there was no answer. They had deliberately left it until now to come back, to give Cecile time to prepare. Maybe it had given her too much time. There were no signs of life in the street, with most commuters having long departed for work and their children for school. A dog paused at the gateway behind them and cocked its leg before moving on, and a radio blared somewhere nearby. Beyond that, it was a normal suburban morning.

  Palmer stepped forward and bent to pick something off the step. It was a link from a gold coloured chain, about half an inch across. The two ends had been forced apart, leaving the metal raw and jagged.

  ‘Damn – we’re too late,’ he muttered, and put the copier on the ground. ‘Stay here.’ He pushed the door and watched it swing open, expelling a rush of warm air.

  ‘Miss Wachter? Cecile?’ His voice echoed back dully from inside, and he knew instinctively that nobody was in. Nobody alive, anyway.

  He stepped inside and walked through to the living room, which was neat, uncluttered and looked rarely used. Then to the kitchen, where a saucepan full of browning potatoes stood on the hob alongside a plate of meat, curling at the edges. In the conservatory, where they had sat the day before, looking at Cecile Wachter’s photographs and the proof they needed that Arthur Radnor had known her brother, Palmer stopped, feeling a sudden chill go through him.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Riley had followed him through the house. She was looking down past his shoulder to where Cecile Wachter lay on the floor by the coffee table, her head on one arm as if she was asleep. Her legs were neatly arranged, as she had appeared in life, and the only sign that all was not well was a dark smudge on one side of her forehead and a small trickle of dried blood from one ear.

  Palmer placed his fingers against Cecile’s neck. She was cold to the touch, her eyes staring sightlessly into the carpet, her glasses lying a yard away by the door to the garden, one earpiece twisted out of shape. A hank of hair had come loose from her bun, and was lying across one cheek.

  ‘How long ago?’ Riley asked, swallowing hard against a rush of nausea .

  ‘Don’t know. Hours, probably.’ Palmer straightened up and went to check the remainder of the house. He was soon back.

  ‘No signs of a search,’ he said briefly. ‘Whoever did this knew what they were looking for. If they were looking for anything.’ He bent and picked up some of the photographs they had seen yesterday, which were now lying scattered on the floor. Two or three had been torn in half, others had been crumpled, a sign, perhaps of the intruder’s anger. Or desperation.

  ‘The photo,’ said Riley.

  Palmer checked through the photos one by one. There was no sign of the shot showing Radnor and Claus Wachter, the only proof they had seen so far that the two men knew each other.

  ‘Whoever it was,’ said Riley, looking round, ‘caught her by surprise.’

  Palmer nodded and studied the scene, tracking events through from the front door to where Cecile Wachter had died. ‘She had the security chain on. It slowed him down slightly, but not enough to make a difference.’ He turned and ran through it again, but came up with the same scenario. ‘He must have found her with the photos.’

  ‘But why kill her? She just wanted to be left alone.’

  ‘He was tidying up. Maybe things got out of hand. She looks like she took a smack to the side of her head. She wasn’t exactly robust.’

  ‘So he’s got the photo. I wonder if it was Michael or Radnor.’

  ‘One of them, definitely. Who else would be interested? Christ,’ he swore quietly, ‘I’ve been so dumb.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure we weren’t followed here – I’d have spotted them. Which means they must have known about Cecile. When we headed in this direction, they guessed immediately where we were going.’

  ‘Do you think she was working with them? I can’t believe it; she sounded pretty sincere when she said she’d left all that behind.’

  ‘She probably had,’ Palmer agreed. ‘Maybe Radnor discovered she’d come to England but took a chance on her either not talking or not knowing what his part had been in her brother’s death.’

  ‘Until we showed up.’

  ‘Yes. They either killed her because they realised she had something, or they found the photo and decided to cut their losses. Sooner or later Radnor would have reasoned that she posed a real threat to him. And now was as good a time as any to do something about her.’

  ‘Except,’ said Riley sombrely, ‘she didn’t know she was a threat.’ She sat down on the sofa and stared around the room. ‘That bit you said to Cecile yesterday – something about tradecraft. What did you mean?’

  ‘The practice of spying. How to collect and sift information, how to gain contacts and get peoples’ confidence, to wheedle out facts, to move around without being noticed. Like every trade, it has its methods-’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Wait. Cecile might not have been a fully-trained spy, but she’d h
ave been told how to conceal information until it was time to deliver it.’

  ‘But that photo was in a bundle of others. She hadn’t hidden it because there was no need. How long was she gone upstairs while we were here? A minute?’

  ‘You’re right. There’d never been the need to hide it before. It was just a photo among a pile of others. Until yesterday.’ Palmer leaned over the coffee table and stirred the photos with his finger. Some still had drawing pins attached, now tarnished and bent. Others had holes showing where they had once been pinned up.

  He looked back towards the front of the house.

  After all these years, one photo suddenly became important. Cecile knew they wanted to copy it. Would she have had time to conceal it with Michael or Radnor hard on her heels? Make it Michael – it would have taken energy and bite to rip through the security chain, and Radnor had neither. Which meant she wouldn’t have had very much time once he broke through.

  ‘What if she managed to hide the photo,’ he said quietly. ‘Since we came here, she knew how important it was. But where?’

  Riley supplied the answer for him. She knelt down as Cecile had done the previous day, and tried to imagine her in the same position when Michael had burst in on her. From the position her body was now lying in, it was possible she had resumed the same stance in trying to prevent him seeing the incriminating photo.

  Yet there was nowhere close that Cecile could have reached from here. All the other items of furniture were too far away. Unless. She peered under the coffee table, then gave a small whisper of triumph. When she stood up, she was holding the photo, complete with one of the old drawing pins. Cecile must have put it under there when she heard someone at the front door, or did so moments before Michael entered the conservatory. It was the last place he had considered looking, right under his nose.

  ‘Clever,’ said Palmer, with sombre admiration for Cecile’s quick thinking and courage.