No Sleep for the Dead Page 6

  ‘Well, someone has to,’ Radnor snapped. ‘I’ve had a feeling something wasn’t right for a while.’ He stabbed a finger into his stomach. ‘A feeling in here. It’s gut instinct – and it hasn’t failed me yet. We’ve got too much invested to have it turned upside down at this stage. There are shipments coming in which we can’t stop.’

  ‘The shipments won’t be affected,’ Michael countered reasonably. ‘We let them go to the usual place. We just move this part of the operation somewhere else instead, away from Palmer’s focus. There are plenty of other offices to rent.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, though, is it?’ Radnor sighed and made an effort to calm down. ‘We can’t operate from some crummy lock-up, otherwise it’ll look as if we can’t compete. And if we start moving around and changing addresses, it’ll make the others jittery. They’ll think we’re not stable, and we can’t risk that.’

  Michael nodded. As he knew only too well, their suppliers, based in some of the more inhospitable parts of the former eastern bloc, seemed fixated on the idea that their ‘partners’ in the west should have every sign of respectability, as if that would, by association, enhance their own standing. They also had appallingly low tolerance levels for sudden change, and tended to regard any minor deviation from the norm as a sign of bad faith. If they detected what they thought was a show of instability in their business contacts, even as a precautionary measure against some perceived outside threat, they might not react in a reasonable manner. And among men who traditionally settled disputes with alarming finality, the effect could be disastrous in more ways than merely financial, even this far removed.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ He smiled coldly, and made the sign of a gun with his forefinger and thumb, adding a cocking sound. ‘Where I come from, it would be a simple matter. No more Gillivray.’

  Radnor gave him a baleful look, but for once, did not discount the idea out of hand. He finally shook his head. ‘It’s risky. This is Harrow – not Kabul.’

  If Michael minded this reference to his past employment with the Soviet security forces, he gave no sign. ‘Okay. So I deal with Palmer instead. Nobody would know.’

  ‘That wouldn’t work, either. The solicitors would simply hire someone else. Before we knew it, we’d have even more people nosing around – someone we didn’t know.’

  ‘Then our options are limited.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Radnor stood up to pull on his jacket, and picked up his briefcase. He walked over to the door. When he spoke again, he sounded calmer. ‘I have to go to Hayes to inspect the latest shipment.’

  Michael nodded with a smile, recognising that it was going to be left to him to come up with a solution to their problem. Radnor merely needed to be persuaded into saying so. ‘What are you saying?’

  Radnor shrugged, the final act of hand-washing. ‘Do what you think best.’

  Michael waited ten minutes after Radnor had gone, running over the range of options available to him. He dismissed them one by one, invariably coming back to the same idea that had been building ever since the Palmer problem had shown up. Then he stood up and left the office, locking the door carefully behind him. He walked down the back stairs, footsteps echoing on the tiled floor, and emerged by the twin doors to the loading bay. The space was clear except for a collection of packaging material, a strapping machine and some spare pallets. The area wasn’t used much except by him and Radnor, so he was accustomed to coming here without bumping into anyone from the other offices, save the occasional security guard doing his rounds.

  He opened one of the twin doors and stepped out onto the raised bay, scanning the car park and the street beyond. It was quiet out here. There were one or two vehicles in their bays, indicating that some of the building’s tenants were still at work, but that was all. It was something to be mindful of.

  His eyes lit on a silver Audi TT parked with its nose to the building. He checked the registration number against a scrap of paper in his pocket. Satisfied it was the one he was looking for, he walked down the concrete steps to the parking level, pausing to check that he was not being observed. The angle here was such that only someone leaning out of an upstairs window would see him, although the chance of that happening was remote. True, there was always the chance appearance of a tenant going to their car. That might be a problem, depending on how late it was. But he could adapt to suit the circumstances; it was what he was good at.

  He stepped up close to the Audi. It was Gillivray’s car, a gleaming, highly-polished toy, and carried enough optional extras and gadgets, such as an impressively obvious satellite navigation screen, to show the man believed in conspicuous wealth. He shook his head at the stupidity of some people. Men like Gillivray deserved to fail.

  Taking out his door keys, he took another look around. This had to look real, in case he couldn’t finish it this evening. He jabbed the keys viciously into the Audi’s wing, gouging a deep line into the paintwork just above the rear offside wheel. The bay next to it was empty, and the immediate impression by anyone seeing the damage would be that the departing vehicle had clipped the Audi as it reversed out.

  Satisfied, he went back upstairs, but instead of returning to the office on the first floor, he continued on up to the sixth level and pressed the bell outside the Stairwell Management suite. Through the glass, a young woman was just slipping her bag over her shoulder and flicking off switches ready to leave. She paused and buzzed him in.

  ‘Hi,’ he said smoothly. ‘Does anyone here drive an Audi TT?’ He made a show of glancing at a piece of paper in his hand and read off the Audi’s registration number, although he now knew it by heart.

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Mr Gillivray’s car. Is there a problem?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Well, not for me, exactly. But somebody just hit it and I thought he’d like to know. I work downstairs, by the way. Nasty scrape… such a pity with a beautiful car like that.’

  The girl’s mouth made an ‘O’, and she bent and pressed a button on the switchboard panel. When a gruff voice answered, she said, ‘Doug? There’s a man here from downstairs, name of…?’ she looked up at Michael expectantly.

  ‘It’s Mike,’ he said.

  ‘His name’s Mike, and he says somebody’s hit your car.’

  There was a muffled curse, and she put the phone down and looked at Michael with a grimace. ‘Oops, doesn’t sound like he’s too happy. He loves that car.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘I wouldn’t be happy, either.’

  Seconds later, a short, stocky man bustled into the reception area, his face thunderous and ready for trouble. He was dressed in a flashy suit and a loud tie, which seemed to fit with Michael’s idea of the over-optioned vehicle in the car park downstairs. ‘What’s this about my car?’ he demanded, and fixed Michael with a suspicious glare. ‘Who hit it – did you see?’

  Michael deflected the none-too-subtle accusation with ease, wondering if the man knew how, in other circumstances, he would have received immediate retaliation. However, he’d been prepared for this reaction; it made what he’d planned all the more enjoyable. ‘I’m afraid not. I just noticed the damage, that’s all. If it was my car, I’d want to know about it.’ He smiled sympathetically, and wondered how long it would take for the receptionist to decide to go home. ‘I could show you, if you like? Maybe act as a witness for the insurance claim.’

  Gillivray looked surprised by his generosity, but nodded eagerly. ‘Sure. Why not? Let me get my jacket.’

  ‘Doug.’ The receptionist stepped forward and pointed to her watch. ‘Do you mind if I go? I’ll miss my train. Everybody else has gone.’

  ‘Of course. You go,’ said Gillivray, flapping a vague hand. ‘I’ll lock up, don’t worry.’ He turned back to Michael. ‘Hang on, will you, um… Mike?’

  ‘Sure.’ Michael smiled easily. An empty office, no witnesses. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. ‘Take your time – I’m in no hurry.’

  H
e stepped across to the door and opened it for the young woman, then closed it carefully behind her. He waited until she stepped into the lift and the doors closed, then he turned and followed the stocky figure of Gillivray along the corridor.

  *********

  Chapter 10

  The man whose name and phone number Riley had found on a card in Palmer’s Rolodex was waiting for her in the foyer of the Mandeville Hotel, just off Wigmore Street in London’s West End. Charlie, who did not offer his surname, was a former army colleague of Palmer’s. Riley had never met him before, but his appearance fitted his own description: pale, thinning and out of condition, all brought on by too much work, a killer mortgage and a serious lack of sunlight, something which went with his job as a civil servant. She was aware that his job description wasn’t quite as bland as he made out, and that he had some connections with the security authorities, so was therefore to be approached cautiously. But he was a friend of Palmer’s and that was enough for her.

  He had agreed with a mild show of reluctance to meet her for coffee, but on the condition that it was away from his normal place of work in Whitehall. Riley recalled Palmer once describing his friend as one of the Ministry of Defence’s tunnel rats working in military records, and therefore security-conscious by instinct and training rather than paranoia.

  She knew Palmer had once used him to check on some military personnel records when they had first worked together investigating a gangland feud. The men involved, all ex-soldiers, had been recruited by John Mitcheson, then a former officer, who had unwittingly been used by the men when they were caught up in a smuggling racket in Bosnia. It had been Mitcheson’s speaking up for them that had ended his promising career, although it had not stopped him helping them again when they needed jobs outside the confines of the army.

  She shook her head and focussed on the here and now. There were other things to worry about, like finding Palmer. She nodded at Charlie and sat down across from him.

  ‘Miss Gavin.’

  ‘Call me Riley, please.’

  He was about to speak, but stopped as a couple of guests dropped into armchairs just across the foyer within earshot. He glanced towards the door and gestured behind him. ‘There’s a bar in back. It’s quieter there. We can talk.’

  Riley followed him through to a bar, which was deserted except for a yawning young man in a waistcoat and black uniform trousers, polishing a wine glass with a cloth. He clamped his mouth shut with a muttered apology and put down the cloth and glass.

  Charlie looked questioningly at Riley, who said, ‘Coffee, please. I need the caffeine.’

  He placed their order and joined her at a corner table. He sat facing the doorway, then leaned on his elbows and looked at her. ‘Frank speaks very highly of you. What’s up?’

  Riley was surprised by his directness, but appreciated him getting to the point. It was better than going round the conversational houses and wasting time on banalities. It also sounded about as close to approval as she could get.

  ‘I might be jumping the gun,’ she began, already feeling foolish at dragging Charlie away from his desk. ‘But I’m worried about Palmer. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for a couple of days, but his mobile’s switched off. I’ve checked his office and flat, but there’s no trace of him.’

  Charlie sat back as the bartender brought a pot of coffee and put it on the table, along with milk and sugar. When he was out of earshot, the former army man said, ‘Could be he’s on a tricky job. You know Frank – he goes into operational mode sometimes. Or maybe he’s got a new girlfriend. It happens – even to Frank.’

  ‘I’d have known. Believe me.’

  Charlie poured coffee for them both and stirred sugar into his own cup. She caught him taking a surreptitious glance at his watch. ‘What makes you think there’s anything to worry about? He’s been okay otherwise, hasn’t he? Not ill, I mean?’

  Riley bit back a retort that she wouldn’t be wasting her time here if she thought he was lying in a hospital somewhere. Charlie, after all, was merely reacting the way any reasonable person would. Which, on the face of it, was more than she was doing. And how many days had Palmer been out of contact? She shook her head doggedly. ‘I’d have known about that, too.’ When he looked doubtful, she explained, ‘Love and illness to some people aren’t very different. Anyway, Palmer’s not that much of a dark horse. If he was unwell, I’d have spotted it. He’s a man, and you lot don’t hide your problems as well as you think.’

  Charlie grunted good-naturedly. ‘Point noted. So what do you know for sure?’

  She told him about her visit to Palmer’s flat, which revealed he had not checked his mail recently. She also described her impressions of his office. ‘I got the feeling someone had been in there recently. Someone other than Palmer, I mean.’

  Charlie looked sceptical about both, but she sensed he was wary of upsetting her by being too dismissive.

  ‘Palmer doesn’t do horticulture,’ she said, after describing the state of the pot plant. ‘He’d only water that damned thing if I was standing over him with a gun. Yet the soil was wet, and someone had cleaned up afterwards. I know you army boys can be fastidious, but this is Frank we’re talking about. And he doesn’t employ a cleaner.’

  He said nothing for a long while, idly drumming with his thumb on the table. ‘Okay. So he hasn’t been home in a while, nor checked his mail. He’s not at his office, yet he’s either broken the habits of a lifetime by watering a pot plant you bought him, or somebody did it for him while he’s away. Is that it?’

  Riley felt ridiculous hearing it laid out in such stark terms. ‘God, you make it sound so wet. I’m sorry.’ She began to think that she’d been too quick to cry wolf. What the hell was Charlie going to say to Palmer when they met up next?

  ‘Don’t be,’ he replied, surprising her. ‘It’s the mundane that often hides something. If the fact that he’s not shown up is unusual, then where is he?’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Anything else strike you as unusual? Daft or not,’ he added kindly. ‘Makes no difference.’

  It was sufficient to make Riley grasp at her last straw. ‘Only that his computer was switched off.’

  Amazingly, Charlie frowned. ‘Bloody hell. That is unusual.’

  ‘Are you taking the Mick?’ She glared at him, but he raised a defensive hand.

  ‘No, straight up. That’s Frank – he never switches anything off. At least, he never bloody did it when I worked with him. He was always walking out and leaving electric fires on. I told him he’d have a blaze on his hands one day, but it never made any difference. What else?’

  ‘His office looks dusty. Okay, it’s always dusty, but this is worse than usual – especially the desk. At least when he’s there it gets stirred up a bit. I don’t think he’s been in since I dropped him back three days ago. And Palmer enjoys sitting at his desk, especially for his morning coffee. It’s one of his… his things.’ She felt disloyal, describing this as if it was some odd quirk of his character that was best left unsaid. But Charlie merely nodded, eyebrows floating upwards.

  She described how her card had fallen out of the Rolodex, that it hadn’t bothered her before, but thinking about it now, why would Palmer have needed to look at her card? He knew the details by heart.

  ‘And he’d had a woman visitor recently. I could smell the perfume. And before you say a girlfriend, this was an older woman’s scent. It was sickly sweet. Expensive.’

  Charlie sipped the last of his coffee. ‘Could be a suspicious wife wanting a round-the-clock check on an errant hubby who travels. That’d certainly keep Frank busy enough. Standard work for someone in his line of work. Maybe he got a friend or neighbour to pop in to water the plant. Does Frank know any older women who like gardening?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I doubt it. The other thing is, a local shopkeeper mentioned seeing a large car out front the other evening. He said a tall black man with dreadlocks went in first, followed by an older woman. He couldn’t see enough detail
for a description, though, and couldn’t swear that they went into the office.’

  ‘Could have been anyone.’ Charlie pushed his cup away. ‘Pity you haven’t got more. I mean, you and I might think it’s odd, but it’s a bit thin.’

  Riley thought about the business at the office block where Palmer had seen the familiar face from his past. She still wasn’t convinced it was anything other than coincidence, but in her experience, it was ignoring the apparent nothings which often led to mistakes.

  ‘There’s one other thing.’ She told Charlie about their visit to the office in Harrow, and Palmer’s reaction. ‘It was immediately after seeing some men in the lift. He got slightly weird after that, and went quiet on me. When I asked him about it, he said he’s had a flashback. ‘A ghost’ was the term he used. He tried to brush it off after that, but he didn’t sound convincing.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know if it’s connected, but I found this in his office.’ She took out the sheet of paper from Palmer’s office notepad and unfolded it. Seeing it now, it simply looked like a sheet of paper covered in doodles, and she wanted to snatch it back.

  Charlie scanned the sheet, eyes flicking across the doodles. When he reached the bottom, he went very still.

  ‘What is it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Dunno. ‘Sgt’ is an abbreviation for sergeant. ‘Reg’ could be short for regulation. But ‘Paris’? There’s only two of those that I know of: one in Texas, the other in France. Frank has been to neither, as far as I know, unless it was on a dirty weekend.’

  ‘What about Meiningen? I haven’t had a chance to check, but could it be a place name?’

  Charlie nodded and folded the paper, sliding it into his inside pocket. Something in the casual way he did so made Riley feel uneasy.