NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) Page 7

  He tried to think what significance an office building might have held for him and Helen. Clearly she had thought it had some relevance. But nothing came to mind. Why was there no accompanying message?

  Riley voiced his thoughts. ‘Would you send anyone a photo of a building without at least a word of explanation to go with it?’

  ‘No. Unless they were expecting it.’

  ‘And you obviously weren’t.’

  ‘No.’ He sighed, frustrated by the lack of clear answers as to what had happened in Helen’s life over the past few days. Yet surely this must have held some special meaning, otherwise she wouldn’t have been trying to contact him.

  ‘Unless,’ said Riley sombrely, ‘she couldn’t add a message in the normal way.’ She right-clicked the mouse button and a box appeared marked ‘Properties’. She studied it for a moment, then said, ‘I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think this photo came from a mobile phone camera. Did she have one?’

  ‘Yes. She got it just before I met her. I’m sure it had a camera. It did everything but make coffee.’

  Riley gave him a sideways look, and Palmer knew what she was thinking. He had a basic brick of a model which did nothing but make and receive calls, and which Riley had once commented was heavy enough to double as a cosh if he needed one.

  ‘It’s called progress, Palmer. I’m surprised you haven’t got one. In your line of work, you’d find it useful, taking snaps of adulterers in their frillies.’ She moved the cursor and the picture became larger as she zoomed in. A couple of clicks and the area above the entrance moved into the frame. ‘Got you,’ she breathed, and moved the cursor to a faint outline of a sign above the doors. It read: Pantile House.

  Riley opened Google and typed in the name of the building. It came up with ten pages of hits. Many were of buildings with the name Pantile all over the country, including several commercial properties.

  ‘This could take some time,’ she warned him, after several false starts. ‘We’ll be dead lucky to get a match on the Internet. It could be anywhere – or be one of these buildings from a different angle.’ She tapped her fingernail on the desk. ‘On the other hand, I know someone with access to a commercial property database. Fancy a trip into the city?’

  ‘Couldn’t we email them the photo?’ Palmer checked his watch. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The person I’m thinking of works unsocial hours. And he owes me a favour.’ She picked up her mobile and checked her directory. ‘Won’t be a second.’

  Palmer walked over to the door, impatient to be going. If there was even the faintest of trails, he wanted to follow it, no matter where it led. ‘Suits me. What else are we going to do?’

  A door slammed, the noise intruding over the muted hum of home-going traffic along the Euston Road. It was followed by a faint burst of laughter, the sounds echoing up through the empty fourth floor.

  The man named Grigori gave a start. He didn’t enjoy having to use this place. But he was obsessive about not leaving a paper trail, which was why he couldn’t risk hiring a facility legitimately. Contracts and invoices left a footprint, and remaining invisible in this city for the time being was essential. He was here on someone else’s territory, and if he made a mistake, he knew his presence would be compromised. It was one of the reasons he had a variety of names and identities at his fingertips. The man he was specifically trying to avoid was not one to let an opportunity slip by without taking drastic action.

  He stood up and stared out of the window. It didn’t help that he did not altogether trust the building’s supervisor, Goricz, who had arranged access to this empty office. The Serbian immigrant had promised that the lease was frozen pending legal complications, and that nobody would disturb them. But he had dealt with people like Goricz before. If they sold their services to one person for a few paltry pounds, they could just as easily do it to another. It was the nature of the beast.

  The office door opened and his assistant, Radko, slipped inside.

  ‘Well?’ Grigori switched on the desk lamp.

  ‘I checked the briefcase again. There were some notes, which I burned, and a cellphone. I have someone checking the call log through the service provider. The woman called several numbers over the last few days, one of them more than once.’ He shrugged. ‘Could be a friend we don’t know about – setting up a date, perhaps.’

  Grigori nodded. ‘Maybe. When will we know for certain?’

  ‘That we are still safe? A few hours – tomorrow at the latest. Even then, there’s no guarantee that she didn’t talk about what she was doing.’

  ‘I know. Let us hope she did not. If Al-Bashir even sniffs we are here, he will know why.’ He stared hard at Radko, eyes bleak. ‘He has men he can call on. And I know he will not hesitate to use them.’ He checked his watch. ‘I want to leave in half an hour.’

  Radko nodded. ‘I’ll tell the others to be ready.’

  *******

  13

  The offices of Crichton, Rutter & Dean occupied the ground floor corner of an office block just to the south side of Oxford Street. The property consultants shared building space with a marketing company, a film production HQ and a container leasing firm, and were protected by an entry-phone, CCTV and a uniformed commissionaire.

  Riley announced their names and the man clicked open the door and showed them through to a reception area with a smart desk and a young woman with a Hermes scarf and a brooding air of boredom. She lifted her chin in query.

  ‘We’re here to see Mark Chase,’ said Riley. ‘He is expecting us.’

  Before the woman could respond, a side door opened and a man in his late forties stepped out with a welcoming smile. He was plump and shiny-faced and dressed in shirtsleeves, pinstripe pants and braces, and had a head of glossy hair peppered with grey.

  ‘Riley! I spotted you coming in. Nice to see you again.’ His tone was relaxed, educated, the greeting enthusiastic. He looked at Palmer. ‘You must be Frank.’ He waved a hand. ‘Ex-RMP, right?’

  Palmer smiled back. ‘And you weren’t.’

  ‘No, sorry. I was in the Grenadiers for a bit. Managed to avoid you lot, thankfully.’ He grinned boyishly, eyes sparkling, and ushered them into his office. He sat them down, then slid behind a vast, mahogany desk sinking beneath paperwork and files and a large flat-screen PC monitor. A black and white photograph on a shelf behind him showed a group of men in combat uniform posed against an army truck. Another - this one in colour - showed an attractive woman with dark hair, sandwiched between two small boys. Riley had met Cathy, Mark’s wife, and knew she was fiercely protective of him.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a lot of time,’ he said apologetically. ‘We’ve had a rush visit dropped on us by the Foreign Office. A team of Chinese civil servants want to see some office space, so I might have to drop everything and run.’

  Riley had explained on the way across town that Mark Chase had been caught on the periphery of a property scam she had investigated a couple of years ago. It had been Riley’s word that had kept him out of prison when a former business partner had left him holding suddenly worthless papers. He had been waiting to pay back her kindness ever since.

  ‘Mark,’ Riley reassured him, ‘it’s good of you to see us.’

  ‘No problem.’ Chase glanced at his watch before turning to his monitor. ‘You were looking for this building, right?’ He tapped the keyboard and spun the monitor round to face them. It showed the picture that Riley had emailed him before leaving Palmer’s office. ‘It’s not the greatest picture… poor resolution, I’m afraid. Taken on a mobile – am I right?’

  ‘We think so,’ said Riley.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Chase shrugged. ‘Some of our people use them all the time for quick snaps.’ He pulled the screen back round and tapped the keys again. The photo was replaced by a sharper image taken from a slightly different angle. ‘Is this the one?’ He turned it back so they could see it.

  Riley and Palmer both leaned fo
rward and studied the screen. The colouring and detail of the canopy over the entrance looked the same, as did one of the stubby trees set into the ground nearby. This time, the name PANTILE HOUSE was clearly visible.

  ‘How did you find it so quickly?’ said Riley. ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘Stroke of luck and a good database,’ Chase replied modestly. ‘I shoved it out on the net and got two replies within minutes. Our data confirmed it. Two of our leasing agents had been there recently and recognised it immediately.’ He grinned. ‘Lucky it was here in London, though. Anywhere out in the sticks and we’d have had a problem.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Off Eversholt Street, near Euston. Thirty years old, seven floors, basic commercial property with facilities, parking and part-time suit-and-boot security.’

  Riley looked blank.

  ‘A supervisor in a serge uniform,’ he explained. ‘The rental doesn’t allow a full-time presence, and there’s minimal electronic coverage. Used to be a DHSS office before it was refurbished, but that was years ago.’ His eyes drifted to the screen. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me why you need this, would you?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Palmer said easily. ‘The photo was sent to us, but we’re not sure why. It could be part of something we’re looking into.’

  Chase nodded. ‘You’re a PI, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fair enough. Just interested. Actually, we don’t look after this place any more. We handed it to another company as part of a shared management deal. But I can tell you that most of the tenants are solid and have been there for years. All except those on the fourth floor, anyway. They went bust and legged it. We’re still trying to sort out the legal situation.’

  ‘Did you say the fourth?’ Riley pounced on the reference to the floor number.

  ‘That’s right. We weren’t able to let it and so far, neither have the other company. I doubt they’ll do so now, anyway; there’s talk of a developer moving in. They’ll probably knock it down and start again.’ He sat back and looked between them with a knowing eye. ‘You want to get inside, don’t you?’

  Riley gave him her best winning smile. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Call me perceptive.’ He scribbled on a slip of paper. ‘I can’t go myself because of this Chinese visit, but if you ring Malcolm Swan, he’ll get you inside. You can pretend to be interested punters.’

  ‘Can he do it today?’ said Palmer.

  ‘Sure.’ Chase didn’t miss a beat. ‘What’s left of it. We often do evening viewings. I’ll call him and tell him you’re on your way. He works for the other firm, but he’s a good mate.’ He made a brief call and issued a firm request, then hung up. ‘Okay. All arranged.’

  Riley took the slip of paper along with the address details and stood up. The two men followed. Chase came round his desk with his jacket in one hand and gestured towards the door just as his phone gave three short beeps.

  ‘Damn - that’s my call to arms,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘Late night for me, with prawn balls all round. Can you see yourselves out?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Riley. ‘And we do appreciate this.’

  He eyed Riley warmly and gave her a quick, no-nonsense hug. ‘I still owe you big-time,’ he told her seriously. ‘And Cathy would kill me if she knew I wasn’t taking you to this place myself. Call me if you need anything else?’

  Riley nodded and touched his arm. ‘We’ll be fine. Say hello to Cathy for me – and don’t mention civil rights to your dinner guests.’

  They left him to his evening meeting and walked out into the square.

  ‘So,’ said Palmer, eyeing a darkening sky. ‘Now we know the where. What we don’t know is the why.’

  Riley looked at him, sensing the hunter in his demeanour. Whatever he might be feeling about Helen’s murder, Palmer was beginning to gather strength and momentum from everything they learned. It was almost scary watching the gradual transformation. ‘How do we find out?’

  ‘The only way there is. We go take a look.’

  ‘What about DI Pell?’ she reminded him, suddenly remembering the detective. ‘It would be better if you called him rather than the other way round.’

  Palmer gave a dry smile. ‘Let’s do this first. While I’m still free.’

  *********

  14

  Pantile House in the flesh – or at least, it’s equivalent in concrete and glass - looked even less attractive than the photo images had suggested. Squatting in a hinterland of narrow streets a stone’s throw from Euston Station, it appeared faded and sad in the evening light, a stark contrast to the newer buildings springing up in the area. The tarmac around the outside of the building was liberally spread with litter and pitted with holes from years of low maintenance and heavy vehicle wear, and the louvred shutters at ground level, indicating a basement, were peeling and drab, in need of a good paint job.

  Malcolm Swan turned out to be a lofty young man in a dark suit, striped shirt and heavy black brogues. He was waiting for them outside the entrance, clipboard and mobile in hand. The car park was nearly empty, and an air of silence hung over the building. There were a few lights left on, and the whine of a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner drifted out of an open window.

  ‘I gather you want to take a quick recce inside,’ he offered eagerly as they shook hands. When his eyes fell on Palmer, he almost stood to attention. ‘Mark suggested I, um… get you in, then leave you to it.’ He seemed unconcerned by this strange request so late in the day, and turned to survey the building. ‘Fourth floor, Mark said. That right?’

  Palmer nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. In that case, I’ll do my clipboard bit with the super and get you upstairs. Then I’ll go take a phone call or two. If anyone asks, you’re out-of-towners checking out some possibilities.’ He smiled to take any possible offence out of the comment, adding, ‘Londoners do office hours.’ He turned towards the entrance. ‘Follow me.’

  They entered a glass-walled reception foyer furnished with a reception desk, a clutch of chairs and a few pot plants in large tubs. A faint smell of stale polish hung in the atmosphere, and the strip lighting highlighted the need for a coat of paint and a layer of carpet tiles to rid the place of its utilitarian appearance.

  Along one wall was a black wooden board listing the tenants in plastic lettering. The names gave no useful indication of their function, consisting mostly of acronyms followed by the universally bland UK or EUROPE. None of them meant anything to Riley or Palmer.

  ‘Small businesses, mostly,’ said Swan perceptively, eyeing the board. ‘Some holding companies, manufacturing and distribution admin offices, that sort of thing. Four is empty right across the floor. Now, where is that man?’ He cast around just as the lift door opened and a tall, thin individual stepped out carrying a tool box. He was wearing dark blue overalls over a blue shirt and black tie. ‘Ah, Mr Goricz. There you are.’

  He made vague introductions all round and confirmed that the visitors wanted to see the fourth floor. Goricz nodded affably enough, but made no attempt to shake hands.

  ‘It’s not clean, you know?’ he told them, his Central European accent overlaid with traces of east London. ‘Nobody has been in there for weeks – including me.’ He seemed impatient to have the viewing over and done with, and moved crabwise towards the lift without waiting to see if they wanted to inspect any of the ground floor.

  ‘No problem, ‘ Swan assured him. ‘They’re here to judge the space, not the dust mites.’

  On the way up, Swan ran through the services and facilities on offer, playing his part to the hilt without sounding over-zealous. Goricz, meanwhile, stared blankly at the light board as if signalling that helping to do a selling job on the building’s facilities wasn’t part of his job description.

  The lift stopped and they all exited, at which point Swan, who was bringing up the rear, excused himself and held up his mobile, which was buzzing. ‘Sorry –
better take this. You folks go ahead and browse around. I’ll see you down in the foyer.’ He looked at the supervisor, who was unlocking the doors to the fourth floor suite. ‘Mr Goricz, do you want to come down with me? I’m sure we can leave Mr and Ms, umm… to take a peek in private.’

  The supervisor hesitated, then threw open the door and peered inside. He stepped aside and gestured for Riley and Palmer to go in. As Palmer brushed by him, he was sure he sensed a wave of tension coming off Goricz, and wondered why.

  He and Riley waited for the lift to go down again before moving through the empty offices. The floor was covered in drab, brown carpet tiles, with an occasional clutch of telephone wires showing where workstations had once stood. Other than a few empty notice boards on the walls, it was clear that whoever the previous tenants had been, they had left little of value for any incomers to use save for a single desk. This was in the main office, which ran from the front to the rear of the building and overlooked the rear car park.

  Palmer walked over and flicked open the desk drawers. They were empty save for a large file drawer on one side, which held a reading lamp with a green shade, the flex coiled neatly around the stem. A plain telephone and plastic in-tray stood on the top of the desk, both covered in dust. Palmer ducked down and checked the surface against the light from the window, then straightened up and looked around the rest of the floor.

  Riley watched him moving about. This was Palmer’s speciality. He knew more about examining buildings and rooms than she did, and she was happy to let him get on with it.

  When he came back and stood next to her at the rear window, he wore a puzzled expression.

  ‘What’s up, hound-dog?’ she asked him. ‘You’ve got your worried face on.’

  He shook his head and said loudly. ‘Looks pretty good. Not sure about the street access, though.’ With that, he walked back to the door, crooking a finger for Riley to follow. She caught on quickly: now was not the time or place to talk about why they were really here.