No Sleep for the Dead Read online

  ‘So where does all this artwork go?’

  He shrugged. ‘Couriers come and collect it. I’ve never seen the labels, but I hear the States is a real hot market for that stuff. Lots of Russians over there now; stinking rich, some of them, like Abramovitch, the Chelsea bloke. Maybe it reminds them of home, being able to buy up stuff from the old country instead of football clubs.’

  Riley took out a card and handed it to him. It might be worth looking further into it, but she still had to find out what Palmer was doing. At least she now had a name to give him.

  ‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ she said gratefully. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  He smiled. ‘No problem, love. I’m always here if you need anything else.’

  Aware of the interest from the other customers, Riley leaned over and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek. He immediately struggled to his feet, flushing a deep red. But his pleasure was evident in the broad smile stretched across his face.

  Riley found a parking space just around the corner from her flat, and was approaching the gateway leading to the front entrance, mulling over what Jimmy had told her, when a tall figure suddenly appeared in front of her. She gave a start and stepped sideways, muttering an automatic apology. The man carried on by, showing a flash of teeth as he passed. She was barely able to take in the dreadlocks and piercing grey eyes before he was walking away with long, athletic strides, his manner gracefully unhurried.

  She wondered vaguely who he had been visiting, before hurrying upstairs to see if there were any messages waiting. He was probably one of the local community outreach workers visiting Mr Grobowski. The elderly Pole was involved with various local matters. As soon as she stepped in the flat, she noticed her answer machine flashing. She hit the playback button.

  It was Palmer’s voice, sounding tense. The message kept breaking up, with gaps between the words. ‘Riley? Sorry…bunking off…that. …few things…check urgently. Listen, I’m…back to London…man I knew…careful who…answer door…Bye.’

  Among the intermittent background noise, Riley heard a two-tone chime followed by the crackle of an announcement. She wondered where Palmer was calling from. Was it a railway station? An airport? ‘Back to London.’ Did that mean out of the city - up north, for example? Or out of the country? And what was that about answering the door? She replayed the message a couple of times, and finally worked out what the announcement in the background was saying. It came as a surprise.

  It was a woman, and she was speaking German. Damn you, Palmer - what are you up to?

  Ten minutes later, her phone rang. She snatched it up, ready to tear verbal chunks off Palmer for not keeping in touch. But it was Jimmy Gough. He sounded worried.

  ‘I thought you should know,’ he said without preamble, ‘There’s been some activity at the office in Harrow.’

  ‘Activity?’

  ‘Nobby just dropped me the nod. Asked me to pass it on. I hope your mate hasn’t been back there since you last called.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘A bloke named Gillivray – wasn’t he the one you called on? Bit of a wheeler-dealer, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he didn’t turned up for work this morning. He’s usually in about mid-morning, regular. His colleagues rang down, said they were worried about him, ‘cos he wasn’t at home and they wanted to know if he’d rung in. Nobby said he hadn’t seen the bloke, although his car was in the car park. He’s got one of those fancy Audi TT jobs. Anyway, a bit later, Nobby was doing his tour of the outside, checking doors and stuff, same as usual.’ Jimmy’s voice went flat on the final words, as if he was hoping he didn’t have to finish what he was saying.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He found him round the side of the building, in a soak-away. That’s a gulley round the building. You’d never see it unless you walked round there. From where he was lying, it looks like your Mr Gillivray took a dive right off the sixth floor.’

  *********

  Chapter 13

  Riley thanked Jimmy for the information and rang Donald Brask. After what Jimmy had just told her, a leaden feeling was growing in her stomach. This was turning into a potential disaster. First Palmer sees a ghost from his past. Then he goes walkabout – to Germany, if her guess was correct. Now a man they’d called on to serve some papers, tricking their way into his office to do so, had died after plunging from a six-storey window. The police were going to have a field day with that one. She hoped Donald was still there; he’d know who to call to find out what was happening.

  Donald answered after two rings, and she told him about Jimmy Gough’s news.

  Donald sounded incredulous. ‘And you think Palmer-?’

  ‘No way. Why would he? Anyway, he’s been somewhere across the water.’ She related his brief if incomplete message. ‘But the police will probably make the connection sooner or later. Even I could hear Gillivray shouting as Frank left his office, so plenty of others will have done. As friendly as the security man was, he’ll have been forced to give them a description. Unless there was a whole procession of people that Gillivray upset that day, Palmer’s probably heading the list of candidates.’

  ‘Maybe not. If he’s been overseas, it might be his best alibi. Even so, I suppose it could be sticky for him. Okay, sweetie, leave it with me.’ She could hear Donald already tapping out a number on another phone. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ He disconnected, leaving her feeling strangely useless and adrift.

  It was three hours before he called back. He sounded subdued. ‘Sorry, sweetie. I’ve been unable to get hold of my usual contacts. So far the police haven’t issued any names or details, but they’ve got several leads they’re looking at. That’s all I could find out.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like suicide, then?’

  ‘Unlikely, from the noises they’re making. There was only one clue: Gillivray was a bit of a gambler on the side. He’d booked a weekend in Monte Carlo not long before he died. You don’t do that if you’re considering killing yourself.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘It seems he didn’t have the widest circle of friends, and owed serious money in some very murky quarters. A source inside the building told the police of two visitors within the last few days, one of whom they said had some sort of argument with Gillivray. Beyond that I couldn’t find out more.’

  ‘A source? It must be the receptionist.’

  ‘Probably. When Palmer does surface, tell him to keep his head down. In the meantime, the police might stumble on who really did push Gillivray into space.’

  ‘I’ll do that. You’ll keep me informed?’

  ‘Of course.’ Donald paused for two heartbeats. ‘One way or another, this business is looking as if it might have legs. I know you’re concerned about Palmer, but you might bear that in mind.’

  Riley sighed. ‘Donald, you’re all heart.’ But she knew he was right. There was a story here, even in the death of the late, probably unlamented Doug Gillivray. And if it should turn out to be connected in some way with the men on the first floor, there was no way she could ignore it. There was also the question of Donald’s invaluable support; he had the resources she might need to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘So why exactly are you so interested in this Palmer guy?’ Szulu glanced in the mirror and caught the eye of the woman in the back seat. They had been sitting in the car off Holland Park Avenue for over an hour, and her sickly perfume was beginning to clog up his airways. He eased down the window a fraction, grateful for the near-inaudible hum of the vehicle’s electrics, and breathed in some fresh, exhaust-laden city air.

  They were just down the street from a house divided into three flats. The area was quiet here, with just a few passing cars and fewer pedestrians, none of whom gave the car a second glance. There was no sign of life on the two upper floors of the house they were watching, but a lot of light was spilling out from ground level. The old guy who lived there, Szulu figured, didn’t have much to hide, otherwise he’d have used his curtains mor
e. Maybe he liked living in a goldfish bowl. What was his name…? Grobowski, that was it. Polish, a shopkeeper down the street had let slip. ‘He done you on a deal or what?’

  ‘The why doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘I just want him found.’

  ‘Then what? Only, one thing you should know, right, I only get driver’s money.’

  ‘So?’ The response was a long time coming.

  ‘So it doesn’t mean I do other stuff.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The street light reflected off the woman’s glasses, momentarily blanking her eyes. It made her seem sinister and unfriendly, like a large, malevolent fly.

  ‘Breaking arms, that kind of thing.’ Szulu shrugged easily. ‘Don’t mean to say I can’t, right? Just that there’s a rate for the job.’ He grinned, although he felt nervous. ‘Like a plumber.’

  ‘A plumber.’ Her voice echoed back at him, heavy with what sounded like contempt. He felt a rush of heat. This old bitch was really starting to push his buttons, talking to him like this. Come to think of it, she wasn’t actually talking at all. Not like other people he’d worked for. They had at least filled him in, making sure he knew what the score was. Treating him with respect. Not like her.

  ‘That’s right. A plumber would want to know what he was into, wouldn’t he? Then he’d tell you how much it would cost.’ He nodded, pleased at the comparison. ‘Me, I know nothing. Just find this – what’s this bloke – Frank Palmer.’

  There was silence in the car, and Szulu wondered if she was about to take a .357 Magnum out of her bag and let him have a bullet in the back of the head. Or maybe she’d use a Glock, which was lighter. Now that would never have surprised him. But she didn’t move.

  ‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘You want to know more, I’ll tell you. But I’ll keep it short - you wouldn’t be able to handle the full version.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Frank Palmer did me a great harm a while ago. He disrupted some important plans and caused the deaths of at least two valued employees… and my dear husband.’

  ‘What?’ Szulu turned his head in surprise. He began to wish he hadn’t started this line of conversation. Getting mixed up with hit men was a whole different thing. Low-lifes and druggies he could handle, but people who killed for a living – now there was an irony – was something else. ‘He kills people? You never said nothing like that before.’

  ‘I didn’t see the need.’ The woman’s voice was sharp, cutting through his objections. ‘I said he caused the deaths, I didn’t say he killed them. Not,’ she added, ‘that the distinction will help him.’ She paused for a moment, then continued in a whisper, as if voicing her thoughts out loud. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this. Too long, in fact. But no longer.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s now time, before it’s too late.’

  ‘So it’s pay-back, yeah? All this?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Szulu. Pay-back. You’re acquainted with the concept?’

  ‘Damn right.’ Szulu understood perfectly. Getting even was what kept some people going. That and fear. What he didn’t get, though, was how utterly cold this woman was. Revenge was something you did when you were fired up and white-hot, and nothing was going to get in your way. Revenge was all about blood and honour and not being seen as weak. The way this old crone spoke, it was like it was a discussion in a school class or something. Matter-of-fact, almost. Scary.

  ‘So it’s just him, then, is it - Palmer?’

  ‘No. There was a young woman as well. She lives right there.’ He glanced back to see her nodding towards the house up the street. The one where she’d earlier told him to sniff around and check out who lived there. All he’d come up with was the old Polish guy, a pensioner on the top floor whom nobody ever saw, and a journalist – the one called Gavin. He remembered the name from Palmer’s Rolodex.

  ‘You never mentioned no young woman.’ Szulu’s words carried an unmistakable tone of accusation, too late to rein in. This old witch still wasn’t telling him everything. It was like she was drip-feeding him. Then it hit him. ‘Hey – wait. You mean Riley Gavin is a chick’s name? Shit, that would have been good to know.’ He felt his stomach lurch as he recalled the young woman he’d nearly bumped into as he was leaving the house. Christ – that must have been her. And he’d seen her somewhere before, now he thought about it: coming away from Palmer’s place! He opened his mouth to tell the old woman, but thought better of it. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

  There was movement in the back seat and he smelled her breath on his neck, sour and heavy with a hint of long-dead peppermint. When he turned and looked fully at her, he saw eyes like cold slate. Old as she was, and undoubtedly frail, too, so much so that he reckoned it would take no more than a quick grasp of her chicken neck to snuff out her lights, he still felt a palpable sense of threat coming off her.

  ‘Do you need a reminder of how I found you, Mr Szulu?’ she said quietly. ‘Found out you were… available?’

  Szulu shrugged, trying not to care. But he felt something inside him cringe with what she was driving at, and hated himself for it. He tried to block out any further thoughts and was relieved she couldn’t see his face.

  ‘Next time you feel like questioning me,’ she continued, calmly goading, after he’d had time to digest the question, ‘perhaps you’d like to give Mr Pearl a call.’

  Pearl. The cold worm of fear broke through in the pit of his stomach at the mention of the name. Ragga Pearl, to give him his full name, was bad fuckin’ news of the worst kind. He was nuts, for one thing. Cold, no messing, clinically insane. And given to taking out his frustrations, real or imagined, on anyone who crossed him. He even made those LA gangstas, with their craze for gold-plated MAC10s and Uzis look socially acceptable.

  ‘We can leave the Ragga out of it,’ he said quietly, hoping she couldn’t see the tic thumping in the side of his neck. Unfortunately, Ragga Pearl had somehow got it into his head not long ago that Szulu had been disrespectful to him. He hadn’t, actually - it had been a misunderstanding that Szulu thought had long blown over. But crazy-as-a-fruit fly Ragga Pearl didn’t work on the normal human level; one minute he could be all smiles with you, the next you were in a war zone. Worst of all, he had a habit of suddenly calling up remembered hurts long past their sell-by date. And when he did that, if you’d ever looked at him the wrong way, shown disrespect, called against him, then you better head for the Arctic or some such remote place, as far away from his kingdom in south London as you could get.

  And the worst of it was, it had taken one phone call from the Ragga, and here he was saddled with this mad old bitch – and she was white! Man, the world had gone crazy. He looked round and the woman smiled, her rouged mouth twisting in a way that made Szulu want to slap her. Not that he was into hitting women, but he was beginning to think there was always a first time. ‘No need, right?’

  ‘Good. As long as you do your job, I’ll keep Mr Pearl and his demands off your back. And as for any extra duties…well, I think we can start with one this evening. I’ll pay extra, of course.’

  He shrugged, but any sense of victory was blanked out by a sick feeling in his gut. For a couple of days, he’d been able to push all thoughts of Pearl out of his head. Now he was back, like the freak of nature that he was. And all it would take was one phone call from this woman…

  He wondered how much the Ragga had charged her, his pride hoping it was an extortionately high rate.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Send them a warning. Just for starters. No violence, though. Not yet.’

  ‘Okay.’ Szulu dragged the word out, not sure where this was going. She was asking him to put the frighteners on somebody. He was willing to bet it was the woman. Fair enough. He’d deal with anything more if it came up.

  ‘But be warned, Mr Szulu,’ she added quietly. ‘I will not tolerate disloyalty. I never have. If you cheat me, if you try to short-change me in any way, I will speak to Mr Pearl.’

  Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Jesus, this wo
man and the Ragga? He still couldn’t get his head round that. It was criminal.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ he said quietly, trying to get his mind onto something more pleasant, and to demonstrate that he wasn’t bothered by her threats.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What do I call you? Your name’s not really Fraser, is it? Only, I’ve used it a couple of times, and you didn’t reply. I need to know what to call you, right?’

  ‘How observant of you, Mr Szulu.’ She considered it for a few moments. ‘Very well. You might as well call me by the name Palmer and Gavin know me by.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Grossman.’ Her eyes glittered with an unpleasant light. ‘They know me as Lottie Grossman.’

  ************

  Chapter 14

  Riley watched the cat patrol the outer edges of the living room and settle down in the kitchen doorway, eyeing her with a flat gaze. It was the usual ritual if she failed to feed him within whatever he considered the allotted timescale. She sighed and got up, her thoughts still on Palmer and what the latest developments of Gillivray’s death might mean for him. For both of them, really; she had, after all, been in the building with Frank when he’d confronted the man.

  She opened the fridge. Damn. No cat food. It was on her list of things to buy. Had been for three days, in fact, although the ever-dwindling supply of cans had clearly proved insufficient to remind her.

  She threw on her jacket and grabbed her purse. She would have to go to the corner shop. ‘Okay, okay,’ she muttered, riddled with guilt at the way the cat was now staring at her and following her progress to the door. ‘I’ll spring for something special, if that makes you feel any better. God, you’re such a bully.’

  She stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind her, patting her pockets to make sure she’d got her mobile. She could hear Mr Grobowski’s television downstairs, turned up to super-loud, and guessed he was busy cooking tomorrow’s Polish Community Hall lunch while tuned into the soaps.