No Help For The Dying

Chapter 15

They reacted simultaneously, grabbing their clipboards and running for the back door. For whatever reason the police were here, Riley guessed they weren’t collecting for the Annual Policeman’s Ball. They had been tipped off, possibly by the old lady’s killer.

Palmer led the way down the garden and over a fence, showing a surprising turn of speed. They ducked beneath some ancient apple trees and walked down a narrow path between two properties, out onto another street lined with trees and cars.

‘Someone,’ breathed Palmer, when they were safely back in the car and heading south, ‘knew we were there.’

Riley nodded. Either that or another nosy neighbour had seen them. ‘I vote we take a look at the Church. Soon.’

‘Seconded and unanimous.’

By the time Riley dropped Palmer off at his car and made her way back home, the light was fading and traffic was heavy. If anyone was following her, it was going to be virtually impossible to spot them. And the fact that she now couldn’t see any sign of a white van didn’t mean the men inside hadn’t changed vehicles.

When she opened the front door, she discovered a folded wad of newspaper pushed through her letterbox. She was about to toss it in the bin in the hall when she noticed someone had scrawled a vivid red circle on the outer sheet. She unfolded the wad and saw there were two separate cuttings: one a single paragraph about a woman’s body found along the Embankment near Chelsea, the other a report by Nikki Bruce, the same author of the previous report Riley had read about dead runaways. Both cuttings were from the early editions of the Post.

The report on the woman mentioned only that the body wore a crucifix and a bracelet and that the police were investigating. There was no mention of the victim’s name. The Nikki Bruce piece was on a different subject and more informative.

A further addition to the street mortality statistics was revealed today when photo shop manager, George Poustalis, 56, arrived at his premises just off Piccadilly and discovered the body of a young man beside a nearby builders’ skip. There were no indications of the youth’s identity, but police put his age at approximately 18 years. It is thought the youth may have been one of the regular homeless sleepers living rough in what is arguably one of the capital’s most exclusive postcodes. A post-mortem is expected to reveal that the death is drugs-related, although an officer at the scene suggested there were signs that the victim had died of choking. The death is not thought to be suspicious in nature. This now brings to eight the number of deaths of street sleepers in the capital, most of which appear drugs-related. Local drugs counsellors working with the homeless community have confirmed that contaminated drugs are circulating and are warning users against taking further risks by buying supplies from unfamiliar sources.

Riley went upstairs and peered out of the front window, wondering who had left this for her. Other than the usual street traffic there was nobody in sight. If someone was out there waiting for a reaction, they clearly weren’t standing out in the open to advertise their presence.

She read both cuttings through again, feeling a prickle of discomfort. Why had somebody chosen to push these cuttings through the door? Was this meant as some kind of pointer about what had finally happened to Katie? Had her death down by the river after all these years been simply as a victim of a drug her body had been unable to withstand?

Riley didn’t think so. The Katie she had known of, had shown no interest in drugs. Her parents had sworn it, her closest friends had confirmed it and there had been no indications in her room of a leaning towards the temptations of narcotics or alcohol. Even ten years ago, there were some 15-year old kids who already knew their own minds and what they would or wouldn’t touch.

She went downstairs and rang the bell to the flat below. She knew that Mr Grobowski, a Pole who ran a community centre down the road, always sat by his front window and watched the world go by. It was his idea of Neighbourhood Watch when he wasn’t organising social events for his fellow Poles. Not that his vigilance ever resulted in him catching anyone, but he routinely claimed that this was because they knew he was watching.

‘Yes, miss. How are you?’ he yelled with a generous smile when he saw her standing there. In spite of repeatedly asking him to use her name, he insisted on calling her ‘miss’. Built like a concrete block, with a craggy face and hair which looked as if it had been ironed on, he was slightly deaf and so figured the rest of the population was, too. His accent, unchanged after more than sixty years in London, mangled his words into a stew, from which, if Riley was fortunate, she got the general gist of what he meant. If she frowned, he simply shouted louder.

Riley showed him the cutting. ‘Did you see anyone put this through the door? It would have been in the last couple of hours or so.’

He snatched the cutting and tilted his head back to catch the light from inside, mouthing the words as he read carefully. Then he shook his head and handed it back. ‘No. I too busy doing thinks. What you think, miss, I got time to sit here and dreams all day?’

‘Worth a try,’ she said, wondering if he was having her on; everyone knew he used his window like a watchtower. She turned to walk over to the stairs, but his next words stopped her dead.

‘The other mens, though, they sittink out there a lot. You should maybe talk to the polices, I think.’

‘Other men?’

‘Sure. Mens in a white van. Bloody gangsters, probably. Why else they have those dark windows, huh? You tell me.’

She told him she had no idea, her attention suddenly distracted by a nagging thought.

‘But don’t to worry, miss,’ he continued, waving a meaty hand. ‘I look after thinks.’ He grinned proudly and pointed towards the front of the building as if it was his field of fire and therefore of no more concern.

Riley smiled gratefully. ‘It must have been one of them, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Grobowski.’

‘No worries, miss. And if the other mans come back, I get his names, you bet.’

‘Other man?’ Jesus, this was getting confusing. ‘You mean my colleague?’ She described Frank Palmer.

‘No, not hims. Hims I know look of. This mans he walk by several times. Last two days, he was here. Maybe three times. Smart suit, like banker, only look tired.’

‘He looked tired?’

‘No. Suit. Clothes good but tired like charity shop. Like he worn too long. Good stuff, though. Nice cut. I used to be tailor once… I know good clothes.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall mans, maybe six foot. Thin. Look hungry.’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘Yesterday. He walk by but don’t come near.’ He jabbed two fingers towards his eyes. ‘But I know he is looking at this house.’ Something hissed and spat in the background, and Mr Grobowski turned his head. ‘Excuse, miss… my dinner boil over. Moment.’ He disappeared, and Riley heard the clatter of a saucepan lid. He came back shaking his head, bringing with him an aroma of spices and a bead of moisture on his forehead. ‘I should get better timing clock. Recipes say only cook for ten minutes. Very specific, otherwise shit for food. Sorry, miss.’

‘You’ve been cooking?’ Mr Grobowski’s kitchen was at the back of the building, overlooking the communal gardens.

‘Sure. I very good cook. I chef once. Many times I do food for old mens at Polish Community centre. They have kitchen, but… ‘ He waved a contemptuous hand. ‘I prefer my own thinks. All afternoon in kitchen. Bloody hot, I tell you. Good for losing weight, like sauna.’ He laughed and patted his stomach to show it wasn’t working.

Riley thanked him for his help and asked him to let her know if the mystery watcher came back, then went back upstairs. She wondered how many of the day’s events right outside his front door were missed because of his various distractions. Enough, it seemed, for the mystery postman to have delivered a message without being spotted.

She checked the telephone directory, then made a call. It rang twice before a voice answered: ‘Evening Post.’ She asked to speak to Nikki Bruce and waited while being treated to a piece of modern classical music.

‘Bruce.’ The single word snapped down the line, as if she had just been caught on her way out of the office on important business.

Riley introduced herself. ‘The piece you ran about the dead runaways,’ she said shortly. ‘I might have some information for you.’

Thirty yards along the street, a shadow detached itself from the gateway of a house under renovation and walked away. The owner was tall and wore a suit, and as he passed beneath a street light, the glow briefly highlighted a gaunt, tired face, before he vanished into the next pool of shadow.