No Help For The Dying

Chapter 20

‘Never seen her.’ The man in the stained army surplus coat shook his head at Palmer and turned away, eyes already slipping into half-focus. He was as thin as a slate and just as grey, with an unnatural greasy sheen to his skin, and didn’t react when Palmer slipped some coins into his hand. Yet another refusal in a long line of similar responses.

Palmer had been at it for two hours now, trawling the hidden corners and niches on the fringes of Oxford Street, and was fast running out of options. The rush hour was just building, and few of the street people who had surfaced this early had given the photo of Angelina a glance, shutting off further questions with a sour look or a shake of the head. Whether out of indifference or ignorance it was hard to tell. The older ones merely retreated behind blank faces, immune to involvement. They had their own problems. The young ones were quick to ask for money when he approached, but equally quick to melt away when he mentioned missing kids. Not their business; best not get involved.

Palmer continued on through the underpass, and wondered how Riley was getting on. He checked his watch. Wherever she was, it had to be more fragrant than this place. The rumble of traffic around Marble Arch sounded overhead and his footsteps echoed off the curved walls. He stepped over discarded sheets of stained cardboard, crumpled coffee mugs and a torn blanket that were the previous night’s debris, and saw a needle glistening in the gloom. Close by, a square of scorched silver foil fluttered away on the wind, and he felt a deep sadness at the squalid conditions existing barely yards away from the prosperity of the shops above. The long tunnel smelled of damp, carrying with it the sharp tang of urine and hopelessness, and he found himself holding his breath as he approached the exit stairs to the west side of Park Lane.

On the pavement above, he breathed fresher air and hailed a taxi, giving directions for the embankment south of the river. One youth earlier, tempted by the promise of cash, had muttered a vague comment about the area behind Waterloo station. Before Palmer could press him for more details, another man had appeared and the youth had clammed up and moved away. Palmer had stored the information and left. He wasn’t offended by their suspicions; few people wished them well, and it was no surprise if they believed that anyone who came asking questions rarely had the best of intentions.

He took Angel’s photo from his pocket and studied it again, wondering if she was still at large or had found shelter of some kind. Her background would have ill-prepared her for the harshness and brutality of life on the streets, while her age, clothes and skin would have marked her out for special attention among the monsters prowling the shadows, always on the lookout for fresh meat.

There were hundreds of places where street kids congregated. Covering them all would take weeks, always assuming he could keep up with the ever-shifting population. But a hint was all he needed to pick up a trail — if it still existed. At least it would be somewhere to start, rather than wandering aimlessly in the hope of a chance sighting.

He had the taxi drop him off outside County Hall, and made his way on foot to the area east of the station, where the smells of the river were sharp and pungent on the breeze. He saw no signs of youths on the way, none of the customary shuffling figures and wary, pale faces turned towards him; no listless bundles squeezed into grubby corners. Perhaps they were busy up west, where the pickings were sometimes easier.

He reached the river and scanned the surrounding streets. It was as if the place had been evacuated, save for a couple of Japanese tourists. It was colder here, the early wind lifting off the water and bringing with it a bone-slicing chill that added nothing to the grey concrete and blank windows.

He turned away from the riverside and eventually entered a narrower street bordered by blocks of flats. It was quiet here, even normal. He was about to turn back when he caught the smell of cigarette smoke. Too fresh to be far away, it held an underlying sweet tang familiar from his time prowling back-street dives in Germany, where squaddies hung out and thought they were being cool by indulging in banned substances.

He rounded a corner and found a narrow alley with two large rubbish skips parked inside, taking up nearly all of the available space. A profusion of building rubble and domestic cast-offs were barely held in place by nylon netting, and a scattering of debris on the floor of the alley betrayed the visit of skip pirates searching for treasure.

A faint fog of smoke hung in the rear of the alley, and a slither of noise came from the shadows. Palmer stepped forward, deliberately scuffing his feet. The last thing he wanted was to panic anyone into coming out in a rush, weapon at the ready.

He stopped when he saw movement beyond the skips, and a tall, stocky youth stood facing him. He was dressed in an oversized black coat and dirty jeans, and a pair of new Timberland hiking boots. His face was broad and weathered, with a wisp of beard around the chin and a cluster of sores at the edges of his mouth. The youth’s eyes were unnaturally bright, his whole manner tense with suspicion.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded aggressively, his accent betraying Tyneside origins.

Palmer put out a calming hand and stood still. Best not push it too far. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he explained. ‘A kid. I’ve got a photo.’ He pointed at his coat pocket.

The youth said nothing. In the shadows behind him, someone else stirred and a whisper came fast and furious, followed by a giggle. Palmer got the feeling he’d interrupted some urgent business. He prayed it wasn’t Angelina back there.

‘She’s too young for this,’ he said quietly. ‘The girl I’m looking for.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ muttered the youth with no sign of humour. He coughed and leaned forward, carefully dribbling a wad of yellow spit onto the floor in a show of indifference. When he looked up again he smiled, showing a discoloured front tooth. ‘Show us, then.’

Palmer stepped forward and held out the photo. The youth put out a hand, then dropped it with a subtle shift of his shoulders. Palmer heard a metallic click and felt a twitch in his gut. When he looked down he saw a glint of metal in the youth’s hand, just a few inches from his stomach.

Palmer tensed. He hated knives. He’d come across too many of them over the years, mostly in the hands of idiots. They were as indiscriminate as bullets and just as likely to cut you by accident as on purpose. Either way they could hurt. Or kill.

‘Put it away, sonny,’ he said softly, ‘or you’ll be wearing it.’

The youth blinked, as if unaccustomed to such cool indifference and unsure how to react. He hesitated a fraction too long. Palmer reached out and clamped a hand over his knife wrist, then pulled and twisted. It was no contest. The youth yelped and bent his knees to counteract the pain, which put him conveniently close to Palmer’s other hand. There was a sound like a paddle on meat, and the youth fell in a heap, his weapon clattering to the ground.

While the youth collected his senses, Palmer bent and retrieved the knife. It was a cheap mass-market item with a well-worn blade and scarred, imitation bone handle. But still deadly in the hands of someone prepared to use it. He stuck the point in a crack in the wall and snapped it cleanly, then flipped the handle into the nearest rubbish skip.

‘Bastard,’ the youth said sourly, sitting up and rubbing his wrist. Palmer wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed at the pain or the broken knife.

He flapped the photo in front of the youth’s face. ‘All I want is a yes or no. That’s not too hard, is it? Now, let’s try again. Have you seen her?’ The words were slow and deliberate, the gritty tone behind Palmer’s voice making the youth blink harder and shuffle urgently backwards on his rump until he bumped against the side of the skip.

‘Might have.’ He glanced sideways towards the shadows, but got no help from that direction. He sighed. ‘Aye, all right. She was down here yesterday. Pretty lass. That’s why I remember her. She was with us for a bit…then someone came by and she left.’

‘Who did she leave with?’

The youth shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some bloke. It wasn’t any of my business. He came, he spotted her and they went away. Maureen would know, though. Maureen knows everything.’ He looked up and smiled coldly. ‘That’s if you can get her to talk. She doesn’t like men much. You’d be best taking her a pressie. Know what I mean?’

‘Tell me where I can find her,’ said Palmer. ‘But set me up or try to screw me, and I’ll come back and haunt you.’