No Help For The Dying

Chapter 26

Riley tried Palmer’s number so she could tell him about her flat and Friedman, but the automatic voice told her the number was unavailable. She wondered what he was up to and dialled Nikki Bruce. While she waited to be put through, she studied the card Friedman had given her. It bore the name and number of a hotel, and a mobile number. She’d never heard of the place but guessed it was central London. Friedman would want to be close to the centre, where he could stay connected and, she guessed, somewhere cheap.

‘I thought you’d left me high and dry.’ The Post reporter’s voice drew her back. ‘What’s new?’

Riley told her about Susan Pyle, and her revelation of Katie’s condition. ‘At least we now have a reason for her leaving home. According to Susan Pyle, her husband wasn’t the sort to take that kind of news well — at least, not at first. It makes me wonder if there isn’t a child out there somewhere, waiting for its mother to come back.’

‘We could find out,’ said Nikki. ‘I know a friendly DCI who owes me a huge favour. What else?’

Riley related her meeting with Eric Friedman. She left out his hotel and phone number, principally because she didn’t think he would be up to a sudden and all-engulfing press interest if Nikki happened to let slip his number to a colleague on the Post.

‘That’s unbelievable,’ said Nikki. ‘What did you say his job was?’

Riley hesitated. Given the resources available to the press, it wouldn’t take long to trace the department Friedman had worked in. On the other hand, given the rate of turnover in most government offices, getting anything up-to-date was no easy task. ‘He used to be a lawyer with the MOD,’ she said finally. ‘Years back. He’d have been an ideal target because he wouldn’t have wanted anything broadcast which could have threatened his job. At least, that’s what they thought.’

‘But it all went wrong. Poor man. And he just took off?’

‘Yes. He got spooked by something. How about you?’

Nikki sounded a bit tense. ‘Look, why don’t we meet up? I think there are a few things we can share. How about your place? I’m up that way later, anyway.’

‘I’ve got the decorators in,’ Riley lied. Telling Nikki about the state of her flat on the phone would be like trumpeting it to the world, something she wasn’t sure would help at the moment. Instead, she suggested a pub off Kensington Church Street which kept strange hours. Neutral territory.

‘I know it,’ Nikki agreed, and hung up.

Riley sat thinking about how much she had told Nikki, and what the results might be. Well, it was too late now. She rang Palmer but got the unavailable message again. Maybe he was in a bad reception area. She tried Friedman’s hotel but the receptionist said he was out. At least it confirmed he was registered there.

She arrived in the pub early and watched customers come and go. Among the suits of both sexes who followed her in, she saw nobody who looked as if they might be Nikki Bruce’s fellow press colleagues. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Nikki, but she wasn’t taking any chances. While she waited, she tried Palmer again. Still not available.

Eventually, the Post reporter walked in. She wore slacks and a thick polo jumper under a leather jacket, an unselfconscious display of expensive, yet practical chic. If she noticed heads turning, she seemed to take it all in her stride. Riley guessed that she was already benefiting from an enhanced sense of confidence about her new job.

Nikki smiled with a lift of one eyebrow. ‘Did I overstep the line, suggesting your place? I didn’t put you down as the territorial sort.’

‘I’m not,’ said Riley. ‘It’s just that I had visitors. They re-arranged my furniture — amongst other things. Now the place needs fumigating.’

Nikki’s smile faded. ‘Burglars?’

‘If they were, they didn’t steal anything.’ Riley glossed over the extent of the damage. ‘I think it was a warning to back off.’

‘But that’s awful.’

‘I know. I also think I know who did it.’ She raised a hand to cut short any further questions. It wouldn’t help with what she needed to know. ‘So, what’s the latest?’

Nikki gave her a funny look. ‘You haven’t seen the latest Post?’

‘No. I’ve been out of town.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Nikki fished out her notebook and began to read, then put it aside. ‘What am I doing? I know all the details back to front. Another kid’s been found dead.’

Riley experienced a feeling of dread and saw a sullen face on a poster. ‘Was her name Angelina?’

Nikki frowned. ‘No. That’s a new one. This one was a rough sleeper — a girl named Delphine Wishman, daughter of a senior executive in the aviation industry, would you believe? That’s more military than civil, although I wasn’t allowed to put it in the report. He’s got juice and had the reference to his own position pulled under the Official Secrets Act. Could be more to do with family embarrassment than his place at the boardroom table.’

‘Why?’

Nikki glanced down at her notebook. ‘From what I’ve picked up so far, it seems like the same old story: Delphine was an only child. She was spoiled rotten, sent to boarding school to get her out of the way, then rebelled and got in with the wrong crowd. A few arrests for minor drugs use, one charge of soliciting which was thrown out for lack of evidence — the aggrieved punter decided not to pursue it, probably when he found out how young she was — then Daddy kicked her out and washed his hands of her. Common story.’

‘You really don’t like them, do you?’

‘Huh?’

‘Middle class parents whose kids go off the rails.’

‘No, I suppose not. But I do understand them.’ She frowned and went back to her notebook. ‘Along the way, and so far unsubstantiated, there were allegations that the father abused her when she was younger.’

‘Who was the source?’

‘Delphine. She was one angry kid. She retracted it later, but the damage was already done. The father said he’d never forgive her.’

‘Was it justified?’

‘He claimed his reputation was ruined, that he was being shunned in the business world because of what his daughter had said and had even been asked to resign by his fellow directors. Frankly, I think it’s hogwash.’

‘Why? You don’t believe in kids going against the grain for no other reason than the sheer hell of it?’

Nikki looked surprised and chewed her lip. ‘Sure. I suppose.’

‘What about the mother — what was her story?’

Nikki had the good grace to look pained. ‘The mother came down on the father’s side and said it was all rubbish… that he’d never laid a finger on her because the dates the girl quoted didn’t match, and she could prove it from his diary. He was out of the country a lot, apparently.’

‘So the girl had perceived memories?’

‘More like a load of rancid bitterness. The social workers got involved and tried to get to the daughter to press charges, but in the end she wouldn’t co-operate. They had to let it go for lack of proof. But mud sticks. None of this made the papers, by the way. Then she ran off again.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Overdose. Sent her into shock. She never recovered. They found her on some waste ground near a known crack den.’

Riley sat back and tried to see where this connected Henry or Katie. On the surface it was just another girl who had taken a tragically wrong turn.

Nikki was still talking. ‘But get this: according to the mother, after she ran off the second time, Delphine rang her mother to say she was fine and was in good hands. She didn’t give much detail, but from what little she said, the mother swore the girl had gone and got religion.’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘She couldn’t be certain, but when I mentioned your Church of Flowing Light she said it sounded vaguely familiar. Apparently Delphine said something about being introduced to a charity church group by a boy she knew.’

Riley felt a slow burn of anger. Why on earth could they be led so easily in some ways and not others? She wondered who the boy had been and what had happened to him afterwards. ‘Why do they fall for it?’

Nikki looked up from her notebook, her face suddenly set. ‘Have you seen how these kids live?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? I’m not just talking about doorways and benches, where they’re simply bundles for people to ignore. I mean the alleys and subways and underpasses, where people throw their rubbish — and worse.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ Riley repeated. During her search for Katie, she’d seen far too much of it; she’d trodden through litter-strewn streets, into darkened, filthy underpasses puddled with stagnant, urine-stained water; she’d ducked under construction site barriers and through barbed wire fencing and forced her way through wooden hoardings that did little to keep out the truly desperate looking for shelter. She’d seen rats in the firelight from make-do braziers scurrying over sleeping bodies, heard the screams of nightmares in the shadows and faced the frozen expressions of those who didn’t want her around unless she put her hand in her pocket — and sometimes not even then.

Nikki nodded. ‘Then you’ll know that there’s a point where they’re easy to get at. Where they’ll do anything to get away — except go back home.’

‘Yes.’

Nikki shrugged. ‘I’ve been in this business for a long time, Riley, so I’m the last person to think there’s a conspiracy behind every story. If I thought that, I’d go mental. But with this one.’ She shook her head.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I asked some questions about the Church of Flowing Light. I got a mixed reception.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, a couple of my contacts said the Church has a reputation among kids for helping out. Food where needed, blankets, that sort of thing. Even somewhere to stay if the kids are clean of drugs. They’re pretty much into the God thing, too, but they don’t shove it down anyone’s throat.’

Riley could feel a but coming, loud and clear.

‘One of my colleagues said he’d heard something else. An outreach worker in Kennington reported them for assaulting a kid one night. She was doing her rounds among a group of homeless ex-servicemen and walked in on two men holding this kid down on a piece of waste ground. She asked what they were doing and they said the kid had attacked them, probably after a bad drug reaction, so they’d had to subdue him. She thought something didn’t look right, so she got the kid out of there and took him to hospital. It was lucky she did.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

‘What shocked the medics was that he had signs of severe scalding on the inside of his mouth and throat, and fresh bruising around the lips and nose area. There was also a large amount of bruising on his chest, like somebody had been kneeling on him.’

‘So he’d been in a fight. It happens.’

‘Not this one. They said the injuries were consistent with someone pouring hot liquid down his throat, then holding him down so he couldn’t spit it out.’

‘Christ. What did the victim say?’

‘Not much. He was able to communicate that it was a disagreement over a squat which got out of hand. He discharged himself the next day and disappeared.’

Riley digested the idea for a moment. The thought that someone could actually try to kill someone by drowning them in scalding water was appalling, if unlikely. Then Nikki dashed that notion.

‘I had a trawl through the files, looking for anything similar. There was another one. It was the boy they found dead the other morning off Piccadilly.’

‘This last one?’

‘Yes. I’ve only got some brief notes, but the preliminary examination concluded that he died due to choking on his own vomit. It’s not unknown for heavy drug users or drunks, especially if they’ve also picked up respiratory problems. Their system just can’t cope and they don’t have the strength to resist it, especially after a big hit.’

‘But this one?’

‘He had no history of heavy drink or drugs use, and no signs of injecting. In fact, he hadn’t been on the streets more than a month. What they did find was an area of bruising on the upper chest, and what might have been finger marks around the nose and mouth. But that’s not what killed him.’

‘So what did?’

‘Suffocation. More bluntly, according to a mate in the police, he drowned in hot tomato soup.’