No Help For The Dying

Chapter 43

Riley watched the ambulance carrying Henry Pearcy move slowly down the drive away from Broadcote Hall, and hoped her former colleague would make it through the next few hours. The paramedics had remained neutral when she’d asked about his chances, but their manner had seemed quietly optimistic. It depended, one had said reservedly, on Henry’s levels of mental determination as much as his physical strength. He had been badly beaten and was seriously dehydrated; he had plainly not been fed much more than was necessary to keep him alive, and there could be underlying complications which only a full examination would reveal. Time alone would tell.

As the vehicle curved round a bend and out of sight, it passed a figure striding towards the house. She recognised Palmer’s lean frame and felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Behind him and some distance beyond the trees bordering the road, a thick column of smoke pulsed into the sky, dragging with it a scattering of black debris like circling birds of prey. But there was no sound to indicate the extent of the fire, no hint at what might lie at its core. Further off, a siren whooped, heralding the approach of another emergency vehicle.

Palmer’s face was grim and covered in dark smears. His jacket was torn and one shoe glistened with what looked like oil. In spite of that, he walked with his hands thrust in his pockets and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth as if he was out for an afternoon stroll. Some stroll. Some afternoon.

He looked up and saw her, and gave a tired but meaningful shake of his head. It told her all she needed to know. She also knew instinctively that if Palmer wanted to tell her any more — any more than he would tell the police, at least — about what had happened, he would do so in his own good time. Or maybe not.

In the meantime, she would go to where Henry had directed her while they’d been waiting for the ambulance to arrive. His voice barely audible, he’d told her of the place in the house where he’d hidden information about the Church of Flowing Light. There, he’d said, was more evidence about the extent of their operations and the people they had used and ruined. Information he had only realised the significance — and deadly use of — far too late. His feelings of guilt had been all too obvious. It was their need to guard that information which had made them so intent on finding him and Katie Pyle, and why, in the end, they had been prepared to kill them both.

All the missing details of the story Riley could now write.

After that, she decided, she would go away for a few days. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she could file away the tragic stories she had learned over the last few days into a deep and forgettable place, hopefully never to take them out again. By the time she came back, her flat would be ready and she might be able to coax the cat back from Mr Grobowski’s cooking. And give it a decent name.

Earlier on, while Henry was hovering half in and half out of consciousness, she had called Mitcheson’s mobile number. His response had been instant, his voice relaxed and warmly familiar.

‘I’m nearly finished here,’ he’d assured her, still in sunny Florida. ‘Three days max. Then I’m heading home.’ By home, she reminded herself, he meant San Francisco.

‘That’s good.’ She had found herself suddenly tongue-tied, aware of the distance along the line and asking herself if it had been a bad idea calling.

‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Anything interesting happening?’

She had looked down at Henry, his breathing hovering on the edge of fading altogether, and remembered her own bruises, and wondered if the crash she’d heard earlier had been anything to do with Frank Palmer. ‘No,’ she’d lied easily. ‘Not much.’

‘In that case,’ he’d suggested, ‘how about I stay down here and we do some catching up?’

It was no contest. She’d heard Florida could be nice at this time of year. But she’d given it several seconds before replying. Always better, her mother used to say, to keep them waiting. She told him she’d call him with her flight details.

‘I hope,’ she said lightly, as Palmer came to a stop beside her and took a last drag of his cigarette, ‘that you haven’t been smoking near petrol.’ She reached up and gently brushed a fragment of burned leaf from his cheek. It was the only thing she would say about what had happened, and hoped the attempt at dark humour would help with whatever he might be feeling right now.

‘You know me,’ he said easily, and flicked the cigarette away into a small, half-dried puddle, where it sizzled and died. ‘I’m safety mad. Known for it, in fact.’