No Help For The Dying

Chapter 5

Mid-morning was a good time to hit the local coffee franchise, after the rush of take-outs had gone. Following a restless couple of hours sleep, in spite of her flagging energy, Riley took a selection of newspapers round the corner in search of warmth and bustle. It was where she liked to do most of her reading, in between people-watching and chatting to any of the other regulars who happened along in search of a caffeine boost and a friendly face.

Right now, though, all she was interested in was sinking a strong flat white while trying to shake off all thoughts of John Mitcheson. Forced to stay out of the country by the threat of possible arrest because of his unwitting ties to a criminal gang, his message had capped a long line of other missed calls, abandoned dates and clinical emails with all the romantic appeal of a wet flannel. So much for enforced separation, she thought. She dumped a portion of brown sugar in the mug and stirred it with feeling. What was it they always said — absence makes the heart grown fonder?

‘My eye,’ she muttered out loud, and glared at a man in a suit at the next table, who looked startled by the comment.

To help with the process of Mitcheson-banishing, she scoured the newspapers for reports of crime in any hotels near Heathrow. It didn’t take long. If an assault had happened, it evidently hadn’t been gory enough to make the early editions. She wasn’t sure if events at Heathrow would make the London evening papers, but it was worth checking, even if only to confirm that her description wasn’t splashed across the front pages as a suspect. She was almost into the sports sections and giving up when something about the Scandair made her stop and think: amid the uniforms and the woken guests and the obvious police presence, there had been no evidence of paramedics or an ambulance. Which was odd. Given a body or a serious injury — and the blood she’d seen indicated the latter — most people would summon an ambulance before they called the police. Unless, of course, there was no body.

She went through the papers again, page by page. What Heathrow lacked in mayhem, the capital had more than made up for. A suspected arson attack on a house in Acton had claimed a trio of asylum seekers from Iran; a drive-by shooting which had killed two and wounded five was being put down to a resurgence of Jamaican Yardie activities in north London and Birmingham; two pensioners had managed to simultaneously beat each other to death over an offending Leylandii hedge, a new drugs turf war was warming up in the East End and another young rough sleeper had been found dead in central London. With no obvious attempt at irony, the report suggested the dead teenager was a victim of contaminated drugs.

With half her mind busy trying to figure out what to do next, Riley allowed herself to be drawn into the story. Not that it was anything truly fresh. The author of the report reminded readers with dramatic over-statement that the number of young street sleepers who had died in the past three months stood at seven. Most, like this last one, were thought to have been due to drugs use rather than deliberate or suspicious causes, although it was evidently of sufficiently low interest not to have been thought worthwhile including any further details. Rough sleepers died all the time, was the cool tone; it was a high-mortality lifestyle, and if the cold, disease or drugs didn’t get them, some other faceless monster in the dark with no conscience would. In other words, what could you expect? The thumbnail photo accompanying the reporter’s name showed a fresh-faced brunette with a winning smile. Her name was Nikki Bruce.

Riley studied the photo with a vaguely professional interest. Not a bad shot if it was recent. But she didn’t look the sort to go trawling the streets in search of a good story. She wondered cynically if Nikki Bruce had actually stepped outside her office to cover this one or whether she’d done it over the phone.

She put the newspaper to one side and tried Henry’s phone again, but it had either been switched off or the battery was dead. Next she rang Donald.

Her agent listened in silence as she related the morning’s events, but she could feel his excitement down the phone. If there was one thing that warmed his wires more than gossip, it was the sound of a good mystery. Mysteries meant news; reporting them and exposing any criminal activity involved led to repeat fees.

‘Stunning, sweetie,’ he purred. ‘I just love the idea of you vamping around hotel corridors with mussed hair and an ice bucket, being chased by strapping policemen. I didn’t realise you had such hidden depths.’

‘Stop it, Donald,’ she chided. ‘One day your imagination will get you into trouble.’

‘If only, dear heart. Now, what do you need from me?’ He was back to business, the complete professional.

‘I need to know who Henry was working for. I could ring round, but it would take me ages. Someone might know what he was working on. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment.’

‘So you don’t think he was… umm…’ Donald hesitated diplomatically.

‘Drunk? On drugs? Search me. But I doubt it. He sounded — I don’t know — strange. Stressed.’ Which, if the sign of blood had been any indication, she thought, he had every right to be.

‘All right. I’ll check. I’ll also see if I can pick up any gossip from the Met. Call you back.’

While she waited, Riley had another coffee. She had almost finished when Donald called back. ‘Pearcy’s current registered work is with an international agency here in town. Showbiz stuff, mainly, for the glossies, looking for anything juicy. Tits, bums and black eyes, mostly.’

‘What does Henry do there?’

‘Odds and sods. Editing, by the sound of it, but nothing major, and nothing outside. Sounds as if he’s at the end of the track, career-wise.’ Donald gave her the number of the agency and Riley cut the call and re-dialled.

‘Sorry — who?’ The voice that answered sounded young, female and bored.

‘Henry Pearcy,’ Riley repeated carefully. ‘Guy in his sixties… sad face?’ She struggled to think of anything else recognisable about Henry. ‘Oh — and a fruity voice.’

‘Hold on,’ the girl muttered, and Riley was left listening to something classical while the girl probably took a tour round the office, had a coffee and came back to say something like, ‘No dice.’

Riley re-folded the used newspapers and slid them onto the next table. Somebody else with time to kill would find them useful. As she leaned across, she noticed a sheet of paper on one of the chairs. She picked it up and read it, wondering how many such items she’d seen over the years.

It was a missing persons flyer. Like the death of the street-sleepers she had just read about, it was a reflection of the times. The flyer was a standard A4 sheet with a six-by-six black-and-white portrait and heavy block lettering underneath. The photo was of a sullen looking girl with a mass of hair and a down-turned mouth. Maybe the original snap had been taken by someone she didn’t much like. The text underneath was simple and depressingly familiar.

MISSING: ANGELINA (ANGEL) BOOTHE-DAVISON — 15 — 5’6’ — 110LBs — BLONDE HAIR, BLUE EYES, PALE SKIN. LAST SEEN MARBLE ARCH ON 15^TH FEBRUARY. THOUGHT TO BE SLEEPING ROUGH IN AREA. IF SEEN, PLEASE CONTACT:

There was a contact number but no name. Riley wondered how many Angelina Boothe-Davisons were currently lurking in the capital, favouring an existence on the streets rather than the alternative of living at whatever passed for home.

It reminded her of the posters distributed following Katie Pyle’s disappearance, and one of the reasons Riley was drawn to reading them; not because she thought it might help, and certainly not after all this time, but because it was something she shared with others, albeit from a distance.

The paper was cheap, all-purpose stock, and the text composition basic and heavy, designed solely to draw attention. Since most of these flyers ended up on the floor, anyway, or torn down and discarded by disgruntled and uncaring locals, quality wasn’t a consideration.

The operator returned and announced without enthusiasm, ‘Sorry. Nobody of that name here.’

‘There has to be.’ The words were out before she could stop them, fuelled by puzzlement and a tinge of anger at the girl’s lack of conscience or interest. This was insane. Donald didn’t get his facts wrong, and if he said Henry worked for this agency, then it was cast-iron solid.

‘Well, I’m sorry. I did check, you know.’ The response was sharp and resentful, the ‘sorry’ a verbal parry in place of a genuine apology, like a child caught out for not doing her homework. Then there was a mutter of voices before a male voice came on the line.

‘Can I help you? My name’s Murdoch — I’m the office manager here.’

Riley repeated her request. ‘I’ve been assured he works for you, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, ‘but your assistant doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Murdoch tiredly. ‘She’s a temp. Thinks fame is a birthright and probably wants to be an actress or model by the time she’s eighteen.’ He paused, then said: ‘I’m sorry, but you’re out of luck. Henry did work here, but not for two weeks now. He didn’t turn up for work one day. We’ve tried contacting him, but without luck. Nobody’s seen him. If you speak to him, ask him to get in touch, would you?’