No Kiss For The Devil

26

Isleworth had changed little since Palmer had last visited the area — this street, in fact, he recalled — nearly a year ago. Still busy, still wearing that slightly run-down air of too much movement and too little care, it seemed to slump wearily in the evening gloom as if exhausted after a long, hard day.

Palmer’s attention was fixed on a Victorian-style villa across the street. A low retaining wall wearing drunken coping stones fronted a neglected garden, which held a rusted motorcycle frame and a discarded kitchen unit with battered fibreboard sides swollen and distorted by rain. A set of broken steps led up to the front door, and the windows were draped carelessly with grey net curtains. A line of buttons and name slots sat on one side of the door.

Palmer checked his watch. So far, there had been no sign of movement at the house, and no sight of the man he’d come to see. But he couldn’t sit here all evening.

Just as he was about to cross the road for a closer look, a car pulled into the kerb. It was a plain black Mondeo with a cab licence plate on the rear skirt.

The driver got out and walked up the front steps with a spring in his step, scanning the street on either side. He made it look casual but Palmer knew it was anything but. A lifetime of staying one step ahead of dubious friends, unpredictable enemies and the eager reach of the law had given Ray Szulu a set of habits too ingrained to break. He disappeared inside and closed the door.

Palmer left his car and quickly crossed the street. He knew Szulu’s flat had a view over the front, and that he would probably look out of the window as a matter of habit as soon as he got in. He ran up the steps and tried the door. It was locked, but ill-fitting, the wood tired and loose. He grasped the central knocker to keep it still and pushed with his shoulder, concentrating on the centre of the door. The wood creaked once, then the lock clicked and the door swung open. Inside, the air was muggy, the atmosphere heavy and dark. He listened for sounds of movement, then walked up the stairs and knocked on the door of 3A.

‘Yeah, wha-?’ The door opened and the familiar face registered instant recognition. And dismay.

‘Hello, Ray,’ said Palmer, smiling genially. ‘How’s it hanging? I was in the area and thought I’d pop round for tea and cakes.’

‘No way!’ Szulu started to close the door, but Palmer slammed it back, propelling him into the room.

‘Not nice,’ Palmer chided him, and followed him inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room. It was furnished just as he remembered it, with large cushions, a sofa, a couple of armchairs and a CD player, mercifully silent. He remembered how Szulu liked to play music very loudly, even when he had visitors. ‘Have you decorated since I was last here? It’s not very ethnic, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He was taking a deliberate swipe at Szulu’s ability to dip in and out of his Rasta roots whenever it suited him. The man wasn’t quite as dumb as he liked to pretend.

‘What the fuck do you want, Palmer?’ Szulu was rubbing his arm and wincing, his dreadlocks forming a curtain across the side of his face. ‘You can’t come in here like this — I’ll call the cops.’

‘Of course you will. And they’ll come running because they so value your safety. Now we’ve got that out of the way, how about a cup of tea? I’m parched.’ He turned and found his way through to a small kitchenette. It was surprisingly neat and tidy, with evidence that Szulu knew his way around both kitchen and supermarket.

Palmer filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘So,’ he continued, affably, ‘how’s the driving job?’ He turned to face Szulu, who was looking at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘More importantly, how’s the arm?’

‘Go screw yourself,’ muttered Szulu, his voice sliding into a soft Jamaican twang. ‘And stay out of me place, man. You trespassin’.’

Palmer gave him a pained look. ‘See, that’s what I mean. Now you’ve gone all Bob Marley on me. I only came round to offer you some gainful employment. You haven’t gone all fussy about who you take money from, have you? Oh, of course, not — you drove for Lottie Grossman, didn’t you? Remember — that wicked old bitch who tried to kill Riley and me?’ He turned back to the kitchen and made two mugs of tea, and brought them back into the living room.

Szulu was scowling at the memory of his last encounter with Palmer and Riley, but took his mug and sat down. ‘What do you mean, employment? You need a driver or a heavy — what?’ He’d lost the twang.

‘What I need is someone who’s street-savvy. Someone who can melt into the shadows and move like a panther. Someone who knows all the moves. A surveillance job, in other words.’ Palmer took a seat and sipped his tea, waiting for Szulu to catch on and show some interest. ‘Know anyone like that?’

‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ Szulu looked offended. ‘I can do that. How much we talking about?’

‘A hundred. Cash. Shouldn’t take more than half a day. No risks.’

Szulu looked suspicious. ‘Like there’s no catch, man. How do I know it ain’t gonna turn tribal? Last time I had you and that Gavin woman near me, I got shot, remember? And what was that army nut’s name — Mitcheson?’ He went back to massaging his arm and glanced towards the door as if the assailant he was referring to was about to come charging into the room.

‘Mitcheson’s in the States,’ Palmer told him. ‘He’s got better things to do than follow you around.’ Szulu had earned his bullet wound after threatening Riley Gavin with a. 22 calibre automatic. Her then boyfriend, John Mitcheson, a former army officer, had appeared and calmly shot Szulu with his own gun. Szulu evidently still hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that making threats sometimes brought unforeseen consequences.

‘Oh.’ He seemed to relax a little. ‘He comin’ back?’

Palmer waggled a hand in a maybe/maybe not gesture. ‘The jury’s still out.’ He smiled. ‘I could bring Riley round, though, if you like. She’s joined a gun club since you last met. She uses a. 357 Magnum.’

Szulu nearly gagged on his tea. ‘Don’t joke, man. That ain’t funny. I already apologised to her for that stuff.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m teasing.’ Palmer looked at him. ‘Are you on, then?’

Szulu shrugged. ‘Sure. Easy. But why you being so generous with the dough? Who’s the target?’

Palmer rolled his eyes. ‘Subject, Ray. We refer to it as the subject. A target is something you shoot at. Or someone,’ he added pointedly.

‘Subject, whatever. Who is it? And why the dosh? You could’ve got me to do this for free.’

‘Because it’s personal.’ Palmer’s face was suddenly serious. ‘And I believe in paying for talent.’

Szulu’s eyes widened and he tucked away the compliment for later. Having a man like Palmer calling him talent was rare. But he stayed with the look. He remembered all too clearly the last time he’d seen Palmer with that expression on his face. The man was scary when he got going, and prepared to go through anything. The last time, it had been a psychotic south London gang leader named Ragga Pearl and some former spy gone bad that had set him off. Him and Gavin, he had to admit, they made a good team.

‘So who is this person?’

‘They. They’re a very careful bunch.’

‘Yeah?’ Szulu shrugged again and stared into his tea, which was growing cold. He wanted to change his mind and say he was too busy driving, that he’d got a long distance trip to do and couldn’t spare the time. But a part of him wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t the money, either. Christ, a hundred wasn’t that good, even for a half day. He wondered about the subject. All he knew was, it couldn’t be Ragga Pearl, who was currently a guest of Her Majesty in Wormwood Scrubs. But he bet it was someone in the same mould. Otherwise, Palmer wouldn’t be interested. In spite of that, he was intrigued. ‘How d’you mean, careful?’

‘The subject’s got a security detail on him, twenty-four-seven. He’s also what we in the profession call ‘risk-aware’. Take street-wise and ramp it up a few notches. He’s not the sort of man to treat lightly.’

‘Okay. Sounds cool. What’s he do, this bloke?’ Szulu took another sip of tea, relaxing at the idea of doing something more interesting for a change than driving people around London.

Palmer took a long time before replying. He seemed to weighing his words with care. Then he said calmly, ‘There’s a possibility he’s connected to the Russian Mafia.’

Szulu’s tea erupted all over his face.

Palmer approached the side of Pantile House and stopped, checking the area for any signs of movement. He glanced at his watch. It was past nine in the evening and the streets were quiet. He’d waited for ten minutes already but seen nobody. From what Mark Chase had said about the building, there was no twenty-four-hour security watch, and he’d already noted and discounted the position of the nearest street cameras.

He stepped over to one of the louvred vents at ground floor level and gently removed some of the slats, placing them to one side. The opening was covered by a protective mesh grill, and beyond that, more slats which could be closed like internal shutters. He waited for a truck or a bus to go by, and under cover of the engine noise, placed his foot against the mesh and kicked it in. Removing the internal slats, he slid inside, then replaced a couple of the outer slats to cover signs of his entry.

He waited two minutes, ears taking in the hum of the heating and air-conditioning system, eyes adjusting gradually to the atmosphere. He was standing at the end of a passageway, lit every few feet by a low-wattage overhead lamp. The air was stale and dusty, with the dull lifelessness of a space largely unused and forgotten.

He moved along the passageway away from the vent. At the far end he hoped to find the base of the lift shaft and a stairway to the ground floor, rising somewhere near to the reception area. He skirted a tangle of old Dexion racking, and adjacent to it a pallet of paper bags, their gutted bellies spilling heavy grey dust, remnants of a maintenance programme which, judging by the lumps of solidified cement, had been called off long ago. Everything around it was grey and still. His shoes crunched faintly with the gritty feel of an unswept floor, and he tried to put his weight on the edges of his feet to minimise the noise. He breathed through his mouth, straining for the sound of movement in the gloom.

A fresh pool of light from one of the lamps revealed a puddle of water across the floor. Above it, a dark mould showed in the concrete of the roof support, with another drip ready to fall.

He skirted the puddle, stepping past a pile of empty cement bags, and approached a large square section of aluminium casing. It seemed to grow out of the concrete floor, stretching to the ceiling and eating into the roof of the tunnel like a square, hungry snake. The casing at floor level was scarred and battered, where careless negotiation of the narrow gap with unwieldy objects had left its mark.

He moved past it to the stairway and checked the layout. A steel door stood at the top of the steps. He turned the handle with delicate care, just sufficient to check that it was unlocked. It was. He left it and went to check out the lift shaft. But here his luck ran out; the dimensions of the shaft were too narrow and there was no handy inspection ladder to provide an alternative means of entry.

He walked back along the passage to the vent where he had come in, and slid back out. Carefully replacing the slats and the mesh, he walked away into the dark.