No Kiss For The Devil

29

It was mid-morning when Riley arrived back home and found Frank Palmer waiting for her on the front step. He was looking sombre.

She led the way inside and poured a glass of wine.

‘Don’t,’ she said, waving at his raised eyebrows. ‘I’ve had a trying morning.’ She told him about her visit to Al-Bashir’s office.

‘Sounds like a fun meeting,’ said Palmer, taking a seat. ‘What else?’

‘You mean, apart from being followed by a former Russian spook named Pechov.’

He sat up. ‘Who told you he was a former spook?’

‘Al-Bashir’s security chief, a man named Koenig. He reminded me of you. He advised me to stay away from Pechov. He also banned me from ever going back to the store.’ She scowled in irritation. ‘Bloody nerve of the man — I should sue him for discrimination.’

Palmer laughed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah. I can see that must have added to your bad hair day.’

‘What about you?’ Riley ignored the dig. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door. Riley put down her glass and went to see who it was. She found DI Craig Pell on the landing.

‘How did you get past the front door?’ she queried.

He flashed his card. ‘The old chap downstairs let me in. He was trying to lure a large cat indoors with what looked like giant meatballs.’

‘That’s Mr Grobowski. And the community cat. Couldn’t you have rung first?’

‘I would have, but I thought you might not be in.’ His smile faltered at the way that sounded, and he pressed on. ‘Anyway, I was in the area.’ He shuffled his feet uncertainly. ‘And I wanted to say sorry about the other night. I might have been a bit… abrupt.’

‘Were you? I didn’t notice.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Palmer, who was giving her a snide smile, and felt her face flush. She didn’t mean to give Pell a hard time; it was just coming out that way. ‘What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?’

‘Um… right.’ He cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘Actually, I need to speak to Mr Palmer.’

Riley threw the door open and let him in.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ said Pell, advancing into the room. ‘But I couldn’t get you on your office number. Chief Superintendent Weller suggested Miss Gavin, here, might know where you were.’ His voice had lost the tentative air and was all business.

Palmer digested that titbit in silence. For Weller to have suggested such a thing meant the senior policeman was in touch with Pell on a regular basis. He wondered if the lines had become slightly blurred between the murder investigation and Weller’s role in SOCA. Unless, he thought, noting the way Pell carried himself in front of Riley, there was another reason for him being here.

‘How thoughtful of him.’ He could guess what the policeman was going to tell him, and he was right.

‘Someone turned over Helen Bellamy’s flat,’ Pell announced. ‘I take it you haven’t been there since our talk?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘I hope not. We’re dusting for prints at the moment. You wouldn’t care to provide some samples, I suppose?’

‘Are you asking or instructing?’ Palmer remained calm. The man was only doing his job, but he wasn’t about to make it too easy for him.

Pell blew his cheeks out, seemingly undismayed. ‘Actually, I can’t say I’m bothered, bearing in mind that you’ve been there before. I don’t need to set us up for more embarrassment on flimsy forensics. I was more interested in whether you’d had any further thoughts about that photo Miss Bellamy sent you — the one of the office block.’

‘No. Like I said before, I think it must have been a mistake.’

‘Maybe.’ Pell sounded doubtful.

‘Have you come up with anything at all?’ Riley asked.

‘We don’t know who killed her, no. But we found a reference in her flat to a meeting three weeks ago with a man in a west London hotel. It could have been perfectly normal, but there’s no trace of the man, unfortunately.’

‘What sort of reference?’

‘A receipt for coffee. It was a slim hope, but the porter remembered her from a photo we showed him. He said she arrived early and had to wait. He thought she seemed a bit nervous and assumed it was a job interview. He vaguely recalled the man she met as a foreign national — possibly American.’

‘Anything on CCTV?’ said Palmer.

‘I wish. The tapes are turned over every week.’

‘You said American?’ Riley echoed. She picked up a pen and paper and scribbled down David Johnson’s number. ‘Helen recently did a piece on a US finance case here in London. He’ll give you the details.’

‘Thank you. It all helps.’ He placed the piece of paper in his pocket. ‘Something else has cropped up. We received a formal request this morning from the Frankfurt Criminal Investigation Division. They’re looking into the death of Annaliese Kellin and want a report on what we found.’

‘Can they do that?’ Palmer wasn’t sure where the boundaries existed now in the new modern EU, or how far a police force in one country could impact on a murder of a fellow national in another.

‘Why not? It works both ways; we help them, they help us next time we have a query on their turf. It seems a former press colleague bumped into Miss Kellin in London, and she told her she’d got a new job, but she was thinking of jacking it in. The friend said she seemed unhappy — even distressed — and mentioned something about being asked to do something she felt was unethical. She didn’t go into detail, though, so we’re no further forward.’

Palmer waited, wondering why Pell was telling them this. It was clear that Annaliese Kellin must have got herself into something nasty. Was her untimely death something to do with wanting to throw in her new job?

‘Anyway,’ Pell continued, ‘I mention it out of interest. You’ll let me know if you think of anything?’ He nodded at them both, then turned and walked over to the door. As he went out, he looked at Riley. ‘I meant it — the apology, that is.’

‘Did your wife tell you to say that?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘If I had one, she might’ve done.’ He walked down the stairs, humming to himself.

‘What was that about?’ asked Riley, closing the door.

‘Just what I was going to ask,’ Palmer retorted innocently. ‘Wife, huh? Nice touch. Neat. He fell for it, too.’

‘You know what I mean!’

‘My guess? He’s taking his lead from Weller. Rattling our cages.’

‘Perhaps.’ She sat down and picked up her wine glass. ‘You still haven’t said what you’ve been doing.’

He looked surprised. ‘Me?’

‘You. Where did you get to while I was at lunch with Richard Varley? Only, I had a distinct feeling you weren’t far away. Why was that?’ The look she gave him was cool, and it was obvious she had been thinking about it for a while.

‘If you must know, I followed your lunch date to see where he went.’ There was no other way of telling her. It produced the reaction he’d been expecting.

‘I knew it!’ she muttered angrily, slopping wine over her hand. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! Who I have lunch with is no concern of yours!’ She stood up and stalked into the kitchen to wash her hand under the tap, leaving Palmer contemplating that it had been her idea to meet Varley in the first place. A cupboard door banged and a roller towel clattered as she snatched off some squares of tissue to dry herself. When she came back, it was without the wine. She went over to the window, throwing Palmer a furious look on the way, and stood looking out at the skyline.

‘So where did he lead you?’ she said finally, her shoulders tense.

Palmer told her about the trip across London, the visit to MailBox Services and the security men outside the hotel at Lancaster Gate. ‘And before you ask,’ he added not unkindly, ‘I admit I can’t prove they were Varley’s men.’

Riley turned. ‘But you think they were.’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe he’s just paranoid,’ she said. ‘Or cautious.’

‘One or the other. We’ll soon find out.’

‘What do you mean?’

He took a deep breath, aware that the next bit of information might also get a chilly response. ‘He’s seen me, so I can’t go near him. I’m having him followed.’

‘Good idea. Who by?’

‘Ray Szulu.’