No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 5

The address Brask had given Riley was amid a row of glass- and steel-fronted refurbishments in Uxbridge. As she climbed out of the Golf, she caught glimpses of high-tech open-plan and discreet lighting, with a hint of tinted glass and tastefully-arranged potted plants. Nice, she thought. Feng Shui is alive and well in the bodyguard industry. Then her glance clicked on the number she was after and she questioned what Donald was getting her into. Between two of the stretches of clean glass modernity was a single brown doorway with an open letterbox, like a shocked mouth dressed in dried and peeling paintwork. A section of plain wood had been clumsily inserted down one side and left unpainted, as if the owners were going for shock value to annoy their neighbours.

Riley was glad she had dressed in her customary jeans and a sports jacket. It wasn’t the height of fashion but it suited her day-to-day movements. Especially here.

She crossed the pavement, pushing open the weathered door which led into a gloomy hallway. A narrow stairway led upwards to a glass-panelled door at the top, with piles of cardboard boxes vying for space on the treads and spilling onto the tiny landing. She shuddered, stepping past the rubbish, nudging open the door with one foot. There was no name on the frosted-glass panel. Inside, the dull atmosphere of a small, smoke-filled office replaced the gloom of the staircase.

“Always make an entrance, dear,” a drama teacher she’d known had often said. The theory was that women could conquer their surroundings by making their presence felt. On the other hand the teacher was unlikely to have seen this dump. The furniture was pre-war MOD surplus, with a touch of rough living thrown in. A sturdy desk, a side table, a couple of chairs and a battered, wooden filing cabinet all came together in an uninspiring collection of grot. And yellowed wallpaper. Decor to jump off a bridge by.

A man was sitting at the desk peering at a computer screen. Riley put his age at about forty, with a good head of dark hair and a face that would have been interesting if it hadn’t been screwed up in concentration. He wore a battered jacket of indeterminate colour and a button-down green shirt. Comfort winning out over style. He didn’t look up.

“I’m looking for Frank Palmer,” said Riley.

He raised a finger for a second, then stabbed it down on the keyboard with conviction. Whatever it did seemed to please him and his face lost the screwed-up look.

“Technology,” he announced, “can be a real bitch.” He had a pleasantly deep voice, with the huskiness of a smoker. “But I live in hopes of mastering it.” He smiled vaguely as if the likelihood was imminent but unimportant, and stood up. “I’m Frank Palmer. Who is the client — you or a third party?”

Riley suppressed a tug of irritation. He wasn’t exactly the jump-up-and-hit-'em type she had imagined. And his office was the pits. But she had enough faith in Donald Brask’s advice to know she needed this man — or one like him.

“I need someone to accompany me for a few days while I do some research,” she explained.

“Okay. My rate’s a hundred and fifty a day plus expenses.” He smiled. “I love saying that.”

“Make it a hundred including and I’ll think about it.”

“‘Bye,” he said, turning back to his computer. “Close the door on the way out.”

Riley felt the slow burn of anger. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. She was supposed to tell this Palmer what he was to do, he would then agree the terms and off they would go. Nobody had mentioned morons who could afford to turn away paying customers. Hell, it didn’t take much to see that Frank Palmer had a cash-flow problem.

She decided to give it another try. Better that than face Donald Brask’s inevitable sarcasm. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

He nodded towards the other chair. “Help yourself.”

Riley flicked at the patina of dust and sat down, while Palmer lit a cigarette.

“I need someone,” she started again, “to accompany me on some field research. I was given your name.”

“So you said.”

“My name’s Riley Gavin,” she continued, letting a little grit creep into her voice. “Donald Brask recommended you.”

“Good man, Donald.” He stubbed out his cigarette with a wince of distaste. “I’m trying to give up. It’s not easy. Which daily are you with?”

“I’m freelance. I work for whoever I can.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “How long have you been doing this kind of work?”

“Does that matter?”

“It might. I don’t want to end up holding the hand of an amateur and getting dragged into something messy.”

Riley counted to five. “What makes you think it could be messy?”

“Because it often is. Call it instinct, but hot news is never dull.”

“Maybe. But you won’t be holding anyone’s hand. I’ve been doing this for four years and if you don’t want the job-” She began to rise.

“I didn’t say that,” he said calmly. “I just need to know who I’m — might be working with, that’s all.” He smiled faintly and looked across his computer towards one of the grimy windows as if hoping for divine guidance.

“How about you?” She decided to go on the offensive. “How long have you been doing this… work?”

“Same as you,” he said readily. “Four years. Well, four years solo, anyway.”

“Police?” Donald hadn’t given out any information about Palmer’s background, which could be a good or a bad sign.

“Army — Special Investigations Branch. Redcaps to our clients.”

A military cop. Useful.

She told him as much as she knew, beginning with the murders of the two former gangsters and ending with the suspicions that a third person had been involved with them. It was the third person she needed to find.

“Who are the two stiffs?”

“John McKee and Bertrand Cage.”

Palmer leaned forward until the front legs of his chair settled with a faint thud on the floor. His face was still. In the silence a fly buzzed about his head before settling on the desk and cleaning its feet.

“I think someone’s having you on, Miss Gavin,” he said softly. “There’s nothing ‘former’ about McKee and Cage. They may be getting a bit long in the tooth, but they never left the business. Even I’ve heard of them. They and their type are not nice people.”

Riley stared him in the eye. “That’s where you come in, Frank. I do the digging — you watch my back.”

He returned her stare for a few moments, eyes blank. Outside, a van door slammed and a man laughed. It seemed to galvanise Palmer into a reaction. He shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

Riley stared at him. “Why not?”

“I’m busy. Permanently.”