No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 12

Riley tried Palmer’s mobile again, followed by Charlie’s number, but both were switched off. It was probably too early to be chasing Charlie, anyway. Unlike Riley or Palmer, Charlie was constrained by layers of officialdom, prone to conducting audits on the movements and workings of its officers just in case one of them might be toiling away diligently on overthrowing the elected government of the day or trying to steal the keys to the tea money. Charlie would get to whatever information he could dig up, she figured, when he got to it and not before. She hoped it was sooner rather than later.

She called Donald, but he had no news, either. Eventually, concentration eluding her, she closed her laptop, threw on some jeans and a suede jacket and picked up her car keys. It was back to basics time. When all else failed in an investigation and the dots didn’t link up, you went back to the beginning and started again. Palmer’s favourite dictum.

‘See you later, cat,’ she told the sleeping animal in passing. But it ignored her. No support there, then.

She made her way across north London and found a parking space a short walk from Gillivray’s office. The weather was warm but blustery, and she wondered what it was doing wherever Palmer was.

The same security man was on duty behind the desk, a copy of The Sun spread out before him. The foyer was deserted. She nodded and approached the desk, and watched his face working through the process of recognition.

‘Morning, Miss,’ he said neutrally, and opened the visitor’s book for her. She wondered if the fact that his other hand was resting by the phone on the desk was mere coincidence or a touch of paranoia on her part. She’d soon find out.

‘Do you remember me?’ she asked him.

He nodded. ‘Of course. Three days ago, wasn’t it? You were here with the gentleman. An appointment with Stairwell Management, I believe. Floor six, Miss…?’ He waited, eyebrows raised.

‘Gavin,’ Riley supplied instinctively. ‘Riley Gavin.’

He spun the book round and flicked through the pages, then nodded again with a dry smile. ‘If you say so, miss. You and Mr Gavin, was it?’

His tone was pointed enough to make Riley look at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

He placed a finger on the page, and when she saw the way Palmer had filled in the boxes, understood why.

‘Oh.’ Damn Palmer. She hadn’t thought to check what he’d written. It was a squiggle, like a doctor’s writing, only less decipherable. But certainly not Gavin.

The man waited for her to speak. When he saw she wasn’t going to, he asked, ‘How can I help you, miss?’

On the way here, Riley had rehearsed what she was going to say. She had concocted a plausible-sounding story about fraud and identity theft: one that, in her own mind, had him hanging on her every word and eager to help. Now, faced with the man’s austere look and the realisation that Palmer had not given their real names, it all seemed so unlikely, she fell at the first fence. She wondered how she could explain it. Was he looking at her with just more than professional interest, or was she simply suffering from an attack of the wimps? Oh, what the hell, she thought. How about telling him the truth? Well, part of it, anyway.

‘My… colleague,’ she began, ‘he said you were in the army. Is that right?’

‘That’s correct, miss. Royal Artillery. Twenty-three years. Him, too, I’d guess?’ His questioning tone lobbed the ball fairly back into Riley’s court. She had been hoping to skirt round exactly what Palmer had done, but there was no way to bluff her way past this man. She had a feeling he might simply see right through it and toss her out on her ear.

‘Yes. But he was an MP.’

His eyebrows went up a fraction, but instead of the level of hostility she’d been expecting from a former soldier, he grunted and gave a ghost of a smile. ‘I should have known. My brother was a Redcap, too.’ He pulled a mock-sad face. ‘He always was the divvy of the family. How can I help?’

Riley experienced a rush of relief mixed with astonishment. ‘What is it with you guys?’ she asked, and at his puzzled look, went on, ‘Do you have some kind of secret code between you, like masons?’

He rocked on his heels. ‘You mean the army thing?’ He shrugged. ‘Never thought about it. Takes one to know one, I suppose.’ He stood up and beckoned Riley to follow him across to the window, where he stood with his arms folded, facing the lifts. ‘Okay, so what were you doing here?’ he said softly. ‘You and the Redcap?’

‘The truth?’

‘It’s a good start.’ He gave an encouraging smile. ‘The name’s Nobby, by the way.’

Riley took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it. She described the three men they had seen in the lift, and Palmer’s strange reaction. She followed this by relating how, alarmingly out of character, he had subsequently dropped out of sight.

‘You think something happened to him?’

‘No. At least, not the way you mean.’ Riley blinked. She hadn’t even thought along those lines. ‘Frank’s too… solid. He’s always watching his back.’

‘Fair enough. So why come back here? You think he’s in the area?’

She shook her head. ‘If he is, we won’t see him. I was just trying to figure out if his… reaction, was anything to do with the men he saw in the lift, that’s all. I keep thinking about it, and it all seems to stem from there. I thought maybe you’d know something about the people, so I could figure out what was going on.’

Nobby shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ He raised a placatory hand. ‘Not because I don’t want to — I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, so I haven’t got to grips with the place yet.’ He seemed to consider his words carefully, then continued: ‘There’s only ever three of them go up to the first floor — mostly an older chap and a pasty-faced Russian. There’s a tall fella comes and goes, but he’s some sort of accountant or book-keeper. The other office on that floor is vacant. ‘

‘Did you say a Russian?’ Riley was surprised.

‘Yes. Well, something like that, anyway. He has the look about him. A cold fish. The other fella’s British, although he looks like he spends a lot of time on the sun-bed.’

‘What’s their company called?’

‘Azimtec Trading. No idea what the Azimtec stands for, but they get parcels into the loading bay at the back about once a week, then ship them out again. That’s all I know, I’m afraid.’ He chewed his lip. ‘This may seem a daft question, but your colleague, Frank, is he on the level?’

Riley looked him in the eye with the most earnest expression she could muster. ‘I’d trust him any time, no question. Why?’

‘Because the Russian fella was down here, asking about him. And you.’

Riley felt the ground shift beneath her feet. It was the last thing she had expected to hear. What on earth could have prompted one of the men to ask about her and Palmer? Unless…

‘What did he say?’

‘He wanted to know who your friend was and why he was here. Then he realised you were together.’ Nobby looked pained. ‘Sorry — that was my fault. I couldn’t tell him your names, though, but I had to tell him you were visiting floor six.’

It was Riley’s turn to look sheepish. ‘I’m sorry. Did we get you in trouble?’

He waved a hand. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘Did he say why he was interested in us?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Are Azimtec and Stairwell connected, do you know?’

‘No, not from the way he was talking. He asked me what they did. I told him they were into various things.’

She was about to thank him and leave, when he said, ‘Hang on a second.’ He walked back to the desk, dug out a piece of paper and a pen from a drawer and scribbled something down.

‘You need to speak to my predecessor, Jimmy Gough. He knows everything there is to know about this place. And he’s got no love for that lot up there. They kicked him out on the pretext of his age. He’s sixty-seven, but the truth is, he’s a damned sight fitter than I am. Personally, I think they’re control freaks; they like to know who’s who.’ He handed Riley the scrap of paper. ‘I’ll let Jimmy know you’re coming. He has lunch every day at the Gold Platter. It’s a greasy spoon about half a mile from here. Not bad if you’re into the Atkins diet, but don’t touch the shepherd’s pie. Tell him if he doesn’t help, I’ll tell my sister.’ He gave her a wicked smile. ‘He’s a bit soft on her, see. Scared, too. She’s a big girl, is Eileen.’

The Gold Platter was the kind of establishment that would have had a professional nutritionist foaming at the mouth. The windows were heavily steamed from top to bottom and displayed a range of signs offering almost anything, it seemed to Riley, as long as you liked chips. The plat du jour was an all-day breakfast. It was cheap and simple, which probably explained why it was so busy.

Jimmy Gough was a short, heavily built man with close-cropped hair and a shiny face, and he appeared to occupy the corner table as if he had been born there. He was neatly dressed in the manner of many former serviceman of his era, and stood up as soon as Riley approached.

‘Pleased to meet you, Riley,’ said Jimmy, when she introduced herself, and gestured with a nod towards a phone on the wall, beneath a large sign advertising a ‘Pensioners’ Special’. ‘Nobby called to say you were coming. You fancy a cup of something?’ He pointed to his own mug and signalled to the girl behind the counter to bring another one. ‘It’s nothing special, I’m afraid, but it’ll kill most known household germs. I come in here because the grub’s cheap.’ He sat back down. ‘Nobby said you needed some dope on the people at Azimtec.’

‘That’s right. I’m not interrupting your lunch, am I?’

‘Nah. Just finished.’ He smiled and looked round at the other patrons, most of them men around the same age, and all trying to pretend they weren’t ferociously intrigued by Riley’s meeting with Jimmy. He leaned forward and confided softly: ‘I have to say, love, you coming here to see me is doing my street cred no end of good. The minute you’re gone, these buggers’ll be all over me like a rash, wanting to know who you are. Nosey lot, but I won’t tell ‘em nothing. Do ‘em good, know what I mean?’ He chuckled wickedly.

Riley smiled, warming to him, and explained why she was there. He listened carefully, nodding occasionally, holding up a hand to stop her when her tea arrived, then urging her to continue once the waitress was out of earshot.

When she had finished, he pulled a face. ‘Azimtec aren’t the only iffy ones in that building, love. But they’re the only ones who keep such a tight lid on what they do. Not that their security is that good.’ He sipped his tea and explained: ‘They import fine art from eastern Europe. At least, that’s what I reckon. I’ve never seen much, mind, but they get lots of crates that look as if they might hold pictures and such. And I found some old frames in the skip out back one time. They’d been damaged beyond repair and chucked out. Then one night I was doing my rounds and they’d wedged the lift door open so they could bring stuff up without having to call it each trip. I stuck my head in to say they were breaking safety regs, and saw a load of packing material on the floor and a couple of icons on a table.’

‘Icons?’

‘Yes. Nice stuff, too, though I’m no expert. I was in Berlin with the army years ago, part of the military liaison team. I got to see quite a lot of museums and suchlike in my spare time. My missus thought it might improve my mind and give me a taste for culture.’ He looked around the café and grinned. ‘Guess it didn’t work, did it?’

The mention of icons reminded Riley of what Nobby had said about one of the men in Azimtec. She asked Jimmy what he thought.

‘Yeah, he’s right. He’s either Russian or Bulgarian, but I don’t know which. Calls himself Michael, but it was probably Mikhail or something like that originally. Creepy little bugger, he is. Got eyes that look right through you. He walks like he’s on air most of the time — you can’t hear him coming. Reminds me of some of the KGB or Stasi bods that used to follow us when I was doing playground duty in Berlin.’

Riley looked at him. ‘Stasi. The East German security service?’

Jimmy nodded sourly. ‘That’s right. Hundreds of the buggers everywhere, like fleas on a hedgehog. Spying on us, spying on the Yanks, but most of the time, spying on each other. Hell of a way to live, you ask me.’

‘And playground duty?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s a trade term. We had a few kids on attachment to the embassy while I was there. Young women, mostly, in the secretarial pool. Nice girls but green as grass, most of them, and whenever they went walkabout in the city, one of us had to tag along to make sure they didn’t get into trouble. The Russians and East Germans were always up to something in the hopes of compromising one of our embassy staff and getting them to turn. Honey traps they called them.’

Riley felt her pulse quicken. ‘What about the older man — the one with the tan?’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘No idea, love. British, I think. He seems to be the boss man, but who knows, eh? Now what’s his name?’ He hesitated, screwing up his face. ‘Radnor, that’s it. Blimey, thought my memory must be going for a second. Arthur Radnor. Strange bloke. Never says much.’ He sniffed derisively. ‘Not that I’d trust him, either. It was him or Michael who got me pushed out.’

‘What for?’

‘Search me. It wasn’t long after I spotted the icons in their office. Maybe I saw too much.’

‘And the tall man — the one Nobby says might be an accountant?’

‘He doesn’t come in very often. I don’t recall his name. Nobby’s right — he’s a number-cruncher. Freelance, I think. Local, anyway.’

Riley sipped her tea and wondered if she wasn’t being dragged down a blind alley. On the surface, it didn’t add up to much. Even if the creepy Michael was Russian, he was hardly the only one now living and working in London. And if they were bringing in artwork from eastern Europe — and there was nothing to say it wasn’t completely legitimate — why wouldn’t a Russian be involved? He could be a middleman responsible for initiating the contacts and acquisition over there, with Radnor being the salesman on this side.

‘So where does all this artwork go?’

He shrugged. ‘Couriers come and collect it. I’ve never seen the labels, but I hear the States is a real hot market for that stuff. Lots of Russians over there now; stinking rich, some of them, like Abramovitch, the Chelsea bloke. Maybe it reminds them of home, being able to buy up stuff from the old country instead of football clubs.’

Riley took out a card and handed it to him. It might be worth looking further into it, but she still had to find out what Palmer was doing. At least she now had a name to give him.

‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ she said gratefully. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

He smiled. ‘No problem, love. I’m always here if you need anything else.’

Aware of the interest from the other customers, Riley leaned over and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek. He immediately struggled to his feet, flushing a deep red. But his pleasure was evident in the broad smile stretched across his face.

Riley found a parking space just around the corner from her flat, and was approaching the gateway leading to the front entrance, mulling over what Jimmy had told her, when a tall figure suddenly appeared in front of her. She gave a start and stepped sideways, muttering an automatic apology. The man carried on by, showing a flash of teeth as he passed. She was barely able to take in the dreadlocks and piercing grey eyes before he was walking away with long, athletic strides, his manner gracefully unhurried.

She wondered vaguely who he had been visiting, before hurrying upstairs to see if there were any messages waiting. He was probably one of the local community outreach workers visiting Mr Grobowski. The elderly Pole was involved with various local matters. As soon as she stepped in the flat, she noticed her answer machine flashing. She hit the playback button.

It was Palmer’s voice, sounding tense. The message kept breaking up, with gaps between the words. ‘Riley? Sorry…bunking off…that. …few things…check urgently. Listen, I’m…back to London…man I knew…careful who…answer door…Bye.’

Among the intermittent background noise, Riley heard a two-tone chime followed by the crackle of an announcement. She wondered where Palmer was calling from. Was it a railway station? An airport? ‘Back to London.’ Did that mean out of the city — up north, for example? Or out of the country? And what was that about answering the door? She replayed the message a couple of times, and finally worked out what the announcement in the background was saying. It came as a surprise.

It was a woman, and she was speaking German. Damn you, Palmer — what are you up to?

Ten minutes later, her phone rang. She snatched it up, ready to tear verbal chunks off Palmer for not keeping in touch. But it was Jimmy Gough. He sounded worried.

‘I thought you should know,’ he said without preamble, ‘There’s been some activity at the office in Harrow.’

‘Activity?’

‘Nobby just dropped me the nod. Asked me to pass it on. I hope your mate hasn’t been back there since you last called.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘A bloke named Gillivray — wasn’t he the one you called on? Bit of a wheeler-dealer, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he didn’t turned up for work this morning. He’s usually in about mid-morning, regular. His colleagues rang down, said they were worried about him, ‘cos he wasn’t at home and they wanted to know if he’d rung in. Nobby said he hadn’t seen the bloke, although his car was in the car park. He’s got one of those fancy Audi TT jobs. Anyway, a bit later, Nobby was doing his tour of the outside, checking doors and stuff, same as usual.’ Jimmy’s voice went flat on the final words, as if he was hoping he didn’t have to finish what he was saying.

‘Go on.’

‘He found him round the side of the building, in a soak-away. That’s a gulley round the building. You’d never see it unless you walked round there. From where he was lying, it looks like your Mr Gillivray took a dive right off the sixth floor.’