No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 14

Riley watched the cat patrol the outer edges of the living room and settle down in the kitchen doorway, eyeing her with a flat gaze. It was the usual ritual if she failed to feed him within whatever he considered the allotted timescale. She sighed and got up, her thoughts still on Palmer and what the latest developments of Gillivray’s death might mean for him. For both of them, really; she had, after all, been in the building with Frank when he’d confronted the man.

She opened the fridge. Damn. No cat food. It was on her list of things to buy. Had been for three days, in fact, although the ever-dwindling supply of cans had clearly proved insufficient to remind her.

She threw on her jacket and grabbed her purse. She would have to go to the corner shop. ‘Okay, okay,’ she muttered, riddled with guilt at the way the cat was now staring at her and following her progress to the door. ‘I’ll spring for something special, if that makes you feel any better. God, you’re such a bully.’

She stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind her, patting her pockets to make sure she’d got her mobile. She could hear Mr Grobowski’s television downstairs, turned up to super-loud, and guessed he was busy cooking tomorrow’s Polish Community Hall lunch while tuned into the soaps.

She was back inside five minutes. As she reached the top of the stairs and leaned to slip her key in the door, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. It came from slightly above her on the stairs leading to the second floor where the reclusive dowager lady lived. Riley opened her mouth to utter a greeting, although without expecting a reply, when she realised the shape was too tall and slim for the tenant upstairs.

Riley felt rooted to the spot, the bag containing the cat food dropping from her hand and rolling across the landing. The man was simply standing there, not moving, not speaking, utterly still. Even though he was in shadow, she sensed him gazing down at her with frightening intensity.

She tried to speak but nothing came, and felt angry and impotent at her failure to respond. Was this the instinct for flight nullified by fear? It was like a dream she’d had as a child, trying to outrun danger, yet treading through what felt like treacle, her legs unwilling to obey, her voice strangled into silence.

Then the man moved. But instead of coming towards her, he turned and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. It was enough to break the moment and Riley shouted, something unintelligible and questioning, before slumping to the floor, legs weak and body trembling.

When she looked up again, he had gone.

She was there when Frank Palmer arrived two minutes later and found her slumped against the wall.

‘Riley?’ He knelt by her side and took her hand. ‘What happened?’ She was shaking but otherwise seemed unhurt. He peered into her eyes and guessed she was in shock.

‘A man,’ Riley said softly, pointing towards the upper stairs. ‘He was standing there, just watching me. I came out to get some cat food and… ‘ She swallowed hard and shook her head as if trying to force herself back to reality. ‘Tall, dark… something about his head… I don’t know. Christ, Palmer, I just froze like some silly kid.’

‘Get inside,’ Palmer instructed her calmly, ‘and lock the door. I’ll be right back.’ He handed her the bag she had dropped, then ran up the stairs. The landing was empty, but a slim side window was open. He looked out and saw two stretches of sloping roof, one below the other. He guessed from the height that it was only a small jump to the ground. From there, access to the street was simple.

He locked the window and went back downstairs. Riley had evidently followed his instructions and disappeared inside her flat, taking the cat food with her. He went out the front door and followed the path to the street, his mind already tracking ahead to where the intruder might have come out. He was betting the man was mobile, but even on foot, he’d need a stretch of clear ground to get away from here.

He reached the end of the street and rounded the corner, then sprinted for the next, which would take him into the street running parallel to the one Riley lived in. A man walking a small dog jumped out of his way with a startled shout, dragging his companion with him.

Palmer spotted a flash of movement ahead, about fifty yards away. A tall figure was crossing the pavement. A car door slammed followed by the urgent stutter of an engine. Lights came on and a dark saloon surged away from the kerb, revving hard towards the far end of the street and the eventual safety of Holland Park Avenue, leaving a heavy haze of exhaust smoke hanging in the air.

Palmer slowed, waiting for the car to slip under the glow of street lights. When it did, he noted the number. He also saw something else: the driver, hunched over the wheel, was suddenly outlined by the headlights of a vehicle coming towards him. Around his head was a swirl of movement, too heavy to be loose, yet too defined to be any kind of headgear.

Palmer reached for his phone and retraced his steps to Riley’s flat.

When she opened the door to his knock, she had the safety chain on. She had evidently recovered her composure, anger now replacing the shock. Mostly, he guessed, the anger would be directed inwards for her reaction.

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ he said, as she let him in. ‘He was on your turf right where you didn’t expect it. Got any whisky?’

The matter-of-fact approach seemed to work, and talk of the mundane, such as a glass of whisky, made her drop her air of smouldering fury.

‘Yes, of course.’ She looked at Palmer and shook her head with a wry smile. ‘Sorry — I was about to get stupid for a moment, wasn’t I? It’s just that, he was there and- ‘ She sighed and walked into the kitchen, where the cat was gorging itself and purring contentedly. Riley took a bottle and two glasses from a cupboard. ‘Did you see anyone?’

Palmer gestured with his mobile. ‘Saw him, got the number, phoned it in.’ He scratched his head. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

She frowned for a moment, trying to compose her rattled thoughts, then nodded. ‘Yes, but it was a terrible line. Not much of it made sense. Why?’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. I was warning you to be careful about answering the door. I was a bit late. Sorry.’

She poured two generous measures and handed him a glass. Her hand was trembling slightly, he noted, but with a brief tilt of her glass in his direction, she threw it down and poured another. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you later. It’s about the man I recognised in Harrow.’

She looked at him. ‘You think my visitor just now was something to do with him?’

‘Could be. This one was tall and thin and looked like his hair was in dreadlocks. I couldn’t be sure of the car model, though.’

Riley’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘Dreadlocks? I didn’t recognise what they were in profile. It was a vague shape around his head… the light wasn’t that good.’ Then, with a start, she remembered something else. ‘Wait. I’ve seen him before — at least, I think it was him.’

‘Where?’

‘Here — outside the house, earlier this evening. He was just leaving and I assumed he’d been calling on Mr Grobowski. Mr G talks to lots of other community people, like outreach workers.’ She took another sip and pulled a face. ‘Christ, why am I drinking this? Do you want coffee?’

Palmer shook his head and relieved her of her glass. He tipped the contents into his own and murmured, ‘Waste not, want not, as me sainted old mum used to say.’ He took a sip and studied her closely. She still wasn’t her old self and was probably suffering flashbacks. He was annoyed with himself for not having anticipated the speed with which the man in Harrow would track them down, yet puzzled as to how it had been done. ‘Don’t worry about him. We’ll find out who he is and I’ll get someone to beat him to a pulp.’

His attempt at lightening the atmosphere didn’t quite work. Riley banged her hand furiously on the worktop, catching a cup and sending it skittering away. ‘How dare he? Coming into my own home like that! Christ, if I’d had a gun…!’

The cup teetered for a moment on the edge of the worktop, before tipping over and crashing to the floor. In the silence that followed, a car horn hooted.

‘A gun’s no answer,’ Palmer said evenly. He spoke instinctively, the ex-military man’s automatic response to the use of firearms. He was unprepared for the strength of her response.

‘Really? You think so?’ She glared at him, her face colouring with outrage and anger. ‘You’d be bloody amazed at what I think is the answer right now, Frank!’

He returned her look without comment. The rare use of his first name was an indication of her anger and shock. Not that he blamed her entirely. ‘Picking up a gun is easy,’ he said after a moment or two of silence. ‘It’s a lump of metal, that’s all. No big deal. But shooting someone? You have to point it, first. Decide where you want to hit them: head, stomach — maybe just a wingtip. Shoot to wound or shoot to kill? Most people aren’t that good. Most guns aren’t that accurate, either — not unless you get up close. That’s when they do the damage. You might hit a main artery or blow off their arm. Have you ever seen anyone gut-shot? It’s pretty nasty.’

Riley looked stunned by the flat brutality of Palmer’s words and the images they painted. ‘Palmer, for God’s sake-’

‘I mean it.’ His voice was utterly calm now, but insistent, drilling into her. ‘Pulling the trigger…it takes almost no pressure at all. One small squeeze and it goes off. Bang.’ Riley blinked at the harsh sound. ‘But once you do it, once that gun goes off, it’ll change your life forever.’

The sound of the cat’s claws tapping on the tiled floor broke the spell.

‘Talking from experience, Palmer?’ Riley could have bitten her tongue, the words out before she could stop them. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

‘Forget it,’ he said easily. ‘I thought you should know, that’s all.’

Riley nodded guiltily and touched his arm. ‘I’m grateful, too. Just sounding off a bit. Ignore me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘There’s something you should know. Gillivray’s dead.’ She told him about Jimmy’s call, and he looked puzzled.

‘A disgruntled victim, maybe?’

‘I’ve no idea. But you could be in the frame, you know that?’

Palmer shrugged. ‘Then I’d better keep my head down, hadn’t I?’

‘Yes. Talking of police, who did you call just now to find the car number? Your friend in the Met?’ She was referring to a contact Palmer had made some time ago, somebody who could access useful information whenever he needed it. Riley still didn’t know the person’s name, only that it was a woman and the mere mention of her could bring a silly smile to Palmer’s face.

‘Not this time,’ he said enigmatically. ‘I got Donald onto it. He’s got a back door to the DVLA records. He said to give him an hour or so.’

‘Fine.’ Riley reached for the phone on the wall, glad to be doing something. ‘In that case, while we’re waiting, how about a large pizza with all the toppings and a bottle of red? I need some serious stodge. Then you can tell me where you’ve been the last day or two and what that man means to you.’