No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 18

Palmer replaced the phone and gently eased the desk drawer shut to avoid disturbing the contents. Riley was already making for the door.

‘Across to the other side.’ Palmer said quietly. ‘First door on the left.’

They crossed the foyer to the opposite door. Just as Palmer closed it behind him, he heard a key turning in the front door. He followed Riley into the first office and clicked the door shut behind him.

They heard the newcomer close the front door, whistling tunelessly as he moved away from them across the foyer. Then came the sound of the door to Radnor’s office opening.

Palmer turned to look at Riley, to warn her to be ready to go, but she was peering into the wastebasket by the side of the desk. Ten seconds later, footsteps approached and the door to the corridor was flung open. Palmer readied himself, but the newcomer walked on by and disappeared down the corridor and through another door, humming to himself.

Riley looked at Palmer and mouthed the question, ‘Toilet?’

Palmer nodded and opened the door, then beckoned Riley to follow, silently thanking the God of weak bladders.

Thirty seconds later, they were downstairs and crossing towards the desk where Nobby sat waiting, his face drawn with worry.

‘Christ, that was close!’ he breathed. ‘I was waiting for him to start screaming blue murder.’ He stood up and came round the desk. ‘I spoke to Jimmy, like you asked. He said you’ve got to be joking about the black guy.’

‘Why?’ Riley asked.

‘Because a cleaner here was fired two weeks after Azimtec moved in. They complained he was incompetent and implied stuff had gone missing. He was black. When an Asian took over running a sandwich service into the building, they stopped taking food from him. They also insisted they’d only use white cabbies. Jimmy says from other comments they made, if those two on the first floor aren’t card-carrying members of the British National Party, they should be.’

Back at the car, Riley and Palmer watched the building for signs of alarm. The police presence appeared to have been scaled down, and only one or two uniforms were in evidence around the outside, with an occasional glimpse of forensics personnel. But it was soon clear that if the accountant had noticed any signs of their visit, he was not saying. Even so, there was always the unexpected to take into account. It had been a close call, especially with the police right under their feet.

Palmer reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper he had found in the art book. It was heavy and greasy to the touch, and crisscrossed with folds. He turned it between his fingers and sniffed at it, then handed it to Riley.

‘What is it?’ she asked. She rubbed her fingers across the glossy surface, then followed Palmer’s example and sniffed at it. ‘Oil? Linseed or something like it.’

Palmer nodded. ‘Waxed paper. Used by some manufacturers to wrap weapons and ammunition. Keeps out moisture and dirt during shipping and storage.’

Riley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Weapons?’

‘Either that or they’ve had access to something wrapped in the same type of paper. I’ve no idea what that might have been, but it certainly wasn’t filing cabinets and desk tidies.’ He took back the scrap of waxed paper. ‘By itself, though, it’s not enough.’ He looked at her. ‘Unless you’ve got something?’

Riley tried to hold a straight face but failed. ‘What?’

‘You found something. In the waste bin.’

Riley grinned and held out her hand. She was holding a slim piece of green metal, two inches long. ‘It was in the bottom of the bin in the empty office. It looked… I don’t know — out of place, so I picked it up. Any ideas?’

Palmer held it up and studied it, and his face relaxed into an expression of understanding. ‘Yowsa. Big peanut to the lady. If I’m not mistaken, this is part of a spring mechanism from the magazine of an automatic weapon. If it is, Radnor and his friend Michael have got their fingers in a bit more than east European artwork. No wonder they’re so cagey about visitors: they’re moving weapons right through the capital.’ He looked at Riley. ‘Pity we don’t know the name of the couriers they’re using.’

‘We don’t,’ agreed Riley, digging out her mobile and a notebook. ‘But I know a man who might.’

Five minutes later, she thanked Jimmy Gough and handed Palmer a sheet from her notebook. On it was the name and address of a courier company: VTS Transit. ‘They use the same driver and loader each time: it’s a small firm in Hayes. Jimmy says they seem to have a good relationship with Michael in particular. Jimmy never got friendly with them because they didn’t speak great English. Miserable gits, is what he called them.’

Palmer studied the details Riley had written down. He reached in his pocket and took out the note he’d made from Donald’s call the previous evening. He juggled the two for a moment, then said: ‘Let’s go visit VTS. It’s a solid connection with Radnor, so it’s a start. Then we’ll see about the mysterious Mrs Fraser and her cool dude driver.’

Szulu wasn’t feeling so cool. His hands were sweating and his head pounding as he gripped a shoebox and walked along the pavement in Chiswick. He had foregone breakfast in favour of an early errand, and was feeling sick with what he tried to convince himself were merely hunger pangs, but which he knew was an acute case of nerves.

He unlocked the hire car and slid behind the wheel, taking care not to bump the shoebox, which he placed carefully on the floor next to the passenger seat. His mouth felt dry. If he was caught with what was in there, he’d go down for a very long time. But after last night’s near miss at the Gavin woman’s flat, and the feeling he was being watched just a little too closely by both the old woman and Ragga, he’d decided that drastic measures were called for. Which was why he’d called on a friend who ran a shoe shop, among other things. A brief transaction in the stock room, surrounded by piles of trainers, and he now had the means to protect himself against all-comers.

He shook his head, still debating the wisdom of what he’d done. Was self-protection something to be ashamed of? No way. Especially after learning from the old woman last night that Frank Palmer wasn’t just some private dick, but had once been a military cop. Yet another little fact she’d forgotten to mention. Szulu didn’t know much about army cops, but he figured they were trained in the use of weapons. He’d also read that they were highly rated as official bodyguards, which meant they could react to danger and kill if they had to. No wonder Palmer had been so quick to get on his arse.

He breathed deeply and wiped a hand across his face. He was certain the old woman was losing whatever marbles she had left. She’d suddenly announced the news about Palmer as if she was imparting a hot tip on the 3.30 at Haydock. Like he couldn’t have done with knowing it before he went anywhere near the guy’s office. Or near the girl, come to that. They were most probably at it, anyway, the two of them, which would make Palmer act all hairy-chested, even if he wasn’t some kind of ex-army super-cop.

He checked the street, then ducked down under the dashboard and flipped off the thick elastic band holding the lid of the shoebox in place. Inside was a heavy object wrapped in tissue paper advertising a brand of trainers. He peeled back the paper and touched the darkened metal beneath. It felt oddly cold, and he experienced a frisson of fear. According to his friend, who sold more than just shoes, he was looking at a Spanish.22 calibre Llama automatic pistol with a five-inch barrel. His friend had rattled on about capacity and stuff, and even showed him how to hold it steady, but Szulu hadn’t taken much in. He was more concerned with worrying about if, when it came down to it, he’d have the balls to use it.