No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 38

Palmer slowed, realising Michael must have exited via a concealed door in one of the fencing panels. A Judas gate. That left Radnor at the wheel of the car. It looked like he and Riley had arrived just in time to interrupt their departure. Or maybe not.

Michael was dressed in a suit, white shirt and dark tie, as if he was ready for a day in the office. He was holding a black leather bag in one hand. Carry-on luggage for a sudden trip overseas? Palmer wondered.

Michael’s face registered shock seeing Palmer so close, and he muttered something urgently. The driver’s door opened and Radnor looked out, craning his head to see. When he saw Palmer, he grimaced, shouted at Michael, then reached out and snatched the black bag from the younger man’s hand.

The car engine revved hard and the vehicle shot away with a squeal of tyres, leaving Michael standing alone at the side of the lane. He began to run after the car, screaming furiously, his words unintelligible, before realising he wasn’t going to catch Radnor. He stopped and turned to face Palmer, standing squarely in the centre of the lane.

Palmer’s defensive instincts went into overdrive. He had faced situations to this before, where confrontation couldn’t be avoided. Yet the sweat and smoke of those army-town pubs and their drunken squaddies suddenly seemed a luxury, faced with this open space and an opponent who had already shown a propensity to kill without a second thought.

He was close enough now to see the tension in the other man’s face. The Russian’s intentions were evident in his body stance as he began to turn slightly to deflect the attack, and Palmer knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

At the last second, as Michael began to raise his hands, one palm open to ward off a blow, the other closed in a tight fist, Palmer swerved.

Riley, thirty yards behind, saw Michael turning to meet the threat. Beyond the two men, the Mercedes was braking hard to turn the corner, the only other movement in the lane. Riley wanted to shout to Palmer to stop, back off and leave Michael to the police. But it was too late. He was already committed.

When Michael moved, he seemed to pirouette on the ball of one foot like a ballet dancer, his body taut and controlled. It was as if he were attached by a string to some controlling force high above his head. As he turned, he leaned forward as if to reach down and pick something off the ground, but his hands remained close into his chest. Then his other foot shot out with unbelievable speed. In spite of his swerve, Palmer was unable to stop himself. There was a muffled sound of impact, and Palmer seemed to lift slightly, turning sideways with a grunt and riding on his opponent’s foot. He landed on his shoulder a few feet away and rolled with the momentum. He lay there, shaking his head and trying to get up again, but seemed to lack the strength, as if the kick had knocked all the energy from his body.

‘Palmer!’ Riley shouted frantically as she saw Michael take a long, deliberate step forward. But instead of reaching down for the man on the ground, the Russian seemed to hold the pose for a fraction of a second as if taking aim, then his other leg flashed up and round, the heel momentarily poised above his shoulder but the trajectory clearly aimed at the exposed top of Palmer’s head.

The leg began its downward strike. Then Palmer rolled, but instead of moving away from danger, he rolled inwards, catching his attacker by surprise. Spinning on his back and sweeping his leg round like a scythe, his instep caught Michael behind his grounded ankle. The impact took the Russian’s leg out from under him, and with a surprised gasp, Michael fell backwards, arms flailing for balance. Unable to regain his equilibrium, he crashed to the tarmac with a loud whoof of expelled air and tried to roll away.

But Palmer was waiting. Reaching over, he grasped one of Michael’s hands and seemed to twist and bend all in one motion. There was a shrill cry of pain and a sharp crack, and Michael groaned and grabbed his broken wrist. Palmer calmly finished him off by slamming the younger man’s head into the tarmac.

In the background, the Mercedes engine accelerated and faded into the distance.

‘Are you all right?’ Riley said, coming to stop alongside Palmer. He was dusting himself off and trying to stand upright, but didn’t appear to be enjoying the experience.

He nodded and took a couple of deep breaths before replying. ‘Of course. Did you doubt me?’ In spite of his levity, she saw a spasm cross his face and wondered how badly he was hurt. He looked towards the corner where Radnor had disappeared. ‘Must be great to have such close friends,’ he muttered.

Riley glanced down at Michael, who was past caring. His eyes were rolling and a livid bruise was beginning to blossom on his forehead where it had made contact with the ground.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ she demanded, rounding on Palmer, then stopping to brush some dirt from his shoulder. There was a small tear in the fabric, and she wondered vaguely if Mr Javad’s skills included clothing repairs. ‘You could have been killed going down like that!’

Palmer sniffed and bent to brush off his trousers. ‘Oh, you mean the on-the-ground bit?’

‘Yes. I thought he’d finished you.’

‘What, you’ve never seen break-dancing before?’ Palmer grinned and brushed his fingers through his hair. ‘It was close,’ he conceded, wincing slightly, ‘but he didn’t get the peanut. Come on, let’s get him out of the public eye.’ He bent and stripped the laces from the unresisting Russian’s shoes, then tied his thumbs and small fingers together. Taking off the shoes and handing them to Riley, he grasped Michael beneath his arms and dragged him towards the doorway in the fence panel.

Riley followed. ‘What are you going to do with him? Shouldn’t we go after Radnor?’

‘Forget him. We’d never catch him now — even if we knew where he was going.’ He dragged Michael across the grass to the rear of the house and dumped him near the door of a brick garage, leaving Riley to close the fence panel and join him.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Riley grated, her frustration showing. Now she knew Palmer was okay, she could vent her anger on the fact that Radnor had got away at the very last minute. ‘We were so close.’

‘Never mind,’ Palmer said cheerfully, although he was studying Michael with a grim look. The Russian was regaining consciousness, and already staring at Palmer with a defiant air. His suit was torn and dirty, and the white shirt was no longer immaculate, and he was a long way from the neat figure they had seen before. ‘I know somebody who can help us.’

Palmer opened a side door to the garage. It revealed an empty space with a workbench against one wall. On the wall itself was an array of tools, dusty and pitted with rust through lack of use. The air smelled dull and oily, and judging by the undisturbed cobwebs, he doubted if Radnor and Michael had ever set foot in here.

Palmer dragged Michael inside, dumping him without great care by the workbench.

Riley stood in the doorway, watching. ‘What are you going to do?’ She looked concerned, eyes darting from the man on the floor to Palmer and back. ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’

‘Not yet.’ Palmer stepped over to the workbench and cast his eyes over the tools. ‘I want to ask him a few questions.’ He reached up to where a large pair of sheet-metal cutters were held in place by two hooks, and took them down. He worked the handles until the jaws opened and closed with satisfactory smoothness. A faint squeak emanating from the unused parts was put right by a squirt of oil from an ancient can with a long spout. He took his time, and when he turned back towards Michael, the man went pale and tried to roll away.

‘Palmer!’ Riley hissed, the horror at what he was proposing to do dawning on her. Then she recognised the faint smile around his mouth, and realised something that the terrified Michael, no doubt judging Palmer’s intentions by his own standards, could not know: that Palmer had no such plans, and had been counting on Riley’s instinctive reaction to add authenticity to the scene. ‘You can’t…!’ she added helpfully, and turned quickly away, stepping outside.

‘Women,’ said Palmer, shaking his head, and closed the jaws of the metal cutters again with a sickening snap. ‘Too soft every time.’

Moments later, Michael began talking.