No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 7

Early next morning, Palmer was once more outside the office block in Harrow. This time he was facing the opposite way down the street, and parked close to the rear entrance, within sight of the loading bay. The cover here wasn’t ideal, but it was likely he’d only need to be here for a short while. After his revelation the previous day, he needed one more look; one more sighting of that face to confirm that he wasn’t losing his entire sense of perspective.

Fifteen minutes later, after watching a procession of early workers, deliveries and the usual comings and goings related to an office building girding itself for the day’s business, he saw a White Tower cab turn the corner and slide into the kerb. One passenger got out, closing the door without looking back, and the cab pulled away. No goodbyes, no indication that money had changed hands in the usual way. A regular user, then — most likely an account-customer.

The tanned skin and gaunt look confirmed it was the man from the lift.

Palmer took a digital camera from the glove box and fired off a couple of shots. With the face already imprinted on his memory, he wouldn’t need to refer to the camera again. The photos were purely for backup, a hangover from his days in the Special Investigations Branch of the RMP.

The man approached the rear of the building and punched in a security code on a small black box to one side of the door. There was no audible click from this distance, but by the way the man barely checked his step, the time delay was brief and the procedure something of a habit. It showed he had been coming here for some time, and had settled into the comfortable routine of a regular.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Palmer dialled a number he’d stored in his phone the previous evening. He hadn’t been confident enough to make this call yesterday, but now he had no hesitation.

Reg Paris had come from a small village near Trowbridge in Wiltshire. It was the seat, the tall NCO had once joked, of the Paris family ever since they had first been discovered living under a rock. Coming from a family of farm labourers, Reg had displayed the raw-boned strength and build of his forebears, a fact, Palmer recalled, that had proven useful in promoting an air of calm among troublesome squaddies around the pubs and clubs.

With no current information to go on, Palmer had, the previous evening, dialled up his account with a directory search engine and keyed in the name and the largest town, Swindon. The first result had produced a blank. He’d tried other county towns, wondering whether he was being over-optimistic, before finally hitting on three references and phone numbers. The first two had been unhelpful. The Paris family, it seemed, was no longer as close as it had once been. The third number, however, had led to gold in the form of a younger brother. Although wary at first, the man had finally given Palmer a phone number for Reg’s widow, Marjorie. She had answered after three rings. By now long remarried, she was surprised to hear from anyone about her former husband’s death.

‘It’s been years,’ she said calmly. ‘I thought that was all over and done with.’

‘Just tying up some loose ends, admin-wise,’ Palmer told her, playing the diligent civil servant. ‘I was wondering whether you were ever given any details of the accident?’

‘Details? What… you mean how it happened?’ There was a pause before her voice came back laden with suspicion. ‘Here, this isn’t going to affect my pension, is it? Only I was told at the time that there was no problem with the pension, seeing as how he’d been killed on duty, like.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that. I was wondering if you were told anything specific, that’s all.’

‘No. I wouldn’t have wanted to, neither. They said Reg was on his way to some civil police court to make a statement, and he got hit by a big lorry that was going too fast. It happens, over there, with those German roads, doesn’t it? They should have a speed limit, same as we do. Why are you asking?’

‘Just clearing up some bits and pieces before sealing the documents, that’s all. Umm… did anyone mention the other man in the car?’

‘Other man? Are you sure you’re looking at the right papers, love? There wasn’t nobody else with Reg. They told me he was on his own.’

Palmer thanked the woman and hung up, his chest drumming. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear, yet perversely, came as no surprise. He dropped the phone onto the seat and chewed over what he knew, trying to picture once again the man who had turned up at the base two days after the shooting and informed Sergeant Paris that he, as the senior British RMP present, was required to make a statement to the civil authorities in Frankfurt about the scene of the shooting and what he had observed. There had been the usual display of authorisation, followed by a confirmation phone call to the CO, and Reg had marched out with a flat face to the car pool, closely followed by the man in the coat. They had climbed into the first available car, Paris taking the driver’s seat and hitting the gas before his passenger had fully closed the door. Palmer hadn’t heard the exchange between them, only that Reg had muttered to the guard on the gate that he had to go to accompany the man to Frankfurt and would be back the following day.

It was the last time Palmer had ever seen him.

After another twenty minutes and two more calls chasing down the person he was after, including one to a sniffy hausfrau, Palmer switched on his ignition and drove away. He was experiencing a shimmer of excitement which he recognised of old: the frisson of the chase, that stirring of the blood and sinews when a subject was in the frame and he was focussing on the detail and procedure necessary to lock on to the target. It was what he was good at.

In his pocket were his passport and a small bundle of Euros. An overnight bag sat on the floor by the passenger seat, containing a change of shirt and underwear and some other essentials, gathered together over years of having to move at short notice and live out of hotels. He might give Charlie a ring later today or tomorrow, just in case his immediate plan didn’t work out. Riley, too. Thinking of her reminded him of their dinner date. He swore. He’d have to call her. She’d no doubt play hell when she discovered he’d been working on something without keeping her in the loop, but for now, he wanted to see how far wrong he was before he made a complete spanner of himself. He checked his watch. He had plenty of time to get the flight he wanted. With luck he’d be back again by evening. He pointed the car towards Heathrow.

Riley was becoming seriously concerned about Palmer’s lack of contact. She had called him several times during the morning to talk about their new assignment, but his mobile was constantly off and his answer machine had given up taking messages. She didn’t expect him to be waiting at the end of the phone for her, but being out of touch this long without a word was out of character. She would never claim to know the former military policeman completely, since he wasn’t exactly an open book, and rarely talked about himself, preferring to hide behind humour and dry wit. But she felt she was as close to him as anyone else, and knew he would not drop out of sight or contact without god reason.

She had already discarded the idea of driving over to his place to see if he was there. If he was busy and simply keeping his head down for some reason, he wouldn’t thank her for chasing him around the capital like a mother hen. Instead, she had occupied her time doing her accounts, shredding unwanted files and making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the flat, her least favourite activity. When that had failed to hold her interest, she turned her attention back to the assignments from Donald, especially bringing a close to the information on the NHS manager with the Platinum card life-style. With a bit of luck and a fair wind, she would be able to confront him with the evidence and see if he would admit to receiving financial inducements from the funeral chain in return for the guaranteed business he was suspected of putting their way. The clincher so far had been her discovery, under the guise of pursuing an insurance claim against a hotel for lost baggage, that the last family holiday in the Caribbean had been paid for by a company called RestPlan, which turned out to be a subdivision of the funeral chain. If such a glaring oddity didn’t prove sufficient to unnerve the man, then he was tougher than she’d imagined and she’d have to re-think her strategy.

She rang Donald Brask. The agent would have been chasing Palmer about the fruit-picker brief, too, and may have spoken to him. He’d probably confide that Palmer was slumped in his car somewhere, running surveillance on some corporate drone suspected of having his hands in the company piggy bank.

But she was in for a surprise there, too. ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ said Donald. ‘I haven’t heard a peep. I’ve tried raising him a couple of times, but his mobile’s switched off. Unusual for him, I must say.’ For once, Donald sounded concerned, reflecting what Riley was already thinking: that Palmer dropping off the radar without leaving word was seriously odd. ‘Perhaps he’s found love, do you think?’ Donald added waspishly, ever ready to trade gossip about one of his clients.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Riley. She thanked him and switched off, mystified. Hell, maybe Donald was right and Palmer had found love. Now that might make him lose his sense of perspective and keep his head down.

The cat wandered in and sat in front of her, eyes half-closed, paws treading the carpet. Riley shook her head in disgust. ‘This is getting bloody desperate, cat. It’s looking like being another night in, one man beyond reach in sunny la-la land and the other… well, wherever. Good job I’m not in a girlie’s night-out gang — I’d be excommunicated for lack of commitment.’ She stood up and walked through to the kitchen, where she spooned some cat food into a dish, then placed the dish on the floor.

‘Sorry, cat,’ she said, collecting her car keys and jacket. ‘I’d be terrible company, anyway. If Palmer shows up while I’m gone, scratch his ankles for me. See you later.’