No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The first rush of guests began arriving at Colebrooke House just after five. Most were transported in a fleet of gleaming Bentleys, crunching expensively on the gravel drive and spinning round the fountain to form a neat line in front of the house. The occupants stepped out and milled about in the warm evening air, shaking out the stiff formality of the service, which had been held at the village church of St Peter’s, half a mile away. Other cars followed in quick succession, forming a line down the drive

Riley and Palmer were waiting, having made another inspection of the grounds first, while Rockface checked the house and the catering staff. As far as they could tell, Colebrooke House was clear and ready to go.

‘It would have been nice to have gone to the service,’ Riley said wistfully, eyeing the display of elegance emerging from the cars. It looked to her as if half the fashion houses in Europe had been raided to meet the demands of the occasion, and it was clear that, although small by some standards, this was an important date on the wedding calendar.

Palmer, wearing a smart lounge suit — a rare event for him — gave her a sideways look. ‘Jesus. Women and weddings.’

‘It’s all very well for you,’ she said curtly. ‘I feel somewhat underdressed. Make that hugely underdressed.’ Pressed at short notice to wear something other than her customary jacket and jeans, she had been forced to settled on a lightweight summer suit bought a couple of years ago for a cousin’s wedding. It may have been appropriate for that occasion, but she knew it wouldn’t match the present level of glamour on display by a long way.

‘You look fine,’ said Palmer, somewhat belatedly.

‘Fine?’ she hissed, although it was quite a compliment, coming from Palmer. ‘Fine doesn’t cut it. If I’d known it was going to be as glam as this, I’d have held out for a minimum clothing allowance.’

‘If I’d known you were going to witter on about it,’ Palmer retorted calmly, ‘I’d have hired a bloke.’

‘Philistine.’ She decided she was wasting her time. Apart from the suit, she was wearing a pair of medium heeled shoes. They didn’t enhance the outfit, but she’d already decided that if called on to break into anything approaching a trot beyond the firmer terrain of the paths and terraces around the house, she’d kick them off and to hell with convention. Stumbling about on heels like an idiot while pretending to provide security for the Myburghes would be far more humiliating than going barefoot.

Palmer moved away, shaking his head, and began cruising the gathering crowd, instinctively checking out the men first. They were a mixed group, ranging from fresh-faced young turks in search of a party, slightly older types from the city and the civil service, to a mostly conservative and senior scattering in morning suits and double chins.

Riley hung back, preferring the fringes of the crowds, where it was easier to watch people, and where she felt a little less conspicuous. Palmer seemed unbothered by any such distractions, and seemed to blend in easily, although a couple of very tall ex-cavalry types gave him keen, knowing looks as they strode by. They joined two other men of the same brand, and Riley overheard them reminiscing about people called Neville, Alistair and Jonty, and an evening at the officers’ club in Pristina, before they wheeled away with promises to meet up for a game of squash. They smiled briefly at Riley as they passed, too well-schooled to ignore her but probably aware that she wasn’t there by the same invitation.

The women were less restrained, given to peels of surprised greetings and much air kissing. Already fashionably colourful, the amount of jewellery on display was impressive, and the air was soon rent with shrill, catch-up gossip and bursts of laughter as friends and acquaintances spied each other through the crowd.

Uniformed catering staff directed party guests towards the rear gardens, where a large marquee with a service annexe had been set up on the lawns. The atmosphere was balmy and pleasant with only a faint breeze, and most of the arrivals made for a line of champagne-laden white-clothed tables, pausing to scoop up a drink. Then it was onto the lawns in search of fresh air, scenery and some soft grass in which to squish their toes, a sort of sophisticated limbering up before the main event.

Like Clacton beach, thought Riley. Only posher.

Palmer had already checked out the caterers’ vans, along with a generator truck to provide extra power for lighting and refrigeration. Each vehicle carried a ‘By Royal Appointment’ crest. The marquee was a bustle of activity, with trays of food being passed along a line of waiters, and more champagne being packed in ice for later. A manager in a crisp morning suit was directing his troops like a regimental sergeant major, keeping staff in line with a beady eye, calm authority and close attention to his watch. The atmosphere was full of the scent of flowers, with giant floral displays in each corner to add to the sense of colour and glamour.

Riley drifted towards Palmer and nodded towards the roofline, where the silent and deserted scaffolding stuck out like spiky, gelled hair.

‘He’s pushing the boat out, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘With the wedding, it must be quite an outlay, doing up a place this size.’

Palmer nodded, strictly neutral. ‘Lady Myburghe has money, and Sir Kenneth got lucky on the stock market. As for the wedding, Victoria is his eldest daughter. It’s traditional.’

‘So how rich is he?’ Riley was wondering how much in real terms Sir Kenneth could put together if and when his son’s kidnappers finally made their demands. Judging by the scale of the renovations and the size of this celebration, he evidently wasn’t short of funds.

‘I’ve no idea. You thinking about a ransom?’

‘Yes.’

He stared off into the distance, his face grim. ‘If he pays up, whatever he has, it’ll never be enough. They’ll come back for more. Come on, let’s take a walk. I want to check the track.’ He set off with a nod towards a line of trees near the edge of the estate.

Riley followed, still trying to get to grips with the fact that the wedding was going ahead as planned. It was either an attempt by Sir Kenneth to deny the worst, or a brave front against the certain knowledge that Christian would not be coming back. Either way, whenever they had glimpsed the former diplomat, he had seemed brittle, his smile stiff and robotic.

Neither Victoria, nor her young sister, Annabel, had yet put in an appearance at the house. When questioned, Rockface had informed Palmer that they would be travelling directly from London to the church, shadowed by a couple of Keagan’s men.

‘What’s the official explanation for Christian’s absence?’ Riley queried. ‘Surely everyone’e expecting him to be here for his sister’s wedding?’

‘They put the word around that he’s down with a stomach bug and too ill to travel,’ Palmer explained. ‘It doesn’t seem to have raised any eyebrows.’

Thoughts of stiff upper lips came to mind, but Riley had to admire their bravado. It was quite a display. If it had been her family under such pressure, she doubted weddings would have figured too highly on the social calendar.

They pushed through a small thicket, Palmer leading the way and Riley treading carefully on the softer ground, until they found themselves overlooking a broad sweep of countryside fading into the distance. A rutted track ran from right to left in front of them, the ground marked by the treads of tractor tyres and horses’ hooves. It was evidently a regular exercise route for local riders, as well as an access track for farm workers, and even without Palmer’s security experience, Riley knew that this point, like the vast amount of open countryside around the house and grounds, was a security team’s worst nightmare. It was impossible to keep an eye on all fronts, and the amount of cover provided by shrubs, bushes and several acres of trees could have hidden a small army. Add to that the amount of scaffolding and building materials scattered around the place, and it was a terrorist’s dream on a plate.

‘This is crazy,’ she breathed, appalled once more by the size of the task they had taken on. ‘We couldn’t cover all this, even if we had Keagan’s entire team with us.’

Palmer shrugged. ‘True. But I’ve done worse jobs. It’s all about being seen to be there.’

‘I thought security was supposed to be unobtrusive.’

‘Some is, some isn’t. We’re both.’

‘Palmer, are you armed?’ Riley had been meaning to ask him from the outset.

‘No. I asked Keagan to get authorisation, but he was blocked. Insufficient need, apparently.’

‘So what do we do if someone does have a go?’

‘We could always throw champagne bottles.’

‘Great. I should have stuck to writing about Myburghe — it would have been easier.’

Palmer gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, you insisted on sticking your oar in.’ He took a small, lightweight Motorola GP radio from his pocket and checked it out. Riley did the same. They were little bigger than a mobile, and Palmer had given Riley and Rockface a quick briefing earlier on how to use them. With so much ground to cover, it would be their only way of summoning each other if needed.

Just then, both radios crackled and Rockface’s voice spoke briefly. The bride and groom were on their way.

‘Time to trot,’ said Palmer. ‘Let’s go.’

They returned to the main house just as a limousine decked out in ribbons purred up the drive and the newly-weds ducked out amid cheers and flashing cameras. The groom, Simon Biel, who seemed more assured here than the photo Riley had seen on the Internet had portrayed, hovered supportively as his bride, Victoria, greeted friends and revelled in her new-found status, her smile outshining by a long way all the other splashes of colour. Every step was recorded by a frenetic photographer, and from his work-rate, it was plain he had been warned that he would have only seconds to record the necessary outdoor shots before the couple were herded inside.

Rockface also danced close attendance, towering over his charges like a large mother hen. As soon as the happy couple were over the threshold, he closed the door. Next, Sir Kenneth appeared and moved through the assembled guests, any signs of nerves no doubt excused as the understandable jitters of a typically proud father. He caught Palmer’s eye and nodded briefly. He was accompanied by a slender, elegant woman whom Riley guessed was his ex-wife.

‘Lady Susan Myburghe,’ confirmed Palmer, when she asked him. ‘Nice woman.’

A man with the focussed air of a professional watcher appeared through the crowd. He was dressed in a smart lounge suit, but to expert eyes there was no mistaking his profession. He threw Palmer a brief look, clicked through his mental slides of okay faces, then carried on scanning the people around him before turning to nod to a new arrival in a black Jaguar. The male passenger climbed out and Riley recognised the familiar, burly figure of the Defence Secretary.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ she said, as the man was ushered inside by the minder.

‘Friend of the family,’ murmured Palmer. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t come to regret today’s visit.’

They trawled the crowd, picking out a scattering of other public faces. Two peers and couple of back-benchers moved by in easy familiarity; a middle-ranking female opera singer swished past with a party of admirers; an eagle-eyed entrepreneur who had graced the pages of the tabloids the week before was trying hard to be ignored, while two cat-walk models glided past with the grace of gazelles among wildebeest, displaying the hauteur of their trade. A few obviously foreign guests wandered around like confused minnows, no doubt trying to come to grips with the eccentricities of British etiquette and quickly losing the plot.

In between the chatter, the crunch of cars arriving on the gravelled drive continued, interspersed with the thud of doors slamming and cries of greeting. The vehicles were beginning to stack two deep along the drive, some driven onto the grass verge with their noses into the shrubbery. A couple of local youths were trying to maintain order out of this chaos, but whatever system might have been planned beforehand, it was already beginning to break down under the sheer volume of numbers and the exuberance of the occasion.

‘We’d better split up,’ Palmer told her. ‘It won’t make much difference in this crowd, but one of us might spot something. Keep your radio handy.’ He nodded away from the house. ‘You do the gardens. I’ll check the inside.’

Riley walked around the house and through the shrubbery, then drifted towards a collection of brick buildings set back among the trees. The noise dropped appreciably as she walked towards them, and she realised with a sudden chill that she wouldn’t have to go far before she was completely alone.

In the fading light, she could just make out some wooden ventilation boxes sitting on the roofs of the buildings, and closer examination revealed she was approaching some stables. From what Palmer had said, Keagan’s men had checked these out already, but that was probably two days ago. A cobbled path led all the way from the house and ended in a small yard around which the buildings were set in an open square. She couldn’t hear the sound of horses stamping and snuffling, nor any of the associated noises to be found in busy stables. A couple of bulkhead lights shone weakly from high on the walls, revealing the yard to be empty and clean, although dotted with sprouting weeds and coarse grass.

If there had been horses here, she reflected, it must have been a while ago.

The stalls along one side of the open square held an assortment of implements and riding gear. None of it looked clean or fresh and everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The stalls on the opposite side were also empty save for a scattering of straw and some old, damaged furniture. Over everything hung the dull tang of stale horse manure, and the soft cooing of doves in the rafters added to the sense of rural peacefulness.

She turned to the block in the centre. There were no stable doors to this one, just a single door at one end with a low watt bulb burning in a wrought-iron holder overhead.

The door opened to emit a mixed aroma of stale cigarette smoke, cooking and bodies. Riley reached along the wall near the door and flicked on the light. She was in a small, high-ceilinged anteroom furnished with wooden lockers, a table and chairs. High windows looked out onto a stretch of trees at the rear. She opened a couple of the locker doors, but other than a film of dust and the odd clump of dried mud, they were empty. The whole room had an empty feel of desolation and lack of care, like a small-town railway station waiting room.

Against the rear window wall was a single sink and drainer, with a battered microwave oven standing on one end. Its glass door was open, and the inside was stained with baked-on food remnants. The air around it smelled spicy and peppery.

A cupboard under the sink held a bottle of detergent and a selection of mismatched crockery, chipped and stained with use. The air in the cupboard smelled of damp, and the wall at the back was covered in a dark bloom.

The room had obviously been converted from something else — possibly a tack room, Riley guessed — and turned into a makeshift staff kitchen. The walls had been splashed with white paint but the slabbed floor remained uncarpeted and cold. High on the wall to one side of the sink were two hefty metal brackets, which had probably once held shelves for tackle or other equipment. A metal waste-bin against one wall had been used as an ashtray and the one window was over-painted and firmly shut. With no attempt at creature comforts, it smacked of the purely temporary.

Riley emerged into a corridor that ran the full length of the block, with a number of doors leading off to the rear of the building and two small windows facing out onto the central square. The first door opened with a protesting squeak, the wood swollen in the damp air. The room was simple, about ten feet square, plain and as homely as a coal bunker, with a single bed and one hard-backed chair. A small bedside cabinet was scarred along the front edge by cigarette burns, and any varnish on the top had long been eradicated by the ring-stains of hot mugs and wet glasses. Cheap wire coat hangers bunched along a wooden architrave served as a wardrobe. It could almost have been a prison cell, she thought, and shivered at the thought.

The other rooms were identical. None showed signs of current use, but other than a thin layer of dust, bore the same lingering odour of someone having been here recently. The grooms? Or temporary lodgings for some other reason?

As she turned to leave the last room, Riley spotted a small square of printed paper, lying wedged under the edge of the the door. She pulled it out and smoothed it flat.

It was a torn scrap from a magazine. The typeface was rough, the paper quality poor. The illustration showed part of a naked breast, the aureole tanned and pimpled with goosebumps. The text alongside mentioned the name Licia in bold print and was peppered with vivid exclamation marks. No doubt, Riley assumed, the thinking man’s Michelin Guide indicator to soft porn. Unfortunately, whatever the editor was trying to convey about Licia’s finer attributes was a mystery to her, as the text was all in Spanish.

As Riley slipped the piece of paper into her pocket, she heard a noise from the far end of the corridor.

Somebody had just entered the anteroom.

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