No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTY

Riley gave it fifteen minutes before calling again. In the meantime, she and Palmer tried to make sense of what Henzigger was doing at the US Embassy. The man who’d answered his mobile had sounded hesitant, the way you would if picking up someone else’s phone. Perhaps Henzigger had left it outside the meeting room by request.

‘He might have been called in,’ Palmer reasoned, floating theories. ‘Easier to keep an eye on him that way.’

‘But? There’s a but in there.’

‘It sounds like he’s not exactly a stranger there. Interesting.’

When she re-dialled the number, Henzigger answered.

‘Riley. How are you?’ He sounded wary, and she guessed he’d been told about her call.

‘I need to see you,’ she told him. ‘Something’s come up. I think you might like to know about it.’

‘Sure thing,’ he said readily. ‘No problem. But, uh… you want to give me some idea, as a taster?’

‘I’d rather not. It’s sensitive.’

There was a lengthy pause and she thought he’d gone. Then she heard a hollow sound and realised he’d placed his hand over the phone. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘I can do that. When?’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘No. I’ve got stuff to do all day. After that, I might be out of here.’

He was leaving? ‘This evening, then.’

‘Okay. Make it seven. Where?’

Riley named a spot on Chelsea Embankment. It was cheap psychology; familiar turf for her, but a bit off-territory for Henzigger. She wasn’t overjoyed about the timing, though. She’d have preferred bright sunlight and lots of people.

‘I’ll find it. See you there.’ He cut the connection.

Palmer looked concerned. ‘Is this wise?’

‘It’s the best I could think of,’ said Riley. ‘I don’t think going to Grosvenor Square will accomplish much. If he’s not meant to be on the books, they’ll simply deny any knowledge of him.’

‘True. What are you going to tell him?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.’

Palmer sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get there early.’

But Riley had a better idea. ‘You’d be better trying to find Myburghe or keeping an eye on his daughters.’ She smiled with more confidence than she felt and asked herself whether she was walking into something she couldn’t handle. Only time would tell.

Palmer dropped her at her flat, fighting her idea all the way. But as soon as he left, Riley got on the phone. It took her half an hour and a combination of cheap lies and silky persuasion, but she was finally put through to a number and asked to wait. Weller was in a meeting but when he came on, he sounded relieved to have an excuse to get out of it.

‘If anyone asks,’ he told her, ‘you’re a high-grade informant with important information.’

‘A snitch? Thanks, Weller.’

‘Don’t let it go to your head. And you don’t have to go round speaking out of the corner of your mouth or calling me guv’nor. What can I do for you?’

‘Is Toby Henzigger on the side of the angels?’

‘I doubt it, not after what the Yanks told us. He’s got a sticky reputation and is still under suspicion. As for us, we don’t like people coming in on false plates, no matter who they are. Why?’

‘He came to see me.’ She didn’t mention that it had been the previous day; she wasn’t sure Weller would understand the time lapse. Neither did she want to tell him yet about her meeting the American by the river, unless she had to. ‘He wants my help with clearing his name.’

‘Can you turn water into wine? Why you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Riley said honestly. ‘Maybe he thinks because I’m a journalist I’ll listen to him.’

‘And will you?’

‘I’m reserving judgement. I was hoping you could shed some light.’

Weller gave a snort. ‘Do me a favour. Why do you think I came round to pick your brains?’

‘So how come he was released and allowed to stay in the country?’

There was a silence while Weller digested the question, deciding how much he could tell her. ‘My superiors had a call from the Home Office,’ he said finally. ‘They’d had a call from Grosvenor Square. The US Embassy claim Henzigger’s false plates thing was a mistake. He’d got his papers mixed up and by the time he discovered the fact, it was too late. A favour for a favour, the message went. It’s all bullshit, of course. What’s going on? Is this tied in with Myburghe?’

Riley ignored him. ‘Is Henzigger with the DEA?’

Weller’s reply was loaded with caution. ‘He might be. Why?’

‘Is that yes or no?’

‘It means I don’t know. And the so-called ‘Special Relationship’ doesn’t include that sort of information. What else did he say?’

‘Nothing much.’

Weller gave a non-comittal grunt. ‘Have you seen Myburghe yet?’

It was a sudden switch, but Riley was expecting it. ‘No.’

‘Pity. If you do, tell him to get in touch.’ He ended the call.

The main thrust of outbound traffic was dying as Riley made her way down Flood Street towards the river. Daylight was fading quickly, leaving small pockets of shadow between emerging street lights like clusters of dark cotton wool. In the windows, she caught glimpses of people preparing for the evening, safe and secure behind their double-glazing and solid front doors. It made the outside world suddenly all the less appealing.

As she turned the corner into Cheyne Walk, she was greeted by a strong smell of stale Thames water and the clatter of a boat pounding up river. Lights twinkled on the far bank and a siren sounded mournfully from further east, bouncing off the water like a stone skipping across a lake. A line of cars was caught at the lights by the Albert Bridge, the fumes heavy on the air.

Between the embankment and Cheyne Walk lies a small garden, open to the road, but backed by a spread of thin trees and bushes. In spite of the proximity of so many passing vehicles, and the noise and fumes in the air, it is a popular spot for local residents and tired walkers.

An ideal place for a meeting.

Riley crossed the road and walked through a gap in the trees. She found Toby Henzigger standing by a wooden bench, hands thrust into his pockets. Other benches were placed every twenty yards or so, but they were empty of the little old ladies who usually sat there, feeding the birds and watching the cars go by. Henzigger seemed to be alone.

He turned and watched her approach, rocking back and forth on his toes. He looked slightly greyer and thinner than the last time she’d seen him, but it might have been the light.

She walked past him and stopped at the statue of Boy David. The figure was of a stick-thin child in memory of the Machine Gun Corps in World War 1. Somebody had balanced an empty cigarette carton on one of the statue’s shoulders. Riley plucked it off and dropped it in a waste bin.

Henzigger was wearing a sports jacket, slacks and white shirt. It made him seem oddly at home in this peculiarly English setting. He turned to face her. The move seemed deliberate, and put the nearest street light at his back. She felt her nerves tighten. She was hardly a threat, even if she was a good thirty something years younger.

She sat down on the bench and looked up at him. From her position, the light formed a halo around his head, throwing his face into shadow. The move seemed to confuse him momentarily, as if she had managed to undermine him with her show of composure.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Riley said politely, and saw a flicker of movement near the street corner she had just passed. She forced herself to look away.

‘What do you have for me?’ he asked impatiently.

Riley allowed the seconds to tick away, watching the passing traffic. She didn’t want to get the discussion under way too quickly, and it wouldn’t hurt for Henzigger to sweat a bit. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a faint noise came from the gloom beyond the bushes. She relaxed and smiled.

Henzigger threw her a dark scowl. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry — just a random thought.’

From across the way came another dull noise. Two down, thought Riley, and wondered how many there were. Henzigger didn’t seem to have heard anything, but he was capable of moving quickly, as he had demonstrated in the trees near the shoot.

‘Are you alone?’

The American shifted impatiently. ‘Of course. Look, you said you had something.’

Riley wasn’t sure whether to feign being helpful, hoping to draw something out of him that way, or to try and rattle his cage and shock him into saying more than he’d intended. Being nice wasn’t going to cut it; Henzigger wasn’t here for pleasantries, nor was he interested in London’s quainter locations.

And he hadn’t brought company because he was scared of the dark.

‘A body was found at Myburghe’s house last night,’ she told him.

‘So what?’ He stared down at her, his stance as tense as a steel hawser.

‘Don’t you want to know who?’

‘Like I should care.’ His voice was a growl, dismissive. ‘Who was it — your ex-military cop pal, Palmer? He shoulda stuck to divorce cases and construction sites.’

‘Not quite.’ Henzigger had clearly checked Palmer’s background, and in spite of seeing him at the shoot, had dismissed him as little more than a security guard playing out of his league. A big mistake.

‘So who then?’

‘You know him. A man named David Hilary.’

‘Never heard of him.’ The denial was automatic.

‘He was Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s bodyguard in Colombia. Big man, face like Mount Rushmore?’

‘Oh. Yeah, I remember.’ The admission was grudging. ‘He’s dead? Shame. How’d it happen?’

‘He was cut to pieces.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘The thing is, Toby,’ she continued, ‘the police are interested in three men who’d been staying in the stable block where Hilary was found. They moved out not long ago. The locals, who notice these things, thought they were Spanish grooms brought in to school Sir Kenneth’s horses. That’s rubbish, of course, because he doesn’t have any horses.’

‘So?’

‘Someone recognised the men’s dialect. Where was it from? Oh, yes, Bogotá.’

‘Wow. Sounds like you got illegal immigrants. Tough shit.’

‘Not these. A trundle through immigration records will probably show who they were — and where they came from. Put that together with the fingerprints and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Hunh?’

‘Never mind. They left a porn magazine behind. Colombian porn. I’m told the pages of glossy magazines are what the DNA and fingerprint boys call ‘high yield’. Must be all those sweaty fingers on that nice, shiny paper.’

While Henzigger digested that, which she hoped was even ten percent true, she turned her head to follow a speeding ambulance heading west, and caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing near the corner of Flood Street.

John Mitcheson.

Even as she spotted him, he stepped back into the gloom and disappeared.

‘You’re still not telling me anything I want to know,’ Henzigger muttered, but he no longer sounded so sure of himself. He glanced to one side, then quickly back at Riley.

‘But I thought you wanted to clear your name?’ she said.

‘I do. So?’

‘I did some checking of my own. I had a friend speak to a friend in Bogotá. He said you regularly attended meetings with members of a middle-ranking cartel. One of the places you used was a country club just outside the city.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Henzigger was quivering like a bowstring. But his voice gave him away. Riley had hit a nerve and Henzigger was shaken. ‘Who the hell told you that?’

‘You were being watched, Toby.’ She turned the screw a bit tighter. ‘You weren’t aware of it, but a British Intelligence officer was logging your every move. You and Myburghe.’

‘Jesus, you’re dreaming.’ His voice was a whisper.

‘What are you really doing here, Toby? And why come to me? It certainly wasn’t to clear your name. That would have been a neat trick, seeing as my influence with the authorities is less than zero. Was it a smokescreen while you got close to your old friend… and business partner?’

He said nothing. But Riley guessed his brain was working at fever pitch, planning an argument out of this place. With his background, he’d spent all his life saying only as much as he needed, relying on deception and cover stories to protect himself. Now it was beginning to wear thin under pressure.

‘Come on, Toby. You can tell me.’ She was taunting him, hoping to make him lose his temper. If there was one thing people like Henzigger hated, it was not having the upper hand. ‘Has Sir Kenneth let the side down?’

‘I don’t have time for this.’ He began to turn away.

‘Are you still DEA? I called your mobile number. You were speaking from the US embassy.’

‘I was there on business.’

As the automatic evasion left his mouth, she saw him hesitate. He hadn’t denied it. Then he looked around again and seemed rattled. If he was waiting for his Colombian friends to come and help him out, thought Riley, he’d be a long time waiting.

Riley stood up and walked away. It wasn’t what Henzigger was expecting. But he didn’t let her go without a parting shot.

‘That wasn’t smart, Riley,’ he called, his voice cutting across the traffic noise. ‘Not smart at all. There are other ways of getting Myburghe to cooperate.’

The threat was plain and chilling. Any pretense of wanting to clear his name was now gone. It could only mean one thing. The daughters.

She took out her phone and called Palmer.

‘You should check on Victoria and her sister,’ she suggested, and told him what Henzigger had said.

Palmer grunted. ‘Already done. I had them moved, just in case.’

‘How did they take it?’

‘They hissed a bit. But they’re safe. I’m going down to Colebrooke later to check the place out.’

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. Henzigger would hiss, too, when he found his ‘leverage’ had been spirited right out from under his nose. She told Palmer to be careful and rang off.

As she walked back up Flood Street, Mitcheson stepped out from the shadows and joined her, slipping his arm through hers.

‘Was it worth it?’

‘Too early to tell,’ she replied. ‘You were busy.’ She clutched his arm, the impact of Henzigger’s threat suddenly catching up with her. If Mitcheson noticed, he pretended otherwise. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘My pleasure.’ As they passed beneath a streetlight, she caught the expression on his face. It was times like this when Mitcheson worried her; when the look in his eyes went beyond the merely threatening and entered another realm altogether.

‘Were there any survivors?’ She just about managed to keep her voice level. In spite of knowing a little of Mitcheson’s background, the idea of him calmly disposing of any opposition, even for her sake, was something she didn’t want to contemplate. It represented a darker side to him, a side she wasn’t entirely sure of.

‘Of course. They’ll be okay. Eventually.’

‘Really?’ The last thing they needed was Weller calling round with awkward questions about dead Colombians littering the embankment. She’d seen what Mitcheson could do when danger threatened.

‘Scout’s honour.’ He looked at her with complete innocence, but it still left her wondering how far he would go if push came to shove. She hoped she never found out.

The phone was shrill, dragging Riley out of a deep sleep. She rolled away from the comforting warmth of Mitcheson’s arm and picked up the handset. She was surprised to see the time was just approaching midnight.

‘Sorry to spoil your beauty sleep.’ It was Weller, sounding not the least bit apologetic. He crunched a mint and continued, ‘Can you come to the US Embassy? Ask for Portius. I’ll meet you inside.’

Riley snapped awake. ‘What, now?’

‘My, you’re quick. We’re having a meeting with a State Department suit named Henry Portius. He’s got some information he wants to share about Henzigger.’

Riley didn’t bother hiding her surprise. ‘Why me? I’d have thought you’d want to keep the press as far away as possible. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m-’

‘Because you’re a material witness,’ Weller interrupted her. ‘At least, that’s what I’m calling you. As such, you might be able to help. And right now, I need all the help I can get.’ He rang off and Riley slumped back onto the pillow for a moment before hauling herself out of bed.

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