No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The man was so busy watching the gardens below, he had no time to react. Riley swapped the gun to her left hand, took three long paces and jammed the barrel into the side of his throat, grinding it hard into the flesh.

He froze with a shrill cry of pain, and she grabbed his right arm just above the elbow and jerked it sharply backwards. But his hand came up empty. She realised with a sickening feeling that he was left-handed.

Sensing her mistake, he began to turn, shoulders bunching with effort. Riley made a split-second decision: it was all or nothing. Since she couldn’t very well shoot him with an empty gun, she did the next best thing and slammed it hard across the side of his head. Twice. It wasn’t pleasant, feeling the sickening shock of impact travelling up her arm, but it was preferable to letting him gain control.

With a groan, the man slumped to the floor, his weapon clattering to one side. Dropping the empty gun, Riley felt for his shoes and quickly stripped out the laces. Seconds later, she had his fingers lashed tightly together behind his back with no room for movement.

She scrabbled around until her fingers encountered his gun. It had a chunky, compact feel, but was surprisingly light, and she thought it might be a machine pistol called a MAC10. A horrible weapon at close quarters, it was favoured by gunmen who weren’t fond of selecting their targets with care.

The gun had a slim flashlight clipped to the barrel. She snapped it on and looked over the gun-sight into the man’s face. He was square-jawed and unshaven, with lank, greasy hair and a bruise down one side of his face. It was too mature for the one she’d just given him, and she guessed he must be one of the men Mitcheson had encountered by the river in London.

She felt her hands beginning to tremble with reaction, and killed the light, taking several deep breaths. Then she hurried back down the stairs to where Sir Kenneth was lying curled in on himself. His breathing was hoarse and growing fainter, and she debated leaving him where he was rather than risk killing him by hauling him up onto the roof.

In the end she decided that leaving him to suffer more of Henzigger’s venom was no contest, and helped him up the stairs as gently as she could.

Once through the door, she lowered him behind the cover of a skylight and made him as comfortable as possible. She switched on the flashlight again for a quick check. He was breathing in short, laboured gasps, his face creased and turning grey. A red bubble appeared at the corner of his mouth and his throat made a gurgling sound. When she shifted his legs into a more comfortable position, her hand came away sticky with blood.

‘Keep still,’ she said, although she doubted he could hear her. She dug out her mobile and dialled Weller’s number. Dialling 999 would probably only have summoned an unarmed Community Support Officer in a Vauxhall Astra, more accustomed to dealing with sheep stealing and travellers on cannabis. She didn’t want to be responsible for sending an innocent into certain death at the hands of Henzigger and his Colombian cronies, whereas Weller would be able to whistle up the armed heavy mob at the drop of a hat.

The signal was poor. She stood up and moved about until she got a good dialling tone.

As Weller answered, a shot rang out and chipped away a hand-sized piece of parapet near Riley’s head. She swore and ducked, the ricochet zipping past her ear like an angry hornet.

‘Jesus,’ Weller muttered. ‘Was that what I think it was?’

‘It’s the gunfight at the OK Corral,’ Riley shouted back. ‘Colebrooke House, on the double… four handguns and Myburghe seriously wounded.’ She scuttled back to the door and took out the key, closing and locking it from the outside. Then she returned to Myburghe’s side.

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Weller sounded peeved but she knew he was just sounding off. In the background she heard him banging on something to attract attention, and guessed he’d got the phone on broadcast and was urging his troops into action.

Another shot whined overhead. She leaned over Myburghe and flicked on the flashlight. He looked even worse, his breathing now almost undetectable and a line of blood worming its way from his mouth down his chin. If she didn’t get him to hospital soon, he wasn’t going to live.

‘Come on, Weller!’ she shouted back. ‘This is the Royal Triangle. There are armed response units less than fifteen minutes away. And you’d better get a medevac chopper in — Sir Kenneth’s on the roof and about to quit the diplomatic corps for good.’

‘How bad?’ His voice sounded shaky, as if he was jogging.

‘Lung damage, I think. He’s breathing blood.’

Weller uttered several obscenities then asked, ‘Is Palmer with you?’

‘Yes. He’s holding the Alamo downstairs.’ She decided not to mention the shotgun or the automatic pistol. Or John Mitcheson.

‘And Henzigger?’

‘Alive and spitting. He’s got three Colombian helpers with him, all armed.’ Just then, the man she’d hit with the pistol groaned, reminding her of his presence. ‘Correction — make that two; I’ve got one tied up.’

‘Have you, by God?’ He laughed outright. ‘Well, make sure you stay out of the way. When the armed response units come in, they won’t be checking IDs. Any person carrying anything more threatening than a teapot gets one warning. After that, they’re a statistic.’

Riley took that to mean that Weller knew Palmer was more prepared than she had let on. A door slammed in the background and a motor warmed up with a high-pitched whine and settled into the whop-whop-whop of a helicopter’s rotor blades. She smiled. Weller had been ready and was travelling in style.

The connection died.

She turned to find Myburghe watching her. He gave a weak shake of his head and reached out to grasp her arm.

‘Too late, Miss Gavin,’ he whispered, and dragged himself up a little until his shoulders rested against the skylight frame. It must have taken enormous will, but she guessed the pain was no longer registering.

She moved to brush his hand away, not in the mood to listen to any pleas for forgiveness. Too much misery and death had flowed from his actions already, and it wasn’t over yet. But his fingers dug into her arm with renewed strength.

‘Just hear me… out,’ he murmured desperately. ‘I’m not going to… make excuses… It’s too late for that. I want to put things right… for the girls.’

‘Better make it quick, then,’ she suggested coldly. She switched on the flashlight to check his face. ‘Or they’ll be taking two bodies off this roof.’

Myburghe managed a half smile, the blood on his chin giving him the appearance of a carnival ghoul. ‘Dear me. And I thought Hilary and Palmer were hard-nosed.’ He tried not to cough and inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling with a fresh burst of pain. When it receded, he tried again. ‘I was foolish, Miss Gavin. May I call you Riley?’

She nodded although she doubted he could see her. ‘Why not?’

‘I thought I could play cards and couldn’t. Thought I knew horses but didn’t. Lost everything. Have you ever lost everything, Riley? I suppose not… you’ve… probably more sense. I nearly lost my wife, God bless her… but I did lose all her money.’ He sucked in more air. ‘I got in debt to a casino in Bogotá, you see. Many years ago and…big money. Too much to wipe off. Someone… someone suggested I speak to a local ‘facilitator’. Turned out to be a money man for one of the cartels. Sure you know all about them… more than me, probably.’

‘Just a bit,’ she lied. ‘How was Henzigger involved?’

‘Hen…zigger?’ His head dropped and she thought he’d gone, but he looked up again and nodded, sucking in breath. ‘Met him at a local embassy thing. He appeared to know about my… problems. Told me what he could do to help. I refused at first… then I couldn’t any longer. In too deep. He set up the meeting, and from there… was downhill all the way.’ He gave a sickly grin as if acknowledging his own weakness. ‘Won’t bore you with details. They paid me lots of money to put my name to… to making the logistics work. Needed a shipping company for the boat and freight… freight forwarding for the papers. Easiest money I ever made.’ He coughed and a gob of blood landed on his chest and his eyes bulged. ‘Damn… bloody mess. Hilary was… was my man. Didn’t want to get involved in it… but he was running from a rape charge in Belize when I took him on. I was advised to get a good man. Then, when it was all happening, I got… cold feet. Should have turned myself in, but they tracked down Christian. Didn’t count on that. Bloody stupid of me. Thought he’d be safe away from here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ she asked him. Down below there was shouting as Henzigger and his two remaining men searched the grounds, their echoing voices making it impossible to place their whereabouts. She hoped none of them thought about the scaffolding as a way onto the roof, otherwise she and Myburghe were finished.

Myburghe stared blankly at her.

‘If you suspected Christian was dead, why didn’t you say something?’

‘Couldn’t do… anything else. Needed you two to help protect the girls. They said they would go the same way if I didn’t co-operate. Other papers to fix, you see… more shipments to come. Henzigger knew his career was done… and… was going private. He needed my help.’ His voice dropped to a murmur, and Riley guessed he was on autopilot, his head doing the talking while his body ran down like an old clock mechanism. ‘Didn’t want to do it… must believe that. Far too late for heroics.’ Something like a sob came from him, but it could have been air escaping from his damaged lungs.

‘How many shipments, in all?’ she asked, leaning close to him.

He grunted and moved slightly. ‘Three sizeable… don’t know the details. Several smaller. Rest of the time… they used my name for papers.’ His voice faded.

A shotgun boomed out below, and she began to be fearful for Palmer and Mitcheson. With Henzigger and two Colombians left, they could easily get caught in the crossfire. And Henzigger had the aggression, experience and motivation to make it happen. He also had absolutely nothing to lose.

There was more shouting, and she recognised Henzigger’s voice, pitched high and challenging, echoing through the trees and rising above her rooftop position.

‘C’mon — Palmer, is it? I know you’re out there. This isn’t your kinda game, you know? Give it up now while you can!’

She left Sir Kenneth and risked a peep over the parapet, but couldn’t see anything. Wherever Henzigger was, he was being cautious enough to stay out of sight. But someone must have been watching for her. There was a flash and another chunk of masonry exploded painfully near her hand, sending sickening pains the length of her arm.

The MAC10 went spinning off into the darkness.

‘Was that you, Palmer?’ Henzigger’s voice floated up again, taunting his unseen opponent. ‘You ain’t got what it takes for this!’ Two more shots whistled close by the edge of the roof to emphasise his contempt, accompanied by wild whoops from two other voices out in the darkness. Then Henzigger called again: ‘Francisco? Where the hell are you, compadre? Get that bastard off the roof now!’

Riley rolled behind the parapet, clutching her hand to her chest. Without the flashlight, she couldn’t see what damage had been done, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. She wasn’t sure who Francisco was, but she was prepared to bet it was the man she’d hit with the gun. Henzigger might send one of his other men up here to investigate any minute, and she couldn’t afford to get trapped up here.

She scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the far end of the roof, skidding on fragments of grit. She clambered out onto the scaffolding. It was open and risky in the dark, but better than the enclosed environment of the stairs. The structure rattled beneath her, vibrations carrying through the planking and sending down a shower of fine stone dust around her. Ten seconds later she was on the ground, peering round the edge of the building.

Nobody in sight. She scuttled along the front of the house, hugging the shadows and hoping that if Palmer was out here he didn’t mistake her for one of the bad guys.

She reached for the car keys. With luck, Mitcheson might have left something else on the back seat.

No keys.

Damn. She was sure she’d put them in her pocket. They must have fallen out somewhere. It was too dangerous to go back and look.

Standing out in the open trying to jemmy the car open was a passport to the afterlife, so she did the next best thing and made her way towards the kitchen. If nothing else she could throw meat knives until the police arrived.

Then she remembered the shotgun they’d taken off the unfortunate Charles Clarke on the night of the wedding party. Rockface had locked it in a metal cabinet in a storeroom behind the kitchen. It was risky entering the house to get it, but it was better than waiting out here to get shot.

As she rounded the corner near the entrance to the kitchen, she came face to face with a bulky figure waving an automatic pistol.