No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘What the hell could Myburghe have done to deserve that?’ Riley asked, her voice low. They had moved in one giant leap from a diplomat receiving threats, to fake parcel bombs and now body parts in the post. How much worse could this get? She was beginning to view the shadowy Tristram in a whole new light.

‘Maybe being our man in Colombia was enough.’

Riley wasn’t sure. In journalistic terms, mentioning Colombia rarely brought thoughts of their coffee or other edible crops. It was more the powdered export that sprang to mind — the kind which doesn’t come decaffeinated but has the power to send people to sleep. For good.

‘By ‘our man’, do you mean there was more to his position than Ambassador?’ As she knew, the term could mean all manner of things, from the senior embassy position to someone with an altogether more secretive role.

‘No, he was just the Ambassador.’

‘Oh.’ As brief as her research had been so far, she already had a fund of information about the reality of power and influence in Colombian life. The families running drug production in the hills of Colombia were notoriously brutal in their methods and indiscriminate in their targets, especially when someone threatened their lucrative operations. The British and Americans had been trying for years, with little real success in spite of destroying acres of poppy-producing fields, laboratories and supply-lines. The country was rugged enough and the rewards vast enough to mean that whenever one operation closed down, another sprang up overnight in a new location. That required more teams of soldiers in helicopters to scour more miles of hills and valleys and the use of fires to halt production wherever it was discovered. It made the people running the operations very unpopular among the poverty-stricken locals.

‘He’d have still found it easy to make enemies,’ Palmer said, guessing what she was thinking. ‘It’s one of the reasons why the embassy in Bogotá has a round-the-clock close protection team of Royal Military policemen and some thick armour-plated glass on cars and buildings.’

‘But we don’t know if that’s the reason for the threats.’

‘No.’

‘Maybe somebody should ask him.’

‘Somebody could try,’ he agreed. ‘Especially after this.’ He nodded towards the email. Then he looked carefully at her with a serious expression.

‘What?’ she asked. Palmer was considering something — she could read the signs.

‘There’s a briefing tomorrow. The wedding is on Friday.’

‘I know. And?’

‘You’re included.’

‘What?’ Riley was amazed. After his initial stand against letting her anywhere near Myburghe, here was Palmer saying she was in. ‘Why the change of heart?’

‘Because if it is Tristram behind the threats, we need to find out who he is before he bumps it up a level. So far you’re his only contact. It could be useful.’

‘If he ever opens up to me. He hasn’t done so far.’

Palmer shrugged. ‘It’s a lead. We could always ask Weller to get his IT boys onto it.’

Riley instinctively recoiled from allowing any official snoops near her work or her sources. ‘Over my dead body,’ she said firmly.

‘Suit yourself. But if anything major happens, you might not have a choice.’

Riley subsided a little. He was right. The idea of Tristram progressing from spreading nasty rumours over the Internet to something more violent was something she didn’t want to contemplate. ‘All right. But what’s my role in this?’

‘Well, you’re not from the press, for a start. You’re working for me. And you give me your word not to publish anything you learn.’

‘What?’ Riley protested. ‘Hang on, what about my-’

‘Or you don’t get in.’ His tone was uncompromising. ‘Deal?’

She bit down on her objections. There was an obstinate point about Palmer beyond which it was pointless trying to push him. She’d tried it in the past and knew he wouldn’t give way. On the other hand, what choice did she have? She would rather be on the inside getting his help than on the outside going nowhere. ‘Okay, deal. But can we talk about my story later?’

He nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Good. I don’t have to go round frisking bridesmaids for hidden weapons, though, do I?’

Palmer allowed a dreamy smile to touch his mouth. ‘If anyone frisks the bridemaids, it’ll be me. As far as you’re concerned, this job is strictly no touchy, no feely.’

‘What if there’s a punch up? Weddings always have a punch up.’ She sighed. ‘The ones I go to, anyway.’

‘God, how common. There won’t be any punch-ups. The bride’s father is a senior diplomat and his wife has connections. The only fighting is likely to be over the bride’s corsage.’

‘You mean she’s still got it? How quaint.’

‘Peasant.’

‘Just for the record, why? Why include me?’

‘Because I need some help,’ he said candidly.

‘I can tell that. Christ, I know you’re already overstretched, even with Man Mountain on the door. But why me — I’m press, remember?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Do I have to have a reason? Don’t be so suspicious.’

‘Uh-huh. Tell me.’

He blinked, suddenly serious. ‘What you said earlier — about what you’ve done for me. You saved my life once. I owe you. And this might help.’

Riley felt a stab of guilt. He’d clearly taken her taunt to heart. She wished she’d never uttered the words. ‘Palmer, that’s not what I was talking about. I didn’t mean that — I wouldn’t do that to you!’

The silence seemed to last a long time. It could have only been seconds, but enough for her to see unwelcome flashes from two years before, of her hurling a flaming, petrol-filled bottle, while knowing it might make all the difference between whether Palmer, held hostage inside a warehouse, lived or died.

‘Yeah, I know that.’ He smiled easily, suddenly the old Palmer again, and flapped a weary hand. ‘I suppose there is another, ulterior reason.’

‘Go on.’

‘I thought you could deal with any ruffled feathers of the female variety.’ He paused and added, ‘And I trust your judgement better than anyone else I know.’

‘Oh. Do you? Fair enough.’ She felt suddenly relieved. The last thing she wanted was for Palmer to feel obligated to her. Their friendship was too valuable for that, and she knew he’d hate her to feel the same way. Besides, he’d more than made up for her saving his skin ever since. ‘So I’m handling any difficult dames, and you’re there for your dark glasses and general air of crude, Neanderthal menace.’

‘Hey, that hurts. I don’t do dark glasses… I think you’re confusing me with the US Secret Service.’

‘Impossible. They’re mostly young, cute and smartly dressed.’

‘True. They also wear those cute little spiral wire communication thingies. I’ve been meaning to cut a length off my phone wire and shove one end in my ear. I thought it might impress the punters.’

‘Has anyone ever told you to get out more?’

‘Everyone except my nurse.’ He fluttered his eyebrows.

‘There’s one thing,’ she pointed out seriously. ‘I’m no bodyguard. Won’t it be obvious?’

‘Just follow my lead. You’ve got good instincts, and you’ve been in this kind of situation before.’ He was referring to previous assignments where they had faced danger both together and separately. He knew Riley was solid and wouldn’t go all wobbly over a broken nail. ‘Just play dumb about your real job. If anyone asks, you do security work with me. But don’t talk about it. They won’t expect you to, anyway.’

‘What about Rockface? He knows.’

‘From what you said about his reaction to you, he probably thought it was a test. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him.’

‘If you say so. Where do we start?’

‘Have you ever been on a shoot?’

‘As in cameras and anorexic models? Or as in guns, Wellies and dead animals?’

‘Guns and dead stuff.’

‘No. I’ve never seen the point. Although if I was threatened by a large aggressive pheasant, I might change my mind.’

Palmer smiled. ‘The briefing’s at eleven in the morning. I’ll pick you up at your place. Bring boots.’

‘Is that all? No roof-mounted machine-gun? No ground-to-bird missiles? Not even a catapult? It doesn’t sound like the usual bit of bird-slaughtering to me.’

‘God, spare me,’ he said dryly. ‘Don’t go all animal welfare on me. If you behave yourself, they’ll probably let you sit in the car with a bottle of pop and a packet of crisps.’

‘Oh, goody. I can’t wait.’

‘Let’s hope,’ he added darkly, ‘they’re the only guns we see.’

Sir Kenneth Myburghe stared out of the window across the rear gardens of Colebrooke House, to where a team of workmen were putting up a large marquee on the lawn. Normally fastidious about the state of the grass and borders, he found it unusually easy to ignore the damage being done by the influx of men, machinery and equipment he had called in for the celebrations of his daughter’s wedding in a few days time.

He turned away and contemplated the letter he had received that morning. On official Home Office paper, it confirmed what he had been quietly fearing all along: that the security team assigned to him in the wake of the threatening letters and fake bomb was being withdrawn and assigned to other, more pressing duties. The apologies were as meaningless as they were sincere, and concluded by suggesting several avenues he might wish to pursue for making alternative security arrangements.

Myburghe flicked the letter away in irritation. What it meant was private security companies, for which he’d have to pay through the nose. The formal missive was almost as chilling as the other, unsigned letters and ironically, meant the same thing: that he was now exposed and his life could be in danger. Fortunately, he’d been expecting it and had already made arrangements via friends. But the confirmation did nothing to ease his anxiety about Friday. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to his family, the most vulnerable of which were Victoria and Annabel.

A knock at the door prevented him dwelling on the situation. It was the reassuring bulk of his butler.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ the man said. ‘Mr Keagan called. He confirmed that he’ll be briefing Palmer tomorrow.’

Myburghe nodded. He was aware of Palmer’s capabilities, and that he was good at his job. But Palmer was just one man. What he needed, if the threats were genuine, was a whole team of Palmers.

The butler was hovering, and it was clear there was something else on his mind.

‘What is it?’ said Myburghe.

‘Down at the village pub. The landlord said a man has been asking questions about the wedding.’

‘A reporter?’

‘He said not.’

‘I expect it was Palmer. Keagan gave him a preliminary assignment to look at the area and report back.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. A foreigner, he said.’

Sir Kenneth’s shoulders felt suddenly chilled, and he tried instinctively to keep his face blank of any emotion. It didn’t do to let anyone know how you felt, even though this man knew him better than most. ‘Foreign? Not-’

‘Anglo American.’

The butler stepped back through the door. As he did so, Myburghe glimpsed the tell-tale bulk of a gun in his pocket. Instead of the sense of comfort it should have brought, it merely added to his growing fears.

He turned back to the window. North Americans he could deal with. The man was probably a tourist tout looking for events to sell to his rubbernecking compatriots on their whistle-stop tours of middle England. Show them a few mullioned windows and some oak beams, and they’d be in seventh heaven.

His eyes were drawn towards a clump of trees to one side of the house, where a stable block stood. It had once housed a few horses, but was now deserted. The building was an uncomfortable reminder that any threat to his safety was not as far away as he might imagine.

No, North Americans he could deal with; those further south, however, were a different prospect altogether.

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