No Kiss For The Devil

24

Over the years, Frank Palmer had followed more suspects than he cared to think about. He’d tracked men and women across crowded city centres and deserted suburbs; through colourful shopping malls and dreary industrial landscapes; he’d followed them through open territory and down arrow-straight motorways — even, on occasion, along cold, wind-swept canals and waterfronts. Following Varley through London proved simple by comparison. At least, on the surface.

After waving Riley off, Varley walked for a while, his long stride easy and assured, a man working off a leisurely lunch before heading back to the office. He seemed to have time to spare, wandering into one or two clothes shops, but emerging without any noticeable purchases. By the time he reached Grosvenor Square, an hour had gone by and Palmer was beginning to think he was wasting his time. Maybe he was a publisher after all, enjoying some free time. Then Varley seemed to come to a decision and flagged down a passing cab.

Palmer did the same and told the driver that he was on a company initiative test, and promised a generous tip if he didn’t lose the other vehicle.

‘No problem,’ said the driver disinterestedly, and concentrated on the road ahead.

Varley’s vehicle turned north, cutting across Oxford Street towards Marylebone. The journey took a brief turn along the crowded chaos of Marylebone Road, then turned left, skirting Regent’s Park and picking up speed. Palmer told the driver to hang back. The leading cab eventually turned north-east, finally pulling in near a row of shops in Camden Town.

Palmer told the driver to pull over. Ahead of them, Varley paid off his cab and crossed the pavement, stopping for a moment to look round before entering a glass-fronted shop.

Palmer handed the driver his money and dodged across the street, heading for a cafe on the other side. He turned once he was through the door and studied the premises where Varley had disappeared.

The shop was called MailBox Services, with a post-box motif on the fascia. It was a post franchise, where boxes of varying sizes could be rented by the day, week or month. The windows were plastered with special offer stickers and a pin-board of personal ads, but Palmer could just about make out the interior. It had two rows of steel boxes, one on each side and a counter at the back, topped by a glass and aluminium security frame.

Varley was standing just inside the door, watching the street.

‘You want something?’

Palmer turned. A jowly woman with a shock of coarse hair was scowling at him from behind the cafe counter, a dishcloth in one hand. Steam was hissing into the air around her head, drifting over a wobbly stack of cups and saucers and misting the glass on a battered display case holding a selection of tired-looking pastries. There was nobody else in the place, which he took to be a bad sign.

He ordered coffee but gave the pastries a miss on health grounds, and sat back from the window where he could watch Varley without being seen. He thought at first that the publisher was waiting for someone. But it was soon obvious that he was actually watching his back, scanning the street and the faces of passers-by. Where he was standing, he was masked by a series of posters, and would be virtually invisible to anyone coming along the pavement in his wake.

Palmer felt a familiar drumming deep in his chest. Normal people didn’t do this. But then, normal people didn’t have the training or the need. Was Richard Varley unusually cautious — or something else entirely?

Eventually, Varley stepped back from the window and joined a thickset man in a jumper and slacks at the rear of the shop. Palmer assumed he was the owner. They were looking down at something, and Palmer realised that they were discussing a large brown cardboard box by the counter. By the amount of gesticulating going on, Varley didn’t look happy. He bent and tore at the cardboard, and took out what looked like a magazine. He checked the cover before flicking through it in an animated fashion.

After a while, the owner turned to the back and shouted something. A woman appeared and both men left the shop. They walked thirty yards along the pavement and disappeared inside a small restaurant. Varley was carrying the magazine he’d taken from the box. The two men sat down and a waitress approached with a pad.

Palmer paid up and left the cafe, turning left and walking a hundred yards before crossing to the other side. This would bring him back to MailBox Services without having to pass the restaurant where the two men were sitting.

As he stepped inside, he heard the sound of a buzzer at the back. The shop was empty. He looked around and spotted a security camera high on the back wall. It would have a clear view of the shop and all of the mail boxes. That’s if anyone was looking.

The woman appeared, feet scuffing heavily on the tiled floor. She bellied up to the counter and eyed him with a tired look.

Palmer was trying not to look at the box on the floor, but from the corner of his eye, he caught a splash of colour inside the tear Varley had made.

‘I need to rent a box,’ he explained. ‘Do you have a price list?’

The woman stared at him with a blank expression. He repeated the question, and when she still didn’t seem to get it, he pointed to the boxes on either side and waved some money in front of her. ‘How much?’ he said.

The penny finally dropped and she began to look. As she ducked her head below the counter, Palmer surreptitiously nudged the large box with his knee. It felt heavy. He nudged it again and something shifted inside. More magazines, at a guess. Lots more.

‘Moment,’ the woman murmured, and disappeared through the door at the rear.

Palmer leaned down and slid a magazine from the box, coughing loudly to cover the scrape of cardboard. It was a copy of East European Trade, but with a different cover image to the one Riley had shown him. There was also a stapled pack of labels on A4 sheets just inside the lid. He slid it out. The first dozen sheets bore names and addresses spread right around Europe. Most of them seemed to be in capital cities, many with PO Box numbers. The majority of the addresses on the remaining sheets were in the Middle East and Asia, and Palmer spotted Egypt, Dubai, Jordan, Iran, Syria, Pakistan and a whole host of others. The names of the recipients meant nothing, although he spotted the word Minister among many of the titles.

He weighed the magazine in his hand, recalling what Natalya Fisher had said about the circulation run. ‘Two hundred copies — maybe three. But not more.’

Yet this box and the list with it contained easily twice that number. Was there a reason for increasing the print run? An increase in business, perhaps? Unlikely.

Someone had scribbled in heavy print across the top of the list: Issue 1572 amp; 1573. The magazines in the box were issue № 1572. Palmer replaced the list and slid the magazine inside his jacket just as the front door opened and the buzzer sounded.

It was the shop owner and Richard Varley. They were standing in the doorway, staring at him.