No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 6

As the rush-hour traffic leaving London’s westerly sprawl slowed to a trickle, a large saloon pulled into the kerb before a row of shops and offices in Uxbridge. The driver cut the engine and waited, eyes on the interior mirror, finger gently tapping out a rhythm on the wheel. The passenger in the rear was holding a mobile phone and keying in a number. After six rings an answer machine cut in, and a tinny voice asked the caller to leave a message.

The passenger switched off her phone and peered out of the window, then gave a brief nod to indicate all was clear. The driver slid out from behind the wheel and clicked the door shut. As he walked across the pavement, he rolled his shoulders to ease his muscles, cramped after an hour spent in the confines of the car.

The driver’s name was Szulu. He was tall and slim, with strong shoulders and powerful hands. A ring of shiny dreadlocks framed an ebony face and grey eyes. He walked with a loose-limbed grace, and this, coupled with an air of strength, meant he was often treated with caution among those who didn’t know him. The one thing Szulu was not accustomed to was acting as an errand boy, which was what he felt right now. But he needed the money to settle some outstanding debts. Failure to pay very soon meant he would receive a visit from men who knew little of his reputation and would care even less if they did.

He approached a single wooden door set between two anonymous glass-fronted commercial premises. Beyond these on one side was a dry-cleaning shop, which was still open, and on the other a bookmaker, which was not. He pushed open the door, which needed a paint job, he noticed, and stepped into a gloomy apology for a hallway, with just enough room for a hard chair and an empty waste bin. The air smelled damp. A narrow stairway covered in curling carpet tiles led upwards to a glass-panelled door at the top. A box of rubbish teetered on one of the middle treads, a clutch of yellowed newspapers spilling out from a gash in the side. Szulu listened, head cocked to one side. All he could hear was the hum of an occasional vehicle outside and the sound of a radio from somewhere nearby. He flexed his shoulders again and willed himself not to look back at the car; he didn’t need an imperious flap of the passenger’s hand urging him to get on with it; he’d had enough of that already and it did nothing to make him feel any better about himself.

He walked up the stairs, treading lightly, hands held loosely by his sides. All he had to do was go in, check the place, then give the passenger the all-clear signal. Easy enough. Unfortunately, as he knew from experience, it was the easy jobs that most often led to disappointment or pain.

There was no name on the frosted-glass panel. He already knew from the briefing his passenger had given him two days earlier that his main item of interest was a private investigator named Frank Palmer. And this was Palmer’s office. He tried the door, but it was locked. He took out a bunch of keys and selected a few, trying them one by one. The fourth worked with a smooth click and the door swung open. The dull atmosphere of the staircase gave way to the dark reaches of a small, stuffy room heavy with the fog of recent cigarette smoke and typical office smells.

He switched on the overhead light. Two minutes later, he heard the downstairs door open and slow footsteps on the stairs. He cut the main light and pulled the blinds, then switched on the desk lamp. It didn’t do much to improve the scenery, but was sufficient for what they needed.

The passenger appeared in the doorway and Szulu stepped over to the window where he could watch the street through a crack in the blinds. It also meant he didn’t have to look the woman — his temporary employer — in the eye.

‘Have you touched anything?’ Her voice was soft, with signs of wheezy breathlessness after the stairs, and awoke in Szulu unhappy memories of a particularly malevolent and asthmatic nun who’d taught him maths when he was eight.

‘No.’ he said curtly. ‘You said not to.’

The woman nodded and stepped into the room, her nose twitching at the smell. She looked gaunt in the throw of the desk light, and moved carefully, as if she was trying to keep herself upright in spite of a particularly bad back. She wore expensive shoes and jewellery, and was wrapped in a heavy coat tightly belted at the waist in spite of the generally warm weather. Szulu thought the coat was hideously dated, but since he knew nothing of fashion and the woman was no longer remotely young, he assumed his views would count for little. His mother wore a coat all year round, but he put that down to her coming from Antigua and because she, too, was as old as the hills. Old people felt the cold.

The woman pulled open a filing cabinet and rustled through the contents, her wrinkled hand with its bright red fingernails racing across the tops of the drop-files like a large, gaudy spider. She selected two or three, briefly scanning the sheets within, then replaced them carefully where she had found them. The drawers closed with a thunk. From there she moved over to the desk and worked her way through its contents. It didn’t take long, and she gave a small sigh of irritation. Next she turned her attention to a notepad on the top of the desk, covered in meaningless squiggles. She picked it up, scanned it, then dropped it back on the desk.

‘You want me to help?’ Szulu offered finally. She was staring at a battered PC monitor sitting on the desk. The tower was beneath the desk, the green power light glowing in the shadow. He wasn’t great with computers, but he could generally find his way around them. It would be better than standing here like a lemon — and quicker.

‘Are you an IT specialist?’ she asked, eyes swivelling towards him. It was like coming under the gaze of a bad-tempered rat, and he could feel the tension coming off her in waves. He couldn’t help it: he flinched. And shook his head.

‘Then you can’t help.’ She reached across and pulled at a Rolodex sitting alongside the PC monitor. She spun it round like a dealer shuffling a pack of cards. When it stopped, she stabbed a long fingernail at a point in the index and unclipped a card. She studied it for a few seconds before dropping it on the desk. ‘Remember the details then put the card back.’

She moved away to the window, where a small pot plant stood on a coffee table. The plant looked neglected and close to death, with the tips of the heavy leaves yellowed and beginning to curl. The soil around the base was dry and cracked, and edged with a white fuzz. Alongside the plant was a small plastic watering can with a long spout. It was empty, and still had a sales ticket stuck to the base. The woman took the can to where a kettle sat on a tray, and transferred water from the kettle, then carefully poured a trickle around the plant, using the handle of a teaspoon to turn over the soil and help the moisture penetrate.

Szulu watched in astonishment as she tidied up some spilled soil, and wondered whether this woman was for real. Didn’t she realise they’d get caught if the owner came back? Yet here she was playing Gardeners’ World. Maybe she was nuts.

She finished what she was doing and wiped off the spoon with a tissue from her coat pocket. Replacing the spoon near the kettle, she walked out of the office and down the stairs, leaving Szulu half hoping she might trip on the way down.

He checked the card she had dropped on the desk. The surface bore the indent from one of her chisel-like nails. There wasn’t much on it; a name, address and a phone number. He slid it back into the pack, then turned his attention to the PC. He touched the tower, which felt warm from recent use. He wondered if he should take a quick look, anyway, then dismissed the idea. The woman hadn’t told him what she was looking for, and hanging around here too long was asking for trouble. Without thinking, he reached down and flicked off the power button.

He pulled the door shut behind him, instinctively reaching for the keys to lock it, then changed his mind. He liked the idea of this Palmer person knowing someone was watching him; that someone had entered his domain because they felt like it. And, what the hell, the old woman didn’t own every decision he made, in spite of her money and her evil eye. As he walked back down the stairs, he found himself thinking about the Rolodex card, and wondering who Riley Gavin was.