No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 8

Riley slotted the Golf into a space outside Palmer’s office and checked his window for signs of life. Knowing Palmer, he could be fast asleep over his keyboard, lulled into unconsciousness by a lengthy surveillance session and a heavy takeaway. Unless Donald had been right, of course, and it was love, in which case his office was the last place she should expect to find him.

She walked up the stairs and dug out the key he had given her a long time ago. Fretting about him the previous day, coupled with his brief call, had produced a suspicion that whatever was ailing him wasn’t good. Palmer simply didn’t take off like this; he was a creature of habit and rarely allowed anything to disturb his routine. As a friend, she needed to know what was going on, even at the risk of incurring his annoyance.

As she inserted the key in the lock, the door swung open. She was greeted by stale, smoky air and the sharp tang of warm plastic. Well done, Palmer, she thought; you’ve left your office unlocked and your machinery switched on. One day you’ll come back here and find it stripped bare or a smouldering skeleton, the remains of your desk having trickled through to the ground floor in a fine shower of grey ash.

She looked around, subconsciously checking details. Same desk, same filing cabinet, same PC, tea and coffee stuff, coffee table, neglected pot plant and grungy carpet. Palmer’s empire in all its impressive glory. Still, for all his carelessness, it didn’t look like he’d been burgled, not unless the place had been dismissed as beyond temptation by the local criminal cockroaches.

A fine layer of dust covered everything, testimony to the rarity of any cleaning schedule. Riley had once suggested an occasional cleansing might make his clients feel more welcome, but Palmer had ignored her, saying anyone who walked through his door was more interested in his ability to solve problems, not how he kept his office.

She checked the desk, which held a notepad covered with doodles and hieroglyphics; just the standard squiggles that would be of interest only to Palmer’s shrink, if he ever had one. A few numbers were dotted about around the edges, and what could have been dates and questions marks circled or underlined. Most looked old. But down at the bottom of the sheet, Riley noticed the words ‘Sgt’ ‘ Reg’ and ‘Paris’ and ‘Meiningen…border’. It obviously meant something to Palmer but did nothing to tell her what he might be up to. Instinct, however, made her tear off the top sheet and fold it into her pocket. She could always replace it if necessary.

A quick check of the desk drawers revealed an unused diary still in its cellophane wrap, a bundle of cheap pens in a rubber band, a box of paperclips, mostly interlinked, and a collection of stale breadcrumbs.

She noticed the Rolodex and smiled. She’d bought it for him as a joke, when Palmer had commented wistfully that private eyes always had a Rolodex and he’d have to get one in which to file the names of his underworld contacts, friendly cops, bar owners and hot, available blondes. When she’d produced one a few days later, he’d been delighted and had sat there flicking it round like an executive toy.

As she pulled it towards her, one of the cards slid out onto the desk, skidding through the thin patina of dust. She turned it over.

The card bore her name and address.

She clipped it back into place. Typical Palmer, casual to the last. At least it proved he was using it. She flicked through the rest of the cards, which were mostly unused. When she saw a familiar name in the ‘C’ section, however, she thought for a moment, then on impulse, made a note of the details before replacing it.

She wandered around the rest of the room, eyeing Palmer’s computer. There might be something in it other than games of solitaire and minesweeper. Or maybe not. Palmer always claimed not to be the most computer-literate soul on God’s earth, but she knew he’d had training in basic IT skills in the army. He simply chose not to use them much. She craned her head to peer at the tower beneath the desk, expecting to see the green power light glowing, but it was switched off. Wow, Palmer, she thought. I’m impressed.

As she turned away, her eyes fell on the plant pot, evidence of a past attempt by her to add some degree of soul and colour to the masculine drabness of the place. It had been like casting pearls before swine. Palmer’s eyes had glazed over the moment she’d taken it out of the bag and placed it on the desk. Plants of any kind weren’t really his thing, not unless they could be fried and eaten or their containers used as an ashtray. Still, he’d promised to try and keep it alive, although she’d guessed it might be by swamping it with endless dregs of cold tea.

She frowned, bending closer. The plant looked sick, which was no surprise, but that could be down to the stuffy atmosphere up here. Yet the soil showed signs of having been watered recently. She touched it with the tip of her finger. It was definitely moist. Maybe she owed Palmer an apology for this, too. And there was only the faintest trace of soil spill on the table top, as if it had been wiped clean. The last time she’d watched him water the thing, he’d created a mini tidal wave, sloshing water and soil everywhere like a kid in a sandpit.

She left the office and locked the door. The small landing was as airless as the office, but as she walked down the stairs, she thought she detected traces of a distinctly feminine perfume she had missed on her way up. Sweet, almost cloying, the smell reminded her of an elderly aunt who liked dousing herself liberally in cologne without realising its effect on those around her.

Outside, she stood and looked around, undecided on her next move. She was torn between concern for Palmer and the knowledge that if he was simply caught up in a job he’d forgotten to mention, he could be anywhere. After all, he was a big boy and could do what he liked.

‘Miss?’ A male voice came from a doorway to her left. It was a dry-cleaning shop, the windows covered in gaudy special offer stickers and the smell of chemicals and hot air wafting from a vent over the front door. A man was standing in the entrance, holding a cleaning cloth in one hand. She vaguely recalled seeing him when she’d visited Palmer before. He’d been squirting some liquid over the glass from a plastic atomiser when she first arrived, then rubbing at the glass with a fixed frown. He was plump and swarthy, with a heavy moustache and receding hairline, and showed a flash of white teeth as she turned towards him. ‘Miss. You looking for Frank?’

‘Yes, I am.’ Riley stepped across the pavement towards him. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘No. Not recently.’ His accent was middle-eastern with a thin American overlay, his smile easy and apologetic. ‘But I know you. You’re Miss Riley, right?’ He nodded and waited for her to agree. ‘Frank tell me.’

Riley nodded, wondering what else Frank had told him. ‘That’s right. Riley Gavin.’

The man slapped his chest and smiled happily. ‘I am Javad. I come from Iran. I know Frank Palmer well. He likes my coffee. Very strong. He says ‘Iranian coffee thick enough to float a dead horse.’ ‘

‘Sounds like him, right enough,’ Riley agreed. Frank Palmer, coffee and quaint sayings his speciality.

‘Sure thing. He tells me you work together, busting cases, right?’ He laughed. ‘I like all cop shows. Bloody good action.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you’re not…’ he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘…not a twosome, I think.’ The idea seemed to disappoint him a little, although it didn’t diminish the twinkle in his eye. Maybe he liked the idea of everyone being happy together.

‘No,’ said Riley, figuring that gossips were the same the world over, be it Teheran or west London. ‘We’re not a twosome.’ She turned to leave, but Javad stepped out of his doorway and gestured up at Palmer’s office window.

‘Maybe Frank’s busting a drugs case, huh? He needed to go underground.’

‘Drugs?’ Riley looked at him. She had a feeling Javad was just a little too fond of cop shows. Next thing, he’d be asking to see her gun and firearms permit.

‘Sure.’ Javad nodded energetically, then stepped close and looked around, the sign of cautious gossips everywhere. ‘I’m not racist, you know, but the black with the…’ He flicked his fingers up and down the sides of his head. ‘…the dreadlocks. He could be up to no good, right?’

‘Black? Oh, a black man. What about him?’

‘Yesterday, seven thirty or forty in the evening. I was closing up, doing my cash. Not a bad day, God be praised, but not great. Weather not yet hot enough for needing clothes cleaning. A big car arrives, and I think, maybe a late customer. So I wait. You never know. But it wasn’t a customer. A tall black gets out and goes to Frank’s office. I didn’t get a good look, but he looks very fit, you know — like one of those footballers. And he walks arrogant, like he owns the street. He had a ring of dreadlocks around his head. You know dreadlocks?’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hah. Should be for girls, these things, not men.’

‘What then?’

Javad shrugged. ‘He go inside, but I can’t see him after. I have to count my cash, see, otherwise I lose count and start all over again. Then the car door opens in the back and a woman comes out. She walks across the pavement and goes inside, also.’

‘You’re sure they went to Frank’s office?’

‘Of course. Only place to go. The offices either side, they are closed. So, a client for Frank, I bet. All investigators get clients at strange times, right? Bang on door, walk in and say ‘Find me this person damn quick!’’ He chuckled at the idea. ‘But why the big black, huh? Bodyguard, maybe? Enforcer, perhaps.’ He pulled a face and tapped his chest. ‘Where I come from, only presidents and bad people need bodyguards.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Sometimes one and same people, of course.’

Riley thought about it. She knew most of Palmer’s work was picked up by word of mouth or through Donald Brask. But that didn’t mean he never had walk-ins looking for instant solutions. Desperation didn’t always follow conventional channels. ‘Did you see what the woman looked like?’

‘Sadly, no. She had on big coat, and she walked like she was old woman. Stiff, you know? And short. That’s all.’

‘How long were they up there?’

Javad stared into the distance for a moment and puffed out his cheeks. Then he shrugged expansively. ‘Five minutes, not more. I count quick, so I know it’s not long. By the time I finish cashing up, they are down again and gone. Nice car. New Volvo, I think. Or was it Japanese? All look same to me. Anyway, solid as brick shithouse.’ He smiled disarmingly, evidently unaware of the word’s position in polite conversation.

Riley remembered the trace of heavy perfume in the stairwell and the watered plant; an older woman with a dreadlocked minder. So who were they? A Yardie with a taste for horticulture? An elderly or infirm woman with a tame gorilla dropping by to do Palmer a favour? Both seemed about as unlikely as Palmer becoming eco-friendly.

‘Thanks, Javad.’ She took a card from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘If they come back, this woman and the man with the dreadlocks, would you call me?’

Javad nodded eagerly, happy to be of help, delighted to be in on something exciting. ‘Of course, Miss Riley. Sure thing. You think Frank’s all right?’

‘I’m sure he is. He’s probably… you know — working undercover for a while.’ She shook his hand and walked back to the car, her mind now in overdrive at this latest development. Still, she now had the eagle-eyed Javad watching the place, so maybe he’d turn up something.

From Palmer’s office she drove the short distance to his flat, which was in a quiet, two-storey block in a leafy back road. She parked out front and walked into a tiled foyer surrounded by frosted glass. It was deserted and silent, with a fresh smell of lemon in the air. She walked up the stairs to Palmer’s front door on the first floor and rang the bell. No answer. She counted to ten and tried again. Nothing. There was no mail-slot in the door, so that left out peering through and seeing anything. With fingers crossed that none of the other tenants would choose that moment to happen along, she bent down and put her face to the tiled floor, trying to see beneath the door. Nothing there, either, save for a slit of daylight and some dust.

She nudged the door with her shoulder. It was solid and unyielding. The jamb was tight, which meant she could forget about trying to use her credit card or any of those other clever tricks to get inside, even if she knew how.

Frustrated, she went back downstairs and looked at a rack of metal mailboxes on one wall, one for each flat. They were gunmetal grey, secured by serious-looking locks, and seemed too sturdy for her to spring the door with an unladylike kick or nudge. She slid her fingers into the slot and immediately encountered a ridge of paper inside. It was just too far down to get hold of, but felt like an envelope. Next to it was the softer surface of plastic film covering a catalogue or brochure. She dug deeper and found more envelopes. Then she realised something was touching the back of her hand. She turned her hand palm up and felt around with her fingertips. It was a newspaper — probably a local freebie — and felt as if it had been jammed in across the top of the box. She worked at the paper with her fingers, trying to dig her nails in to pull it loose, and felt it begin to move.

Suddenly the front door rattled, and a cough sounded from outside. It was the dry hack of someone elderly and female. Riley stepped back and pulled out her mobile, pretending to be waiting patiently while it rang. All she needed now was for some Neighbourhood Watch trooper to yell for the police and it would really make her day.

An old woman appeared, steadying herself by leaning on a wheeled shopping basket as she stepped through the door. She looked at Riley with wide eyes and kept the basket between them, then limped away with a peculiar rolling motion, moving up the stairs without a backward glance.

Riley stepped back to the mailbox. With a quick tug, she pulled the newspaper from the box and checked the date. Two days old. It meant the rest of the mail had been there at least the same amount of time or longer.

Eighty yards away, tucked into the kerb behind a large rubbish skip spilling over with builder’s debris and broken furniture, the man named Szulu sat in his car and watched as Riley walked out of the block of flats and drove away. He had seen her go in, just like he had a number of other residents or visitors coming and going, but since he wasn’t able to follow to see where she lived or who she might be calling on, he’d been forced to stay where he was, hoping against hope that Palmer might show up.

He yawned and wished he’d brought something to drink. He’d been watching the place for several hours now, hoping Palmer might put in an appearance. After finding no clues to Palmer’s whereabouts at his office, his home was looking just as empty. The vigil had so far proved a fruitless task, with only a couple of men crossing his line of vision, both of them too old by about thirty years to fit the old woman’s description of the investigator. He judged he was on the outer limits of spending any more time here before arousing suspicion.

Although he hadn’t been able to get inside Palmer’s flat, and had been forced to make do with a couple of swift forays up to his front door and out again, Szulu had an instinct about these things. If Palmer hadn’t shown up by now, he probably wasn’t going to anytime soon. Not unless he’d managed to transform himself into a little old lady with a shopping basket and arthritic hips, or a fine looking blonde chick with nice legs and a frown, like the one just leaving.

He gave it ten more minutes, during which a couple of locals gave him the evil eye, so he started the car and drove away. As he headed south, he wondered how to go about telling his employer that she was wasting her time and money.