No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Riley returned to her flat to find Weller strolling along the pavement outside. He had his tie loosened and seemed to be enjoying the air. She looked round for a snatch-squad, but he was alone.

She said, ‘What do you want, Weller? This is getting annoying.’

‘Just passing,’ he replied breezily, and looked around at the buildings. ‘Nice neighbourhood, this. Bit outside my bracket, though.’

‘I doubt that.’ She thought the idea of Weller just passing was as likely as Father Christmas in July. Besides, she was convinced he would have already been here to ascertain where she lived before buttonholing her in Caffé Nero a few days ago.

‘Relax,’ he said, fingering a luxurious bay tree in a wooden tub. The old lady next door had placed it there with Mr Grobowski’s approval, and was now watching Weller like a hawk through a side window. By the scowl on her face, Riley reckoned that if Weller so much as bent one of the leaves, she’d be out with a broken chair leg to beat him to a pulp. ‘I wanted to ask if you’d seen Henzigger yet?’

Riley almost admitted she had. Then she thought better of it. Let Weller do his own dirty work. ‘Should I?’

‘Well, he did have your name on him. It seems an odd thing to carry if he had no intention of contacting you.’

‘You said you had no interest in Henzigger.’

‘We didn’t. Then we found out a bit more about him. Seems the Yanks fibbed a bit. He’s got history.’

Riley worked hard at keeping her face straight. Did Weller know she’d just been talking to Henzigger? Was this chat some sort of test? ‘What kind of history?’

‘Classified stuff. Goes back years. Panama, Nicaragua, Chile… he’s knocked around a bit, mostly in the southern hemisphere. One thing’s sure, he wasn’t just a journalist.’

‘What?’ Riley felt her face drain of colour and thought about the line of chat Henzigger had fed her not twenty minutes ago. How could anyone be so convincing? What the hell else had he lied about?

‘We think he was DEA,’ Weller continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. ‘Might still be for all we know. But if the Yanks don’t want him, why should we get stuck with him? We’ve got enough undesirables of our own.’

‘Good point,’ Riley agreed, recovering quickly. ‘So why not pick him up and put him on the next plane?’

‘I’d love to. Trouble is, we can’t find him. I thought he might have contacted you.’

Riley smiled. If she were to believe this man, the Met couldn’t locate Frank Palmer when he was with Sir Kenneth Myburghe, and now they’d lost an unwelcome American with a dodgy past who’d come into the country on a false passport. ‘Sorry. I can’t help.’

‘No matter.’ He rocked back on his heels and sniffed the air as if he was on the sea front at Brighton, then said carefully, ‘I’m probably wasting my time, but I’d hate to think you were getting into something nasty, Miss Gavin.’

‘What’s this, Weller? Fatherly concern for my well-being?’

He shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose,’ he said. ‘But if you’re being too adventurous, I’d rather know about it before I have to come along and scrape you up with a shovel. This thing with Myburghe, for example.’ This time there was no title. ‘A little birdy tells me you’re on the team now.’

Riley had been wondering how long it would be before he mentioned that. No doubt he was plugged into the same information network as Keagan.

‘He’s been receiving hate mail,’ she said truthfully. ‘He wanted someone to watch his family during the wedding. He employed Palmer, who asked me to help out.’

‘Mmm… I heard about the mail. A fake bomb, too. Pity he didn’t keep any of the evidence. I thought that was a bit careless for a man with his background.’ He made it sound as if he didn’t believe it possible. ‘Probably a disgruntled servant, I imagine, trying to put the frighteners on him. What do they call it — below-stairs friction? Paying you well, is he?’

Riley was ready for the sudden switch in questions. ‘Yes, actually. Why, are you jealous?’

Weller snorted gently. ‘Not me,’ he said amiably. ‘But a word of advice: if you haven’t been paid yet, I’d get it quick if I were you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The last I heard, which was just the other day, so it’s still hot news, is that Sir Kenneth Myburghe is as flat, financially speaking, as one of Gandhi’s flip-flops.’

Riley thought about the building works and the wedding. Could it be true? Had Myburghe over-extended himself? ‘Doesn’t his wife have money?’

‘Did have, years ago. She divorced him last year, cutting off any funds at source.’

‘Why the divorce?’

‘No idea. Gossip says his gambling. But it could be the fact that he’s no longer being considered for foreign postings. I’m surprised he hasn’t had to sell the country pile by now. Still, I suppose he could always offer it to the nation in perpetuity. A rehab centre for heroin addicts — now that would be useful, don’t you think?’ He gave her a shark-like display of teeth, then turned and walked away, whistling softly and leaving Riley to speculate on how much he hadn’t told her.

And why the reference to drugs?

Riley went inside and typed up some notes, always useful therapy when she felt pressured about a job. The pounding of the keys was oddly soothing in a way, the end result often producing clarity where none had existed before. When she had reached a hiatus, she brewed coffee and ruminated, before calling Palmer and telling him all about her visit to Barnston, the sudden appearance of Toby Henzigger and ending with Weller’s latest information.

‘Hellfire,’ he commented dryly. ‘It’s like moths to a flame with you, isn’t it? Does anyone insure you?’

‘Very funny, Palmer. Don’t you see where all this is leading? We — you — need to talk to Jacob to find out what he knows.’

‘Possibly. He sounds like a case of Post-Traumatic Stress to me. What then?’

‘After that,’ she said carefully, ‘it might be useful talking to Lady Myburghe.’

There was a long silence before Palmer replied. ‘I don’t think I’d recommend that.’

It wasn’t a definite no, but a long way from yes. ‘It’s important,’ said Riley.

‘Why? Because wives know their husbands best?’

‘Partly. I think she might have information about Sir Kenneth that we won’t get from any other source.’

‘How does that affect our current situation?’

Riley sighed. She wasn’t sure if it was Palmer’s instinctive code of in-built discretion, but he seemed determined not to make this easy. She told him what Weller had said about Myburghe’s finances. He listened without interrupting.

‘Even without that,’ said Riley, ‘I’d be interested to know why Lady Myburghe left him after all those years of marriage. And exactly how is he funding the wedding and the renovations at Colebrooke House when, according to Weller, he’s flat broke.’

The line ticked and hissed, and for an instant she thought of Weller, and men with electronic boxes running a tap on her telephone line. She dismissed it as burgeoning paranoia and waited for a reply.

‘Palmer?’

Eventually he said, ‘Do you believe Weller’s being straight?’

‘I can’t see why he’d lie about something like this. What would he have to gain? You’ve met him — what do you think?’

Palmer didn’t bother denying that he knew Weller. ‘Maybe. I only met him once. He seemed okay, but he’s bound to have an agenda of some sort.’

‘I agree.’ The fact was, the more she saw of Weller, the more she was certain that he was using her and — by association — Palmer, to stir up whatever pot he’d got bubbling before him. But that was tactics.

Another long pause, then Palmer said, ‘I’ll call you back.’ He rang off.

Riley sat and waited, partly because she wasn’t sure what to do next. She was worried that her friendship with Palmer was approaching a watershed, and was beginning to regret having pressured him to take sides. True, he was quite capable of making decisions for himself, but clearly he was also fighting his own moral code about making judgements on the people he worked for. And having Riley pushing him with information he wouldn’t normally have been privy to was plainly clouding his deep-seated issues of loyalty.

He called back after twenty minutes. ‘One hour’s time,’ he said briefly, and gave her an address in Belgravia. ‘Don’t be late.’

‘Will you be there?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He disconnected.

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