NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (15 page)

Unless the man
who’d trashed the place had found it afterwards.

On an impulse,
he checked the G tab. There was one entry, followed by a familiar phone number
and Riley’s name. Underneath had been written: Any contacts?

Palmer stared
at it. Helen must have been thinking of calling Riley about work. Johnson was
right: she’d been getting restless. It explained why the Post-it was in her
car.

He was about to
close the book when he noticed a gap in the pages. The D tab was gone, a ragged
edge where the pages had been ripped out. He saw why. An envelope lay on the
floor near the coffee table. A friendship card lay next to it, a simple
coloured wash with a piece of verse. It was signed Christine.

Christine
Demelzer.

His neck went
cold. The card, the photo and the address book. The intruder had made the
connection and removed the details.

In its place he
had inserted a folded toffee wrapper to mark the page.

Long Cottage
huddled silent and still in the darkness of Cotton Hill. Palmer stopped his car
a hundred yards away and stepped out, allowing the door to click shut. He
listened for night noises, sounds he was familiar with from hundreds of
night-time surveillance jobs, hunched in his car or under cover, listening to
nature all around him. All he heard was the wind through the trees and a
motorbike engine clattering in the distance. No birds, no foxes. Nothing.

He let the
minutes drift by, breathing in the smells carried on the air. A hint of wood
smoke, the sweet aroma of cut vegetation, the faintest tang of cooked food.

He left the car
and walked along the edge of the road. Once he was close to the house, he
stepped onto the verge to muffle his footsteps, his shoes swishing faintly
through the grass. He felt as if he was being watched, but pressed on, the
feeling familiar. The night could play tricks, no matter how experienced you
were, and if you gave into it each time, you’d do better to stay at home and do
crossword puzzles.

He walked down
the side of the cottage and stepped over the back gate, which was little more
than knee high. The flagstones in the path felt uneven and partially overgrown.
He trod carefully, easing his toes forward to feel for obstacles in his way.

The back door
was locked. A pale glow of blue-ish light showed from inside, reflected through
from the front room. Palmer walked round to the front and knocked softly on the
door.

‘Oh, it’s you.’
Mrs Demelzer stood in the narrow gap. She looked wary but calm.

‘Sorry,’ said
Palmer softly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You really shouldn’t answer your
door to strangers without using the chain.’

‘You didn’t
startle me. And it’s my door.’ The elderly woman stood aside to let him in. She
sounded tired and her shoulders were slumped, as if she had been carrying a
heavy load. ‘I heard about Helen,’ she said in explanation, and shuffled
through to the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, then turned to face him,
her eyes moist and accusing. She was rubbing her hands together in agitation,
as if they itched. ‘You should have told me.’

Palmer nodded.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I wasn’t supposed to know.’

She sat down at
the table and signalled for him to do likewise. In the background, the kettle
roared like an old steam engine. She toyed with a fold in her dress for a
while, then looked at him with keen eyes.

‘The police came.
They said Helen’s death was suspicious and it was being investigated. They
wouldn’t give me any details, though, and said I should avoid reading the
papers. I think they were being kind. They asked me if I knew anything about
Helen’s recent movements. Her friends.’

Palmer didn’t
say anything.

‘I didn’t tell
them about the papers I sent you. Or your visit. Was that wise? I mean, I don’t
really know you. But you were Helen’s friend and I know she liked you a lot.
She told me not long ago that she was sorry it had ended. She said you made her
smile.’

The kettle
clicked off noisily, a forced punctuation, and she got up to make the tea.
Palmer felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

She came back
to the table with two mugs and set them down.

‘Has anyone
else been here?’ Palmer asked. He had difficulty speaking calmly. A car rumbled
by outside, and he felt the hairs on his neck stir.

‘No. Not that
I’ve seen. Why?’

On the drive
down, he’d thought about what he could say to this woman. Whatever he told her
would be alien to her world, as dark and unlikely as anything she could
imagine, set against this picture-perfect cottage and the garden she tended so
lovingly. But leaving her here was unthinkable, especially after the way
Helen’s flat had been turned upside down. Whoever had done that would
eventually come here. It was the law of all search patterns: when all the most
obvious possibilities have been covered, you start in on the rest.

And Mrs
Demelzer’s name was top of the list.

‘Is there
somewhere you could go for a few days?’ he asked her. ‘A friend, perhaps?’

She was no
fool. She gave him a knowing look. ‘Why? Is my life in danger? Something to do
with Helen’s death?’

‘I don’t know.
It could be.’ He explained about Helen’s flat and how whoever had searched the
place now knew her address and what she looked like.

‘Really?’ She
seemed incredulous. ‘But why would they come looking for me? It was only a
greetings card.’

‘It was
enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what they were looking for, but they found the
card and made the connection with your address book and the back of the photo.’

‘But what could
I tell them? I don’t know anything about Helen’s work. It is about her work, I
suppose?’

‘I think so.
She may have got involved in something dangerous. I’m trying to find out what
it was.’

Mrs Demelzer
stood up, the tea forgotten. Her manner was suddenly brisk and decisive. ‘I’d
better go and pack a bag, hadn’t I? If you can take me to my sister’s house –
she lives about ten miles away – I’ll be safe enough there. Even if they ask
anyone around here, they won’t be able to tell them anything.’ She started
towards the stairs, then stopped and turned to Palmer with a strange
expression. ‘What are you going to do?’

Palmer took a
deep breath. ‘Find them,’ he said honestly. ‘Find the people responsible. Who
did it, and why. After that,’ He shrugged enigmatically. ‘We’ll see.’

It seemed to be
enough. Mrs Demelzer nodded and patted him on the arm with great tenderness.
‘I’m glad. I’m sure you’ll do what you think best.’ She smiled with enormous
sadness and went to pack.

**********

‘You’ve
been up to something - I can tell.’ Riley walked into Palmer’s office the
following morning and found him at the window, staring into the street. ‘I rang
you several times last night. Your mobile was off.’ Her voice was deliberately
accusing; he’d left her out of the fun.

‘I needed my
beauty sleep. I had an early night.’

‘Palmer.’ Riley
stared at him, eyes like flint. ‘You’ve never needed an early night in your
life. Where were you?’

He told her
about his visit to Helen’s flat, the destruction he’d found and the connection
between the card, the photo and the address book.

‘What did you
do?’

‘I moved her
out of harm’s way. She’s safe for now.’

‘Why didn’t you
tell me? I’d have helped you. I thought we were working together on this.’

‘We are. But it
was easier to go to the flat by myself. If we’d walked into a police
surveillance unit, you’d have been compromised as well. Alone, I had a halfway
believable reason for being there.’

‘Maybe,’ she
conceded grudgingly. ‘But next time, let me in on it.’

He nodded and
toed the carpet. ‘Okay, boss. Sorry, boss.’

‘Apology
accepted.’ Riley smiled, relieved to see he hadn’t lost his sense of humour.
Being absorbed in his work was one thing; Palmer without humour was worrying.

‘But we do this
my way,’ he insisted, leaving her no room for argument. ‘Our only line of
connection is from Helen through the publishers in Sokhumi, through you to
Richard Varley. It’s there, but a bit ragged. I want to take a look at him
first. And Al-Bashir. If there’s something brewing between them, we need to
figure out what it is before we go blundering in.’ He looked sombre.
‘Especially if there’s a connection with the Russian security services.’

‘Is that really
likely?’

‘Anything’s
possible. If it’s big business, the FSB would take an interest. It could be
you’ve walked into a straightforward propaganda exercise and Varley is being
used without his knowledge to recruit contributors for that purpose. Helen’s
death could have been a mistake, or even be unconnected. We need to find out
more.’

‘I can help
with that,’ Riley volunteered. ‘Varley fancies his chances. I can ask him for
another meeting. I’m sure he’ll agree. I haven’t actually said yes to the
assignment yet, so it won’t seem unreasonable to want to talk it over.’

Palmer looked
doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘Can you think
of a better one?’

‘No.’

Before he could
think up an argument, Riley took out her mobile and dialled the number on
Varley’s business card. When he answered, she said, ‘I’m in. But I need to talk
over a couple of things. Any chance we can meet?’

‘Of course!’
Varley sounded almost relieved. ‘Great to hear from you. Sure, we can talk. How
about lunch today?’ He named a restaurant in Curzon Street.

‘I’ll see you
there.’ She hung up and looked triumphantly at Palmer. ‘See? Easy.’

The restaurant was
busy when Riley arrived. Richard Varley was sitting at a discreet corner table
at the back, sipping from a glass of water. He looked solid, respectable and at
ease, the sophisticated businessman enjoying a lunch break. As Riley followed
the head waiter between the other tables, she was aware that the man she had
come to see was watching her, and was himself the subject of discreet attention
from one or two female diners.

He stood as she
approached, and held out a hand. His touch was warm, like before, and lingered
just long enough without being overly familiar.

‘Riley. Good to
see you. May I offer you a drink?’

Riley asked for
a gin and tonic and sat down. The head waiter took her order, then waited.

Varley ordered
a filet steak and salad and looked innocently across at her. ‘I usually know
what I want, so why waste time?’

Riley kept her
eyes on the menu, ignoring the coded statement – if that’s what it was. If he
was trying to come on to her, he wouldn’t be the first, and he clearly felt
confident enough, as he had demonstrated at their first meeting. She chose
salmon and handed the menu back to the waiter.

‘I don’t get
enough time to relax,’ Varley said regretfully, and sipped his water. He
gestured around at the restaurant. ‘This is a rare luxury for me, taking time
out like this. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.’

‘My pleasure,’
said Riley. ‘But why so busy?’

‘Well, our
business is all about current events in a changing world. Like yours. Old news
is no news. We have a crowded programme of features and specials, and there are
lots of eager shareholders to satisfy, as well as a list of high-level
subscribers waiting for their next copy.’

‘Shareholders
in Georgia?’

Varley didn’t
miss a beat. He waved a vague hand. ‘Hardly any, actually. As I told you
before, it’s just a base – and it’s cheap. We get the printing done at various
facilities across Europe, wherever the price and production quality seems best.
It keeps down the overheads and avoids local business taxes. It’s a struggle
sometimes, but we manage. Do you work with anyone?’

The question
was so smoothly delivered, it almost threw her. She wondered if there was a
reason for it other than to divert her away from asking about the company. She
was grateful when her drink arrived. ‘Nobody special,’ she replied. ‘If I need
help, I recruit it when I need to – like you.’ She took a sip. ‘It keeps down
the overheads.’

‘Touché.’ He
dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Tell me about yourself. Any family?’

‘No. I’m what’s
referred to as a singleton – although I loathe the word. I think it implies a
lack of free choice.’

He raised an
eyebrow. ‘And are you – single, I mean?’

‘At the moment,
yes.’

‘By choice?’

The question
was reasonable, but Riley wondered if it was genuine. Or did he already know
all there was to know about her background? That prompted thoughts about John
Mitcheson, and she shook her head. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, she focussed
on the present, remembering that corporations could find out about prospective
employees at the push of a button. Christ, Palmer, she thought wildly, you’re
making me paranoid. The man’s only being pleasant. She wondered where Palmer
was and what he was doing. He’d said something about going back to Pantile
House for another look round, but Palmer had a habit of not always doing what
he’d talked about.

‘Riley?’ Varley
bent his head and smiled, catching her unawares.

‘Sorry. There
was someone once. We drifted apart.’

‘It happens.’
Richard studied her over the rim of his glass. ‘Where is he now?’

‘In the States
somewhere. We lost touch.’

He nodded
sympathetically. ‘I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I spent more time
away than I did at home. It wasn’t fair on her.’

‘Where is
home?’

‘All over. I
stopped having papers delivered a long time ago. What’s the Paul Young song?
Wherever I Lay my Hat?’

‘I know what
that’s like. So where is your wife now?’