NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (22 page)

Fifty yards
ahead of him, the man at the meter was digging in his pockets for change. His
jacket was pulled tight across enormous shoulders, like a prize fighter.

Szulu eased by,
humming softly. He was invisible, he reminded himself. No way he can see me.
The man glanced up as Szulu’s shadow, thrown by a street light, fell across the
pavement, then looked away again. Szulu shivered. It was just like Palmer had
said: the man had clocked him, but he hadn’t seen him. Weird.

When he thought
about it, he felt almost insulted.

He continued
for a hundred yards and turned to cross the street. The man in the suit was
returning to the building, his pace unhurried.

Szulu stopped
at the next corner. It was good to change positions every now and then. Break
the routine. He took out his mobile, intending  to call Palmer with the car
number.

Just then
someone stepped up behind and prodded him in the back.

*******

Szulu
spun round. It was Palmer.

‘Jesus, man -
what are you doing?’ Szulu thought his chest was going to explode. ‘How do you
do that creepy shit?’ He was annoyed at having had the former MP sneak up on
him so easily when he was supposed to have all his wits about him. He hadn’t
heard a sound. The guy wasn’t normal.

‘You’ve got a
guilty conscience,’ Palmer chided him cheerfully, and peered round the corner
towards Pantile House. ‘What’s happening out there?’

Szulu told him.

‘Where’s your
car?’ Palmer scanned the street.

‘I used
something else.’ Now Palmer was here, he suddenly didn’t feel like bragging
about using a scooter for a surveillance job.

‘Like what? A
bicycle? You must have legs of steel.’

‘A scooter, all
right? I borrowed a scooter.’ Szulu was angry at letting out the information so
easily. But Palmer merely lifted an eyebrow.

‘Really? That’s
neat. Who the hell ever looks at a scooter?’

Szulu smirked.
‘That’s what I thought. Say, you still haven’t told me what this is all about.
You were kidding, about them blokes being Russian Mafia, right?’ He smiled
hopefully, but was disappointed when Palmer shook his head.

‘Maybe not
Mafia, but something close.’ Palmer felt in his jacket pocket and took out a
small pair of binoculars. He looked around the street, settling on a building
across from Pantile House. ‘See that place across there?’

Szulu nodded.
He’d walked past it not long agearlier. The ground floor housed a travel agency
and a print shop. The structure was old and of dull, red brick, falling behind
its neighbours like a tired old horse with every new building project in the
area and making it look more and more out of place. He bet it was on someone’s
list for demolition. ‘Sure. What about it?’

‘If we can get
inside, we’ll have a nice view of the fourth floor.’ He glanced at Szulu. ‘Keep
watch while I go find a way in. If they make a move while I’m over there, ring
me.’

With that, he
slipped out of the doorway and made his way across the road, disappearing into
the shadows behind the shops. Seconds later, Szulu heard a whistle and
followed, keeping one eye on Pantile House. The light was still on.

He arrived at
the rear of the building and found Palmer waiting, holding a door open.

‘Christ, how
did you do that?’ Szulu was impressed; he knew one or two guys who could open
doors in a couple of minutes. But that was after checking it out first, not
walking straight up to it like Palmer had done.

‘Easy when you
know how,’ Palmer replied, and closed the door softly behind them.

‘In this dump,
maybe. No way would you get through my locks that quick.’

The sideways
look Palmer gave him made Szulu instantly uncomfortable. ‘What makes you think
I haven’t already?’ he said. Then he turned and led the way up a ratty set of
stairs covered in mildewed paper and fallen plaster, leaving Szulu with his
mouth open.

While the front of
the building housed the shops, the rest seemed to have been abandoned to the
elements and a slow, relentless decay. The treads were gritty and sounded
hollow beneath their feet, and Palmer hoped the shopkeepers below were
concentrating on cashing up and not listening for sounds of intruders overhead.

He stopped on
the third floor. This was as high as the main floors went, but from the doorway
across the street, he’d noticed small attic windows sunk into the roof. There
had to be another staircase somewhere, narrower than the main one and probably
accessible through a single door. He found it at the end of the landing, nearly
invisible behind a layer of ancient wallpaper and grime. A small number 13 in
grubby plastic had been tacked to the door. Hoping it wouldn’t be unlucky for
them, he tugged it open.

A wave of damp,
mouldy air hit them as they climbed a short flight of stairs into an open space
with a ceiling angled downwards from the apex. Two attic windows looked out
over the street, with another one at the far end of the room.

Palmer checked
this last one. They were in luck: they had an unobstructed view of Pantile
House, barely eighty yards away.

The room they were
in was long and narrow, probably a servant’s quarters many years ago. It was
stripped bare, the rough wooden floor echoing with creaks and groans as the two
men shifted their weight.

‘Is this safe?’
Szulu whispered, testing the boards. ‘This place is rotten as old grapefruit.’

‘It’ll do
fine,’ Palmer assured him, studying the building across the way through the
binoculars. ‘Just breathe in and don’t do any break-dancing.’

He located the
fourth floor and immediately saw Varley. He was standing at the desk, talking
on a mobile phone. The glow of the desk lamp threw his shadow across the room,
highlighting the strong features and athletic build. A second man was standing
nearby. Smaller and balding, he had a pale, almost anaemic look. He was staring
at the floor, waiting for Varley to finish his call.

Palmer lowered
the binoculars to scan the building at ground level. Two men were walking
around the outside. They looked solid and determined, and as they passed
beneath the soft glow of a street lamp, he recognised the two security men from
the hotel at Lancaster Gate.

‘How many did
you say left the hotel?’

‘Four,’ said
Szulu. ‘Why?’

Palmer shook
his head. He’d have felt easier if he’d known where the third man was – the one
who had checked the 4WD. He shook off his disquiet; maybe they had a rota
system and it was his night off.

Szulu moved up
alongside him, breathing nervously.

‘What you said
about this thing,’ he murmured softly, as if the men across the way might hear
him. ‘You said it was personal, right?’

‘That’s
correct.’

‘So what did
they do, these guys?’ He nodded towards the light on the fourth floor. ‘It was
something serious?’

Palmer didn’t
respond for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Somebody murdered a friend of mine. I
can’t prove it was the men over there. But if they didn’t, they might know who
did.’

‘Man, that’s
bad.’ Bad for the men across the way, Palmer’s tone suggested. ‘Who was she,
this friend – someone special?’

‘You could say
that. They tied her up, snapped her neck and dumped her body in a ditch.’ The
words dropped into the silent room like slivers of ice, and Szulu felt the
hairs move on the back of his neck.

‘And you’re
going after them.’

‘That’s the
general idea.’ Palmer turned and looked at Szulu with a frown.

‘What?’ Szulu
stepped back a pace. ‘What’s up?’

‘You said
‘she’.’

‘So?’

‘Did I say my
friend was a woman?’

Szulu looked
away, unable to meet Palmer’s gaze. ‘Man, the way you talkin’ right now, you
didn’t have to.’

For once, the cat
was being halfway amenable. It had allowed Riley to scoop it up and hold it
while she stared into the street outside, watching as car and foot traffic
gradually dwindled with the passing evening. Late commuters looking for a
parking space, shoppers with carrier bags hurrying home from the supermarket, and
even an early drunk - a short, squat man in a tight suit - holding up a lamp
post across the way.

Riley wondered
where Palmer was. She could have done with his steadying presence here. Maybe
she would have to make do with the cat, purring like a small tractor and
enjoying the rare occasion of shared comfort.

She still
couldn’t explain why she had shied away from telling Varley that she no longer
wanted the Al-Bashir job, especially now she was certain that she wasn’t the
first person to have been hired to do it. That brought dark, unwelcome thoughts
about who that might have been. But she wasn’t ready to face them just yet. For
now, all she knew was that on a professional level, going ahead with the
assignment based on unverified information would rightfully incur Al-Bashir’s
anger. And that could be dangerous.

As she turned
away from the window, the drunk in the street below let go of his lamp post and
lurched away into the darkness. As he did so, his face turned up to Riley’s
window and gave it a last, searching look.

**********

The
pavement outside the hotel in Bloomsbury was awash with a coachload of Italian
tourists when Riley arrived just before noon. They scurried around like
minnows, resplendent in dark glasses and immaculate clothes, eagerly grabbing
their bags as the driver slid them out from the luggage compartment.

Riley eased her
way through and entered the hotel, walking past the reception desk. There was
no sign of Varley in the front lounge. She walked through to the room at the
rear, where they had first met. The corner table was empty.

As she turned
awat, she came face to face with a familiar figure.

‘Miss Gavin?’
It was Varley’s colourless associate, the man who had met her here last time.
He was dressed in a plain grey suit and standing with his hands by his side,
the image of a functionary waiting for orders.

Riley stepped
back involuntarily, startled by a glint of steel in the way the man was looking
at her. It was probably the coldest pair of eyes she had ever seen. ‘Where’s Richard?’

‘He has been
detained.’ He spoke with deliberate care, his accent more obvious than before.
Riley noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead, although the atmosphere in
the hotel was cool. He gestured to the corner chairs. ‘But I can speak… on his
behalf. ‘ He gave a ghost of a smile and led the way, sitting down without
waiting for her.

‘And you are?’

‘My name is of
no importance.’

‘Well, man of
no importance,’ Riley replied curtly, ‘I’ve decided not to proceed with the
assignment.’ She took out the cheque Richard had given her and placed it on the
table. ‘Under the circumstances, I’m returning this. I don’t feel I’ve earned
it. Please pass on my apologies to Richard, but I’m sure he’ll understand.’ She
felt a sudden sense of relief at having voiced her decision, and of being free
of any obligation by returning the cheque.

He showed
neither dismay nor anger at her news. Neither did he attempt to pick up the
cheque. Instead, he placed both hands together, resting his elbows on the arms
of the chair. A buzz of traffic outside and a burst of laughter from the
reception area sounded very distant, and alien.

‘That is
disappointing, Miss Gavin,’ he said softly. ‘You see, we need someone of
proven… credibility to complete this assignment. You realise how important this
is? How late you have left it to tell us?’

‘I can’t help
that.’ Riley’s heart began thumping at the coldly dispassionate way the man was
looking at her, as if she were an unusual and mildly interesting specimen in a
Petrie dish. ‘I told Richard I wasn’t prepared to put my name to an article
based on someone else’s data. Neither do I like the slant of what he wants me
to write. I thought he understood that.’

‘Perhaps. But I
am not Richard.’ He reached in his jacket pocket and took out a square of thin,
white card. He placed it on the table between them, reminding Riley of a
similar move by Al-Bashir in his boardroom. ‘Is that your final word? You do
not wish to re-consider?’ He looked at her and waited, head cocked to one side.

‘No. Why should
I?’ Riley began to rise, eager to be away from this man and his penetrating
gaze.

As she did so,
he flipped the card over.

Riley stopped
dead, suddenly wishing more than anything that Frank Palmer was in the room.

But Palmer wasn’t
going anywhere fast. Stuck in an Underground tunnel near Tottenham Court Road
with a few dozen other passengers, he felt the heat closing in around him like
a stifling blanket. Any trace of cool air drifting through the carriage was
obliterated by the increasing body heat as passengers fought a rising sense of
panic at the delay. Most tried to hide their feelings by fanning themselves
with whatever came to hand. Others fiddled vainly with their mobile phones,
frustrated at finding the networks unavailable.

Palmer breathed
easily and stared at the ceiling, mentally distancing himself from the
discomfort around him. He’d already scanned every advertising panel in sight,
along with the backs of people’s newspapers and magazines, and was now shifting
his attention to somewhere within himself, satisfied to wait until the train
moved on. They had been stationary for twenty minutes, earning only a blandly
insincere apology from a voice over the intercom system. Instinct told him that
a delay of this length meant something serious had happened further along the
line. A jumper, perhaps, or a bomb alert, it didn’t matter which. They were
stuck until someone got them out.