NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (23 page)

He’d rung Riley
before boarding, hoping to catch her before she left for her meeting with
Varley, but without luck. He’d wanted to fill her in on what he and Szulu had
been up to the previous evening. Seeing Varley in Pantile House – the building
Helen had photographed - still wasn’t concrete evidence, but it was as close as
he needed to proving that there was a connection between them. Unless it was a
massive coincidence.

But Palmer
didn’t believe that. The one thing he had learned over the years was that where
two or more even vaguely related points of information came together,
coincidence could usually be ruled out.

Riley blinked in
disbelief  as she saw the reverse side of the card Varley’s associate had
dropped on the table.

It was a
photograph of Mr Grobowski.

Why was he
showing her this? The photo had been taken on the pavement near the house. The
elderly Pole was walking along the street clutching a plastic bag and a large
saucepan. He was probably returning home from the community centre where he
served meals for his Polish compatriots.

‘You know this
man.’ The voice was flat, disinterested, a perfunctory question to which he
already knew the answer.

‘You know I
do.’ Riley fought to clamp down on a rising sense of panic. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Miss Gavin,
where I come from, if someone does not do what they have agreed, there are not
many options open.’ His voice was calm and compellingly soft, his gaze intense
and unsettling. ‘Here, you have your lawyers and your courts and the police. We
have them, too, but they are not so… quick to help.’ He toyed with the photo,
spinning it round and round on the polished surface. ‘Always they need paying.
Sometimes lots of money. And they are not very efficient. So, we have been
forced to develop other ways… a custom, you might say, of persuading people to
do what they have promised. You understand what I am saying? It is simple. And
it works.’

Riley felt a
tremor go through her. Was she really hearing this? Here, in this elegant
London hotel, where tourists were excitedly rushing to their rooms, this… man
with the coldest eyes she’d ever seen was quietly threatening her? Worse, he was
threatening her through a lovely, harmless old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

‘Perhaps you do
not believe me,’ he continued, in the same soft, flat tone. ‘That, I have to
say, would be a mistake.’ He reached in his pocket and produced another photo,
which he tossed on the table. It skidded towards Riley. She reached down
instinctively to stop it falling off the edge.

This one was of
Donald Brask.

‘Why are you
doing this?’ Riley’s voice sounded strange, even to her. She desperately wanted
to pick up the photo and hurl it back in the man’s face. But she couldn’t.

‘Why? Because I
can, Miss Gavin. And because I have need of your services. Of your name on the
article that you agreed to write.’ He studied his fingertips. ‘It is what I
think you might call the law of supply and demand. I demand and you supply.’ He
gave a brief smile, as if demonstrating that while he might have an accent, he
clearly understood the subtleties of language. ‘You may resist. You may choose
not to believe I will do anything. But in the end, you will do as I wish.’

‘Or what?’ The
words forced their way out through cotton wool.

‘Or your
friends will suffer.’

Before Riley
could say anything, he stood up and moved to stand close to her. He smelled of
lavender, and Riley knew she would never come across the smell again without
thinking of this man.

‘If you doubt
me, Miss Gavin, you should call home. You young people today – you are so
careless with things. Especially your pets.’

He stepped past
her, patting her on the shoulder as he did so. The touch made her recoil, but
he appeared not to notice. ‘Call when you are ready to submit the copy, Miss
Gavin. You have the number. We will tell you where to email it. But hurry. Time
is running out.’

Riley watched
him walk out of the lounge, a colourless little man in a plain suit, possessed
of a manner that made her blood run cold. 

What did he
mean, she should call home? There was nobody there. So why-?

Her phone rang.
She snatched it out and put it to her ear.

‘Miss Riley!’ 
It was Mr Grobowski. She had given him her number in case of emergencies, but
this was the first time he had ever used it. He sounded distraught, and her
thoughts went instantly to the man who had just left. ‘Miss Riley… you have to
come urgent! Please to hurry! I so sorry!’

‘Mr Grobowski?’
Riley was shocked by the agony in the Pole’s voice. His words were little more
than a mad jumble, made worse by his heavy breathing, as if he had just run a
marathon. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Is Lipinski,
Miss Riley.’

‘Cat?’ The old
Pole loved the cat just as much as she did. But at least her neighbour was
safe. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I so sorry to
tell you this things, Miss Riley. But someone, he has shot Lipinski…!’

********

Riley
ran outside and saw a taxi depositing a fare. She jumped in and told the driver
her address, then sat in mute impatience while he explained cheerfully about a
problem on the Underground which had made taxis as scarce as hens’ teeth. Riley
ignored him, watching as each street sign and landmark reeled by in horribly
grinding slow-motion.

She checked her
watch, although time was unimportant, and was surprised to find that it was
already past one o’clock. Had the meeting lasted so long?

She dialled
Palmer’s number repeatedly, each time getting an unobtainable message. He was
either out of reach or his phone was dead. Thinking that word made her cringe
inwardly, remembering the threats made at the hotel. But she told herself that
the man didn’t know about Palmer, otherwise he would have produced a photo of
him, too.

When the taxi
arrived at the house, Riley thrust some money in the driver’s lap, and was out
and running before he had stopped.

Inside, she
found Mr Grobowski sitting on the stairs, cradling his head in his hands. The
elderly Pole was moaning softly, rocking gently from side to side.

‘Mr G?’ She
knelt down beside him, her heart flipping. ‘Where’s Cat?’

He lifted his
head and pointed towards his flat. His craggy face was puffed with anger and
sorrow, and he tried hard to meet Riley’s eyes. ‘The vet she is come… I could
not take Lipinski to that place-’ He wrung his hands together and shook his
head. ‘I so sorry.’

Riley grabbed
him by both arms. ‘You did the right thing, Mr G,’ she told him firmly. ‘I
wouldn’t have been able to do it, either. Tell me what happened.’

‘This man, he
comes to the door. I think he is salesmans, or maybe a religious persons. I
tell him we are not interested. But he a
buhaj
- a bull - and push past
me like I not exist and ask where is animals. Without thinking, I say cat is in
my flat, but why? He don’t say nothing and go inside.’ He shuddered and took a
deep gulp of air. ‘I follow, telling him to get out… and then I see he has a
gun. Black and shiny… not very big. I can’t believe it. Then he see Lipinski.’
He moaned softly. ‘Lipinski know he bad mans and show a fierce face. But the
mans, he… he just shoot him and walk away. No words… just walking away. And
Lipinski-’

Riley turned
away and stepped through Mr Grobowski’s front door.

The first thing
she saw was a woman in slacks and a blue jacket, kneeling on the floor. Beside
her was a black case with the lid thrown open. It contained a variety of
instruments, boxes and sterile packs, and a roll of medical gauze, ripped open
with one end hanging loose.

But it was the
cat which drew Riley’s gaze. Stretched out on the floor with its mouth open, it
had a sticky-looking wet patch showing on its neck, the fur spiky and
disturbed. There was no sign of breathing.

Riley dropped
to her knees, a sob gathering in her throat. How could this animal be so long…
and so thin, she thought distractedly, noting the length from battered nose to
tabby tail. He’d always been such a bruiser. And with everything Mr Grobowski
fed him, he should have died of over-eating, of a diet enriched by too many
meatballs and other Polish delights, not… not this horror. She reached out to
cradle him, certain her heart was going to tear its way out of her ribs. What
evil bastard could have done this?

‘Don’t do
that!’ The vet spoke sharply, reaching out to stop Riley touching the animal.
‘I need to get him to the surgery. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

‘What?’ Riley
stared at the woman in confusion, wanting to tell her that her job was over,
that she hadn’t come in time, that it was all too late. ‘I don’t understand.’

Then the cat
opened one eye and saw her. It mewed, his mouth barely open but the sound
surprisingly deep and resentful, protesting about the indignity of what had
happened.

‘He’s alive?’
Riley was stunned.

‘He’s lucky.’
The vet replied pragmatically, pressing a pad against the cat’s neck and
skilfully securing it in place with what seemed like several feet of bandage.
‘He’s built like a baby elephant, otherwise he’d have been dead. The slug
wasn’t a big one, but it looks like it went through the fat behind his neck and
nicked the scapula.’

‘The what? What
does that mean?’ Riley tried to process her limited knowledge of anatomy into
some sort of positive news. What the hell was a scapula? Wasn’t it what doctors
used to hold down a patient’s tongue?

‘It’s the
shoulder to you,’ the vet explained. ‘I won’t know how serious it is until I
give him a thorough examination and an x-ray. If there’s no major damage or
complications, he’ll come out of this with nothing more than a nasty scar and a
bald patch to show his mates. Just hope it hasn’t hit the brachial artery.’ She
finished off the bandaging with some adhesive wrap to hold it in place and
jumped to her feet.

Mr Grobowski
had heard the words and came rushing in to stand behind them. He moaned with
relief, clearly having believed the worst had happened. ‘Is miracle! Lipinski…’

The vet gave
them each a stern look. ‘Look, you two can do all that stuff later. Right now,
we need to get him to where I can treat him. One of you hold the door, the
other get my bag. My car’s outside. I’ve put a pressure pad on to stem the
bleeding, but we can’t hang about.’ She looked first at the elderly Pole, but
he was wringing his hands together, his face twisted with relief. She turned to
Riley instead, indicating her black case. ‘Take a visiting card out of the lid
and ring the surgery. Tell them what’s happened and that we’re on the way in.
They’ll get the theatre cleared and prepped.’ She bent and scooped up the cat
with great care, then added, ‘I’ll have to report this, you know. Shootings of
any kind… the police have to be told.’

‘Of course.’
Riley grabbed a card and reached for her mobile, glad to be able to do
something. The moment she got the chance, she was going to ask Mr Grobowski for
a fuller description of the man who had done this, although somehow, that
didn’t really matter. She already knew who was to blame.

*******

‘Wake
up, sweetie - it’s Donald.’ Brask’s voice penetrated the fog, jerking Riley
awake. Dimly, she recognised the sound coming from the answering machine and
rolled off the sofa, snatching up the phone while trying to shake off the
lethargy of sleep. She checked her watch. God, she’d been out for three hours
since warning Donald about the threats and telling him to get somewhere safe.
It was probably a reaction to everything that had happened, but she felt guilty
at having fallen asleep so easily.

‘Donald? Are
you okay?’

‘Of course,
dear lamb.’ His voice came through full and rich as usual. ‘I’ve got a simply
huge man stationed at my front door, and another at the back, with orders to
sacrifice themselves dearly for me. ‘

Riley felt a
smile tugging at her lips. Donald knew a lot of people with backgrounds not
unlike Palmer’s. He had assured her that he would get the best protection
available.

‘How’s the
cat?’ he queried solicitously.

‘The last time
I rang, they told me everything was going fine and to call later this evening.
They wouldn’t let me go round and wait, though.’

‘Quite right,
too. They’re professionals, they’ll do what they have to do. Have you heard
from Frank?’

‘No. I’m
getting worried. You?’

‘Not yet. I’ll
keep trying – I’ve got his number on automatic re-dial. But I’ve just received
something off the wires which might interest you. That magazine, East European
Trade?’

‘What about
it?’ Riley stood up and walked on shaky legs to the kitchen, where she poured a
large slug of orange juice. She had a raging thirst. ‘Didn’t I tell you, I’ve
decided not to do that piece?’

‘You did, dear,
you did. But if you’ve still got the magazine Varley gave you, you might want
to take a closer look. It will give you an indication of how they work.’

‘Just a
second.’ Riley found the magazine and opened it. ‘Okay, what am I looking at?’

‘There’s a
piece about a man named Mustafa Tukel. He’s a Turkish government minister and
one of their biggest ship-owners.’

Riley vaguely
recalled the article, and flipped through the pages until she came to it. The
photo showed a large man with a ready smile and a bushy moustache, posing
against a background of a shipyard. The article was mostly about Tukel’s
planned bid to build a new deep-water dock on the Black Sea coast. It would
have massive implications for the local economy and would soak up business in
the area like a sponge, regenerating the entire region. The article, as well as
outlining Turkel’s plans, included some terse comments made by him about key
members of the Turkish administration whom, he claimed, were trying to prevent
him from winning the contract in favour of other, unspecified bidders. The
comments had been highlighted in italics, she noted, for maximum effect.