No Sleep for the Dead rgafp-3 Read online

‘Yeah. I don’t know what I expected to find, but the border seemed the best place to start. I figured if I discovered what had really happened, including who the runner was and why this man — Radnor? — was there, I might discover the reason for the deception. At least, as far as I was concerned.’ He took out his notebook to refresh his memory. ‘Unger, the lawyer I met over there, filled in the gaps for me. The runner’s name was Claus Ulf Wachter. He was in his forties, a middle ranking bureaucrat attached to the East German Ministry of Arts and Culture, responsible for museums and galleries.’

  ‘What connection would Radnor have had with them?’

  ‘No idea. The Intelligence community normally confine its interest to other things. But who knows what devious paths they pursue? Could be Wachter knew someone with access to useful information in the military field. In any case, he was probably skipping out before he got caught.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Hands in the till, from the information Unger dug up. At the time, a lot of state-owned artwork, especially by Soviet artists, was going missing and finding its way to the west. There were no reliable inventories, so it was fairly easy for stuff to be siphoned off. Wachter was thought to be involved.’ Palmer shrugged. ‘They were desperate times for some people. Who would miss what they didn’t know about? It would have been easy work with someone on the inside. Then with the collapse of Communism and the Wall coming down, there was a flood of people getting out and the system simply unravelled. This time though, the new people weren’t coming out through tunnels, across the wire or in small boats. They were leaving legitimately. And lots of them had access to money and weren’t shy of using it. Once they got out, they wanted mementoes of the Homeland.’

  ‘With Wachter as the source? But he was killed before the Wall came down.’

  ‘There’s where I got lucky. One thing about the East Germans: their museum inventories may have been full of holes, but they kept detailed records on people — especially the likes of Claus Wachter. Some interior police transcripts named Wachter among several officials who were under suspicion for theft of government property. I think he knew his time was up. Maybe he got greedy and was moving too much stuff, and came to their attention. They were all being watched at that time, with Stasi spies everywhere.’

  ‘So if he was working for Radnor,’ said Riley, ‘he’d have instinctively turned to him for help. It would explain why Radnor and his men were there that night.’

  ‘It might,’ Palmer agreed. ‘But it doesn’t explain why one of Radnor’s men was ready to shoot him.’ He related Hemmricht’s story, with Riley listening in astonishment.

  ‘Couldn’t Hemmricht have been mistaken?’ she said. ‘He was just a boy at the time. It would have all been… I don’t know — soldiers and guns and stuff.’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘What other reason was there? They wouldn’t have been ready to take on the border guards; that would have been tantamount to starting World War Three. For some reason, Radnor didn’t want Wachter to make the crossing. Makes me wonder what he wanted to hide.’

  Riley chewed it over. Something had suddenly begun tugging at her memory. Connected with Radnor. Was it something she’d heard or just an assumption? She poured more wine. ‘Re-wind a moment,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Something you mentioned just now hit a nerve.’

  ‘East Germans,’ Palmer recited, going along with her. ‘Border guards, Wachter, Hemmricht. Shooting, farm animals, ditch.’

  Riley shook her head. ‘No. Further back than that. It might have been something else… keep going.’

  ‘Farm, winter, military exercise, compensation.’

  ‘No. Keep going.’

  ‘Stasi, museums, artwork, Reg Paris-’

  ‘Artwork.’ Riley opened her eyes. ‘There was something about artwork… something recently.’ She snapped her fingers, searching her memory. ‘Jimmy Gough — the retired security guard. He said he walked past Radnor’s office one day and saw some icons on a table. He knew what they were, having served in Berlin. They’d just brought them up in the lift and unpacked them. He probably wasn’t meant to see them.’

  ‘Now that makes sense,’ Palmer sat forward and looked at Riley. ‘It would tie in with Wachter’s job. Radnor indulging in a spot of free enterprise while working for the government, making a bit of extra money on the side for his pension. Or is that too easy?’

  ‘It might explain why he didn’t want Wachter to come over,’ said Riley, feeling a ripple of excitement in her stomach. ‘Having an East German official blab to the authorities about what one of their spies had been up to on the side would have been difficult to explain. I don’t suppose the chief spooks encourage that sort of sideline.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘If Wachter had half a brain, he’d have known deep down what Radnor’s real job was. There was certainly no way any ordinary Brit could make trips to East Germany at that time. Wachter might have even let slip that he knew, just to ratchet up the pressure to get him out. Radnor would have had no other choice, because if Wachter got caught by the East Germans, he would have blown Radnor’s cover, anyway.’ He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sighed. ‘Or are we moving too fast, here? This could be so wide of the mark.’

  ‘Go with your instincts,’ suggested Riley. She hadn’t known Palmer seriously express doubts before. He tended to cast them aside and go for direct action.

  Before he could answer, his phone rang. It was Donald Brask. Palmer listened carefully for a minute or two, scribbling in his notepad, then thanked Donald and hung up.

  ‘Your visitor was using a hire car,’ he said shortly. ‘Registered to an executive rental company near Heathrow. Donald did some extra digging. The vehicle was hired for a minimum of three days by a woman named Fraser. She lives overseas but is registered at a hotel near Windsor. The driver was a local hire. His licence checked out clean.’ He looked up. ‘Described as tall and black, with dreadlocks.’

  ‘It’s him. But what does that tell us?’ asked Riley.

  ‘Only that there’s no obvious connection between them and Radnor.’ Palmer looked mystified and added darkly: ‘apart from us, that is. I need to take a closer look at the office.’

  ‘I doubt that will help. I didn’t see anything that would be a clue… unless you can figure out why a woman named Fraser from overseas would water your pot plant for you.’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘Not my office. I meant the one in Harrow.’

  In a warehouse on a small commercial estate to the west of London’s main sprawl, the man called Michael stood by a newly-arrived consignment of wooden crates and sipped from a bottle of mineral water. He had just arrived to help Radnor go through the shipment, and report on something he had discovered.

  ‘Palmer and the Gavin woman are being watched,’ he told him. ‘An old woman and a black. The black has long hair, braided like a girl.’

  Radnor sniffed with distaste. ‘They’re called dreadlocks. So?’

  ‘He was chased from Gavin’s house by Palmer, but he got away.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Arthur Radnor stared at his mobile phone, which he’d been using before Michael arrived. ‘Maybe an old pigeon come home to roost.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Old enemies, perhaps. I had a contact in the police look at Palmer. A while ago, he was suspected of being involved in the death of a London gangster in Malaga. More recently, he was close by when two men, one an American, died in a vehicle fire. The American was a bogus priest heading a ring of blackmailers. He targeted runaway kids, dug up some dirt, and blackmailed the parents. If they didn’t pay, he killed the kids. The report suggested he was probably alive when he burned.’

  Michael shrugged and stubbed his toe against one of the crates, which had been coated in heavy green paint. ‘Sounds as if he had it coming.’

  ‘Possibly. But on both occasions Palmer was working with the Gavin woman. It means Palmer’s no pushover, and the woman is clearly no shrinking violet.’ He gave a grunt of irritation
. ‘I don’t like it. They’re professionals and plainly not frightened off easily. If they come after us, it could ruin everything.’

  ‘You worry too much. I have it under control.’

  Radnor wondered if he did, and felt a twinge of unease. After a lifetime in the deception game, he had developed a mental antennae tuned to signs of danger. Occasionally, the threats had been unfounded. But there had been too many times when he had listened to good effect, and he wasn’t about to dismiss the warning signs now. He was still trying to come to terms with the potential implications of having the police swarming all over the building in Harrow, investigating Gillivray’s death. It wouldn’t take much for them to wonder about the other occupants, and to scratch beneath the surface, which was something he wished to avoid. The Azimtec paperwork and cover were perfectly good, and would withstand most cursory inspections. But experience told him that even with the best operations, there was always a chink somewhere. Michael, true to form, appeared oblivious to the results of his actions, and seemed merely intrigued by unfolding events, as a meteorologist might be curious about the movement of air.

  ‘We can’t afford to brush this off too easily,’ Radnor said finally, making a decision. ‘Palmer could be trouble, directly or indirectly.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘We should move. Another base, away from Harrow. Let the dust settle. In the meantime, the black and the woman watching Palmer might be a useful smoke screen to keep his attention diverted.’

  ‘What if they aren’t? What if Palmer and his friend get in our way?’

  ‘That’s your job. Make sure they don’t.’

  Chapter 17

  From the inside of Riley’s Golf next morning, parked in the same spot Palmer had used on his first survey of the office block, they sat and watched as a procession of police and forensics personnel buzzed around the area. Whatever commercial activity normally went on inside the building appeared to have been suspended, as there was little sign of the usual ebb and flow of corporate visitors or staff, and one or two arrivals were clearly put off by seeing a uniform at the door.

  They watched Nobby do a brief tour of the outside, carefully avoiding a taped-off area to one side of the building where the police activity seemed to be focussed. From the concentration and position of the forensics team, Gillivray had fallen from a side window, landing close to the building in dead ground just outside their view.

  ‘Odd place to jump from,’ said Riley.

  Palmer nodded and studied the building through a small pair of binoculars. ‘Especially since the windows don’t look that big. No way you’d fall out of there by accident.’

  ‘So you’re thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Somebody helped him out.’ Palmer chewed his lip and put the binoculars away.

  A police constable left the car park and strolled along the street towards them, inspecting vehicles. He spoke occasionally into his radio, no doubt passing on registration details for vehicle checks. Riley sank down in her seat.

  ‘If he comes close, I’m not going to snog you, Palmer,’ she warned.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Palmer murmured.

  Just as they thought they were going to be spotted, the constable stopped barely thirty yards away and listened to his radio, then turned and hurried back to the building.

  Riley looked at Palmer. ‘Go on — you’re relieved, aren’t you?’ she accused him. Then she sat up as the rear door of the building opened and the familiar figures of Radnor and Michael appeared. They were carrying briefcases and coats, and headed towards a cab which had pulled into the rear car park.

  ‘Stroke of luck,’ said Palmer. ‘While the cats are away…’

  ‘You’re not saying we go in there now?’ Riley checked to see if he was serious. ‘The police are all over the place.’

  ‘It’s the best time.’ He opened his door. ‘The world doesn’t stop just because one of its low-lifes has taken a one-way ticket to the Great Beyond.’ He picked up a leather dossier case on the way out of the car, and Riley scrambled after him, holding a plain, black briefcase she had been given as a present several years ago but rarely used.

  They were stopped at the front entrance by a uniformed officer. ‘Can I ask what your business is, please?’ he queried.

  Riley showed him her business card and told him they had an appointment with Azimtec on the first floor. Hopefully, he was unaware that its two main members had just left by the rear door. He studied them both for a moment, then nodded and stood aside.

  They approached the desk where Nobby sat waiting, barely managing to control a faintly bewildered expression at their arrival. Across the foyer stood two men in suits, talking quietly. They bore the distinct air of police officers, but didn’t look at the newcomers.

  ‘Sir. Miss,’ said Nobby, standing up and assuming a non-committal expression. ‘Sign the book, please?’ He pushed the visitor’s book towards them, followed by two badges. This time Riley filled in the spaces using their own names, as the chances of being stopped and asked for ID were too strong. This time they had decided to go in under cover of Riley doing a speculative piece about art imports from the former Soviet Bloc, with Palmer stringing along as an advisor. It might not fool anyone for long, but since it involved half-truths and would be impossible to disprove, it was as good a story as any.

  ‘You know where to go,’ said Nobby, for the benefit of the police, before sitting back down and picking up his paper. Clearly, said his body language, nothing unusual was going on here. As if to reflect that, the two men turned and walked towards the rear of the building, one of them holding a set of building plans.

  Riley suddenly had a thought and leaned across the desk. ‘Can you contact Jimmy and ask him a question for me?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Ask him if he ever saw a tall black man with dreadlocks going up to the first floor, or if he ever knew of Azimtec employing a driver who was black?’

  Nobby nodded and reached for the phone, adding, ‘The police have been through the building interviewing everyone. They did Azimtec half an hour ago.’

  Riley smiled her thanks and followed Palmer, who was on his way past the lifts and up the stairs, fingering the badge clipped to his lapel. He flashed the back of it to Riley. Behind the badge was taped a key. Once they were out of sight of the security cameras by the lifts, he ripped it off and headed for the solid wooden door of Azimtec Trading.

  Seconds later they were inside, listening to the silence of an empty office and, from outside, the hum of traffic in the street and the muted sound of voices from the forensic team. Palmer locked the door.

  According to Jimmy Gough, who had phoned earlier, they had just over an hour before the accountant arrived for his stint. Nobby had told him that a taxi had been ordered to take Radnor and Michael to the airport, and that he believed the two men were on their way to Glasgow for the day, having overheard them discussing flight details.

  Palmer stood still as if absorbing the atmosphere around him, then slipped the key into his pocket and pulled on some thin rubber gloves.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Riley.

  ‘Not sure yet. Don’t touch anything. Just use your eyes. If you see anything interesting, let me move it and you remember its position.’

  They were standing in an area approximately twenty feet by twenty feet square. Although it was in the same position as the one they had seen on the sixth floor, it held no reception counter and no chairs. Thinly carpeted, it contained only a plain desk against one wall, and a side table holding a single telephone. There were no pictures on the walls, no signs leading to other offices and no indication that it ever served to welcome visitors.

  ‘Friendly atmosphere,’ muttered Palmer. He nodded towards a door to their right. ‘This way.’ It opened onto a bare, uncarpeted corridor. The first door on the left was to an office containing a desk, wastebasket and a small cupboard. It smelled unused, with a thin la
yer of dust over everything. It was the same with the next room and the next, each roughly ten by ten and intended for single use.

  They retraced their steps to a door on the opposite side of the foyer. This opened into a well-appointed office, with decent carpeting, pleasant décor and comfortable furniture. A large desk in the centre of the room was blank save for a telephone, a wire correspondence tray, a small clock and a blotting pad. A bookcase stood against one wall, the shelves lined with a selection of volumes interspersed with statuettes and some glassware. A small fridge stood in one corner next to a table holding some glasses and a bottle of mineral water.

  Palmer tried the desk drawers. They were unlocked and full of office desk clutter from notepads and paper to paperclips, spare pens and personal detritus. He was about to flick through them when he noticed the way in which the contents were so evenly scattered. Everything looked just a little too casual, too neat, as if it had been set up to look like a million other desk drawers. Yet it wasn’t.

  He carefully closed the drawers and moved over to the bookcase, where Riley was using a pen to shuffle aside each book, checking for items in between. They were standard office tomes on company law, administration and accounting, all too old to be of current use and plainly bought by the yard. But one looked out of place, with a glossy cover and cantered at an angle to fit into the shelf space. Palmer took it down. It was a hardback edition of ‘A Guide to Russian Imperial Art’, and looked well thumbed, with yellow Post-it notes protruding from the edges of the pages.

  He flicked through it. The notes highlighted an array of icons, portraits, glassware, gold and silver, all elaborately decorated and set against a backdrop of display cases lined with plush material to highlight the rich colours. One or two pages had neat notations in the margins, although they were in Russian and Palmer couldn’t read them.

  Close to the back, he found two slips of paper. One could have been a shopping list, containing references to page numbers in the book. The other was smaller and heavy in texture, with a glossy feel. It had jagged edges, as if torn from another, larger piece. He slipped this into his pocket, and replaced the book exactly as he had found it.