No Help For The Dying rgafp-2 Read online

  Right now, though, all she was interested in was sinking a strong flat white while trying to shake off all thoughts of John Mitcheson. Forced to stay out of the country by the threat of possible arrest because of his unwitting ties to a criminal gang, his message had capped a long line of other missed calls, abandoned dates and clinical emails with all the romantic appeal of a wet flannel. So much for enforced separation, she thought. She dumped a portion of brown sugar in the mug and stirred it with feeling. What was it they always said — absence makes the heart grown fonder?

  ‘My eye,’ she muttered out loud, and glared at a man in a suit at the next table, who looked startled by the comment.

  To help with the process of Mitcheson-banishing, she scoured the newspapers for reports of crime in any hotels near Heathrow. It didn’t take long. If an assault had happened, it evidently hadn’t been gory enough to make the early editions. She wasn’t sure if events at Heathrow would make the London evening papers, but it was worth checking, even if only to confirm that her description wasn’t splashed across the front pages as a suspect. She was almost into the sports sections and giving up when something about the Scandair made her stop and think: amid the uniforms and the woken guests and the obvious police presence, there had been no evidence of paramedics or an ambulance. Which was odd. Given a body or a serious injury — and the blood she’d seen indicated the latter — most people would summon an ambulance before they called the police. Unless, of course, there was no body.

  She went through the papers again, page by page. What Heathrow lacked in mayhem, the capital had more than made up for. A suspected arson attack on a house in Acton had claimed a trio of asylum seekers from Iran; a drive-by shooting which had killed two and wounded five was being put down to a resurgence of Jamaican Yardie activities in north London and Birmingham; two pensioners had managed to simultaneously beat each other to death over an offending Leylandii hedge, a new drugs turf war was warming up in the East End and another young rough sleeper had been found dead in central London. With no obvious attempt at irony, the report suggested the dead teenager was a victim of contaminated drugs.

  With half her mind busy trying to figure out what to do next, Riley allowed herself to be drawn into the story. Not that it was anything truly fresh. The author of the report reminded readers with dramatic over-statement that the number of young street sleepers who had died in the past three months stood at seven. Most, like this last one, were thought to have been due to drugs use rather than deliberate or suspicious causes, although it was evidently of sufficiently low interest not to have been thought worthwhile including any further details. Rough sleepers died all the time, was the cool tone; it was a high-mortality lifestyle, and if the cold, disease or drugs didn’t get them, some other faceless monster in the dark with no conscience would. In other words, what could you expect? The thumbnail photo accompanying the reporter’s name showed a fresh-faced brunette with a winning smile. Her name was Nikki Bruce.

  Riley studied the photo with a vaguely professional interest. Not a bad shot if it was recent. But she didn’t look the sort to go trawling the streets in search of a good story. She wondered cynically if Nikki Bruce had actually stepped outside her office to cover this one or whether she’d done it over the phone.

  She put the newspaper to one side and tried Henry’s phone again, but it had either been switched off or the battery was dead. Next she rang Donald.

  Her agent listened in silence as she related the morning’s events, but she could feel his excitement down the phone. If there was one thing that warmed his wires more than gossip, it was the sound of a good mystery. Mysteries meant news; reporting them and exposing any criminal activity involved led to repeat fees.

  ‘Stunning, sweetie,’ he purred. ‘I just love the idea of you vamping around hotel corridors with mussed hair and an ice bucket, being chased by strapping policemen. I didn’t realise you had such hidden depths.’

  ‘Stop it, Donald,’ she chided. ‘One day your imagination will get you into trouble.’

  ‘If only, dear heart. Now, what do you need from me?’ He was back to business, the complete professional.

  ‘I need to know who Henry was working for. I could ring round, but it would take me ages. Someone might know what he was working on. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment.’

  ‘So you don’t think he was… umm…’ Donald hesitated diplomatically.

  ‘Drunk? On drugs? Search me. But I doubt it. He sounded — I don’t know — strange. Stressed.’ Which, if the sign of blood had been any indication, she thought, he had every right to be.

  ‘All right. I’ll check. I’ll also see if I can pick up any gossip from the Met. Call you back.’

  While she waited, Riley had another coffee. She had almost finished when Donald called back. ‘Pearcy’s current registered work is with an international agency here in town. Showbiz stuff, mainly, for the glossies, looking for anything juicy. Tits, bums and black eyes, mostly.’

  ‘What does Henry do there?’

  ‘Odds and sods. Editing, by the sound of it, but nothing major, and nothing outside. Sounds as if he’s at the end of the track, career-wise.’ Donald gave her the number of the agency and Riley cut the call and re-dialled.

  ‘Sorry — who?’ The voice that answered sounded young, female and bored.

  ‘Henry Pearcy,’ Riley repeated carefully. ‘Guy in his sixties… sad face?’ She struggled to think of anything else recognisable about Henry. ‘Oh — and a fruity voice.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the girl muttered, and Riley was left listening to something classical while the girl probably took a tour round the office, had a coffee and came back to say something like, ‘No dice.’

  Riley re-folded the used newspapers and slid them onto the next table. Somebody else with time to kill would find them useful. As she leaned across, she noticed a sheet of paper on one of the chairs. She picked it up and read it, wondering how many such items she’d seen over the years.

  It was a missing persons flyer. Like the death of the street-sleepers she had just read about, it was a reflection of the times. The flyer was a standard A4 sheet with a six-by-six black-and-white portrait and heavy block lettering underneath. The photo was of a sullen looking girl with a mass of hair and a down-turned mouth. Maybe the original snap had been taken by someone she didn’t much like. The text underneath was simple and depressingly familiar.

  MISSING: ANGELINA (ANGEL) BOOTHE-DAVISON — 15 — 5’6’ — 110LBs — BLONDE HAIR, BLUE EYES, PALE SKIN. LAST SEEN MARBLE ARCH ON 15TH FEBRUARY. THOUGHT TO BE SLEEPING ROUGH IN AREA. IF SEEN, PLEASE CONTACT:

  There was a contact number but no name. Riley wondered how many Angelina Boothe-Davisons were currently lurking in the capital, favouring an existence on the streets rather than the alternative of living at whatever passed for home.

  It reminded her of the posters distributed following Katie Pyle’s disappearance, and one of the reasons Riley was drawn to reading them; not because she thought it might help, and certainly not after all this time, but because it was something she shared with others, albeit from a distance.

  The paper was cheap, all-purpose stock, and the text composition basic and heavy, designed solely to draw attention. Since most of these flyers ended up on the floor, anyway, or torn down and discarded by disgruntled and uncaring locals, quality wasn’t a consideration.

  The operator returned and announced without enthusiasm, ‘Sorry. Nobody of that name here.’

  ‘There has to be.’ The words were out before she could stop them, fuelled by puzzlement and a tinge of anger at the girl’s lack of conscience or interest. This was insane. Donald didn’t get his facts wrong, and if he said Henry worked for this agency, then it was cast-iron solid.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry. I did check, you know.’ The response was sharp and resentful, the ‘sorry’ a verbal parry in place of a genuine apology, like a child caught out for not doing her homework. Then there was a mutter
of voices before a male voice came on the line.

  ‘Can I help you? My name’s Murdoch — I’m the office manager here.’

  Riley repeated her request. ‘I’ve been assured he works for you, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, ‘but your assistant doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Murdoch tiredly. ‘She’s a temp. Thinks fame is a birthright and probably wants to be an actress or model by the time she’s eighteen.’ He paused, then said: ‘I’m sorry, but you’re out of luck. Henry did work here, but not for two weeks now. He didn’t turn up for work one day. We’ve tried contacting him, but without luck. Nobody’s seen him. If you speak to him, ask him to get in touch, would you?’

  Chapter 6

  Murdoch hung up without saying goodbye and Riley felt the air contracting around her. This was getting odder by the minute. Odd that Henry had specifically said he was on his way to a rush job, which was the kind of terminology someone would use to a colleague. Former colleague.

  She checked with a couple of directory enquiry agencies to see if Henry had a separate home phone listed. With a bit of luck he had a private number. But both enquiries turned up a blank. No surprise there. Next she rang Donald and asked him to repeat Henry’s address, which she wrote down on the back of the missing person flyer.

  Number 12, Eastcote Way proved to be a detached Georgian house in a quiet street just a stone’s throw from Pinner Station. The building seemed in danger of being consumed beneath a tangled mass of dying ivy, although the leaf-strewn gardens were mature and neat, enclosed by weathered fencing and a growth of spiky greenery. Riley tried to recall if Henry had mentioned a wife, but the information wouldn’t come. Perhaps he employed a gardener instead.

  She left her car along the street and crunched up a gravelled drive, where twin ruts showed the regular passage of a vehicle leading from a garage set on one side of the house. The twin green doors needed painting, as did the front door of the house, but here, even age seemed to have its place, adding to the feel of solid comfort and prosperity. She found a doorbell and thumbed the button.

  If it rang she didn’t hear it. She gave it another ten seconds before pressing again. Still nothing. She turned and surveyed the road outside the gate, and the houses either side with their tastefully netted windows. Suburbia at rest. Although not without eyes, she guessed. She looked at her watch in the manner of someone having an appointment and puzzled by the lack of response.

  Riley wandered casually over to the garage and tugged at one of the doors. It opened a fraction and revealed an empty space, save for a metal tray in the centre of the floor and a workbench against the back wall. The air smelled musty and oily, and by the amount of black sludge sitting in the tray, whatever he drove leaked like an old sieve. If Henry had come and gone recently, it was without leaving any wet tyre tracks.

  A gravel path ran from the garage to the side of the house. She pushed through a wrought-iron gate heavy with snakes of dried honeysuckle and found herself in a garden only marginally smaller than Hyde Park. Well, since Riley didn’t even possess a window box, it seemed that big to her, anyway. She studied the generous sweep of neat lawns and borders, now with little in the way of colour, and the selection of spindly cherry trees, and wondered how Henry Pearcy had managed to hang onto this house if his career was going so badly.

  The gravel path continued across the rear of the house, skirting a patio tinged green with moss. Against the wall stood a wrought-iron table with a glass top and four matching chairs. The glass was puddled with rainwater, the surface stained with dirt and the remnants of dried blossom. A few mouldy leaves clustered forlornly around the feet of the furniture, trapped and waiting for a heavy broom to sweep them free. It resembled an abandoned stage set, and Riley guessed it had been a long time since Henry had last hosted any kind of gathering here.

  A set of French windows stared blankly onto the garden, with a heavy set of lined curtains cutting off any view of the inside. Further along, a small extension jutted out from the main line of the building. This proved to be a kitchen, with a glass-panelled door set in one wall. Riley stepped over and peered through the glass, but all she could see was a standard kitchen: cooker, table, sink, fridge, pot and pans. But no sign of recent activity. She put her hand out to try the door when something made her freeze.

  The glass pane close to the handle was missing.

  She peered through the hole, and saw broken glass glinting back at her from the floor inside.

  Then a voice said: ‘Can I help you?’

  The white van with the darkened windows idled through traffic on the outskirts of Staines, to the south-west of London. The driver was killing time, waiting for instructions. He glanced at the man in the passenger seat, who was fiddling with a mobile phone and humming softly to himself. A bible rested on his knees, the leather covers worn and shiny, and the top of a silver flask protruded from one pocket of his long black coat.

  ‘He’s taking his sweet time,’ the driver muttered, easing around a battered Fiat Uno turning right into a one-way street against the traffic. His accent was American. He stopped right behind the Fiat as the woman driver realised her error and turned to see if she could back out. She was now blocking a surge of oncoming traffic led by an enormous petrol tanker, and with no way back. The driver of the van grinned as the woman became aware that she was completely vulnerable if the tanker driver chose to exercise his right of way. ‘Serves you right, bitch,’ he whispered nastily. ‘Should learn to keep your eyes open.’ He sniggered and looked at his companion who was shaking his head in disapproval. ‘What? Is it my fault she’s stupid?’ He gave a heavy shrug of his shoulders before easing the van forward a few feet.

  The passenger’s phone rang. He answered with a curt: ‘Here.’

  ‘Is it done?’ The voice from the other end was smooth and softly-spoken.

  ‘Yes, it’s done. What next?’

  ‘You’re sure you weren’t seen? I don’t want any repercussions.’

  ‘There won’t be.’ The man looked at the driver and urged him with an impatient gesture to drive on.

  ‘Good. What about the package?’

  ‘We’ve got it.’ He turned and looked behind his seat, where a cloth-covered bundle was laid out on the floor. It had rolled once when the driver had negotiated a roundabout too quickly, but other than that it was stable.

  ‘Fine. If you’ve cleared up any other signs, you’d better get back here. We’ve got a function to prepare for.’

  The passenger opened his mouth to acknowledge the instruction, but the man on the other end had already cut the connection.

  Chapter 7

  It took Riley a massive effort of will not to run. The voice wasn’t Henry’s and the owner wasn’t standing inside the house. She turned and saw a face watching her from over the top of a larch fence adjoining the next property. It belonged to a woman in her late sixties, and from the look she threw Riley, interlopers were watched very carefully around here.

  ‘Mr or Mrs Pearcy,’ Riley called across to her, just to let the woman know she wasn’t spooked. ‘Are they in, do you know?’

  The old woman looked panic-stricken for a moment, as if Riley had spoken in Swahili. Then she drew herself up so her chin was on a level with the fence. ‘There is no Mrs Pearcy,’ she said politely. ‘May I help?’

  Riley stepped over to the fence, moving slowly so as not to alarm the woman. Up close, she saw she had been generous with the years; the woman must have been eighty if she was a day, thin and brittle as an old stick. She was dressed in a faded but once stylish cardigan pulled close around her thin shoulders, and pinned with the sort of silhouette cameo brooch you rarely saw outside antique shops. Behind her, as a complete contrast to Henry’s immaculate garden, lay a profusion of colour and disorder, with a jungle of browned, withered plants and very little grass, mown or otherwise.

  ‘Henry called me,’ Riley explained. ‘We used to be colleagues at the paper. When I trie
d to call him back there was no reply.’ She waited, but when the old woman said nothing, continued: ‘I was told he might be going abroad. I hope it’s not in that old car of his.’

  The mention of the car seemed to act like a password, and the old lady relaxed visibly, although she didn’t move any closer. ‘I’m sorry, young lady,’ she said. ‘I can’t help you. Henry took the Rover out the other day and I haven’t seen him since. I’m keeping an eye on his cat for him, though. First thing in the morning, last thing at night — and I check during the day.’ The last was delivered with a faint hint of warning, as if Riley should take note and pass it on to every cat thief in London and the Home Counties so they would know somebody was on the job.

  It was clear the old lady hadn’t noticed that a pane of glass had been removed from the kitchen door. She was either blind or the break-in had occurred since she last fed the cat.

  Riley thanked her and walked round to the front and back down the drive. There was little point in going inside, even if she could sneak past the neighbourhood watch unit. Whoever had removed the glass must have taken a chance on daylight entry, which meant they’d probably watched the old lady leave before going in. Still, she wondered what they’d been looking for.

  She headed south towards Ruislip and Hayes and dropped down to the A4 Bath Road. Traffic was busy, the usual stop-start build-up to what would be gridlock in a couple of hours. A pass along the front of the Scandair Hotel revealed no obvious police presence, so she doubled back and turned in off the main road, tucking the Golf into a space in the rear car park. She studied the other cars. Most of them were fleet-type vehicles, shiny and uniform, and the sight of a man unloading a flip chart and a couple of briefcases from a Nissan confirmed it was a landing-pad for company meetings and conferences. Riley waited until the man was struggling across the tarmac towards a single swing door in the main building, and caught up with him in time to hold it for him.