The desk drawers yielded the usual household items; bank statements, old bills, photos, a few assorted batteries and a bunch of pens and pencils held together with an elastic band. Judging by the hotel names, Henry liked to collect souvenirs on his travels. In the bottom drawer she found a small stack of pamphlets showing a traditional biblical scene of fishermen in the Holy Land staring up at a ray of light coming from the heavens. The picture was topped by heavy lettering in black and gold, with the now familiar words: THE CHURCH OF FLOWING LIGHT. WELCOME ALL WHO ARE UNLOVED, AND ENTER HERE.
Behind these were some old leaflets announcing a fete in support of funds to set up a drop-in centre in Southampton. It was dated two years ago. Next to it was a stack of envelopes with the same title on the back flap, and underneath these was a box of lapel badges with the name of the church in neat, gold lettering. On the very bottom was a photograph of a group of grinning youngsters standing round a picnic table. They looked self-conscious and awkward, and one or two had even turned away or raised their hands in protest. The shots were slightly blurred and grainy, as if they had been taken from a film or video reel. In the background Henry was grinning and holding aloft a sandwich and a glass of drink. He looked as if he was the only one happy to be caught on camera.
There was no indication on the reverse side of where or when it had been taken. From the clothing of the subjects, Riley guessed it could have been any time in the last five years. She peered closely at Henry, but he looked no different from when she had last seen him — tall and gaunt and somehow effortlessly comfortable.
Riley took one of the leaflets and the photo, then checked through the bookcases. Henry’s library seemed to be big on biographies. She couldn’t tell if they had been read or were simply for shelf yardage. He also seemed to have a keen interest in company information, with an extensive collection of business directories covering the UK and Europe, and a carefully stacked section of business magazines such as Fortune, Business Week and several volumes of Who’s Who.
On the side table holding the small television and VCR were three video cases. Two ere full, one was empty. On the spine of each were titles in Henry’s spidery hand, proving he was a Newsnight and Panorama fan.
She couldn’t see anything which helped and went back into the lobby just as Palmer was coming downstairs. He looked as cool as always, but she knew he would have been thorough, ignoring the dross and inspecting anything that seemed promising.
‘Nothing up there,’ he said. ‘If I was a betting man, I’d say the place has been sanitised.’
‘Any guesses?’
‘About how she died?’ He shrugged. ‘She must have disturbed them when she came round to feed the cat. There’s some bruising around the mouth, but that’s all. She couldn’t have put up much of a struggle.’
Riley showed Palmer the pamphlet and the photo of Henry. ‘It looks like he’s a fully paid-up member of the Church after all.’
He nodded and checked the cloakroom, expertly flicking through coats and jackets and humming softly while he did it. He found a slip of paper and handed it to Riley. It carried a familiar phone number and name: Donald Brask.
‘He went out without his coat.’ Beneath the coats was a small padded case, the kind used for carrying a laptop. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. ‘Did you see a laptop anywhere?’
‘No. But there’s a power lead on the desk.’
‘Point one for the killer. He — or they — probably came here for the same reason we did and picked it up on the way out.’
‘Why not take the case?’
‘Less obvious…easier to hide a laptop under a coat…couldn’t be bothered. Maybe they panicked.’
Riley stepped across to the front door, where the white envelope she had seen from the outside was hanging from the letterbox. It was junk mail. She looked around; there were no other envelopes in evidence, which meant either the old lady had moved any recent mail or the killer had taken it.
As she moved away from the door, she heard the crunch of gravel outside. She peered through the side window. A police patrol car had pulled up in the driveway.
Chapter 15
They reacted simultaneously, grabbing their clipboards and running for the back door. For whatever reason the police were here, Riley guessed they weren’t collecting for the Annual Policeman’s Ball. They had been tipped off, possibly by the old lady’s killer.
Palmer led the way down the garden and over a fence, showing a surprising turn of speed. They ducked beneath some ancient apple trees and walked down a narrow path between two properties, out onto another street lined with trees and cars.
‘Someone,’ breathed Palmer, when they were safely back in the car and heading south, ‘knew we were there.’
Riley nodded. Either that or another nosy neighbour had seen them. ‘I vote we take a look at the Church. Soon.’
‘Seconded and unanimous.’
By the time Riley dropped Palmer off at his car and made her way back home, the light was fading and traffic was heavy. If anyone was following her, it was going to be virtually impossible to spot them. And the fact that she now couldn’t see any sign of a white van didn’t mean the men inside hadn’t changed vehicles.
When she opened the front door, she discovered a folded wad of newspaper pushed through her letterbox. She was about to toss it in the bin in the hall when she noticed someone had scrawled a vivid red circle on the outer sheet. She unfolded the wad and saw there were two separate cuttings: one a single paragraph about a woman’s body found along the Embankment near Chelsea, the other a report by Nikki Bruce, the same author of the previous report Riley had read about dead runaways. Both cuttings were from the early editions of the Post.
The report on the woman mentioned only that the body wore a crucifix and a bracelet and that the police were investigating. There was no mention of the victim’s name. The Nikki Bruce piece was on a different subject and more informative.
A further addition to the street mortality statistics was revealed today when photo shop manager, George Poustalis, 56, arrived at his premises just off Piccadilly and discovered the body of a young man beside a nearby builders’ skip. There were no indications of the youth’s identity, but police put his age at approximately 18 years. It is thought the youth may have been one of the regular homeless sleepers living rough in what is arguably one of the capital’s most exclusive postcodes. A post-mortem is expected to reveal that the death is drugs-related, although an officer at the scene suggested there were signs that the victim had died of choking. The death is not thought to be suspicious in nature. This now brings to eight the number of deaths of street sleepers in the capital, most of which appear drugs-related. Local drugs counsellors working with the homeless community have confirmed that contaminated drugs are circulating and are warning users against taking further risks by buying supplies from unfamiliar sources.
Riley went upstairs and peered out of the front window, wondering who had left this for her. Other than the usual street traffic there was nobody in sight. If someone was out there waiting for a reaction, they clearly weren’t standing out in the open to advertise their presence.
She read both cuttings through again, feeling a prickle of discomfort. Why had somebody chosen to push these cuttings through the door? Was this meant as some kind of pointer about what had finally happened to Katie? Had her death down by the river after all these years been simply as a victim of a drug her body had been unable to withstand?
Riley didn’t think so. The Katie she had known of, had shown no interest in drugs. Her parents had sworn it, her closest friends had confirmed it and there had been no indications in her room of a leaning towards the temptations of narcotics or alcohol. Even ten years ago, there were some 15-year old kids who already knew their own minds and what they would or wouldn’t touch.