Chapter 17
The Boothe-Davisons lived in a converted Regency town house just off Portland Place, midway between the BBC and Regent’s Park. Riley spotted Palmer waiting for her in the doorway to a smart building, calmly ignoring the looks of disapproval from two elderly tenants keeping guard over a small Cairn terrier sniffing nervously at a nearby lamppost.
‘Sorry to spring this on you,’ he said cheerfully, taking a last drag of a cigarette before flipping it into the gutter. ‘I blagged the address from Donald. I thought it might be useful to have a chat.’
‘Why do you need me?’ asked Riley. ‘You think I have some sort of secret power over Air Commodores?’
‘It’s not him I’m worried about; it’s his missus. She’s a bit touchy. She didn’t want to put me through at first until I mentioned I knew her husband from our time in the services. Said they didn’t want to talk about their daughter, because it’s all too unsettling.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you believe these people? Kid gone AWOL on the street and she doesn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Could be she’s strung up on something from her doctor. What do you want me to do — distract her while you talk to the husband?’
‘Sounds like a plan. I might get more out of him reminiscing about old times without her running interference.’ He turned and led the way through the front door and into a small lift, where they joined an elderly lady with pink hair and a tiny, aggressive dog with bug eyes and a fancy collar. Neither the lady nor the dog acknowledged Palmer, although the dog sniffed at Riley’s shoes before backing away with a quiver of alarm and a show of teeth. Round one to the cat, thought Riley. Extra food for you tonight, puss.
The lift stopped and Palmer followed his nose along a carpeted and marble-lined corridor to an impressive, gleaming door with a small bell push. He thumbed the button and waited.
‘Yes?’ The door opened to reveal a tall, hawk-nosed man in his fifties, wearing a crisp shirt and cardigan. He was holding a small watering can. He stared out at Palmer with a look of suspicion, a trickle of water dribbling out of the can’s spout onto the floor.
Riley stared in surprise, but managed to close her mouth in time. It was the man she had seen at the function at Broadcote Hall — the one with the sceptical expression and the dewy-eyed wife. She looked at Palmer to warn him, but couldn’t catch his eye.
‘Are you selling something?’ the man demanded. Then he peered closer at Palmer. ‘I know you. You were army, weren’t you?’ He snapped his fingers, recognition and the beginnings of acceptance coming together. ‘Of course… you rang earlier. The chap from the Salisbury ranges.’
Palmer nodded and confirmed that he had left the army and was now a private investigator. The former officer shook hands, but without any great show of enthusiasm.
‘It’s Angelina we’ve come to talk about,’ continued Palmer, and nodded towards Riley. ‘This is my colleague, Riley Gavin.’ He produced the poster, holding it up so the man could see the photo. ‘We’re looking into other disappearances which might tie in with your daughter’s.’
‘Really? How?’
‘We’re not sure yet. But she isn’t the first, and if we can establish a pattern, it might help us find out what happened.’
‘Who is it?’ A thin, reedy voice echoed down the hallway behind the former Air Commodore, and he shook his head in irritation.
‘It’s that chap Palmer, dear,’ he muttered, giving Riley a brief nod without any sign of recognition. ‘And a colleague. You’d better come in.’ He turned and led the way through to a spacious living room decorated with military prints and a large, Constable-style landscape, and indicated two armchairs for the visitors. He put the watering can down on the floor and stood by the window with his back to a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a rear garden. ‘Sorry about the chilly reception. We’ve been plagued by sales bods recently. Slick buggers can talk their way inside an elephant’s arse — oh, sorry, young lady.’
‘Well, who is it?’ The owner of the voice swept into the room and stopped short, staring at Palmer and Riley as if they had materialised out of the carpet. She wore a plain but expensive dress and court shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun pierced through with a tortoiseshell slide. Riley instantly thought of women who lunch. It was the dewy-eyed wife from the function. ‘Oh.’
‘They’ve come about Angelina,’ the man explained flatly. ‘D’you want a drink?’ He might have been unenthusiastic about their visit, but plainly wasn’t about to overlook the common courtesies.
‘Tea would be nice,’ said Palmer, smiling at Mrs Boothe-Davison and offering his hand. She took it with a look of surprise, and backed away out of the room. Seconds later they heard the sound of crockery being assembled. Riley tried not to smile. It was a neat move; get the woman out of the way so he could talk directly to the girl’s father.
‘You obviously haven’t found any trace of her, then.’ Boothe-Davison stared hard at Palmer and wiped his nose on a chequered handkerchief, then turned towards Riley. ‘Sorry if I seem matter-of-fact about this, but we’ve had a rough time. All this waiting. Can’t help being cynical, you see.’
‘About what?’ said Riley. She had debated going into the kitchen with Mrs Boothe-Davison, but this line of talk looked far more productive. If the man became difficult, she could always take his wife outside on the balcony and threaten to throw her over.
‘Where she is… what she’s doing.’ He looked at Riley. ‘You ever had anybody go missing? It’s not pretty, I promise you. Bad enough they walk away, without charlatans coming out of the woodwork to feed off your hopes.’
‘Charlatans?’
‘People promising to find them.’ He blinked with a faint sign of recognition. ‘I’ve seen you before, young lady. You in the forces as well?’
‘No,’ said Riley. ‘We almost met a few days ago. Broadcote Hall?’ She waited while the name registered. When it did, he snapped her a second look, this one less friendly. ‘But I’m nothing to do with the Church,’ she added quickly, before he ordered her to leave. ‘I was looking for a friend of mine.’
He nodded and relaxed, then blinked at Palmer. ‘Will you find her, do you think?’
‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Palmer carefully. ‘I’ll certainly try. I’ll need a briefing first.’
The terminology seemed to help. ‘Good man. Ah, here’s the tea.’ He watched as his wife entered with a large tray and poured tea, then everyone sat down. ‘All right, what do you want to know?’
‘Why did Angelina leave?’ Riley asked. She was looking at the woman as she spoke.
Mrs Boothe-Davison hesitated momentarily, glancing at her husband before answering. Riley guessed there had been a discussion before their arrival, and she had been snapped into line. ‘Arguments, mostly,’ she said. ‘About all sorts of silly things. Everything was a trial, you see, to be fought over. We wanted her to go to boarding school, but she wanted to stay on in London, at the local school. She wasn’t getting on academically. We felt her school was allowing her to coast. She’s always been a bit airy-fairy, unfortunately, keen on doing her own thing. There was also a bad element… into drugs and all that stuff. She seemed to gravitate towards them. We wanted to take her away from that.’
‘Kids that age are rebellious,’ her husband put in, his voice showing signs of softening. ‘They push the envelope… it’s part of growing up. Not that we were allowed to in my day. But we — my wife and I — tried to move with the times and relax the reins a bit. It didn’t seem to work. We had her late in life, you see, what with all the travelling. Foreign postings aren’t the best places to bring up kids. Maybe that’s part of the problem. We’d give anything to have her back.’ He looked at them with a faint mistiness in his eyes and shook his head. ‘Anything.’
‘What about the poster?’ said Riley. ‘Who arranged that?’
Boothe-Davison looked at his wife and made a gesture. It was clearly something she had done, possibly without his agreement.