Palmer watched his friend disappear through the crowd and felt a tinge of satisfaction. Now he had some names he felt a lot better. Except for one. He reckoned Riley could look after herself, but seeing John Mitcheson on the same list as someone who might have trashed his office wasn’t good news. It meant Mitcheson, barring the most massive possible coincidence, had not contacted Riley Gavin by accident.
A waitress escorted Riley towards the back of the long, narrow restaurant. Most of the diners were couples, with the relaxed air of regular customers. The waitress stopped at a corner table where John Mitcheson was already seated.
He rose and smiled. “Riley. Good to see you again.” He held a chair out for her, eyes brushing over her with an appreciative expression. He looked tanned and fit, and Riley felt other eyes watching them.
“You made it difficult to refuse,” she told him.
They ordered drinks and exchanged pleasantries while studying the menu. The selection was limited but easy to choose from. Riley decided on soup and chicken, and Mitcheson went with her. When their drinks came, they toasted each other and exchanged looks over their glasses.
“So, was it worth coming back for?” Mitcheson asked.
For a moment Riley was lost. Then she remembered the call from Donald Brask that had broken into her holiday. “So far,” she replied cautiously. “More work, is what it was. But maybe I’ll get away somewhere later to make up for it.”
He nodded. “Research, wasn’t that what you said? You never said what kind of research, though.”
Riley had been deliberately vague out of habit, citing details about research for magazines, conducting interviews and building reports for organisations and individuals. It had been close enough to the truth to be sufficient at the time.
“You never said how you managed to get my mobile number,” she countered, to put him off-track.
He pulled a face, looking sheepish. “If I tell you I probably broke the law, will you have me arrested?”
“I might. It depends which law.”
“Well, you know I said I was a security consultant. That’s true. I have a few friends, also in the business, who have… access to various sources of information — phone records being one. I got your home address from the apartment manager in Spain and the rest was easy.” He held up both hands in surrender. “That was all, I promise. I didn't do a credit check or ask if you had a history of impulsive violence towards men.”
“Maybe you should have,” she said. It sounded plausible enough and there plenty of people in her own profession with access to similar sources. It was what made the difference between rumour and hard news.
“So, am I forgiven?” Mitcheson asked.
She shrugged. “I think I can live with it.” It really wasn’t worth getting in a spin about. Anyway, was she really so annoyed, being here? “It’s probably something I’d do myself, if I had to.”
He nodded. “Now that sounds like you might almost be in the same business as me. Or a journalist.” He said it with a smile but suddenly there was a crackle of tension in the air between them. Riley wondered if her response would decide the course of the evening.
“Would that be so bad?” she said. She felt a pulse begin to tick in her throat. Some people immediately put the shutters up when she mentioned what she did, as though they might appear next day splashed in lurid print across the country’s tabloids. Mostly, it turned out, they had something to hide. She wondered if John Mitcheson had any such fears.
He shrugged. “Not at all. Not as bad as if you were, say… something official.”
“Police, you mean? God, give me a break — I haven’t worn black tights since I was at school.”
“Actually, I was thinking Customs and Excise.” He put his glass down and sat back as their soup arrived. He said nothing while the waitress served them. When she walked away, he continued, “The way you handled that squaddie at Gibraltar airport was pretty efficient. Showed a lot of confidence.” He raised his glass and smiled with a show of sheepishness. “Proves how vivid my imagination can be, doesn’t it?”
“Too right,” she replied lightly with a raised eyebrow. “But why would my being in Customs be such a bad thing? Unless you’re a secret drug-runner, of course?”
Chapter 16
For a split second Mitcheson’s smile faltered. He chuckled. “If I was, I’d be taking you to dinner somewhere a bit more exotic than this.”
Riley stared back at him, not sure if the sudden tension in the air was her imagination or not. “I guess so. Why don’t you like Customs and Excise?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, nothing much. Call it professional wariness, if you like. They don’t like private sector security operators for some reason. Probably think we’re all VAT dodgers. So, where are you hoping to take your next holiday?”
The change of subject was smoothly done but left Riley with a sense of unfinished business. “You’re not being evasive, are you?”
He looked at her, spoon hovering above his soup bowl. “I don't think so. Sorry — I have a bit of a grasshopper mind. I’m just curious about you, that’s all. And I’d rather talk about you than me, any day.”
Towards the end of the meal a phone buzzed and Mitcheson reached into an inside pocket and frowned.
“I’m really sorry,” he muttered. “I thought I’d switched this thing off. Would you excuse me?”
He left the table and walked towards the washrooms at the back of the restaurant. Riley felt an odd sense of disappointment, as though he had suddenly confessed to a wife and children somewhere, or had revealed a harmless but unpleasant character trait. She dismissed it. She was being unfair. He probably had meant to switch the phone off, but it had genuinely slipped his mind.
When he returned moments later he was smiling. “I’m sorry about that. I hate it when people do that to me.”
Riley shook her head. “That’s all right. Not bad news, I hope?”
“No. Some business I have to attend to tomorrow.”
Outside the restaurant a breeze skidded along the street, flicking litter against their legs. The sound of crowds and music from Piccadilly floated over the buildings, and one or two pedestrians hurried by, huddled against the chill. Riley shivered and Mitcheson put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you a taxi.”
They reached the corner of the street and were just about to turn up towards Piccadilly when a shadow appeared in front of them. Riley looked up. It was the large man she had nearly bumped into earlier. This time, he held his ground and waited for her and Mitcheson to navigate around him. His eyes swept over them, and she could hear his breath hissing nasally as she stepped past him.
“Sorry,” Mitcheson muttered, and guided Riley with a firm hand, placing himself between her and the big man.
As they left him behind, she commented: “Amazing how often that happens.”
“Mm?” Mitcheson’s mind seemed far away as he glanced back towards the corner.
“Seeing the same person twice on the same day.” She explained about seeing the big man on her way to the restaurant.
When she glanced up she could see the muscles in Mitcheson’s jaw working. He spotted a taxi and whistled.
“Sorry, Riley,” he said. “I have to go. Business calls. Can I ring you in a day or two?”
“Yes, all right. But why don’t we share this taxi?”
He shook his head. “Can’t, I’m afraid. It’ll be quicker for me to take the underground. You go ahead.”
“All right. Thank you for this evening.”
He smiled briefly and opened the cab door for her. She’d barely climbed in when he waved and turned away as though distracted. She looked back to see him striding back towards the corner of Jermyn Street. The underground was in the opposite direction.