The van turned several times, and Palmer opened his eyes. He was lying down once more, dribbling onto the seat. He must have fallen asleep again. He got a vague impression of houses and shops, and he reasoned sluggishly that they were no longer on the motorway. Then the vehicle slowed and went over a bump, and he felt a strong hand tighten on his arm to stop him toppling off the seat. It seemed to release a surge of clarity into his brain, and his thoughts swam and became momentarily more lucid. He’d been drugged. Like a lemon in some cheap Portsmouth boozer. He shook his head, trying to brush away the fog and find clear air on the other side. Riley was going to be so pissed off at him for getting caught like this.
Then he remembered she’d been caught too, once. Only he and — what was that bloke’s name? — Mitcheson, had galloped to her rescue like knights in rusty armour-for-hire. But she hadn’t really needed rescuing, had she? She’d kicked seven kinds of piss out of that McManus bloke and would’ve chucked him down the hole if Mitcheson hadn’t got there and done it first. Or had he? Shite, he thought, I feel sick…
He held his breath and concentrated, remembering an airport — somewhere hot this time. He’d been lolling about on legs like spaghetti, feeling unbearably heavy and unable to control his movements. Somewhere along the way he recalled being sick down his front. No one had bothered cleaning him up, and when he’d tried wiping the mess off his chest, his hands had been slapped away. After a while he’d almost got used to the smell.
Along the way, under strong overhead lights, someone had asked if he was fit to travel. No, he’d wanted to shout out… I’m not fit. I’m sick and carrying more narcotics than a Boots delivery truck, for Christ’s sake..!
But nobody had been listening. He’d been manhandled up a set of narrow steps and strapped into a seat. Alongside him was a long metal box fixed by brackets and straps to the floor. He wondered who’d got the cheap seat. Then someone fed him some liquid through a straw and he was sick again. Soiled and uncomfortable, and with a vague sense of shame settling on him, he’d gone back to sleep, feeling the floor lifting beneath him and the pressure building in his ears.
He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and huddled in on himself, eyes tight shut. That was better; the nausea was receding. Still bloody hot, though. Couldn’t figure out why. He was surprised to find he was no longer trussed up like a Norfolk turkey. He sighed and flexed his fingers in his pockets, remembering some distant lesson in a tin hut somewhere about examining extremities to gain awareness in times of disorientation. Jesus, he was so fucking disorientated, he couldn’t even recall what his extremities were. But the movement made him remember something more recent. It tugged at his consciousness and slipped away, a ghostly thought, then came back through the fog, gaining clarity. That other bloke, Mitcheson, had been helping load him into the Land Cruiser at the villa, and had pressed something into his pocket, like he didn’t want anyone to know. A going away present.
Palmer extended his fingers, feeling the cloth inside his pockets. He felt something hard and the memory came flooding back. It reminded him of the games he’d played with his sister a lifetime ago on cold, wet days when there was nothing else to do. They would take turns at putting their hands into a box and saying what was in there. Dead easy. Half the time he got it wrong — especially when she put in stupid girlish things like walnuts and hair-clips and pens. But not when it was his turn. Like tennis balls, a matchbox or the plastic frogmen he’d saved up and bought to play with in the bath.
Or the pruning knife his dad had given him on his twelfth birthday. The one with the wooden handle and curved blade.
His fingers slid along the familiar shape, and for a moment he wondered if his childhood memories were playing tricks. How could he have his old pruning knife in his pocket after all this time? He’d lost it years ago. Then the image burst through in another bubble of clarity, and he remembered. Good old Mitcheson. So you came through in the end? Only thing is, what the hell can I do with a pruning knife if I can’t stand up?
Chapter 45
Mitcheson swayed against the rolling of the taxi as it passed under the M4, watching Doug and Howie on the back seat. He guessed they were probably dreaming about how they were going to spend all the money Lottie Grossman had promised them. Whatever they were thinking, they seemed uneasy in his presence, like kids meeting up with a former teacher and not quite knowing whether to call him Sir or not.
He glanced through the side window at the familiar landscape. They were passing the Holiday Inn, the road curving north through landscaped banks and artificially created gardens.
They were nearly at their destination.
He felt a thudding in his chest and came as close to praying as he had done in years. It wouldn’t have been a traditional prayer, but it would have amounted to the same thing. Save Palmer, save himself. Keep Riley safe. Amen.
Not that Doug and Howie would give a toss about saving anyone. To them, wasting Palmer was just another job. He guessed Gary would do it. He didn’t turn a hair — never had done. Killing was what he did. No problems.
He wondered if Palmer had discovered the knife yet.
He glanced at his watch. By now Lottie Grossman would be on her way to Jordans, her husband’s body trundling somewhere else in the back of a funeral van. Unless everything had gone pear-shaped.
He wondered if the drugs had got through. Unless the police were waiting it would take a brave official to question the arrival of a coffin and insist on a search. Lottie Grossman had detailed Gary to do that job and told Mitcheson and the others to get on with cleaning up the villa and making sure the Moroccans weren’t around. He stopped thinking about it when the taxi turned into a commercial estate. The place was nearly deserted at this time of day, with just a few cars parked in front of some units, lights burning against the falling gloom.
They swung into a small cul-de-sac and Doug told the driver to stop in front of a row of three small workshops with oval glass panels set into roller doors. Two of the units had name-plates. The third, in the middle, was blank. Nearby stood a skip full of twisted car body parts and scrap metal.
The workshops were dark. They waited for the taxi to turn the corner before unlocking the small personnel door in the middle unit.
Riley hurried across to the taxi rank, scanning the area in case Mitcheson or the others should appear. She gave the driver the address of the unit Mitcheson had mentioned and sat back, heart pounding, willing the traffic to keep moving.
As they emerged from the tunnel and split into the feeder lanes to the A4 and M4 link roads, Riley dialled Brask’s number again. “Any news?” she asked.
“Psychic child,” he breathed down the line at her. “I’ve just had a call from a detective sergeant in the drugs squad. He was asked to have a look at the Cessna out at Rickmansworth, but it was too late. Everyone bar the pilot had gone.”
“What?” Riley exploded, causing the taxi driver to look anxiously in his mirror. “Of course they’ve left… how could they be so bloody incompetent?”
“It happens,” he said calmly. “I hope you’re not going to do anything silly, sweetie. I’ve got other jobs lined up for you already. Leave the rest to the police.”
“I can’t,” she retorted. “Anyway, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I owe Palmer for getting him into this in the first place. You’d better tell the editor what’s happening. This is going to explode tomorrow morning and I don’t want the editor thinking he’s been scooped out of a story. The details behind this aren’t going to be known by anyone else, so I don’t want him going into a panic.”
“Will do, sweetie. Take care.”
As she switched off her mobile, the cab pulled into the commercial estate and coasted past the rows of near-empty buildings. The driver slid the glass back.