‘What’s wrong with it?’ Palmer checked his clothes with a critical eye. ‘They’re decent threads, I’ll have you know. I paid good money for these.’ He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, I told you a long time ago, I have the power to merge in anywhere and become as one with the scenery. Especially when preceded by a pushy blonde with a cheesy smile and all her own teeth, to act as a distraction.’
Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I know — Frank Palmer, the original west London ninja. But thanks for the compliment, even if you don’t mean it.’
‘Distract the receptionist,’ he continued, ignoring the barbs, ‘long enough for me to get past her. She has a panic button which lights up in every office when anybody official shows up. With a bit of luck I’ll catch Gillivray with his laughing gear wrapped around a cup of Starbucks’ finest and,’ he produced a digital camera from his pocket, ‘get a shot of his ugly mug in the process.’
‘What if the receptionist doesn’t play ball? I’m no security expert — I can barely remember how to lock my own flat.’
Palmer curled his lip. ‘You’re an investigative reporter; it’s not like you’d ever run out of things to say, is it? Come on.’ He walked through the entrance and faced a large, middle-aged security man in a dark suit and blue shirt, sitting behind a steel-topped desk. Both it and the man had seen better days. The rest of the foyer was empty, functional and bland, as welcoming as a bus stop.
‘We’ve an appointment with Mr Gillivray at Stairwell Management,’ said Palmer briskly. The security man, busy leafing through a copy of the Sun, stood up sharply and pushed two adhesive badges across the desk.
‘Right, sir.’ His eyes assessed the two visitors, flicking away to give Riley the barest of glances before switching back to Palmer. ‘If you’d fill out the book and these badges, sir, Stairwell’s reception desk is on floor six.’ He indicated a pair of lifts to the rear of the foyer, and flipped open a visitors’ book.
Palmer scribbled in the required boxes and did the same with the badges. Handing a badge to Riley, he nodded to the security man, then walked over to the lifts and pressed the call button.
‘Did I miss something?’ asked Riley, as the doors closed behind them and the lift began its upward journey. ‘Or did you hypnotise him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just now. You had that poor man standing to attention as if he was on parade.’
Palmer shrugged. ‘Beats me. Habit, I suppose.’ He began to hum as the lights flashed through the levels, and gave her a quick smile, something he knew had the ability to annoy her when he was being obtuse. When they reached the sixth floor, the lift stopped and the doors opened to reveal an identical space to the foyer downstairs, but without the welcome desk. A glass wall was at one end, with the letters STAIRWELL MANAGEMENT marching impressively across it in plain black script, and beyond that, a polished wooden counter holding a small block of wood sprouting a clutch of international flags. A receptionist was sitting behind the counter, one cheek bearing a dinky little mouthpiece the size of a match-head.
Palmer ushered Riley ahead of him out of the lift. ‘You’re punting for work, that’s all,’ he reminded her. ‘If it gets sticky, bail out and we’ll meet down in the street.’
Riley stared at him. ‘Sticky? You never mentioned sticky. Or bailing out.’
But Palmer had already reached past her to thumb the entry button beside the glass-panelled door. There was a buzz as the locks disengaged and the door clicked open.
‘Can I help?’ The receptionist smiled automatically, taking in Riley’s no-nonsense make-up and sleek blonde hair. She switched her attention to Palmer, who smiled and raised his eyebrows, but showed no reaction. Assessment over, she relaxed and pulled back her hand which had been hovering out of sight below the counter.
‘I rang to speak to your human resources director,’ said Riley. ‘He wanted to talk about internal security-’ She broke off as she noticed the receptionist’s attention was suddenly riveted on something just past her shoulder. When she looked round, she saw Palmer had doubled up, clutching at his stomach, his face red and strained. He coughed, and a dribble of spit oozed from his lips and ran down his chin.
‘Palm-’ Riley yelped and instinctively dodged sideways, caught unawares. Palmer waved a hand and clamped a handkerchief to his face.
‘Quick… I need a washroom,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry — food-poisoning.’
The receptionist looked horrified at the prospect of Palmer being violently ill right in front of her. Flicking away the tiny mouthpiece, she jumped up and flapped a carefully-manicured hand towards a corridor to one side. ‘Down there… right at the end. There’s a washroom. Quickly…’ She glanced at Riley as Palmer hurried away down the corridor, hand clutching his gut. ‘Is he all right? He’s not having a heart attack, is he?’
Riley shook her head. She would get even with Palmer for springing this on her. Not that she could fault his acting; he’d genuinely looked as if he was having a nasty turn. Now all she had to do was display the same degree of talent until she either got tossed out on her ear or Palmer returned and gave her the sign to bail out.
Palmer found himself in a corridor that ran arrow-straight to the end of the building, then turned sharply to the left. He could hear the soft buzz of conversation and the burr of a phone beyond the wall on his left-hand side, and wondered where Gillivray had his nest. Somewhere at the back, no doubt, with a fire escape conveniently close by. People like Gillivray rarely conducted their business up front, preferring to avoid the cold scrutiny of their victims should they come calling.
He ignored the washroom door and followed the corridor, tucking his handkerchief into his jacket. More doors on the left, and to the right, a row of windows overlooking a tiny inner courtyard filled with heating and ventilation equipment, speckled with pigeon droppings and a layer of air-borne city dirt.
A door opened to his left, and a woman stepped out juggling a large pile of computer printouts. Palmer moved to one side and flapped his wallet with a smile.
‘Is Doug about? I’ve got his wallet. Dozy bugger left it in my car.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ The woman smiled vaguely over the printouts and shuffled sideways, using her chin to indicate a door further along. ‘He’s in there.’ She smiled again and disappeared with her burden, heels clacking on the bare tiles.
Palmer put his wallet away and checked his digital camera was ready to shoot. He took a long, white envelope from his inside pocket, then pushed open the door and marched up to the bulky figure of Doug Gillivray, who was standing on the other side of a plain mahogany desk, counting out a pile of notes. He was short, stocky and dressed in a tight, pin-stripe suit, with a garish, spotted tie held against his lower chest by a gold clip. His pudgy fingers flashed with heavy rings as he flicked through the money with the practised ease of a bank clerk, and Palmer wondered how much all the gold weighed.
‘Doug Gillivray?’ Palmer stood in front of him.
Gillivray stopped counting, mouth open in annoyance, and automatically took the envelope. ‘What’s this?’
As Palmer aimed the camera and fired off two quick shots, Gillivray’s expression changed from surprise to anger. ‘Here, what the hell are you doing? Who let you in-?’
But Palmer was already on his way out, closing the door behind him and striding back down the corridor. He smiled as a loud bellow followed him, no doubt signalling Gillivray’s discovery of the envelope’s contents.
Riley was still in conversation with the receptionist, who seemed to be steadfastly holding her ground against her pleas to speak to someone about security. Grabbing Riley’s arm, Palmer stabbed the exit button on the door and smiled at the receptionist. He hoped she wasn’t about to get fired, unless she was related to Gillivray and knew what he was up to, in which case she probably deserved it.