Fortunately, the lift was still there. They got in and Palmer thumbed the button for the ground floor.
‘Someone sounded cross,’ murmured Riley, as the lift rumbled slowly downwards.
Palmer tried to look innocent, but failed. He waggled the camera in triumph. ‘Yeah, well. Shit happens.’
The lift stopped at the first floor and three men stepped in. When they saw Riley and Palmer, they cut short their conversation. Leading the way was a man in shirt-sleeves. Slim, fair-haired and clean-shaven, he looked to be in his forties. Alongside him was an older man, thin to the point of gauntness, with the tanned, leathery skin at odds with the climate outside. He had dark, piercing eyes surmounted by bushy, grey eyebrows, and was conservatively dressed in a grey suit.
The third man trailed in their wake, plainly with them yet somehow disconnected. He was younger, with dark, glossy hair atop a broad, almost Slavic face. His eyes flicked briefly across Palmer and Riley, then moved away, disinterested.
Palmer noticed vaguely that none of the men wore visitors’ badges.
When the lift reached the ground floor, the three men got out first. The younger man crossed to the entrance and surveyed the street, leaving his companions talking. For a moment, as they stood in profile, something about the older man with the suntan triggered a flicker in Palmer’s mind. An image stirred, fleeting and surprising, then was gone.
‘Palmer?’ Riley glanced at him. ‘You’re not really ill, are you?’
Palmer shook his head and dropped his badge into the security man’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m fine. A flashback, that’s all. A ghost, maybe. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He led the way out of the building, resisting the temptation to turn and look back.
But with an odd feeling of unease, Palmer knew it was no ghost; he had seen the older man before.
Chapter 3
‘Well, that went really great, Riley. Thanks for your help — you were a star. I must get you to help me again sometime, then heap endless praise and gratitude on your head.’ Riley‘s voice dripped with sarcasm as she steered her Golf skilfully through a tangle of stalled traffic, narrowly missing most of a line of cones around a breached water main. A stray one rattled off the front wing, wobbled promisingly, but stayed upright. If Palmer noticed, he made no comment.
They were on their way back to Palmer’s office in Uxbridge. He hadn’t said much since leaving Gillivray’s office, intent on scowling up at the roof of the car instead, his head back on the seat rest. Even the cigarette between his lips remained unlit, which was a relief and a puzzle. Palmer being thoughtful was something Riley wasn’t really accustomed to. Quiet, yes; even half asleep was fairly normal. But not thoughtful. He usually left that to others.
‘Do what?’ He looked at her, then nodded. ‘Oh, right. Yes, you were great. Thanks.’ Then he went back to his thoughts, staring out at the passing scenery and whistling quietly.
When they reached his office, situated above a row of shops and small office suites, Riley switched off the engine and turned to face him. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Out with it. Something’s bugging you. Tell Auntie Riley or I’ll have to get out the electrodes.’
But Palmer climbed out and stood by the car door. ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry.’
‘What is it, Palmer?’ she insisted, peering up at him. ‘You haven’t even taken chunks out of me about my driving. You’re not going through the male menopause, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ he replied, tapping the roof of the car. ‘Just got a couple of things on, that’s all. Thanks for your help earlier. How about I spring for a meal. Day after tomorrow?’
Riley nearly laughed, relieved that he seemed to be shrugging off his earlier mood. ‘God, you’re offering to buy me food? You’re on. Come round to my place at seven — I know a great new Italian restaurant. The lights are so low they print the menus in Braille.’
Palmer looked sceptical. ‘You’re not getting all romantic on me, are you?’
‘No way.’ She slipped the car into gear. ‘The bad light means I can be seen with you without ruining my reputation.’ She stuck out her tongue as he closed the door, and pulled out into the traffic, leaving Palmer standing on the pavement, deep in thought.
Riley turned her thoughts to her own work schedule and headed north towards the outer reaches of Hertfordshire. It was an assignment she had left pending for too long, but needed to fill in some background information before deciding whether to continue with it or dump it as a dead loss. A rumour of an unlicensed landfill operation involving the illegal disposal of asbestos and oil waste near a primary school was now looking less and less likely, and much too thin to stand up to detailed scrutiny. While she didn’t mind going into bat for the occasional good cause, especially if the authorities were showing a reluctance to listen, being used as a loaded gun in what was looking more like someone’s private dispute over a local use of land was a no-win situation.
She came to a long line of traffic at a set of road works and tapped the speed-dial on her phone. Time to check in with her agent. Donald Brask, fat, gay and as busy as a bee on steroids, was her main source of income. He represented a string of journalists, media personalities and a handful of entertainment ‘names’, and regularly found reporting assignments for Riley, freelancing for magazines and dailies when extensive digging and an investigative eye for detail was required. He also put occasional work Frank Palmer’s way, of the sort needing a former military cop’s particular talents. It was how Riley and Palmer had met. So far the arrangement had worked a handful of times and suited them both.
‘Sweetie,’ murmured Donald, as soon as she identified herself. ‘How’s that horrid dumping business? Are we going to get an exclusive this side of Christmas or should I plan on early bankruptcy?’
Riley smiled and edged the car forward in the line of traffic. Donald had a waspish tongue whenever deadlines were concerned, and was openly insincere in many ways. But beneath his cutting manner was a warm heart, especially towards her. He occupied a house-cum-office in a large Victorian house in north London, surrounded by enough computer and communications equipment to run a NASA space station. It was his centre of operations, enabling him to keep in contact with clients and contacts around the world, day or night. Since he rarely seemed to sleep like normal people, it meant he was apt to call when most humans were fast asleep. Riley often thought the worst thing that could happen to Donald would be a total power failure. Unless he had a standby generator in the basement, he’d be utterly lost without the phones, faxes and computers which provided him with a constant flow of uninterrupted information and news every minute of the day.
‘It’s looking thin, I’m afraid,’ she told him. ‘I think there’s a hidden agenda somewhere that we haven’t been told about. I’m on my way to give it another try, but if it still looks doubtful, I’ll have to kill it.’
‘Consider it dead, buried and decomposing, sweetie,’ Donald muttered flatly. ‘I’ve been hearing things, too. It’s hardly a headliner. Never mind, I’ve got two more jobs, if you’re interested. I’ll email you the briefs in a minute. One of them may require the additional talents of that roughneck, Palmer. I’ll send him the details, too. You can compare notes over a cup of camomile.’
‘Okay. I’ll be at home.’ Riley clicked off and at the first opportunity, headed back to west London. She was quietly relieved to have got rid of the dumping job, even if it was lost income. But she was looking forward to something fresh to get her teeth into — although it might mean some element of risk, hence the need for Palmer’s help. The main advantage of working freelance was the variety in her working life. It was something she had learned to appreciate early on after starting out on a small local newspaper with little in the way of excitement, when the idea of working to the same format or deadlines every day had lost its appeal very quickly.