The door opened and the slender figure of Victoria stepped into the room. She was tall and graceful, and as she leaned forward to greet him with a kiss, he was reminded at once of the huge risk he was taking by going ahead with the wedding. Yet when he had suggested cancelling it in the wake of Christian’s disappearance, she, like Annabel, had protested strongly. Thankfully, he pondered, although they knew about the threats, they didn’t know the reason for them.
‘Is she his girlfriend?’ Victoria asked, watching the two figures in the garden.
‘I’ve no idea. I doubt it.’ Myburghe knew that Victoria and Palmer had once been more than acquaintances. Thrown together by circumstance when Palmer was hired to look after a friend of hers, Victoria had gradually become fascinated by the seemingly nonchalant but watchful ex-military policeman hovering in the background. It had taken solid resolve and the counsel of Susan, his wife, to make him step back and leave them to it, rather than rush in and try to stop the relationship developing. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. There’s no need.’
‘No regrets?’ he queried, and instantly wished he hadn’t.
But Victoria smiled and touched his arm, knowing he was concerned for her. ‘No. Frank’s a lovely man. But I wouldn’t have figured very much in his life. It was fun, but… ‘ She shrugged. ‘I’m pleased he’ll be around, though. He’s solid. I trust him and so does Mummy.’
Myburghe grunted, recognising the warning signals against becoming the over-protective father. ‘Very well. Are you off?’
‘Yes. Back to London. I’m having dinner with Annabel and a couple of girlfriends tonight. Perhaps you could make my apologies to Frank?’
He nodded and watched her walk from the room, then turned and looked at a photo of Christian on the wall. His son was smiling into the camera with all the innocence and promise of youth, and Myburghe felt sick and ashamed, the guilt washing over him as it did every waking minute, and even in his dreams.
‘Do you believe it?’ said Riley, as they made their way back to the car. ‘That he ditched all the letters and stuff? How dumb is that?’
‘People do strange things.’ Palmer had been quiet on the tour of the house, checking exits and stairs, familiarising themselves with the general layout. Now they were off to look at the approaches to the village and the house and grounds. It wasn’t giving them much time, but it was essential they got to know their way around in case disaster struck.
‘And you’re okay with that?’
‘No. I’m just trying to figure out why he did it.’
‘You make it sound as if it was deliberate.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘But that would mean-’ Riley stopped and looked at Palmer, who kept walking, but at a slower pace.
‘It would mean,’ he finished for her, ‘that he didn’t want the letters traced.’
She caught up with him, digesting the implications of that idea. The only conclusion was astonishing. ‘He knows who sent them? That’s incredible. What makes you think that?’
He stopped. ‘Most normal people getting threatening letters would go straight to the police. Myburghe’s had far worse than letters, but with a hotline right to a close protection unit, he’s done nothing about the latest package. I don’t think he even told Keagan about the finger. Why not?’
‘Palmer, that’s a bit wild, isn’t it?’
‘Depends what he’s hiding, doesn’t it?’ He started walking again and Riley had to scramble to catch up.
‘He didn’t mention his wife at all.’
‘Ex-wife,’ Palmer explained. ‘They split last year. Lady Myburghe lives in London. She’ll be at the wedding, though.’
‘Does she know about Christian?’
‘Yes. He had to tell her in case it hit the headlines.’
‘You mean he considered not telling her?’
‘They don’t communicate much.’
‘Jesus, no kidding!’ Riley thought back to the websites she’d searched. She was certain there had been a photo of Sir Kenneth and his wife taken sometime in the last year or so. Whatever had driven them apart must have been recent. It might be worth taking a closer look.
As they approached the car, she said casually, ‘So you know Victoria Myburghe.’
‘Knew her,’ Palmer corrected her. He held out the keys to the Saab. ‘Do you want to drive?’ The way he said it told her he was hoping it would take Riley’s mind off asking awkward questions.
‘No, thanks.’ She climbed in and settled herself down. ‘She’s pretty. Girlfriend, was she? Victoria, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘Well, she wasn’t a college chum, was she?’
‘Hardly. I’d have been arrested for cradle snatching.’
‘Oh, come off it. She can’t be that much younger than you. Anyway, hadn’t you heard? Some girls prefer the more mature man.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘So where did you meet her? Was it at a Young Farmers’ ball in Chipping-Cum-Stately? No, of course not. You don’t do farms, do you? Or — ’
‘If you must know,’ he said with careful precision, taking the car smoothly down the gravel drive at speed, ‘I met her in London when I was hired to watch over a friend of hers by an over-protective father. They were like Tweedledum and TweedleDee. They went everywhere together. I had to troll along to the same restaurants to keep an eye on them. That’s all.’ He drifted expertly round the fountain, throwing a spray of gravel onto the grass.
That’s going to play havoc with the lawn mower, thought Riley. ‘So you didn’t have a relationship, then?’
‘No. Could we discuss something else?’
Riley smiled at him. ‘Not yet. Bear with me — I’m naturally curious about the ruling elite. So no kissy-kissy? No showing her your army tattoos in the summerhouse? Not even once?’
He looked sideways at her and she saw a cool and amused glint in his eye. ‘We got on while the job lasted. But that was it. Getting hooked on the client or any of their mates doesn’t go down well in my business. It makes you both vulnerable.’
Riley smiled and nudged his shoulder. ‘You old dog, you. It worked with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. You shouldn’t knock it.’
He said nothing. But Riley thought she detected the faint edge of a smile on his lips.
**********
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
John Mitcheson waited by a magazine stand and watched three men in army uniform patrolling the concourse of Baranquilla International airport in northern Colombia. They were heavily armed and watchful, and clearly looking for certain faces among the travellers and greeters thronging the airport. As if in unspoken collusion, the crowd opened before them, careful not to walk too close, then closed again behind them like a school of multi-coloured fish around cruising sharks.
Mitcheson was dressed in a pale lightweight suit and white shirt, smart enough to pass as a businessman, but not so smart as to attract the wrong kind of attention, such as these security men or con artists looking for an easy mark. He had earlier bought a copy of a local newspaper and was idly scanning the pages without reading, more intent on watching the tidal flow of the crowd moving through the terminal. He hadn’t spent enough time in this country on his last visit to get a real feel for the place or the language, so none of whatever was in the news really meant anything.
He yawned and felt the grit of a nineteen-hour flight and two stopovers beginning to take effect. The air conditioning in the building seemed to be spasmodic, with occasional welcome downdraughts of cold air alongside pockets of warm, humid fug, heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of overheated travellers. He needed something to drink but was putting it off until his contact showed up.
After completing his delivery of a packet of documents to a lawyer’s office in Panama City — the original reason for his journey — Mitcheson had secured a cheap onward flight aboard a cargo plane to Baranquilla. It meant making the shortest of stopovers before turning round to leave again, but that suited him fine; the last thing he wanted to do was hang around here and come to the attention of the military authorities. Luckily, he’d been able to persuade his local contact to meet him here rather than in Bogotá, avoiding the dangers of entering the capital’s airport where security was higher and faces were scanned more rigorously.