‘Am I under arrest?’ she asked mildly. ‘Can I finish my coffee or should I duck under a blanket and let you drag me screaming to the nearest nick so I can sell my life story and claim police harrassment?’
‘No, yes and no,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, the cells are at full capacity so we’re not nicking anyone at the moment.’ He showed her a line of uneven teeth and chomped down on a mint like a terrier chewing a rat. In the relative quiet of the coffee shop, the crunching was loud and intrusive. Weller stared bullishly at the few heads turning his way, then offered Riley a crumpled bag.
She declined. After researching a piece about how many millions of germs were transmitted through bowls of hospitality sweets, she reckoned the number could be multiplied several times over with Weller. Not that he was a health hazard, but in the course of his work, he shook hands with some very unsavoury people.
‘How’s your friend, Palmer?’ he queried. He flicked a piece of lint from the knee of his pinstripe and crossed his legs, giving Riley a brief glimpse of fine burgundy wool above gleaming shoes. Weller’s teeth may have been uneven, but there was nothing wrong with his dress sense.
‘He’s fine, as far as I know. I didn’t know you two were acquainted.’
‘We’re not. But word gets around. You and he seem to be a team.’ He looked about him. ‘He’s not here, is he? I wouldn’t want to steal his chair.’
‘He’s not. What can I do for you — Chief Superintendent, is it? Or have you moved up the greasy pole a bit further?’
Weller shrugged easily. ‘It’ll do. You can call me Weller, if you like. Most people do.’ He sounded casual, even bored, but she wasn’t fooled. Officers like Weller were never off-duty. He was after something.
‘Okay. Out with it. Has the Home Office dumped you since that last fiasco or have they just slashed your budget by a few million?’
‘Nothing so simple,’ he murmured, popping another mint into his mouth. ‘I have rivers of information flowing across my desk every day. Most of it’s crap — the need to know because it’s there kind of stuff. But every now and then I spot an item which interests me.’ He crunched the mint and looked at her. ‘Like yesterday.’
Riley sipped her coffee and waited. No doubt he would tell her soon enough; but she was determined not to play the over-eager journo for him. And she felt certain she hadn’t done anything recently that would have hit the official information channels. When he didn’t say anything, she nudged him by asking, ‘Is this a guessing game?’
‘Your mate, Palmer.’ His eyes were blank, but it was clear he was waiting for a reaction. When she didn’t respond, he said, ‘We know what he does to earn a buck, and we know you two sometimes work together.’ He inclined his head to one side. ‘Ergo, it begs the question: what’s he up to at the moment?’
‘Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure you can get one of your boys to find his office. It’s only in Uxbridge. That’s a suburb to the west of London — just before you start seeing countryside stuff like trees and grass.’
‘I would, but he doesn’t appear to be around. Any ideas?’
Riley shook her head. Frank Palmer was a former Royal Military Police investigator, now private detective. He was also her occasional colleague on some of the trickier assignments she took on, where someone with a background in investigative work and a willingness not to be frightened off was a definite asset. Not that Riley shied away from the occasional spot of trouble, but she wasn’t frightened to acknowledge that Palmer, a lean, tough forty-something, could handle certain things better than she could.
When he wasn’t working with Riley, Palmer spent his life on surveillance or making security assessments for private or corporate clients. He was often incommunicado for days at a time, either playing with his computer or in a car somewhere, watching someone. His absence now was therefore hardly a cause for concern. On the other hand, she didn’t see why she should help the forces of law and order dip their collective noses into his business.
‘Is this official government interest, or do you have some common criminal reason for asking?’
Weller grinned and nodded. ‘Good question, Riley. Clever. If I say it’s official government business, you’ll get an attack of the goosebumps. Only you know it won’t go anywhere because we’ll sit on it. That’ll get you more interested. If I say it’s a criminal matter, you’ll get the same goosebumps and as much interest, only with what you fondly hope is more chance of a story.’
‘Cynic.’
‘True.’ He pondered the question for a moment, turning to eye an unshaven youth with spiked hair, sitting against the rear wall. The youth wasn’t drinking coffee, but appeared to be taking a close interest in a handbag lying on a chair at the next table.
Weller cleared his throat noisily until the youth dragged his eyes away from the bag. When he saw Weller, he shot up from his chair and walked out without looking back.
‘These places are a playground for maggots like him,’ Weller murmured. ‘What was I saying? Oh, yes. Palmer and you. Well, Palmer, anyway.’ He peered into his sweet bag again as if it might contain the secrets of the universe. ‘I’d like to have a chat with him.’
‘I can’t help,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Contrary to your information, we don’t spend much time together, except when we’re working — which isn’t as often as you might imagine.’
‘But you would tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you?’ His eyes were as flat as his voice, and Riley felt a chill descending. Weller wasn’t joking.
CHAPTER TWO
‘I might. So what happens now?’ she asked evenly. ‘Do you stalk me until I break down in tears and confess all?’
He smiled blankly. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
Riley shrugged. ‘I’m a journalist, not a mother hen. I don’t keep twenty-four hour watch on my friends.’
‘Fair enough.’ Weller shifted in his chair and yawned. ‘Just thought I’d ask. How about you — what are you working on at the moment? Anything juicy?’
‘Sorry. No comment.’
He sniffed. ‘Mmm… bad as that, is it? Never mind. Something’s bound to turn up.’
Riley felt her ears prickle. Was there more to that comment than one might think or had Weller been reading Dickens? Somehow, she couldn’t see him as a Micawber enthusiast.
‘Do you have something in mind?’
Weller considered her reply, then stood up and stuffed the bag of mints into his pocket. Now he was standing, he looked out of place, as if he’d been beamed down from his eyrie off Victoria Street and wasn’t sure where to go next. It reminded Riley that policemen like him were rarely in the habit of passing the time of day. It wasn’t part of their social armoury.
‘Right. I’ll be off, then.’ He leaned over the table and tapped the surface with a strong finger. ‘Good luck with your work. But a word of advice: keep it to low-level crims or blushing brides and the colours of their corsages, will you? I’d hate you to trip over anyone’s feet in search of a story that wasn’t there. Know what I mean?’
Riley resisted the temptation to tell him to go sit on his thumb. He was pretending to be friendly, but she wasn’t fooled: he’d come out to drop a warning in her ear. Now all she had to do was figure out why he’d bothered and what it meant.
‘Anything you say, officer,’ she intoned meekly, and made a note to watch her step. But she couldn’t resist prodding him one last time. ‘Tell me, Weller, what exactly do you do in life, when you’re not pursuing innocent journalists?’
‘Me?’ He looked surprised, as if he’d never been asked before. ‘I’m what they call a floating voter. I can be whatever you want me to be, as the tart said to the padre.’ He grinned. ‘Take it easy.’
Riley watched him disappear along the pavement, then took out her phone and dialled Palmer’s office, where he mostly hung out when he wasn’t working. No reply. She tried his mobile. He picked up after three rings.