Palmer moved away, shaking his head, and began cruising the gathering crowd, instinctively checking out the men first. They were a mixed group, ranging from fresh-faced young turks in search of a party, slightly older types from the city and the civil service, to a mostly conservative and senior scattering in morning suits and double chins.
Riley hung back, preferring the fringes of the crowds, where it was easier to watch people, and where she felt a little less conspicuous. Palmer seemed unbothered by any such distractions, and seemed to blend in easily, although a couple of very tall ex-cavalry types gave him keen, knowing looks as they strode by. They joined two other men of the same brand, and Riley overheard them reminiscing about people called Neville, Alistair and Jonty, and an evening at the officers’ club in Pristina, before they wheeled away with promises to meet up for a game of squash. They smiled briefly at Riley as they passed, too well-schooled to ignore her but probably aware that she wasn’t there by the same invitation.
The women were less restrained, given to peels of surprised greetings and much air kissing. Already fashionably colourful, the amount of jewellery on display was impressive, and the air was soon rent with shrill, catch-up gossip and bursts of laughter as friends and acquaintances spied each other through the crowd.
Uniformed catering staff directed party guests towards the rear gardens, where a large marquee with a service annexe had been set up on the lawns. The atmosphere was balmy and pleasant with only a faint breeze, and most of the arrivals made for a line of champagne-laden white-clothed tables, pausing to scoop up a drink. Then it was onto the lawns in search of fresh air, scenery and some soft grass in which to squish their toes, a sort of sophisticated limbering up before the main event.
Like Clacton beach, thought Riley. Only posher.
Palmer had already checked out the caterers’ vans, along with a generator truck to provide extra power for lighting and refrigeration. Each vehicle carried a ‘By Royal Appointment’ crest. The marquee was a bustle of activity, with trays of food being passed along a line of waiters, and more champagne being packed in ice for later. A manager in a crisp morning suit was directing his troops like a regimental sergeant major, keeping staff in line with a beady eye, calm authority and close attention to his watch. The atmosphere was full of the scent of flowers, with giant floral displays in each corner to add to the sense of colour and glamour.
Riley drifted towards Palmer and nodded towards the roofline, where the silent and deserted scaffolding stuck out like spiky, gelled hair.
‘He’s pushing the boat out, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘With the wedding, it must be quite an outlay, doing up a place this size.’
Palmer nodded, strictly neutral. ‘Lady Myburghe has money, and Sir Kenneth got lucky on the stock market. As for the wedding, Victoria is his eldest daughter. It’s traditional.’
‘So how rich is he?’ Riley was wondering how much in real terms Sir Kenneth could put together if and when his son’s kidnappers finally made their demands. Judging by the scale of the renovations and the size of this celebration, he evidently wasn’t short of funds.
‘I’ve no idea. You thinking about a ransom?’
‘Yes.’
He stared off into the distance, his face grim. ‘If he pays up, whatever he has, it’ll never be enough. They’ll come back for more. Come on, let’s take a walk. I want to check the track.’ He set off with a nod towards a line of trees near the edge of the estate.
Riley followed, still trying to get to grips with the fact that the wedding was going ahead as planned. It was either an attempt by Sir Kenneth to deny the worst, or a brave front against the certain knowledge that Christian would not be coming back. Either way, whenever they had glimpsed the former diplomat, he had seemed brittle, his smile stiff and robotic.
Neither Victoria, nor her young sister, Annabel, had yet put in an appearance at the house. When questioned, Rockface had informed Palmer that they would be travelling directly from London to the church, shadowed by a couple of Keagan’s men.
‘What’s the official explanation for Christian’s absence?’ Riley queried. ‘Surely everyone’e expecting him to be here for his sister’s wedding?’
‘They put the word around that he’s down with a stomach bug and too ill to travel,’ Palmer explained. ‘It doesn’t seem to have raised any eyebrows.’
Thoughts of stiff upper lips came to mind, but Riley had to admire their bravado. It was quite a display. If it had been her family under such pressure, she doubted weddings would have figured too highly on the social calendar.
They pushed through a small thicket, Palmer leading the way and Riley treading carefully on the softer ground, until they found themselves overlooking a broad sweep of countryside fading into the distance. A rutted track ran from right to left in front of them, the ground marked by the treads of tractor tyres and horses’ hooves. It was evidently a regular exercise route for local riders, as well as an access track for farm workers, and even without Palmer’s security experience, Riley knew that this point, like the vast amount of open countryside around the house and grounds, was a security team’s worst nightmare. It was impossible to keep an eye on all fronts, and the amount of cover provided by shrubs, bushes and several acres of trees could have hidden a small army. Add to that the amount of scaffolding and building materials scattered around the place, and it was a terrorist’s dream on a plate.
‘This is crazy,’ she breathed, appalled once more by the size of the task they had taken on. ‘We couldn’t cover all this, even if we had Keagan’s entire team with us.’
Palmer shrugged. ‘True. But I’ve done worse jobs. It’s all about being seen to be there.’
‘I thought security was supposed to be unobtrusive.’
‘Some is, some isn’t. We’re both.’
‘Palmer, are you armed?’ Riley had been meaning to ask him from the outset.
‘No. I asked Keagan to get authorisation, but he was blocked. Insufficient need, apparently.’
‘So what do we do if someone does have a go?’
‘We could always throw champagne bottles.’
‘Great. I should have stuck to writing about Myburghe — it would have been easier.’
Palmer gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, you insisted on sticking your oar in.’ He took a small, lightweight Motorola GP radio from his pocket and checked it out. Riley did the same. They were little bigger than a mobile, and Palmer had given Riley and Rockface a quick briefing earlier on how to use them. With so much ground to cover, it would be their only way of summoning each other if needed.
Just then, both radios crackled and Rockface’s voice spoke briefly. The bride and groom were on their way.
‘Time to trot,’ said Palmer. ‘Let’s go.’
They returned to the main house just as a limousine decked out in ribbons purred up the drive and the newly-weds ducked out amid cheers and flashing cameras. The groom, Simon Biel, who seemed more assured here than the photo Riley had seen on the Internet had portrayed, hovered supportively as his bride, Victoria, greeted friends and revelled in her new-found status, her smile outshining by a long way all the other splashes of colour. Every step was recorded by a frenetic photographer, and from his work-rate, it was plain he had been warned that he would have only seconds to record the necessary outdoor shots before the couple were herded inside.
Rockface also danced close attendance, towering over his charges like a large mother hen. As soon as the happy couple were over the threshold, he closed the door. Next, Sir Kenneth appeared and moved through the assembled guests, any signs of nerves no doubt excused as the understandable jitters of a typically proud father. He caught Palmer’s eye and nodded briefly. He was accompanied by a slender, elegant woman whom Riley guessed was his ex-wife.
‘Lady Susan Myburghe,’ confirmed Palmer, when she asked him. ‘Nice woman.’