‘Except they didn’t check if the door was locked. They probably figured nobody ever went up there.’ Riley pointed towards the scaffolding on the far end of the roof. ‘I took a walk down the other end. I think they might have used the scaffolding to climb up and down. It would have been safer than the risk of being caught using the stairs, which are close to the kitchen.’
Palmer nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Did you see the shotgun?’
‘Not yet.’
They went in search of Rockface, who unlocked a steel cabinet in a storeroom behind the kitchen and showed them the gun. A box of cartridges lay alongside.
‘I found them in the run-off against the parapet,’ he explained. He was referring to the recessed channel that ran round the roof and took rainfall to the down-pipes.
Palmer examined the shotgun. It was well used, with signs of rough wear around the butt, but was otherwise clean and well oiled. There was no dust residue or moisture, indicating that it hadn’t been out on the roof long enough to gather condensation inside or along the barrel. There were no manufacturer’s marks.
‘Does it belong to Sir Kenneth?’ Palmer asked.
‘No. I checked. It’s a cheap-jack piece of crap.’
‘That kid really was lucky,’ said Palmer, echoing Riley’s comment, only for different reasons. ‘If the person who left this had been up there with it, he’d be as dead as mutton.’
They replaced the gun and cartridges and borrowed a flashlight, then walked round the house to where the scaffolding was rooted into the flowerbeds against the building.
In films, Riley mused, it would have been full of useful clues, like footprints with unique sole-patterns sold only in one small shop in Plymouth. But the ground around the base of the framework was a mass of powdered rubble and other builders’ mess, and if anyone had come down at that point, there were no chance useable signs of their passing.
It was nearly three in the morning before the last of the guests departed. After ensuring a stand-in security man was in place for the remainder of the night, Riley and Palmer were able to leave. They both felt wrung out, but spent part of the drive back to London tossing the accumulation of events back and forth, trying to tease out a pattern.
‘The gun on the roof was a red herring,’ Palmer concluded, building on his earlier assessment. ‘As a sniper’s weapon it’s a non-starter. Okay for bringing down birds or rabbits, and in military terms useful at close quarters for clearing houses. But for long-range accuracy they’re as much use as a box of eggs. Anyone hoping to hit a person on the ground from the roof would have sprayed too many other people as well.’
When Riley told him about her exploration of the stable block, and Rockface’s explanation about the use of the building, he seemed unsurprised.
‘It could be true,’ he commented reasonably. ‘Lads’ quarters aren’t exactly the height of luxury. They spend most of their time with the horses, so why splash out on soft furnishings?’
‘That place wasn’t just austere — it was grim,’ Riley murmured. ‘Whoever was sleeping there had time to heat some food and smoke a lot of cigarettes, but that was it. No pictures on the walls, no calendar glossies, no graffiti, no sense of who they were.’
‘Sounds like a field camp.’ Palmer changed down and powered through a long bend.
‘Meaning?’
‘Field camps are functional. You arrive, you eat, you sleep, you get up again when called, and you leave. Personalising your surroundings isn’t part of the deal. It leaves too much information.’
‘So what does that tell us?’
‘Either Sir Kenneth is mean to his employees, or whoever was in there had moved in without his knowledge or permission.’
Riley leaned her head against the window, finding the darkness outside soothing and almost restful. The thought worrying her, however, was how Rockface had turned up at the stable block so conveniently. The only way he could have known her location was if he’d been watching her. It was an unsettling thought.
Palmer dropped Riley off outside her flat, but declined her offer of coffee and a shower.
‘I’ll go back to my place for a shower and some kip,’ he said. ‘Then I’d better get back to Colebrooke and see how they’re holding up.’
Riley waved him off, then went inside to be met by the bulky, grinning figure of Mr Grobowski in the hallway.
‘Good mornings, Miss Riley,’ he boomed, in what he probably thought was a considerate whisper. His accent was as heavy as a tank trundling over scrap iron. ‘I just getting backs, too. We have a party at the community centre. I feed Lipinski, by the way. He like my dumplings, you bet.’ His eyes twinkled wickedly as he nodded towards the street. ‘Was your friend Mr Frank, huh? He’s a nice mans.’
Riley smiled. For some reason, the elderly Pole was convinced Palmer was her boyfriend. It hadn’t occurred to him yet that John Mitcheson had been up and down these stairs more often than a mere friend. ‘You’re right, Mr G,’ she said. ‘He’s nice.’
She bid him goodnight and went upstairs, where she kicked off her shoes with a sigh if relief. The cat was asleep on the sofa, no doubt too full to move, so Riley left him to his dreams and checked her email before going to bed. There was one message. It was from Tristram.
Tomorrow. 34a, Almondbury Street, Barnston, nr Huddersfield. I hope I can trust you.
*********
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Although described as a part of Huddersfield, Barnston proved to be more of a self-contained satellite suburb, situated on the eastern outskirts.
After a three-hour drive up the M1, Riley found the town centre flush with shoppers, mostly attending a farmer’s market in the open square. She located a small car park and strolled along Almondbury Street, which became a pedestrian piazza complete with cast-iron benches and litter bins, and a line of flower tubs gleaming black in the mid-morning sunlight.
She was wondering if she had taken leave of her senses coming here without something more concrete to go on. Maybe she could blame it on lack of sleep after yesterday’s excitement at Colebrooke House. But after seeing Tristram’s latest message, she had been unable to get more than a brief nap, and had eventually given in to the inner voice telling her she needed to meet this person to hear what he knew and put a face to all the emails.
She located a branch of Boots and looked across the piazza to a line of shop windows with numbers on the fascias. 32 and 34 were easy to see, then came a gap filled by a short stretch of spear-topped, wrought iron railings enclosing a twin set of stairs. Above this stood the signs LADIES and GENTLEMEN.
She walked past the railings and looked up at the next window, which was a charity shop. She frowned and checked the number above the door. 36.
She circled the piazza twice, checking both sides in case she had missed something. But there was no 34A. She checked the printout of Tristram’s last email. It definitely said 34A.
She’d been had.
She walked back to the charity shop and pushed through the front door. A woman was writing out price tickets behind the counter.
‘Morning, love,’ the woman said, smiling cheerfully.
Riley returned her greeting. ‘I’m looking for number 34A,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a feeling I’ve got the wrong information. Was there ever a 34A?’
The woman nodded. ‘Aye, love. Still is, too. You need next door.’
Riley stared at the woman. ‘But there’s nothing there apart from-’
‘The toilets. That’s right.’ She gave a brief chuckle. ‘It’s our local folly, is that. The council got a grant to build some new public toilets. For some reason, they didn’t want to list it on the town plans as a convenience, so some wag called it 34A and the number stuck. Now, when anyone wants to go to the loo, everyone round here calls it doing a 34A.’ She pulled a face. ‘A right waste of money if you ask me. Still, you can’t argue with bureaucrats, can you, once they make their minds up?’ She looked at the paper in Riley’s hand. ‘Who are you looking for, anyway?’