She was still chewing it over when she got home. Tired from the drive, she was about to turn in for an early night when her phone rang. It was Weller.
‘We picked up an interesting visitor yesterday,’ the senior policeman announced breezily. ‘From the States. Used to be one of your lot.’
‘My lot?’ Already with a head like cotton wool, Riley was having trouble deciding what Weller was after. ‘Have you been harassing single women again, Weller? There are laws against that.’
‘Journalist. Hack. Whatever they call ‘em over there.’ She heard the rustle of paper followed by a crunch as he chomped on a sweet. ‘Toby Henzigger. You know him?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘He was freelance, like you. Covering international crime stories for rags like the Washington Post, New York Times, Chicago Tribune… he moved around a lot, mostly in the southern hemisphere.’
Riley desperately wanted to say so what, but she knew Weller wouldn’t have called without good reason. She picked up on the past tense. ‘Was?’
‘He got sucked into a story about drug shipments from Latin America. Rumours put Henzigger a little too close to the action to have survived without having his head shot off — unless he had friends in murky places looking out for him.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ she said bluntly. ‘We all have to share space with some unpalatable characters from time to time.’
Weller chuckled appreciatively. ‘Touché, Miss Gavin. But Henzigger’s upset a lot of people over the years. This could have been their way of getting even. Anyway, the story ran for a while before everyone involved suddenly developed collective amnesia. But the damage was done.’
‘What does Henzigger say?’
‘He claimed his assignment had been set up by a freelance news agency, and he was working alone to keep his profile low because of the circumstances of the story. That should have been enough to get the wolves off his back. Then a photo surfaced showing him head-to-head with a close aide of one of the main Colombian narcotics producers, a man high on the DEA ‘Wanted’ list. That about did it for him.’
Colombia. Riley managed to keep her mouth shut, but the word was enough to send a buzz through her. ‘What happened to him?’
‘By then, they figured where there’s smoke there’s usually somebody with a blowtorch. Bad enough nasty foreigners are shipping drugs to innocent American teenagers, let alone someone from the Fourth Estate being involved. It was enough to cost him his job.’
Riley frowned. Why was Weller telling her all this? He was unlikely to be trying to give her a career boost by tipping her the wink on dubious former journalists coming into the country. ‘What’s he doing over here — lecturing to London’s finest?’
‘How droll,’ muttered Weller. ‘But not such a bad idea, now you mention it. I’m sure there’s plenty we could learn from him. Actually, he claimed he’s here on holiday. He made the mistake of coming in under false papers, but he was recognised at immigration by one of their embassy spotters. They thought we should know, so we picked him up.’
‘Kind of them. And this affects me how?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Another crunch echoed down the line. ‘Among his various personal bits and pieces was a piece of paper with your name on it. Now why would that be?’
Riley was astonished. ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard of the man. Did you ask him?’
‘Of course. He wouldn’t say. Said it was just a name he’d picked up out of professional interest. Must be nice having fans out there.’
Riley ignored the dig. ‘Where is he now?’
‘No idea. The Yanks finally admitted they didn’t have any objection to him being here, and he was found to be carrying his legitimate passport, anyway. In the interests of the so-called special relationship, we slapped his wrist and let him go. Personally, I’d have slung him on the next flight home. The man’s clearly unhinged. Still, what can you do, eh?’
‘Well, thanks for telling me. I’ll look out for him.’
‘Do that. You might also warn your friend Palmer when you see him next.’
‘Why?’
‘Henzigger had another piece of paper in his wallet. It had Palmer’s name and the name of someone we’ve all heard of.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir Kenneth Myburghe.’
The phone clicked off, leaving Riley with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Myburghe again?
The more she heard from Weller, the more uneasy she began to feel about his tactics. Why had he chosen to call her, a member of the press? Why not one of his other contacts — of which he must have many? Was it really just to check Henzigger’s story? Or had he decided to set some cats loose and see what came scurrying out of the wood pile?
*******
CHAPTER TWENTY
Next morning, Riley forced herself out of bed and into a brisk walk through Holland Park. She needed the exercise to blow the kinks out of her system after the previous day’s drive, and the fresh air to get her brain into some sense of order. She collected a croissant and coffee on the way and chewed as she strolled, sharing space with mothers and strollers, joggers and children.
So far, she told herself, she had a man hinting at some sort of scandal surrounding a senior British diplomat with a service record in Colombia; Frank Palmer guarding the very same diplomat; a senior cop from the Met taking an interest in Palmer, and now a disgraced American journalist with a background in South America taking an interest in all of them.
Whatever was going on involved too many people she couldn’t get to. Palmer because he was…well, Palmer, although that might be less of a problem if she could collar him long enough to wear him down; Myburghe because he was out of bounds; Weller because he was playing puppet-master; and Tristram AKA Jacob Worth, who claimed to know something, if only he would part with the information.
She threw the remainder of her croissant to a couple of pigeons, then strolled on, sipping her coffee, until she found herself at the southern edge of the park on Kensington High Street. She was about to turn back when a man fell in alongside her, matching her pace.
‘You’re Gavin, right?’ said the man genially. He was tall and solid, with tired eyes set in a swarthy face beneath short-cut grey-flecked hair. He could have been a businessman looking for directions, but not too many businessmen sidle up to women on the street and use their name.
Riley readied herself for a seedy proposition and checked her coffee mug, but there wasn’t enough to do more than stain his shirt.
‘You’re Riley Gavin,’ he repeated quickly, sensing her wariness. He had an American accent, although with some of the edges smoothed off, as if he’d been out of his home country a lot. ‘I know it’s you because I got your picture from a piece you did a while back. And I’ve already seen you with your pal, Palmer. I need to talk with you.’
Riley stopped and turned to face the man. ‘Where did you see us?’ There were plenty of pedestrians about, so she wasn’t alarmed. But one thing she didn’t want was to have this stranger following her back to her flat.
‘You were at that hunt near Colebrooke. I saw you watching. Palmer was off killing stuff.’ He grinned without humour. ‘I had to leave in a hurry, remember?’
Then she realised: the man in the woods. He looked bigger here, somehow, as if being surrounded by trees and undergrowth had diminished him.
Seeing that she had placed him, he said, ‘Yeah, that was me. What do we get for trespassing on private land in this country — slammed in the stocks or hung from a tree?’
‘You’re out of date,’ she told him. ‘We stopped hanging people when you lot started lynching cattle rustlers. It got so tacky. Who are you and what do you want?’
‘My name’s Toby Henzigger,’ he said neutrally. ‘I’m in the same line of business as you.’ He held out his hand.
Riley ignored it, her thoughts flashing back to Weller’s phone call of the previous day. This was getting spooky.