‘Frank Palmer. Bodyguard to the stars.’
‘Have you been a naughty boy?’ she asked.
‘Dunno. I haven’t looked recently. Why?’
‘There’s a big noise from the Met been asking questions about you. His name’s Weller.’
‘Gosh, how exciting,’ he murmured. ‘Do tell.’
‘He didn’t say why, only that he thought we were joined at the hip and that I’d know where you were and what you were doing.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said nothing.’ When Palmer didn’t respond, she asked, ‘So what are you doing?’ From the flat quality of his voice and a rushing noise in the background, which could have been wind in the trees, he was out in the open somewhere.
A dry laugh echoed down the line. ‘Jesus, you’re so transparent. So is Weller. I’m on a job, as a matter of fact. Can’t say what or where, of course, otherwise I’d have to kill you. But I can confirm that it’s a beautiful sunny day and I’m thinking of treating myself to an ice cream.’
‘Great. Can you tell me what country you’re in?’
‘Not even. If Weller comes round again, tell him to mind his own.’ He cut the connection, leaving Riley with the suspicion that she had just done the one thing Weller may have been hoping she’d do. Palmer, ever wary and quicker off the mark, had got there first and ended the call in case anyone was listening in.
Palmer stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and wondered why one of Scotland Yard’s finest should be taking an interest in his activities.
He wasn’t unduly bothered by the news, as he hadn’t broken any laws recently. But even the most innocent of citizens could be excused a small frisson of apprehension at finding themselves under the suspicious gaze of the authorities. And with all the extra legislation surrounding every aspect of life and the law, from the Data Protection Act to the current frenzied deluge of anti-terror laws, stubbing a toe on one of the new rules was an increasing danger for those in the private security industry.
He debated lighting a cigarette, but went for the healthy option and tore off a thick grass stem instead. He chewed on it, angling his tall frame round to study an expanse of neatly tended grass, flower borders and, beyond them, a thick belt of trees which formed the backdrop of his current assignment, near Tetbury in Gloucestershire.
Palmer didn’t like open spaces. Especially like this, dotted with clumps of greenery large enough to hide a small field gun and backed by enough lush trees for an entire regiment to sit and have a brew-up without being spotted until it was too late.
He turned to study the large, impressive manor house in the centre of the grounds, one end of which was covered with scaffolding rearing against the sky like a giant Mechano set. That, too, was a problem, but of a different kind. He’d deal with it later.
For now, he was more interested in keeping the list of problem points around this place to a manageable length. If he itemised every area where security was a living nightmare, he’d run out of paper — and most likely a client in the process. Some people just couldn’t stand bad news.
Risk assessments were a regular part of Palmer’s routine. As a former RMP, he had a close working knowledge of security procedures and planning, as well as general investigative work. Advising nervous clients on aspects of daily risk-avoidance was something he did on a regular basis. Some were simple, such as advising on the fitting of lights, alarms or buying a large, voracious dog; others were more complex, usually because the client had a chequered history or a background which meant their particular risk levels were outside the norm.
This current client, he had a feeling, fell into the second category, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had been contacted by phone with a follow-up email and a couriered cheque as an advance against his initial advice. No face-to-face meeting, no background briefing on the client, no contract specifying his operational parameters. Just get on with it and report back, the clipped voice on the phone had instructed him, preferably without asking questions. The man had sounded faintly hostile and had given his name as Keagan. And if he wasn’t a serving or former army officer, Palmer was ready to eat his hat.
All he did know was that a wedding was scheduled to take place here in a few days time, and his task was to identify any chinks in the armour around this building, and to list them with any recommendations.
End of job.
In the brief time available to him, he had taken steps to find out the identity of the owner. When he’d seen the name, he’d realised he didn’t need to do any more digging. He knew the family — one of them better than the others — from a previous assignment, and that Sir Kenneth Myburghe was a diplomat. That fact might raise the security stakes a little higher, but as long as he wasn’t also a mass murderer or manufacturing chemical weapons in a shed at the back, Palmer didn’t much care what he did.
His mobile rang, tinny and feeble in the open air. It was probably Riley with more bad news. Maybe she’d discovered the United Nations was bugging his office.
The name Keagan flashed up on the small screen.
‘You done, yet?’ The man’s tone was sharp and unfriendly and Palmer decided something must be biting him. Either that or he’d just lost a winning lottery ticket.
‘Just about. I’ll send in my report.’
‘No time for that. Come to the house. You can do it in person.’
‘Does that mean-’
‘There’s been a change of plan. You’re hired. You’d better be ready to start immediately.’ The connection was cut, and Palmer reflected that, all things considered, there were probably more formal ways of being offered a job.
Riley returned to her flat in a thoughtful mood, wondering if something was going on in the capital that she hadn’t heard about. Senior coppers trudging around on their own feet and mixing with the public was a rare occurrence. Usually they had an army of junior faces to do that for them, rank being given to those capable of determining strategy, not asking basic questions.
As she pondered the intricacies of police thinking, she automatically checked her email.
There were two new messages: one from an on-line purveyor of steroids, the other from the mysterious Tristram. She deleted the first and was about to add the second, when she read the text on the subject line.
It was chillingly direct.
Did you know Sir Kenneth Myburghe is dirty?
A smiley face sat underneath.
*******
CHAPTER THREE
Riley stared at the screen with an increasing feeling of unease. Her instincts told her this wasn’t an idle spammer with time on his hands or some brain-dead computer nerd looking for laughs at someone else’s expense. And the smiley face in the message box somehow made it all the more sinister.
But what did it mean?
She checked ‘Properties’, but it was just a Hotmail address. ‘Tristram’ would probably prove untraceable; it was simple enough to use an Internet café and create a blind email address to send out messages to whomever you wished. She scrolled down the window to see if any other recipients were included. If there were, it meant Tristram was most probably a nuisance, spreading rumour like buckshot to see who got drawn in.
But her name was the only one.
She called up Google and fed in Myburghe’s full name, and got an instant list of hits running off the page. At least the man existed, which was oddly comforting.
She scrolled down the page, occasionally checking the links. But whoever Myburghe was, he seemed to prefer staying out of the cyberspace limelight. Direct information about him was curiously sparse, and no more than she might have picked up from newspaper reports. There were mentions of his name, but nothing accompanied by anything more than events he had visited, and then only as part of a list of delegates or invitees.