She soon tired of this and clicked on images. These showed a tall, elegant, man with thinning grey hair and the magnolia skin of an ageing academic. In most of them he was sharing floor space with other figures in penguin suits at a range of charity or government functions. Some showed him with a thin, smiling woman. They were dressed for partying, in elegant clothes and jewellery and mostly holding glasses and smiling into the camera. But the accompanying information revealed strangely little in the way of background detail. And none mentioned what he did for a living or when the photos had been taken.
Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. It takes real work in the digital age to stay so low on the radar. It wasn’t until she scrolled down the page and came across a Spanish-language site that the picture became slightly clearer. The site yielded clippings from a newspaper in Bogotá, Colombia, listing a clutch of British and American embassy staff and personnel. From Riley’s limited fund of Spanish, it had been lifted from an invitations list for a Colombian Government seminar on the environment and local development issues held three years ago. There was no photo of Myburghe this time, but that might have been for security reasons.
At least she now knew what he did for a living: he was a diplomat. Or had been. While interesting, it didn’t necessarily mean much, other than that someone called Tristram didn’t like him. Maybe, she reflected, Tristram was an ex-Foreign Office employee with an axe to grind.
A site on another page led to a society column clip, announcing the forthcoming marriage of former British Ambassador to Colombia, Sir Kenneth Myburghe’s 26-year old daughter, Victoria, to Simon Biel, a banker. A photo showed a tall, pretty young blonde on the arm of a lofty individual with an impressive stomach and no discernible chin.
The wedding, Riley noted with interest, was in a few days time.
She chewed over what she had so far, which was that someone didn’t like a shy diplomat whose daughter was about to get married. It was pathetically little, and most days she would have binned the idea and got on with something else. She sat back and ruminated. Was it a story worth pursuing — and if so, what propelled it to that level? Jilted putative son-in-law, perhaps? If so, why not take it out on the daughter instead?
The fact that the maligned Sir Ken was a former ambassador elevated him some way beyond Mr Average on the news front. By the nature of his job, it meant the source reason for any enmity might lie overseas. But apart from that, the only reason he seemed to be currently in the news was because of his daughter’s wedding. It was hardly reason enough for somebody to take what appeared to be a more than passing and personal interest in him.
So why the obvious tone of rancour?
She wondered what the mysterious Tristram was doing right now. Probably grinning smugly over his own cleverness and sending the same message to another sucker to see how many responses he could notch up.
Eventually, powered by a growing sense of curiosity, she hit Reply and typed:
‘Tell me more. Who are you?’
Three minutes passed before the machine beeped.
A friend.
It was followed by another smiley symbol. Totally innocuous and common enough, but sufficient to give Riley a renewed sense of concern. She paused, her fingers above the keyboard, questioning what she might be getting herself into. Simpler beginnings than this had turned into unpleasant situations in the past. But it was too late now; the connection had been made and Tristram, whoever he was, now knew she was hooked.
She typed back: ‘So tell me your real name.’ She didn’t for a moment believe it was really Tristram, but it was worth a try.
The screen remained blank. She gave it a minute and tried again.
‘Are you wasting my time?’
Still no answer. She sighed and switched off the laptop. If Tristram were serious, he would get back to her. If not, he’d get bored and try somebody else.
She checked the time and decided to call on Donald Brask. If he had any crumbs of work on offer, facing him down might get her a headstart on his other journo clients. Besides, she could do with some fresh air and the gladiatorial buzz that driving in London inevitably gave her.
She grabbed her car keys, told the cat to behave — it was pointless, but a habit she found hard to break — and headed for the door.
Donald Brask lived and worked alone in a large Victorian house in Finchley. Both home and office, it was his sanctuary from the world outside, preferring, he claimed, the company of his machines and their flashing lights, cursors and ring tones to people and places.
Over the years Riley had known him, Donald had built up an impressive array of computer power and electronic archives. Armed with this and his little book of contacts in commercial, showbusiness and governmental circles, he claimed to have a finger on the pulse of whatever scandal or intrigue might be in need of uncovering. With an address book of newspaper and magazine editors around the world, he was able to play the market like a virtuoso, seeking out the best offers and contracts for his clients.
‘Sir Kenneth Myburghe,’ she asked him, when he opened his front door. ‘Should I know anything about him?’
‘Pahum?’ Donald scowled blearily at her and closed the door quickly as she stepped past him. Unlike his customary attire of mismatched slacks and shirts, he was dressed in a garish dressing gown that made him look like an eastern potentate in a bad school play. He was also nursing a thermometer between pursed lips and looking distinctly peaky.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, suddenly concerned. It was barely noon, and although Donald could be a bit of a drama queen, being too ill to get dressed was not something she had witnessed before. Illness meant time and time was money, and in Brask’s book the two didn’t quite gel.
‘I’ve got a sore throat,’ he squeaked, whipping out the thermometer and frowning at the results. He held out the instrument for her to check. ‘See?’ he cried dramatically, his ample belly quivering. ‘One hundred and six! I’m ill!’
‘Donald, if it was that high, your head would be steaming,’ she told him bluntly. She felt his forehead. He was a little hot, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not that she knew what might be ordinary for Donald Brask. ‘Take some Paracetamol, drink lots of tea and watch some day-time televison. We common folk do it all the time — it’s called throwing a sickie.’
She walked through to his kitchen, fitted with every device known to culinary man, and switched on the kettle. She might as well do it for him, otherwise he’d be useless.
‘Did you say Sir Kenneth Myburghe?’ he echoed, trailing along behind her, bad throat and thermometer momentarily dismissed. When any kind of ‘name’ was involved, his nose, permanently set on ‘Seek’, was more sensitive than a truffle-hound on heat.
‘Yes. I think he’s something in the diplomatic corps, but I can’t find out much more at the moment.’
‘I wouldn’t bother, dear. He’s one of Her Majesty’s faceless men in far-flung places. Flour graders, most of them.’ Donald sounded faintly uninterested, and stared at the floor while calling up details from his prodigious memory. ‘Let me see… middle-ranking diplomat, sixties or thereabouts? Couple of kids. No, three. He has a country pile in Gloucestershire somewhere, near the Royal Triangle. His wife lives in London. Something about an amicable split, as I recall. He’s been around a long time but I don’t recall anything newsworthy about him.’
Riley was surprised Donald knew even that much about the man. ‘How do you know all that?’
Donald waved a vague hand. ‘Lord knows. Some things come in and stick, others don’t. It was a while back — probably in connection with a diplomatic fundraising event, I expect. Why the interest?’