Riley told him about the anonymous emails from Tristram. ‘It could be someone with a warped sense of humour or a personal grudge,’ she admitted. ‘But why would they bother — and why come to me?’
‘Who knows, sweet pea?’ Donald murmured sombrely, suppressing a cough. He watched as she poured water over tea bags and stirred them. ‘There are some odd people out there, as you know. And you’re not exactly unknown. That Observer piece you did on procurement fraud last month got you a lot of notice. Who better to call, when you want to dish the dirt on a VIP, than a star reporter? Better than Hello magazine, although not as well paid, sadly.’
‘Is Myburghe still a VIP? I got the impression he was a former ambassador.’
‘Quite possibly. But a career in the diplomatic corps doesn’t automatically end with retirement. Some embassy suits go on to even greater heights.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Or lows.’
‘In that case, I wonder what he’s been up to?’
‘Are you sure you want to dip your little piglets into such muddy waters?’ Donald stared at the thermometer one last time before dropping it into a nearby drawer. His voice was already sounding a lot better, as if the lightweight bout of verbal sparring had given him the energy he needed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Diplomats, sweetie. It’s a little too close to Her Majesty’s embassies, isn’t it? With all the terrorist activity at the moment, they’ve got them wrapped up like little cocoons and surrounded by armed heavies, in case Al-Quaeda come calling. I’m not sure it’s healthy at the moment, taking too much of interest in somebody like Myburghe. You could find your pretty face appearing on a security department computer somewhere.’ He chuckled and touched her cheek. ‘Definitely not good for the complexion.’
Riley stared at him. This didn’t sound like Donald. He usually had the gung-ho attitude of a pit-bull, VIPs and terrorists or not. True, he wasn’t above suggesting she get some backup if danger threatened, which was where Frank Palmer had first come in. But nothing about what she’d seen so far suggested it was a possibility.
Was it her imagination, or was he trying to put her off this job?
‘If this Tristram has got something on Myburghe, we should find out, VIP or not.’
‘Maybe.’ Donald sipped his tea and grimaced as it went down. ‘But there are other avenues worth pursuing. I have a couple of hot tips you could follow up for me — one involving a rather libidinous pop star who’s made a lot of fuss recently about how clean-living she is.’ He chuckled nastily, in spite of his throat. ‘Now there’s a young lady who will go down in flames if she has to — and enjoy it.’ He sniggered at his crude double entendre, then doubled over in a coughing fit, his face turning purple.
Riley slapped him across the shoulders and waited while he regained his composure. ‘Thanks, Donald. But pop stars come and go, most of them briefly. I’ll give this Myburghe a look first, just in case.’ She took a final swallow of tea and said casually, ‘I don’t suppose you know what Palmer’s working on at the moment, do you?’ She knew he handled some of Palmer’s assignments, although it would probably take wild horses and a weighted hosepipe to get him to give any details.
Brask wiped his lips on a silk handkerchief and created a drama out of a simple shrug, before subsiding into another coughing fit. She couldn’t tell if it was genuine or whether he was simply trying to avoid answering her question. Never mind. She’d get to the bottom of it sooner or later.
‘I’ll take that as a ‘don’t know’, then,’ she said coolly. A cold shoulder and a little gentle bullying sometimes went a long way with Donald. ‘Please yourself.’ She poured the rest of her tea down the sink and headed for the door. He was a lovely man and always full of concern for her, but she never forgot that he was first and foremost a businessman and therefore always on the lookout for number one. He’d soon come round.
‘Dear heart,’ he began, his voice plaintiff. ‘I really think-’
Riley patted his cheek and slipped past him into the hallway before he could suggest any other stories she should follow up. She wasn’t sure why, but instinct told her that, even if on the basis of dubious messages from a mystery source, the Myburghe thing was worth a look.
‘Stand by, Donald,’ she told him. ‘If my instincts are right, we’re up and running.’
**********
CHAPTER FOUR
Back home, she switched on the laptop and waited for her emails to download. There was a message from Tristram, sent ten minutes ago.
What does it take for a diplomat to be dropped from the diplomatic list?
Riley typed back: ‘Is this a ‘knock-knock’ joke?’
The screen remained blank for a full two minutes before the reply came.
Answer the question.
Okay, Tristram, she thought. So you don’t have a sense of humour. No need to get ratty.
She typed: ‘I don’t know. What does it take…?’
The reply was instantaneous.
Ask Myburghe. He knows first-hand.
She sat back and read the text three times. Whatever the words said, there was clearly a hidden sub-text. Unfortunately, so far only Tristram knew what it was. She decided to cut to the chase and hit the keyboard.
‘Why don’t we talk about this?’
We are.
‘I mean face to face.’
There was no reply, and by the length of the pause, it was clear Tristram either wasn’t sure or didn’t want to reveal himself. But that could be for any number of reasons; personal, professional or moral.
Even criminal.
Riley sat and wallowed in indecision. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with a story based solely on unsubstantiated and anonymous hints about another man’s honesty. Yet there was something very barbed about these messages. They hinted at something far more than a simple desire to gossip, or a haphazard smear campaign by a malicious spammer.
And the accused was hardly a nobody.
Maybe, she reasoned, it was the way the messages were coming to her in this spooky, veiled manner, feeding onto her screen like notes being slipped under the door. Nothing, after all, was calculated to spike any reporter’s interest more than a drip-feed of innuendo, especially when the choice of other stories to work on was less than exciting. Or was she merely responding to a touch of vanity, her ego fanned into action by the thought that this Tristram, whoever he was, had selected her as his contact?
Her phone rang. It was Donald Brask, still sounding full of cold. ‘Sweetie, I’ve got you an appointment,’ he croaked mournfully, ‘at Colebrooke House. It’s this afternoon, so you’ll have to get your skates on.’
Riley’s head was still full of Tristram and his emails. ‘Where and what is Colebrooke House?’ she asked, wondering if it was the latest glitzy pad for a headline-seeking pop princess, and whether Donald was intent on pointing her down the track of celebrity journalism.
‘It’s in the Cotwolds, off the M4,’ he replied. ‘It’s Myburghe’s country retreat.’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘He’s agreed to an interview about his daughter’s wedding.’
‘Donald, you’re a star! How did you manage that?’
Notwithstanding his stuffed-up nose and sore throat, Donald still managed to preen. ‘Influence, sweetie, influence. The only condition is, you stick to the wedding topic and nothing else.’
‘Word of honour, Donald — and thank you! I’ll be in touch.’
She rang off just as the intercom buzzed three times in quick succession. Moments later, she heard footsteps on the stairs. She went to the door and opened it.
It was John Mitcheson. He was holding the downstairs door key.
‘Hi, babe,’ he said, and leaned through the doorway for a kiss.
‘Hi, yourself,’ she replied, responding in kind. She felt a strap curled over his shoulder, and followed it round until she encountered the bulk of a leather overnight bag. She pulled away reluctantly and with a mild feeling of disappointment. ‘You’re off on a job?’