‘What?’
‘Well, to be honest, I got the impression the last time we spoke that she was waiting to land something a bit more heavyweight. She was a bit distracted, which wasn’t like her. I thought she was a bit frustrated with the run-of-the-mill and wanted something more. It was odd, really, because her work was absolutely thorough and on the nail. Totally professional. In fact, she got a lot of praise for it. I reckon she was in line for some major assignments eventually, if only… ’ He shrugged and looked saddened. ‘Sorry.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. I needed to check some detail about a story she’d done.’
‘You don’t know what this potential job was, though?’
‘No. She never said. I think it was still hanging at the time. It was more a feeling I had, that’s all.’
There was something in Johnson’s face; something he wasn’t saying.
‘What was your impression?’
Eventually, he sighed. ‘She once said she wanted to do the kind of work that you do.’
Riley felt a stab of surprise. ‘Me? She said that?’
Johnson nodded with a weak smile, as if he’d betrayed a confidence. ‘She said she’d met you and admired your work. I think she felt she could have been doing better for herself.’
‘She once asked me if I knew anything about oligarchs.’ The voice floated through from the outer office, inserting itself between them. Riley and Johnson turned to stare at Emerald, who was busy filing a nail, her head bent in concentration.
‘Oligarchs?’ Riley glanced at Johnson, wondering if the girl was in the habit of joining in on conversations with visitors. He shrugged, evidently used to it.
‘Yeah. Rich Russians. Billionares, trillionaires, whatever they are. Like the bloke who bought Chelsea. She asked if we’d ever covered any of them in the mags. I said no.’
‘Are you sure?’ Riley couldn’t think why, but she felt it might be important. It was quite a shift, from mundane business matters to Russians with bottomless bank accounts.
Johnson shifted in his chair. ‘Em’s right. It’s not something we’ve ever done.’ He frowned, focussing on the possibilities. ‘I’m not sure why, exactly — they certainly have their fingers in enough pies. And with what’s brewing up under Putin at the moment, and his growing antagonism towards the west, maybe a short series would have been good.’ He realised what he was saying and looked guilty.’ Sorry. Bad timing.’
Riley let the thought go. She didn’t need the conversation to drift off into the realms of publishing fantasy. ‘Do you know if Helen had any family?’
Johnson shook his head. ‘No. Well, I don’t know — if she did, she didn’t talk about them. She came in when she had to, did what was needed and that was it. Like I said, professional.’
‘What about that last cheque?’ It was Emerald again.
‘What about it?’ Johnson asked.
‘She rang and asked for it to go to a different address. Somewhere down in Hampshire. I’ve got a note here somewhere.’ She dropped the emery board and attacked her keyboard with a blur of fingers.
Johnson looked at Riley and flushed. ‘Sorry… I didn’t know anything about this.’
‘Here it is.’ There was a buzz of a printer and the girl came through with a sheet of paper. It was a simple payment slip for syndication fees, payable to Helen Bellamy. The address was: Mrs C. Demelzer, Long Cottage, Cotton Hill, Nr Basingstoke, Hants.
‘She rang last week,’ Emerald continued, ‘and asked me to hold any outstanding payments. She said if she didn’t come in to collect them by Friday, to make a cheque out to the woman at this address. I sent it off yesterday. You approved it.’ She stared at Johnson as if daring him to argue.
He blinked back. ‘Really?’
Emerald smiled conspiratorially at Riley, eyes twinkling behind her green specs. ‘Well, not really, but you would have in the end. I mean, why should we worry where the money goes — it’s her tax bill, isn’t it? And she was always really sweet to me. She said I had style.’ She gave David Johnson an arch look and turned away.
Riley bit her lip to stop herself smiling. She wanted to jump up and hug the girl. She held up the piece of paper. ‘Was this normal? To have payments made out to someone else?’
‘Not really.’ Johnson seemed mildly perturbed by the news, and that someone outside the company was now privy to it. ‘But we have a whole list of freelance contributors, so one-off payments are fairly common. If she’d asked it as a favour, I suppose Em’s right — I’d have approved it.’ He nodded at the piece of paper. ‘Maybe she owed this person money.’
‘Maybe. Can I take this? It might be important.’
‘Help yourself.’ Johnson prodded at his glasses and stood up, his eyes straying towards his monitor. ‘Anything to help. I mean, Em’s right… Helen was a really sweet woman. Such a waste.’
Back out on the street, Riley took a deep breath of air. Somewhere along the line, a young woman with a background in business reporting and a growing reputation had expressed a desire to do something else: the kind of work on which Riley herself had built a career. But was that all she had done — simply longed for a change? A shift away from what might have become mundane and ‘safe’? Or had she gone further than that, stepping out of her comfort zone into the world Riley knew, and in doing so, looked at something — or someone — just a little too closely for comfort?
8
Palmer parked his car a short walk away from Riley’s flat off Holland Park Avenue, and climbed out, glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs. He liked this part of west London; it was just on the edge of busy, without being too frantic to enjoy the ever-changing atmosphere and buzz of an inner-city suburb.
He dialled Riley’s number as he walked. She picked up on the second ring and told him to come on up, the kettle was on.
He slid the phone back in his pocket and yawned. Everything was catching up on him; too many late nights and greasy pit stops, too little sleep, too long spent peering through a hazy windscreen. And now this.
He hadn’t accomplished a lot since hearing the news about Helen. Sitting in his office, remote from the specifics of how she had died, had merely brought on a rising sense of frustration. Worst of all was the increasing realisation that, in spite of their closeness for a while, he hadn’t really known Helen very well. The idea filled him with sadness and regret.
He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes. Given a choice, he’d have preferred to shut himself off from everyone else and deal with the news of Helen’s death in his own way. It was unreasonable and even disloyal, he knew that, because Riley was probably his closest friend and the one person he could turn to at a time of crisis. But years of operating in solitude had made him accustomed to not relying much on anyone else.
Riley was waiting for him on the first floor landing. She looked worried and drawn, and he guessed she hadn’t slept well, either. He nodded matter-of-factly and followed her inside. When she hesitated before going into the kitchen, and appeared as if she was about to throw her arms around him, he held up a hand.
‘I’m fine. Really,’ he said brusquely, and instantly regretted it. He knew she must be feeling like hell, for him if not for herself. He reached out for her. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean it. This is good. But don’t tell anyone.’
They hugged each other tight for a few seconds, before Riley patted him on the back and slipped into the kitchen, where she clattered around making coffee. He couldn’t see her face but he could read the body language. He left her to it, relieved he hadn’t stuck to the stiff upper lip. She might not have known Helen very well, but she clearly wasn’t unaffected by what had happened.
A large bruiser of a tabby cat entered from the bedroom and walked across to greet him. It rubbed against his legs just long enough to make contact, then turned away and sat down to clean itself. Palmer smiled. The cat was a feline self-set, having adopted Riley on a whim, but alternating between her and a granite-featured old Pole named Grobowski, downstairs. While Riley made do with calling the animal Cat and stocking standard feline food, Mr Grobowski shouted a lot in heavily-accented English and called it Lipinski, feeding it heavy portions of Polish cooking which he put together in his kitchen for compatriots at the local community centre.