As she inserted the key in the lock, the door swung open. She was greeted by stale, smoky air and the sharp tang of warm plastic. Well done, Palmer, she thought; you’ve left your office unlocked and your machinery switched on. One day you’ll come back here and find it stripped bare or a smouldering skeleton, the remains of your desk having trickled through to the ground floor in a fine shower of grey ash.
She looked around, subconsciously checking details. Same desk, same filing cabinet, same PC, tea and coffee stuff, coffee table, neglected pot plant and grungy carpet. Palmer’s empire in all its impressive glory. Still, for all his carelessness, it didn’t look like he’d been burgled, not unless the place had been dismissed as beyond temptation by the local criminal cockroaches.
A fine layer of dust covered everything, testimony to the rarity of any cleaning schedule. Riley had once suggested an occasional cleansing might make his clients feel more welcome, but Palmer had ignored her, saying anyone who walked through his door was more interested in his ability to solve problems, not how he kept his office.
She checked the desk, which held a notepad covered with doodles and hieroglyphics; just the standard squiggles that would be of interest only to Palmer’s shrink, if he ever had one. A few numbers were dotted about around the edges, and what could have been dates and questions marks circled or underlined. Most looked old. But down at the bottom of the sheet, Riley noticed the words ‘Sgt’ ‘ Reg’ and ‘Paris’ and ‘Meiningen…border’. It obviously meant something to Palmer but did nothing to tell her what he might be up to. Instinct, however, made her tear off the top sheet and fold it into her pocket. She could always replace it if necessary.
A quick check of the desk drawers revealed an unused diary still in its cellophane wrap, a bundle of cheap pens in a rubber band, a box of paperclips, mostly interlinked, and a collection of stale breadcrumbs.
She noticed the Rolodex and smiled. She’d bought it for him as a joke, when Palmer had commented wistfully that private eyes always had a Rolodex and he’d have to get one in which to file the names of his underworld contacts, friendly cops, bar owners and hot, available blondes. When she’d produced one a few days later, he’d been delighted and had sat there flicking it round like an executive toy.
As she pulled it towards her, one of the cards slid out onto the desk, skidding through the thin patina of dust. She turned it over.
The card bore her name and address.
She clipped it back into place. Typical Palmer, casual to the last. At least it proved he was using it. She flicked through the rest of the cards, which were mostly unused. When she saw a familiar name in the ‘C’ section, however, she thought for a moment, then on impulse, made a note of the details before replacing it.
She wandered around the rest of the room, eyeing Palmer’s computer. There might be something in it other than games of solitaire and minesweeper. Or maybe not. Palmer always claimed not to be the most computer-literate soul on God’s earth, but she knew he’d had training in basic IT skills in the army. He simply chose not to use them much. She craned her head to peer at the tower beneath the desk, expecting to see the green power light glowing, but it was switched off. Wow, Palmer, she thought. I’m impressed.
As she turned away, her eyes fell on the plant pot, evidence of a past attempt by her to add some degree of soul and colour to the masculine drabness of the place. It had been like casting pearls before swine. Palmer’s eyes had glazed over the moment she’d taken it out of the bag and placed it on the desk. Plants of any kind weren’t really his thing, not unless they could be fried and eaten or their containers used as an ashtray. Still, he’d promised to try and keep it alive, although she’d guessed it might be by swamping it with endless dregs of cold tea.
She frowned, bending closer. The plant looked sick, which was no surprise, but that could be down to the stuffy atmosphere up here. Yet the soil showed signs of having been watered recently. She touched it with the tip of her finger. It was definitely moist. Maybe she owed Palmer an apology for this, too. And there was only the faintest trace of soil spill on the table top, as if it had been wiped clean. The last time she’d watched him water the thing, he’d created a mini tidal wave, sloshing water and soil everywhere like a kid in a sandpit.
She left the office and locked the door. The small landing was as airless as the office, but as she walked down the stairs, she thought she detected traces of a distinctly feminine perfume she had missed on her way up. Sweet, almost cloying, the smell reminded her of an elderly aunt who liked dousing herself liberally in cologne without realising its effect on those around her.
Outside, she stood and looked around, undecided on her next move. She was torn between concern for Palmer and the knowledge that if he was simply caught up in a job he’d forgotten to mention, he could be anywhere. After all, he was a big boy and could do what he liked.
‘Miss?’ A male voice came from a doorway to her left. It was a dry-cleaning shop, the windows covered in gaudy special offer stickers and the smell of chemicals and hot air wafting from a vent over the front door. A man was standing in the entrance, holding a cleaning cloth in one hand. She vaguely recalled seeing him when she’d visited Palmer before. He’d been squirting some liquid over the glass from a plastic atomiser when she first arrived, then rubbing at the glass with a fixed frown. He was plump and swarthy, with a heavy moustache and receding hairline, and showed a flash of white teeth as she turned towards him. ‘Miss. You looking for Frank?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Riley stepped across the pavement towards him. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘No. Not recently.’ His accent was middle-eastern with a thin American overlay, his smile easy and apologetic. ‘But I know you. You’re Miss Riley, right?’ He nodded and waited for her to agree. ‘Frank tell me.’
Riley nodded, wondering what else Frank had told him. ‘That’s right. Riley Gavin.’
The man slapped his chest and smiled happily. ‘I am Javad. I come from Iran. I know Frank Palmer well. He likes my coffee. Very strong. He says ‘Iranian coffee thick enough to float a dead horse.’ ‘
‘Sounds like him, right enough,’ Riley agreed. Frank Palmer, coffee and quaint sayings his speciality.
‘Sure thing. He tells me you work together, busting cases, right?’ He laughed. ‘I like all cop shows. Bloody good action.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you’re not…’ he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘…not a twosome, I think.’ The idea seemed to disappoint him a little, although it didn’t diminish the twinkle in his eye. Maybe he liked the idea of everyone being happy together.
‘No,’ said Riley, figuring that gossips were the same the world over, be it Teheran or west London. ‘We’re not a twosome.’ She turned to leave, but Javad stepped out of his doorway and gestured up at Palmer’s office window.
‘Maybe Frank’s busting a drugs case, huh? He needed to go underground.’
‘Drugs?’ Riley looked at him. She had a feeling Javad was just a little too fond of cop shows. Next thing, he’d be asking to see her gun and firearms permit.
‘Sure.’ Javad nodded energetically, then stepped close and looked around, the sign of cautious gossips everywhere. ‘I’m not racist, you know, but the black with the…’ He flicked his fingers up and down the sides of his head. ‘…the dreadlocks. He could be up to no good, right?’
‘Black? Oh, a black man. What about him?’
‘Yesterday, seven thirty or forty in the evening. I was closing up, doing my cash. Not a bad day, God be praised, but not great. Weather not yet hot enough for needing clothes cleaning. A big car arrives, and I think, maybe a late customer. So I wait. You never know. But it wasn’t a customer. A tall black gets out and goes to Frank’s office. I didn’t get a good look, but he looks very fit, you know — like one of those footballers. And he walks arrogant, like he owns the street. He had a ring of dreadlocks around his head. You know dreadlocks?’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hah. Should be for girls, these things, not men.’