‘What then?’
Javad shrugged. ‘He go inside, but I can’t see him after. I have to count my cash, see, otherwise I lose count and start all over again. Then the car door opens in the back and a woman comes out. She walks across the pavement and goes inside, also.’
‘You’re sure they went to Frank’s office?’
‘Of course. Only place to go. The offices either side, they are closed. So, a client for Frank, I bet. All investigators get clients at strange times, right? Bang on door, walk in and say ‘Find me this person damn quick!’’ He chuckled at the idea. ‘But why the big black, huh? Bodyguard, maybe? Enforcer, perhaps.’ He pulled a face and tapped his chest. ‘Where I come from, only presidents and bad people need bodyguards.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Sometimes one and same people, of course.’
Riley thought about it. She knew most of Palmer’s work was picked up by word of mouth or through Donald Brask. But that didn’t mean he never had walk-ins looking for instant solutions. Desperation didn’t always follow conventional channels. ‘Did you see what the woman looked like?’
‘Sadly, no. She had on big coat, and she walked like she was old woman. Stiff, you know? And short. That’s all.’
‘How long were they up there?’
Javad stared into the distance for a moment and puffed out his cheeks. Then he shrugged expansively. ‘Five minutes, not more. I count quick, so I know it’s not long. By the time I finish cashing up, they are down again and gone. Nice car. New Volvo, I think. Or was it Japanese? All look same to me. Anyway, solid as brick shithouse.’ He smiled disarmingly, evidently unaware of the word’s position in polite conversation.
Riley remembered the trace of heavy perfume in the stairwell and the watered plant; an older woman with a dreadlocked minder. So who were they? A Yardie with a taste for horticulture? An elderly or infirm woman with a tame gorilla dropping by to do Palmer a favour? Both seemed about as unlikely as Palmer becoming eco-friendly.
‘Thanks, Javad.’ She took a card from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘If they come back, this woman and the man with the dreadlocks, would you call me?’
Javad nodded eagerly, happy to be of help, delighted to be in on something exciting. ‘Of course, Miss Riley. Sure thing. You think Frank’s all right?’
‘I’m sure he is. He’s probably… you know — working undercover for a while.’ She shook his hand and walked back to the car, her mind now in overdrive at this latest development. Still, she now had the eagle-eyed Javad watching the place, so maybe he’d turn up something.
From Palmer’s office she drove the short distance to his flat, which was in a quiet, two-storey block in a leafy back road. She parked out front and walked into a tiled foyer surrounded by frosted glass. It was deserted and silent, with a fresh smell of lemon in the air. She walked up the stairs to Palmer’s front door on the first floor and rang the bell. No answer. She counted to ten and tried again. Nothing. There was no mail-slot in the door, so that left out peering through and seeing anything. With fingers crossed that none of the other tenants would choose that moment to happen along, she bent down and put her face to the tiled floor, trying to see beneath the door. Nothing there, either, save for a slit of daylight and some dust.
She nudged the door with her shoulder. It was solid and unyielding. The jamb was tight, which meant she could forget about trying to use her credit card or any of those other clever tricks to get inside, even if she knew how.
Frustrated, she went back downstairs and looked at a rack of metal mailboxes on one wall, one for each flat. They were gunmetal grey, secured by serious-looking locks, and seemed too sturdy for her to spring the door with an unladylike kick or nudge. She slid her fingers into the slot and immediately encountered a ridge of paper inside. It was just too far down to get hold of, but felt like an envelope. Next to it was the softer surface of plastic film covering a catalogue or brochure. She dug deeper and found more envelopes. Then she realised something was touching the back of her hand. She turned her hand palm up and felt around with her fingertips. It was a newspaper — probably a local freebie — and felt as if it had been jammed in across the top of the box. She worked at the paper with her fingers, trying to dig her nails in to pull it loose, and felt it begin to move.
Suddenly the front door rattled, and a cough sounded from outside. It was the dry hack of someone elderly and female. Riley stepped back and pulled out her mobile, pretending to be waiting patiently while it rang. All she needed now was for some Neighbourhood Watch trooper to yell for the police and it would really make her day.
An old woman appeared, steadying herself by leaning on a wheeled shopping basket as she stepped through the door. She looked at Riley with wide eyes and kept the basket between them, then limped away with a peculiar rolling motion, moving up the stairs without a backward glance.
Riley stepped back to the mailbox. With a quick tug, she pulled the newspaper from the box and checked the date. Two days old. It meant the rest of the mail had been there at least the same amount of time or longer.
Eighty yards away, tucked into the kerb behind a large rubbish skip spilling over with builder’s debris and broken furniture, the man named Szulu sat in his car and watched as Riley walked out of the block of flats and drove away. He had seen her go in, just like he had a number of other residents or visitors coming and going, but since he wasn’t able to follow to see where she lived or who she might be calling on, he’d been forced to stay where he was, hoping against hope that Palmer might show up.
He yawned and wished he’d brought something to drink. He’d been watching the place for several hours now, hoping Palmer might put in an appearance. After finding no clues to Palmer’s whereabouts at his office, his home was looking just as empty. The vigil had so far proved a fruitless task, with only a couple of men crossing his line of vision, both of them too old by about thirty years to fit the old woman’s description of the investigator. He judged he was on the outer limits of spending any more time here before arousing suspicion.
Although he hadn’t been able to get inside Palmer’s flat, and had been forced to make do with a couple of swift forays up to his front door and out again, Szulu had an instinct about these things. If Palmer hadn’t shown up by now, he probably wasn’t going to anytime soon. Not unless he’d managed to transform himself into a little old lady with a shopping basket and arthritic hips, or a fine looking blonde chick with nice legs and a frown, like the one just leaving.
He gave it ten more minutes, during which a couple of locals gave him the evil eye, so he started the car and drove away. As he headed south, he wondered how to go about telling his employer that she was wasting her time and money.
Chapter 9
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’ Arthur Radnor drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and stared hard at Michael. ‘Not a bit.’
‘I agree.’ The Russian was sitting on the other side of the desk, casually flicking a trace of something from his trouser cuffs. If he felt he was at the focus of Radnor’s comment in some way, he gave no indication. ‘I think we should try to dissuade this man Palmer. Just in case.’
Radnor sat back with an irritated flick of his hand, and loosened his tie, a rare sign that he was under pressure. From what Michael had discovered, the company on the sixth floor, Stairwell Management, had suddenly surfaced as a problem right on their own doorstep. How much of one he wasn’t sure right at the moment, but his instincts told him that if they didn’t find some way of controlling things, it could get badly out of hand. ‘I’m not sure. Is Gillivray a conman? Is that it?’