His eyes were drawn towards a clump of trees to one side of the house, where a stable block stood. It had once housed a few horses, but was now deserted. The building was an uncomfortable reminder that any threat to his safety was not as far away as he might imagine.
No, North Americans he could deal with; those further south, however, were a different prospect altogether.
********
CHAPTER NINE
By eleven the following morning, Riley and Palmer were turning onto a rutted track leading through a thick belt of trees. Tetbury was five miles away in one direction, the village of Colebrooke three miles behind them. Riley was riding shotgun, which meant holding a map and singing out directions for Palmer to follow. Apart from acknowledging the instructions, Palmer was humming tunelessly and staring out at the greenery. There was a lot to stare at.
They were both clad in rubber boots, although Riley’s were Hunter green and fitted properly, whereas Palmer’s had come from a self-service station just off the M4. They were black and fitted like canoes. Not that it seemed to bother him.
Riley thought that London seemed far away and was wondering where this particular job was leading them. The idea of a boy’s body parts being sent to his father was horrible, especially when set against the backdrop of the shire counties, titled gentry and chinless wonders blasting holes in the sky in the name of sport.
‘Who are we meeting?’ she asked, as Palmer steered the Saab down a narrow, bumpy back-road bordered by thick hedges.
‘A man named Keagan. Major. Ex-military. He’s part of the Diplomatic Protection Group and runs the security detail responsible for Myburghe’s safety, among others. Sir Kenneth has instructed him to give us a briefing.’
‘So why out here and not at the house?’
‘It’s easier this way. There are too many people wandering around his place — builders, caterers, staff and wedding organisers. Sir Kenneth’s holed up indoors and some friends are acting as decoys for the day’s shoot.’
‘Really? Now they’ll know what a pheasant feels like. Nice to see they’re taking it seriously.’
‘They are at the moment. Some of Keagan’s team are with him, treating it like a training exercise. The rest are at the house.’ Palmer turned down a track, swinging past a stocky, Lycra-clad cyclist bent over a racing bike. The man didn’t bother looking up, intent on tugging at the chain which was hanging loose from the main cog.
Riley was surprised they hadn’t sealed up Myburghe’s house like a fortress with him inside. If it had been her under threat, she would have found the safest place available and locked herself in with a team of heavies at every access point until it was safe to come out. On the other hand, that was a way to grow old and grey, thereby missing some of life’s finer pleasures.
‘Thoughts?’ Palmer spoke as they cleared a tunnel of trees and turned through a gateway onto a gentle hillside with half of Gloucestershire spread out before them. At least Riley assumed it was still Gloucestershire; her geography was never too good once she was out of London.
‘I’m still thinking them,’ she replied.
Several gleaming 4WDs splattered with mud were parked on the hill, their occupants standing in a group nearby, guns at the ready. They all wore the uniform of Hunter boots, Barbours and peaked caps, and had that air of well-fed leanness which comes from good breeding, money and time spent in the great outdoors.
One or two men turned their way, but nobody moved to greet them. Palmer parked with the front of the car facing back the way they’d come. He turned off the engine and they sat waiting for Keagan to come forward. The tree line around them was heavy and dark, full of shifting shadows.
‘If you go down to the woods today,’ Palmer sang quietly. ‘I counted three.’
‘Three what?’ asked Riley.
‘Security men hanging around in the bushes. Four if you include the chunky individual mending his bike near the entrance to the track.’
Riley nodded at the men with the guns. ‘What about them?’
‘Strictly local colour. Keagan brought them in to make it look real.’
‘Risky, isn’t it? He could have all manner of collateral damage if anyone lets rip at them.’
Palmer grunted as one of the men suddenly swung round with scant regard for his companions and blasted away at a pheasant flying by. The bird didn’t even bother to duck and continued on its way, leaving the shooter looking red-faced and the other men laughing. ‘With shooting like that, any gunman showing up here is in more danger than the birds.’
‘If the bomb package was a hoax,’ said Riley, musing out loud about the series of threats, ‘then why not the finger, too?’
‘There was a family ring attached. No hoax.’
‘Oh.’ Riley fell silent. The implications weren’t good. ‘In that case, the boy won’t be coming back, will he?’
Palmer shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’
‘Does Myburghe realise that?’
‘I think so.’
Riley shivered at the idea. If it was a straight kidnap, even moderate statistics held that most victims died within seventy-two hours of being snatched. In some cases, this was due to inept or simply callous kidnappers; in others it was the fear of being identified if they let the victim go. In a minority there was never any intention of the victim surviving, anyway, and few of these made it past the first day.
Then there was the matter of the finger. Getting hold of a spare as a ghastly form of hoax was no simple matter. It wasn’t simply a case of tripping along to the local morgue and buying a spare body part. And grave robbing was a little too public to go unnoticed.
She felt sickened at the thought of someone cutting off a finger. But the cold brutality of the act didn’t end there; she was no medical expert, but she figured if the boy wasn’t in a proper hospital or at least being cared for by a professional medic when the finger was cut off, he was going to die from shock, infection or blood loss.
She looked up as one of the men left the group and walked towards them, waving a hand. He had a relaxed air of authority and she guessed he must be Keagan. Then she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a slight shift of movement in the trees behind the car. No doubt one of his watchers.
She hoped they weren’t feeling trigger-happy.
They climbed out to meet the security man. He had a shotgun tucked under his arm and looked as if he’d been born holding it. He was in his early fifties and built like a battle-tank, with weather-beaten skin and short grey hair beneath a tweed cap. Even without knowing who he was, or seeing the gimlet-like eyes appraising them, there was no mistaking the bearing of a former military man.
‘Palmer,’ he said crisply. His eyes swept across to Riley and hovered momentarily. ‘I didn’t realise you’d have company.’
‘My associate,’ Palmer replied. ‘Riley Gavin.’
The two men exchanged handshakes with wary civility. Riley received a curt nod. The look on Keagan’s face said he was unhappy with their presence, but that Palmer had passed muster, so he wasn’t about to complain.
‘You may have seen my three men on the way in,’ he said, eyes flicking past them toward the trees.
‘Four, actually,’ Palmer told him. ‘The man on the bike could lose a bit of weight. That Lycra’s deadly with a beer gut.’
Keagan’s face went tight around the mouth and Riley tried not to laugh. The major had been testing them and had tripped over his own arrogance. He either didn’t know or hadn’t believed that in Frank Palmer he was dealing with someone experienced in the game of spotting covert surveillance. She decided it didn’t augur well for any future working relationship.
‘Sir Kenneth wanted you brought in,’ he huffed, changing the subject, ‘against my advice and official suggestions.’
Palmer looked at Riley. ‘He means there are lots of hairy-chested ex-Special Forces people out there who are better qualified than me…which is almost true.’