The foyer was large and circular, and impressively cool. The floor was marble, as were the columns liberally sprinkled around. The curved walls were covered in fine wooden panels, dotted with tiny paintings, and the effect was completed by elegant pieces of antique furniture at strategic points.
Riley saw a staircase curving upwards, its walls hung with heavy oil paintings of glum faces and owl-eyed family groups staring down in silent resentment. Somehow, she thought it was the only jarring note about the place, as if it had been assembled to create an impression of ancestry.
‘Some butler,’ she commented, as the large man disappeared.
‘Bodyguard is closer,’ Palmer replied.
‘At his age?’ In spite of his appearance, which would be easily capable of intimidating anyone who might want to do harm to Sir Kenneth Myburghe, it was clear he was in his early fifties. ‘I thought bodyguards were younger.’ She smiled at Palmer. ‘Well, young-ish.’
Before Palmer could come back with a snappy reply, Rockface returned and beckoned them across the foyer. He made barely a sound as he walked and Riley checked his feet, half expecting to see him ghosting along on a set of silent rollers.
They were ushered into a room with surprisingly modern furniture, including a plain mahogany desk bearing a PC and printer, and a scattering of nouveau club chairs made of brushed aluminium and leather. The walls were dotted with watercolours, mostly of pastoral scenes, and the whole effect was of functional comfort. It was a startling contrast to the formal austerity of the foyer.
‘Sir Kenneth will be with you shortly,’ said Rockface, before leaving them and closing the door silently behind him.
After the excitement of the previous day, Keagan had put the house and gardens on lockdown while he and his men conducted a rigorous security scan. Palmer and Riley had been advised to stay away until this morning, when they would be needed for a briefing with Sir Kenneth.
They had discussed tactics on the way, and decided that for Riley to be accepted as a security expert on a par with Palmer, she should not remain a dumb follower.
‘We need to ask him some questions,’ Palmer suggested. ‘So far, all I’ve had is what Keagan has told me. If anyone knows what’s behind the threats and the disappearance of his son, it must be Myburghe. He can’t be so naïve as to think he’s just been picked on by chance. Anyway, unless there’s been a major shift in tactics, kidnappers don’t send fake bombs.’
Riley was surprised. ‘You want me to question him?’
‘Why Not? He might open up more with you. Push him a little. It’s for his own good.’
‘What if he fires me?’
‘If he values his life, he won’t.’
Moments later, a man Riley recognised from the photos on the Internet as Sir Kenneth Myburghe, opened the door and stepped into the room.
‘Palmer. How kind.’ He shook hands warmly with Frank Palmer, then turned to Riley and gave her a more perfunctory but polite greeting, as if he didn’t quite know how to treat her. ‘Miss Gavin.’ She thought it was oddly gauche for a man in his position, but decided stress might be playing a part. He nodded towards two of the chairs. ‘Please. Sit down.’
In the flesh, Sir Kenneth was the epitome of the career diplomat: smooth and elegantly dressed in razor-creased slacks, cotton shirt and brogues, he looked comfortable in himself, with a ready smile revealing impeccably white teeth. How much of the smile was genuine, however, was impossible to tell. He wore a faint air of controlled stress and his face had a gauntness about it that Riley guessed wasn’t entirely due to age.
All she could think was that if she had received a body part in the post, purportedly belonging to her teenage son, she would never have smiled again. Diplomats were evidently made of sterner stuff.
‘I’m grateful you’ve agreed to help,’ he said. He made it sound as if they had been summoned to unclog the drains. Moving over to a small side table, he lifted the stopper off a crystal decanter and raised his eyebrows in a silent offer. Palmer and Riley shook their heads and waited as Myburghe poured himself a generous helping. Unlike his greeting of Riley, his movements now were practised and smooth, the professional host. He took a sip, lowering the level in his glass by a good third.
Riley glanced at Palmer, who was studying his hands. But she knew he would have seen it, too: beneath the smooth veneer was a man fighting a losing battle with his nerves.
Myburghe sat at the desk and looked at them both in turn. ‘I gather you’re aware of the basic situation?’
Riley nodded, drawing his attention. Barely two minutes in and she was already deciding she didn’t much like Sir Kenneth Myburghe. Losing a son was a ‘situation’? ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son.’
He frowned and studied his glass. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
She glanced at Palmer, who gave her the briefest of nods to carry on. She looked at Myburghe and said, ‘I know you’ve been through this already with others, but just in case you’ve had some ideas: is there anyone you can think of who might wish you harm? Someone who might have made threats — even a while ago?’
‘It’s not something I can pretend I thought would never happen,’ Myburghe replied honestly. ‘There have been threats of one sort or another over the years — more to do with British foreign policies rather than me as an individual. When you work in the diplomatic field, you tend to expect a certain degree of fallout from one group or another. It comes with the job. But you never quite reckon on it being so…personal. A bit like a motor accident, I suppose.’
Riley decided that this ability to deal with major catastrophes as if they were minor setbacks, must be something they taught in public school, She could almost hear the stiff upper lips clamping shut set under pain of God knew what punishment. Here was this man, passing off the possible death of his son as a job-related hazard.
‘I gather your last posting was in Colombia?’ She almost regretted the choice of words, in view of his evident fall from grace, but he seemed not to notice.
He crossed his legs, now on familiar turf and ready to launch into a lengthy exposé of life at the top. ‘That’s correct. Beautiful country, fantastic scenery and people. But not a nice posting, socially speaking. There are lots of… complications. Too many opposing factions and too many guns. It’s a very dangerous place.’
‘You mean drug traffickers,’ she interrupted him.
‘And others. But, essentially, yes.’ He looked mildly irritated at having the flow of his talk interrupted. ‘But there’s nothing to indicate this business is anything to do with them, I hope you realise that?’ He looked at them in turn, but they didn’t react.
Riley asked, ‘Didn’t your security people have some ideas?’
‘Some. But nothing concrete.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘You have to understand, Miss Gavin, that this job marks you down. Others before me were never quite sure they or their families would be entirely safe.’ He looked past her. ‘But that’s the price, I suppose, for doing one’s duty.’ He stared off manfully into the distance, the Marlborough Man of the diplomatic corps, thought Riley, and realised that this was probably his way of dealing with what had befallen him.
‘One thing puzzles me,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ He fixed her with a dark look, as if he hadn’t expected this level of questioning. What on earth can you be puzzled about? the expression seemed to imply. You, a mere minion. That same facial expression, Riley guessed, had probably had embassy staff running for the hills whenever it appeared.
It reminded her of an old headmistress at high school, who had ceased to hold any fear for Riley after appearing in a pair of giant shorts in the annual teachers versus students hockey match. Somehow a pair of knobbly knees never rated too high in the terror stakes after that.
‘If you and your family are such a target, why did you let your son go to the States? He’s very young.’