‘Going on?’ Palmer dropped the magazine and flicked back the twin halves of a carefully rumpled sports jacket. The rest of his clothes were his usual blend-in, comfort uniform of slacks, soft shoes and dark cotton shirt, but no tie. Palmer only did ties under sufferance, although Riley knew he sometimes carried one with an alternative outfit in the back of his car for making quick changes when on surveillance work. ‘Suppose you tell me. You’re the one who was planning on assaulting me with a can of — what was it, hair spray? Tea’s coming, by the way. I asked for extra jam and cream.’ He gave her an innocent look and a raised eyebrow, a signal she recognised as showing he was prepared to out-wait her for an answer.
‘It was de-icer, actually,’ she retorted. ‘And how was I supposed to know it was you standing there waving a big stick?’
She had first been introduced to Frank Palmer at Donald Brask’s insistence when embarking on a dangerous assignment a couple of years before. Faced with the lethal attentions of a criminal gang whose members had shown few reservations about killing people who got in their way, she had reluctantly enlisted his help. Her initial impression had been of a laid-back man with low energy levels and a marked reluctance to get involved unless absolutely necessary. Subsequent events had forced her to revise those first impressions, as he had proven him capable of ruthless efficiency, and in the time they had been acquainted, they had come to know and trust each other. They had built an easy, if sometimes prickly rapport, more akin to long-term partners than occasional colleagues, although their relationship had never shown signs of developing into anything stronger.
‘Why are you following me-’ She paused as a waitress appeared with a tray of cups, saucers and the makings of a cream tea, depositing them carefully in the middle of the coffee table and departing quickly with a shy smile. ‘Why are you following me around?’ she hissed at him, but found the lure of scones and jam, not to mention cream, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in hours. She reached for a scone and a knife.
‘Why the hell should I be following you?’ he retorted indignantly. ‘I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
‘Yeah, right. So you being here is just a huge coincidence?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m on a job. Tea, dear?’ He reached for the pot and waited for her to nod assent. ‘And before you start again,’ he continued, ‘I hate to sound one-uppish, but I was actually at Colebrooke House first.’ He pushed a cup towards her. ‘Which means, technically, you were following me. Were you?’
‘Sorry?’ While she finished a mouthful of scone, jam and cream, Riley debated whether she should believe him. He actually sounded sincere, although she’d known Palmer lie convincingly enough when the occasion demanded. Maybe he was just playing dumb and knew what she was doing here all along.
‘I said, were you following me?’
‘I’m on a story, if you must know,’ she said forcefully, but her indignation was beginning to evaporate. ‘It’s what I do, remember?’
‘I can see that.’ He leaned round the table and stared pointedly at her legs with an appreciative grin. ‘New line of attack, is it?’
Riley felt herself redden and pulled in her feet. She rarely wore a skirt and high heels, preferring instead the comfort of slacks or jeans and a jacket. For this job, however, she figured it had been worth the effort to look a little more formal. ‘Very funny.’
‘So, what’s the story?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The lead you’re following.’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Because if you don’t you’ll develop nosebleeds and have sleepless nights. Come on, you know you’ll tell me in the end, anyway.’
She gritted her teeth. Had Palmer been another journo, there was no way she’d have considered it. Needs must, however, although she wasn’t about to spill everything, just in case Tristram was perpetrating a huge hoax. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she said finally, and settled on the only plausible reason for her being there. ‘It’s about Sir Kenneth Myburghe.’
He rolled his eyes with a pained air. ‘Christ on a motorbike, I’d figured out that much already. What about him?’
‘His daughter’s getting married. I thought I’d do a background piece.’
Palmer lifted an eyebrow. ‘You. Covering a wedding.’ His tone was as flat as his gaze, laden with disbelief.
In spite of her toying with the truth, Riley’s hackles rose in response. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I have to pay the rent, too, you know.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry — that was rude and insensitive of me.’
‘Palmer, don’t patronise me. Donald called you, didn’t he? He’s suffering from a dose of flu and it’s making him get all motherly in his old age. He changed his mind.’ Then she saw the ghost of confusion drift across his face and realised that Palmer hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. She swore silently. ‘Dammit — what were you doing there?’
Palmer helped himself to a scone and took his time spooning on a thick helping of cream and jam. Typical, thought Riley savagely, reaching for her tea. Cream first — he has to be different.
‘I’ve been hired to do a study of security around Colebrooke House,’ he said, with what she thought was a slight air of pomposity. Or maybe it was the mouthful of scone and cream that was making speech difficult. ‘It’s an exercise called risk-assessment.’
‘Against what?’
Palmer swallowed and showed his teeth. ‘People like you, mainly.’
‘Really? Why should-?’ Then it hit her. ‘It was you! You blocked my interview, didn’t you?’
Palmer studied her for a moment, his eyes impossible to read. There was humour in there, and friendliness. But there was also caution born of long experience, even when dealing with friends. He said, ‘You shouldn’t take it personally. In the run-up to the wedding. I decided to bar any press interviews.’
‘Why?’ Riley was puzzled. With Sir Kenneth Myburghe high on the diplomatic totem pole, he would surely have a single man or a team of close protection officers around him. Yet from what Palmer had said, that wasn’t the case. She wondered why. ‘And who are you taking over security from?’
Palmer sighed, aware that Riley would continue to gnaw away at this until she got the answers she was looking for. ‘Do you know anything about him?’ he asked. ‘His working background, for example?’
‘I know he’s been in Colombia.’
He nodded. ‘He spent years at the embassy in Bogotá. They’ve got some dangerous people over there, including the drug cartels, FARC or any number of other groups with a grievance to air.’
‘FARC?’
‘Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarios de Colombia,’ he supplied the translation easily. ‘They’re conducting a war against the government and use drugs to fund it. There’s always a risk of them taking action against a representative of the British or US governments, just to regain face among the locals.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them.’
‘Well, you know me — I read all the right books, keep my finger on the pulse.’ He reached out a fingertip to scoop up a blob of cream and ate it with relish. ‘Next question?’
‘Question?’
‘Of course. I know you’ve got one — you always do.’
‘Okay. Why would these groups have a grievance against Myburghe now he’s retired? He can’t do anything to them, can he?’
‘Search me. He represents — or used to, anyway — British attempts to wipe out the drugs trade. And according to my brief, that’s reason enough for me to check out everyone who comes near him.’
‘But I’m not a FARC person — and we’re a long way from Bogotá.’
Palmer shrugged. ‘If anyone wants to settle some old scores, he and his family are soft targets.’ He gave her another infuriating smile. ‘In any case, your trip down here has got nothing to do with the wedding, has it? You don’t do that sort of fluff stuff.’