Palmer knew her better than anyone else, but Riley had learned to read him fairly well, too. And right now she sensed there was something he wasn’t telling her.
Then something else occurred to her. Weller.
‘That’s why Weller was asking questions about you!’ she said, barely able to hide her excitement. ‘Your name popped up alongside a senior diplomat, and they want to know why.’ She frowned, trying to figure out what it meant. ‘Is that normal?’
Palmer gave one of his infuriating shrugs. ‘No idea, guv. Maybe this Weller’s put all his paper clips in a chain for the week and doesn’t know what to do next.’
‘Aren’t you bothered?’
‘Why should I be? I’ve done nothing illegal. They’re probably just dotting the tees and making sure I haven’t got a Bazooka in my back pocket and a grudge against people who insist on paying me to work for them. It’s typical security department paranoia.’
Palmer and his laid-back attitude made it all sound so reasonable and straightforward. A former diplomat in one of the world’s hot-spots might have upset somebody over the years, either real or imagined — and in Colombia, Riley was guessing it might have been real — so it would be reasonable to expect that he would need a level of protection for a while after returning. But how long could it continue? The UK wasn’t like the States, where important government officials dragged an army of sun-shaded heavies around with them for life. Over here, she thought cynically, they’d be lucky to get a guide dog on loan for a couple of weeks.
‘Isn’t it a bit high-risk? For you, I mean. What if someone takes a pop at him?’
‘I doubt it’ll happen. They wouldn’t leave him unprotected if they were that concerned. The official team signs off in a couple of days, and I’ll take over from there. After that, who knows?’
‘So you,’ she surmised, switching tack, ‘being his protection detail, would be able to get me in to see him, wouldn’t you?’ It was a crude attempt, but one she thought might work.
It didn’t.
‘Dream on, kiddo,’ he replied shortly, and gave a brief chuckle. ‘No way am I going to smuggle you in there. I’d sooner stick a red hot poker in my eye.’
‘Palmer!’ Riley protested. ‘After all the things I’ve done for you!’
His eyebrows shot up a notch or two. ‘Yeah? Name me ten.’
‘Pig.’ She scowled at him, but he’d already turned his attention to another scone, which he coated with cream and settled back to enjoy. She let it go and debated what she could say that might penetrate his armour. Not that he’d hold out forever; she’d get to him eventually. The only problem was, how long it would take. ‘I’ll have to find out what he’s been up to some other way, then.’ The comment came out before she could stop it. To cover her mistake, she finished her tea and stood up.
‘Good luck,’ he said easily. ‘Out of interest, what did Rockface say?’
‘Rockface?’ She stared. ‘Oh, you mean the butler. He’s solid, all right.’
Palmer nodded. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. He’s good at his job. I’m just interested in how he handled it.’
‘Basically, he laughed at me and closed the door.’
‘Was that all? He must have taken a shine to you. He doesn’t like the press much. The last reporter who pushed his luck trying to get the story on the wedding got dumped in the fountain.’ He got ready to take another bite of his scone, then said casually, ‘Anyway, what makes you think Myburghe’s been up to anything?’
Riley bit her lip. Damn — he’d noticed her slip. ‘I’m not sure I want to tell you now,’ she said, aware that she sounded like a stroppy teenager throwing a tantrum. As he grinned at her with a show of triumph, she added furiously, ‘Don’t worry — there’s bound to be someone who knows why he’s been kicked off the diplomatic list.’
The effect on Palmer was dramatic: he choked on his scone and sat forward, coughing, his face going red. He waved at her to wait while recovering his composure and wiping crumbs off his shirtfront. Eventually, he stared up at her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, did they forget to mention that?’ Riley smiled loftily at his reaction. ‘Word is, Sir Ken’s no longer welcome on the top table at Her Majesty’s official bun-fights. Sounds like he’s been misbehaving, don’t you think?’ She touched her cheek, to one side of her mouth. ‘Cream, Frank — on your face. Wipe it off, there’s a good boy.’
Then she turned and walked out.
She was tired when she got home, and only half paying attention when she switched on her laptop and called up her emails. The cat was on the sofa cleaning itself, by which she concluded he’d already eaten downstairs courtesy of Mr Grobowski. She just hoped there hadn’t been too much cabbage, otherwise he’d be going out for the night.
There was a single message from Tristram, this time in the main body of the email. It made her skin go cold.
While good men died in the South Atlantic, one bad one was supping with the devil. It’s going to come back to haunt him.
*********
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Palmer, I need to see you.’
Riley had sat on the email from Tristram all night, fearing it was simply a ramping up of his claims to gain a greater reaction from her. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had chosen to take out some deeply hidden frustrations on a complete stranger, preferably a person in a position of influence. Stalkers did it all the time, although they were usually content to try and insert themselves into the VIP’s life by association, gaining kudos by proximity and inferred friendship, a brush-by existence that was ultimately doomed to turn sour.
But the more she thought about this one, the more she felt there was a serious undercurrent at work here. Whatever Tristram was up to, the focus was too specific to be dismissed as the work of a crank. And though it went against the grain to pull someone else in on the story, she felt Palmer had to know. It was only seven in the morning, but she knew he’d be up and about.
‘Aw, shucks,’ he exclaimed yokel-like, when he answered the phone. ‘You missing me?’
‘Frank, I’ve some information about your protectee. I think you ought to know.’
Her use of his first name clinched it. She almost never called him Frank.
‘What sort of information?’
‘I think I know someone with a grudge against him.’
There was a pause. Then he said, ‘I can’t get away until later this morning. The pub in Colebrooke village is called The Armourer. Meet me there at eleven.’
‘Okay.’ She disconnected before she was tempted to say more, and headed for the door.
Palmer’s Saab was already in the small car park behind the pub when Riley arrived in the village, a collection of small, stone-built cottages half a mile from Colebrooke house. She locked the Golf and ducked through the low front door, and found Palmer nursing a fruit juice at a table in one corner. Another glass stood across the table. He looked half asleep, but she wasn’t fooled for a minute.
She dropped copies of the earlier emails from Tristram on the table in front of him, and sat down while he read them.
‘This is what brought you up here yesterday.’ His face remained blank, but she felt sure incredulity might be lurking beneath the surface. ‘Not the wedding. I might have known.’ He slid the emails back across the table. ‘It’s a crank,’ he said finally. ‘Somebody with an overactive imagination. Do you have any proof — any hard details of what Myburghe is supposed to have done?’
She knew Palmer wasn’t being as cynical as he sounded. He wasn’t stupid, and knew perfectly well that not all the people he worked for were innocent or paranoid. Nor were they all driven to surround themselves with visible protection as a mark of their celebrity status. Some genuinely had reason to fear for their safety — even if merely from the exposure of their family routine by the work of the paparazzi. Where he could, she knew he vetted clients before accepting contracts. Anyone overtly criminal, he left well alone. In other cases, he trod carefully and made his judgements as he progressed.