Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

The cat sniffed haughtily, before turning on his heels and walking away.

Szulu climbed in the car and stared through the windscreen, eyes on the house where Riley Gavin lived. Apart from the excruciating pain in his arm, he was feeling bruised and humiliated and wasn’t sure what he was going to do about any of it. His options were limited. He knew of a former surgeon who’d been caught playing hide the stethoscope with a patient in an empty operating theatre. The man sometimes took on a bit of back-street work for ready cash and no questions asked, so maybe he’d give him a call. It would cost, but it was better than going to a hospital, where they’d report gunshot wounds the moment he walked in. Before they finished their stitching, he’d find himself pinned to the bed by an Armed Response Unit. No way would they believe he’d been shot accidentally by a drive-by, which had been his first planned explanation.

Oddly enough, though, he felt relieved. Even with the constant threat of Ragga lurking in the background, he’d decided this whole business had gone far enough. No matter what Lottie Grossman said or did, no way was he going back anywhere near Frank Palmer, Riley Gavin or the big lug who’d just put the shot in his arm without hesitation. He shivered, partly through the onset of shock, but mainly at remembering the complete absence of expression on the man’s face as he’d pulled the trigger. Like he was swatting a fly.

He started the car and nudged it into gear with a grunt of pain, then headed towards south London. He’d get his arm fixed, then go back and face the old woman. Whether he’d tell her what had happened in detail was something he’d decide at the time. If she didn’t like it, she’d have to go look for another gofer — preferably a stupid one with a death wish.

Donald’s return call dragged Riley and Mitcheson apart, and they surfaced with reluctance. Brask had been quicker to respond than they had anticipated or hoped, but he had little in the way of solid news.

‘Sorry, Sweetie,’ he intoned smoothly. ‘Not a lot on the hateful Lottie, I’m afraid. Any interest she had in clubs and so forth seems to be long gone. Her house was finally put up for sale last year following the Spain fiasco, and the proceeds dealt with by her solicitor. I got a name, but thereafter, no joy; client confidentiality and so forth. I think we can take it that she had the money sent abroad and has been living off that ever since. The amount would have been sizeable, I expect, so she wouldn’t have had a problem finding a bolt-hole somewhere pleasant. To be honest, only the police would be able to follow a money trail — if one exists. Apart from that, a woman her age would have fitted in anywhere alongside a retirement-age community of Brits in Spain, France, Portugal or elsewhere, and nobody would have suspected a thing.’ He paused. ‘I take it this is another story? Is there anything in it for us?’

‘It is looking like two separate ones, actually,’ said Riley. ‘I’ll get something to you on all of this as soon as I can.’ She put the phone down just as the buzzer sounded from downstairs. Mitcheson motioned for her to pick up the entry-phone, then went to wait at the top of the stairs.

It was Frank Palmer.

He entered the flat, eyeing Mitcheson guardedly before shaking hands and going through to the kitchen. Riley followed him and brought him up to date about Szulu’s latest visit and the real name of his employer. Mitcheson hovered in the background, saying nothing. It had been a long time since he and Palmer had last spoken, and there was a hint of unease in the air between them, like two opponents meeting a long time after their last match.

‘You shot him?’ Palmer gave Mitcheson a wry look. ‘Will he live?’

‘Of course.’ Mitcheson showed him the gun. ‘It’s only a.22. This time tomorrow he won’t even notice the wound.’

Palmer grinned, knowing that was unlikely. ‘Serves him right. Any flak from the neighbours?’

‘No,’ said Riley, handing him a beer from the fridge. ‘Mr G downstairs had the Polish Symphony Orchestra on at full bore. It would have drowned out an earthquake.’ She sniffed. ‘Palmer, what the hell is that smell? Have you been sipping meths?’

‘Funny, that’s what the taxi driver asked me. I told him it was a new aftershave on test. He lost interest after that.’

Palmer had come in holding a Tesco carrier bag reeking of smoke and petrol. Using his free hand, he unravelled a roll of kitchen towel onto the kitchen work surface, then carefully slid out from the bag a collection of burned papers.

‘Palmer!’ Riley protested.

‘Sorry. I’ll clean up for you afterwards. Those folks at VTS had a big burn-up just after we left,’ he explained. ‘Somehow I don’t think they were just having a little tidy. Fortunately, the bloke setting the fire wasn’t the conscientious sort. I liberated the scorched remains.’

They poked through the papers and found several delivery note copies showing shipments to various customers on SkyPrint paper, but with VTS Transit as the carriers. Other scraps were VTS documents. The same phone and fax numbers appeared on both sets of papers. There were also cardboard and packaging suppliers’ advice notes for bulk deliveries to VTS, but with payment by SkyPrint. Most damning of all, there were several letters from both companies to suppliers, signed with the same signature and the name A. Perric.

‘The man in the white shirt,’ said Palmer, getting a nod from Riley. He looked at Mitcheson. ‘They look like different companies, but the same faces and numbers fit both.’ He related what he had seen and heard in the warehouse, and filled Mitcheson in on the connection with Radnor and his colleague, Michael.

‘Neat,’ said Mitcheson. ‘At the first sign of trouble, VTS bug out and set up somewhere else down the road, using a different name. But it’s all run by this bloke Perric at SkyPrint?’

‘Looks like it,’ said Palmer. ‘Although I doubt he’s the top man. They’ve cleared out the secure storage area of several heavy boxes we saw when we first got there. That must have been the handguns and laser sights they were talking about. They left everything else and disappeared, but what I’ve got here is enough to prove they were working together.’

Mitcheson nodded, then looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, kiddies, I’ve got to be going. My time could be running out.’ He turned to Riley. ‘I’m going to find a safe house where I can stay for a while. If it looks okay after a few days, and I haven’t been arrested by the rubber-truncheon squad, I’ll take it I’m no longer anybody’s hot property.’

‘Why not stay here?’ Riley suggested. ‘There’s room.’

‘It’s tempting. But if I am being watched, it would compromise you. Don’t worry — I’ll stay in touch. Once I get the all-clear, I’ll hop back to the States and clear up a few things, then I’ll be back.’

‘What will you do?’ Palmer asked.

Mitcheson shrugged. ‘Same as I’m doing now: security work, that sort of thing. There’s a big demand for it.’ He looked at Riley. ‘Some of it quite close to home, by the looks of things.’

Palmer nodded but said nothing.

Taking it as his cue to depart, Mitcheson took Riley’s arm, and the two of them left the flat and walked downstairs.

Palmer busied himself taking the Llama apart, putting each part aside for disposal later. There was no sense in holding onto it, and throwing it away intact could lead to some kid getting hold of it and ending up facing the Met’s firearm squad.

He had no illusions about the shock Riley would have suffered after being confronted by Szulu’s handgun. That and the news that Lottie Grossman was back. Mitcheson being here would have helped soak up part of the immediate reaction, and she at least seemed fairly relaxed, especially with the news that Mitcheson was going to be around for a while.