Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“Earthquake?” she asked, glass crunching underfoot.

“Computer virus.” He turned to greet her. “One of the nasty ones.”

“Ouch.” She nodded at the smashed PC. “Did it cost much?”

Palmer shrugged. “Two days of trudging around after an air-conditioning salesman. His partner thought he was cheating on him. I managed to prove otherwise. The client couldn’t pay me in cash in case the partner found out.” When she looked blank, he explained, “They were partners in their private account, too.”

Riley dusted off one of the chairs — remarkably, still in one piece — and sat down. She wondered how Palmer could be so calm amid this wreckage. She studied him for signs of injury, but there were none. “Were you here when this was done?”

“I had a ring-side seat. I think that was the intention. It was called delivering a message.”

“Who did it — an angry husband?”

Palmer sat too. “I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, his greyish eyes boring into hers.

“I don’t follow.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” he said dryly. “There were two of them — both big, both with baseball bats. And they seemed to know you.”

“But how would they? I’ve only been here once.”

“Beats me. I figured it had to be you, because they referred to you as the pretty one — which, unless the guy was gay, leaves me out. They also said to stop whatever we were looking into. Otherwise they’d come back and use my head as a baseball.” He flicked at a piece of grey plastic on his desk. “Whatever you’ve been doing, you’ve seriously rattled somebody’s cage.”

Riley felt a finger of ice brush her neck. The break-in at her flat.

Palmer must have noticed. He said: “What?”

She told him about the disturbed items and the broken glass, then frowned. “But you’re not involved in this — at least, not yet. And what’s with the ‘we’ bit?”

“‘You and your lady friend’ were the words they used. That’s pretty specific. Have you been bandying my name about?”

“Why would I?” Riley pointed out. “Didn’t you tell them you’d refused the job?”

“We didn’t really get that well acquainted.” He turned to look out of the window again, revealing a piece of his computer attached to the tail of his jacket. Riley reached over and plucked it off.

He stared at it quizzically. “So that’s where it got to. All I need now is some glue and I’m back in business.” He tossed the component across the room and bent down to plug in a battered kettle. “At least this survived. Fancy a brew?”

“Aren’t you private eyes in the habit of offering shots of whisky?”

“Only near Christmas. Sorry.”

“In that case, black, no sugar.”

“So. Want to brief me on what has happened so far?” Palmer spooned instant coffee into two cups. “So I can decide whether to help or not.”

Riley recounted her activities of the last two days. Palmer’s face showed little expression at the mention of the young thugs at the block of flats. He poured boiling water, handing Riley a cup. “About the break-in; you’re sure there was nothing missing?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Well, that rules out burglary; an opportunist would’ve grabbed your laptop on the way out. You said it was open, though.”

“Yes. But I’d also made some paper notes to work from, and there was a file from Donald Brask. I’m pretty sure they had a look through them. I didn’t really notice the order — they were mostly loose pages.”

Palmer raised an eyebrow. “Would these pages have included my name and details?”

Riley opened her mouth to say no, then realised he was right; Donald Brask had given her the details on a slip of paper and she’d stuck it in the file for easy reference. She bit her lip. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. So, have you worked crime scenes before?”

“Yes. What about you?”

“Plenty. Crime in the army is pretty much the same as anywhere else.” He stopped, frowning as if a thought had occurred. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I thought there was something vaguely familiar about my two visitors. I’ve just realised what it was.”

“You knew them?”

He shook his head. “Not personally… but I know the type.” He blew on his coffee. “They were ex-squaddies.”

They digested the statement between them for a moment. Then Riley asked: “Does this mean you’ll help?”

He frowned, taking out another cigarette. “You’re still going ahead with the job, then?”

“Of course. Why do you smoke so much? You never finish them.”

He looked at the cigarette. “No idea. Nerves, probably. Why — is it a problem?”

“Only if we’re going to be sharing the same breathing space.”

He put the cigarette back in the pack. “Consider me hired. Do I get regular smoke and tea breaks?”

The phone interrupted Riley’s reply. Palmer scooped it up and muttered his name. “Yes, she’s here,” he said, glancing at Riley. After a few moments he put it down without a word. “That was Brask,” he explained. “The wires are humming all over London. He’s getting calls from mates in the business and the Met. Another ex-villain’s been shot. This one was late last night, south of the river. The dailies are starting to make connections.”

“Where south of the river?” Riley queried.

“Near the Elephant and Castle. Bloke named Cook. Hey — wasn’t he-?”

Riley nodded. “One of the men I visited.”

Palmer pulled at his tie knot. “These boys don’t hang about, do they? They find someone sniffing about and swing straight into action; burgle your flat, smash my office and kill a potential source — all within twelve hours. Looks like the body count’s going up.”

“And likely to go higher,” said Riley. “If they haven’t already called on Page, he must be the luckiest man in London.” She reached for her mobile and dialled the nursing home. It was answered promptly by the matron.

“Hello, Mrs Marsh? It’s Riley Gavin… I came by yesterday to see Norman Page. Is he okay…? Only I was wondering if anyone had been to visit him. You’ve seen him? I see… Thank you.” She switched off her phone with a grimace and looked at Palmer.

“That didn’t sound too positive,” he said sympathetically.

“Basically, I can stick my request for a visit because he’s as fit as a performing flea and how dare I question her integrity.”

Palmer barely suppressed a laugh. “She sounds a real charmer. So what do you want to do?”

“What do you think? If he’s got a pulse he can talk.” She walked towards the door. “You coming?”

Mitcheson parked his BMW near Covent Garden and walked down to the Embankment, skirting groups of tourists and office workers. In spite of the cool breeze blowing off the Thames, there was already a heavy tang of exhaust fumes in the air, and he wondered why he wasn’t somewhere far from here where the air was clean and pure.

He checked his back several times out of habit. By the time he was leaning on the embankment wall overlooking the grey waters, he was satisfied no one was following.

Moments later the man he knew as McManus approached and leaned on the wall alongside him, breathing noisily through his ex-boxer’s nose. Big-boned and florid, he looked like a farmer in town for the day. Mitcheson didn’t care for the man, but since he was Lottie Grossman’s pet thug, he had little choice but to endure his brooding presence. Fortunately, he was brighter than he looked. Just.

McManus slapped a business card on the wall and pinned it down with a large finger so Mitcheson could read it. “This is the skirt doing the investigating.”