Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Riley glanced in the mirror at him. “You’ve got a nasty mind, Frank Palmer. She may be open to the odd inducement, but our Mrs Marsh isn’t the conspiracy sort — certainly not to murder. And the only reason I noticed the leaves was because the place is spotless.”

Palmer nodded. “Sounds like somebody’s doing a spot of clearing up of a different kind.”

“Yes. I wonder if there are any more old associates like Page and Cook — ones I never found a mention of? If there are, they must be wondering who’s going to be next on the list.”

“You said there was a third man at the top of the tree — someone who ran things with Cage and McKee.”

“There was. But no one knows who he was — or even if he’s still alive. And Cage and McKee aren’t telling.”

Riley started the car and drove away. As they passed the driveway, Mrs Marsh was standing by the open rear doors of the ambulance, staring off into space.

Back at Palmer’s office, Riley checked her mobile for messages. There was one. It was a familiar voice: “ Riley? John Mitcheson… Remember, we met on the plane? How about that dinner we talked about? Give me a call.” His voice was calm and steady, as confident as she remembered from their talk on the plane. There was no hesitation when he had finished speaking, no repeated goodbye. He simply left a number and rang off.

“Will you go?” Palmer asked, when Riley explained about the message.

“Probably. Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“You tell me.”

Riley caught his eye and reflected that Palmer wasn’t as sleepy as he pretended. “I never gave him my mobile number.”

“Well,” Palmer commented, plugging in the kettle and scratching for tea bags in a drawer, “that’s no big deal. If it was me that wanted to track down a hot babe I’d met on holiday, I’d drop a few Euros down the hotel manager’s shirtfront. Tea… coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Riley said, flushing at the thought that she had planned to do exactly what Palmer had just suggested. “But I didn’t give the hotel my number, either. I never give it to anyone — not even my mother. It’s strictly for outward use when I’m on the move. How could anyone trace it so quickly?”

Frank contemplated the ceiling, then said: “Maybe he’s not just anyone.”

The beaches between Malaga and Almeria were virtually deserted as a spiteful breeze stung flesh with sand and sent beach balls and towels tumbling out of reach. The open-air cafes, usually busy throughout the day, were temporarily shuttered, with customers huddled inside waiting for the inevitable up-turn in the weather, while staff hurried to rescue sunshades and plastic chairs sent skittering across the promenades. Only the hardiest of tourists braved the drop in temperature and ventured onto the beaches, determination driving them to endure the unenjoyable come what may.

Even for these tough souls there was, initially, little to attract attention. A single boat moved on the water, approaching land from the south and sending up fans of spray as it bounced across the angry waves towards Torre del Mar. A boat like hundreds of others on this stretch of coastline, but at least it was moving and therefore watchable, unlike the dozens of others bouncing aimlessly at their moorings.

From the direction of the air force base in Malaga barely ten miles away, an AS 532 Super Puma helicopter with Spanish navy markings clattered over the villas and hotels, out across the expanse of beach and the white froth of the waves breaking on the shore. At the same time a powerful-looking launch surged round the headland, its stern flag snapping in the wind and announcing its origins with the Spanish Coastguard. Both craft seemed to be converging towards the small boat out at sea.

For several moments nothing changed, the three craft separate players in an unconnected drama on a blustery day. Then the incoming boat broke from its course, veering north and increasing speed to run parallel to the shore. The helicopter and launch adjusted their course to compensate. The incomer changed direction again, this time heading south, the creamy wake increasing at its stern as it put on speed. The other two craft did the same, giant sheepdogs herding their quarry toward the shore.

The helicopter reached its target first. Bearing down on the incomer and beginning to lose height, it sank to a point fifty feet above the waves in front of the speeding boat, while the Coastguard launch curved round to take up station out at sea. The small boat tried one final evasive manoeuvre, dashing like a terrier for a non-existent gap, then the nose sank as the engine was cut.

Lottie Grossman stared out over the rear garden where she had not long finished another bout of weeding, and heard the click of the disconnection from the phone in her hand. She waited a few seconds before dialling an overseas number. After the news she had just heard, she was going to enjoy this, she decided. She was going to really enjoy it.

When the response came it was in bad Spanish. Lottie recognised the voice. The man on the other end was a small-time, low-level crooked ex-car dealer named Jerry Bignell. He had scuttled off to Spain several years previously when things had got too warm at home. Unable to lead any other life, he had set up a small drugs channel from Morocco with the help of some former London contacts. It wasn’t a big operation, and hardly worth the Spanish anti-drug agencies or Customs wasting their time on. But the contacts across the Med were good and the product was high quality. In Lottie’s opinion, it was time to step up a gear or two and make some changes.

“Your little boat has just been stopped by the Spanish Coastguard,” she informed the man on the other end. “The crew are under arrest. I hope you promised their families a pension.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Bignell demanded. His voice was whiney and nasal with the harsh tones of south London. He sounded drunk, which didn’t surprise Lottie one bit. Bignell was addicted to lots of things.

“As of now,” she continued, “your operation is dead in the water. You don’t have the money to buy a fresh load — and the last I heard your suppliers don’t accept Visa. You’re busted.”

“ Cow !” the man screamed down the phone. “I’ll have you for this, you bitch!”

“No,” Lottie said calmly, her voice curling down the phone like a snake. “You won’t. You don’t have the reach or the manpower. If you try anything I’ll send someone round to see your daughter. Kensal Rise, she lives, doesn’t she? Nice place… bit open to knife crime, though. But then, so is everywhere these days.”

Bignell said nothing, but she could hear his laboured breathing as he struggled to control his temper. He had to know without a shadow of doubt that she wasn’t bluffing. If he didn’t, she’d never get his co-operation.

“That’s better. Now then, I’ll pay you ten thousand pounds to forge a new link between my people and your contacts in Spain and Morocco. We’ll call it an introduction and retirement fee.”

“What?” Bignell spat incredulously. “Are you fucking mad? You don’t just buy into this like a fruit and veg stall down the Oval! They’re not going to let you take my spot just like that!”

“Why should they care?” Lottie countered. “Money talks — especially if we offer to raise the stakes. Let’s call it a change of management.” She smiled down the phone and purred: “Let’s face it, what else have you got going for you, Jerry?”

In the silence that followed, she knew she had him. Just as she’d predicted. It was like taking sweets off kids. “Good. We appear to have an understanding. I’ll send my men round later today with the money. Get stupid and they’ll be on the phone to London. After they’ve dealt with you, that is.”