Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

She dropped the phone and let out her breath in a rush. Her face felt flushed. It had been a long time since she had experienced the thrill of sex — not that she’d ever been that keen on all that undignified grappling, anyway. But she reckoned this buzz more than made up for it.

She wondered where Mitcheson was. It was time he started earning his money. She hadn’t seen McManus for a couple of days, either. But that wasn’t surprising; his loyalties always had been divided.

“Gary!” she called, and the young man appeared before her voice had ceased echoing round the hallway. He had the uncanny knack, she had found, of being always within reach when she needed him. “Find Mr Mitcheson and tell him we’re going to Spain.”

“Yes, Mrs G,” Gary said respectfully. “You want him to follow or stay here?”

“I want him out there, too. His flight’s tomorrow morning. Are the tickets ready?”

“Yes, Mrs G.”

“Good boy.” She patted his shoulder. “You’d better get down the travel agents and have a chat with your girlfriend, hadn’t you? Tell her it’s the last time. You’re moving on to newer and better things.”

It was nearly eight before Riley arrived at Piccadilly Circus. Following John Mitcheson’s directions, she turned south down Regent Street, leaving the bulk of the crowds behind. She checked her watch. Right on time.

The return conversation with Mitcheson had been brief and oddly formal, and she had forgotten to ask him how he had got her mobile number. She would do it as soon as she saw him. It might be easier face to face, anyway: no place for evasiveness.

It set her thinking about Frank Palmer, who seemed suspicious of everyone’s motives. She felt no particular physical attraction for him, yet she’d found it comforting to have him around. And her instincts also told her Palmer was comfortable with the arrangement. They had gelled quickly after the initial coolness, and she hadn’t felt for a moment that there was anything getting in the way.

She wondered where he was now. When they parted he had mentioned contacting one of his ex-army buddies for some information. Something to do with the two men who had destroyed his office.

Riley skirted a group of drunken Scandinavians spread across the pavement and ducked down towards Jermyn Street. As she turned the corner, she nearly collided with a large man walking the opposite way. He stepped aside with a balletic shuffle, eyes burning into her as she hurried by.

Unaccountably, she felt a chill settle across her back.

Frank Palmer took a sip of his pint and stared at the man opposite. He was surprised by the change in his former army colleague. His skin had the sallow air of one trapped in an office job, and tired eyes from staring too long at a computer screen. He was peering down into his pint of bitter with a sour expression, shaking his head ruefully.

They were in a smoky pub near Tottenham Court Road tube station.

“It’s not like it used to be, Frank,” the man sighed. “Not when we were in the corps. These young fellas now, they’re clever; they use the army like a career college. They take what they can of the training and selling it to the highest bidder. Some of them are earning fortunes in the security game… a few are even working on the black for HM Government, would you believe?”

Palmer looked mildly pained at his friend’s criticism. “Steady, Charlie. I’m in the security game, too.”

Charlie grinned. “Yeah, true. But you’re not pulling down the sort of dough these fellas are. And as far as I know you never signed up for dodgy foreign governments who only need a bunch of men who can tell one end of an SA80 from another.”

Palmer raised an eyebrow and felt a shiver of anticipation. His friend worked in military records in Whitehall. Men, women, serving and reservists, discharged and dishonoured. All came under his eye at some time or another. If there was anyone who could give him the information he needed, it was Charlie.

“You sound as though you’re talking specifics.”

Charlie shrugged. “Could be. Might not be the ones you’re after though. I haven’t had time to do a complete search, so it could be a wet noodle.”

“I’ll take that chance. What have you got?”

His friend produced a folded sheet of paper. He passed it across to Palmer and stood up with his empty glass. “Another one while you’re reading?”

“No, let me,” Palmer reached for some money, but Charlie waved a hand.

“Forget it. This is the most excitement I’ve had in weeks.”

Palmer smiled in gratitude, studying the sheet while Charlie went to the bar. It was a hand-written list containing the names of half a dozen men.

Charles W Endby — Sgt. — 45 yrs — Royal Engineers — Discharged 1/97

Malcolm Howard — Corporal — 35 yrs — Royal Marines — Discharged 12/96

Mark J Appleton — Private — 22 yrs — Parachute Regiment — Discharged 8/96

Alistair D G Duggan — Sgt — 36 yrs — Royal Marines — Discharged 12/96

Gary Kepple — Corporal — 30 yrs — Royal Signals — Discharged 1/97

John M Mitdasson Captain — 35 yrs — Royal Green Jackets — Discharged 1/97

Palmer hadn’t reached the end of the list before one of the names made an impact. Malcolm Howard. Was that ‘Howie’ — the one with the baseball bat? He was about the right age. If so, maybe his companion was on this list, too. It had to be someone accustomed to taking the lead; the man had possessed that air of easy authority.

He discounted Endby, unless he looked much younger than his years, and Appleton who was too young. That left Duggan. And he had served in the same regiment as Howard. It was a tenuous link but, as Palmer was well aware, one not to be ignored.

Charlie deposited two fresh pints on the small table. “Any good?”

Palmer nodded. “Could be. What’s this list from?”

Charlie smiled. “If I tell you that, I’ll have to kill you after. Actually, it comes from the RMP computer in Chichester. It’s a list of discharges for ‘unspecified offences not carried forward to Court Martial’. That’s modern army-speak for clearing out unwanted talent who were suspect but with insufficient evidence. In other words they didn’t want a scandal.”

“Suspect in what sense?”

Charlie shrugged. “Most of these chaps were doing jobs on the side. I can’t recall which, but two of them were suspected of running drugs out of Cyprus. I think it was Kepple and Appleton. The others were mostly doing private security stuff while serving in Germany… close protection work and that. The MPs reckon they were raking it in standing guard for pop stars and media toffs while off-duty or on the sick. There was even some talk about one of them — Endby, I think it was — doing CP for one of the Serb warlords in Bosnia. He was supposed to be on holiday in England at the time. He was lucky they got to him before the other side did. Oh, and a couple of them also got caught bringing in souvenir weapons from Bosnia — stupid stuff like that.”

“What about the officer — Mitdasson? Stealing from mess funds?”

Charlie frowned. “Mit-who?” He leaned across and took the list. '”Oh, sorry. That’s my writing. I had to do this on the wing while the others were at lunch. You’d be amazed how closely everybody’s watched these days. If I’d printed it all off on the inkjet, there’s what they call an audit trail showing who’s done what.” He took out a pen and amended the name in capitals. “That’s better.” He grinned and handed the list back.

Palmer read the name and felt his gut tighten. “John Mitcheson?”

“Yes. Interesting chap. Did a bit of secret squirrel work a few years ago in Northern Ireland. Then he was seconded to a unit on loan to the Colombian Government. No secret about what he’d have been doing over there.”