Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Palmer nodded, wondering if it wasn’t a ghastly coincidence. Many members of HM forces had performed duties in Latin America over the years, mostly helping train the local police and army for operations against the drug cartels. Mitcheson must have been well thought of to have been selected for such a task. But that didn’t explain what he was doing on this list, nor that there was any connection with the men who had smashed his office.

Charlie was still reciting from memory. “He came back in disgrace. He popped a local army corporal for shooting an unarmed civilian during a raid on a village. A young woman, apparently. Pregnant. She was trying to protect her home. There’s no proof, but rumour has it Mitcheson took the guy behind a rubbish dump and snuffed him. He was lucky they had a chopper doing an evac, otherwise he’d never have come back. They threw him on a plane out of the country the same day. He spent some time in Bosnia with the UN, then got caught up in arms smuggling by a bunch of British Army NCOs. It all went sour after that and they decided to get rid. Pity — he was a good one, if his record is anything to go by. I’m not sure the smuggling thing was all it was made out to be, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, when you’ve worked around records long enough, you get a feel for reading between the lines. And I reckon there’s more to Mitcheson’s file than the records say. The other thing is — and I haven’t been able to dig into it yet — some of the info on the files doesn’t quite match… almost like it was written at two different times. You know what it’s like when you have a first-hand account of a punch-up in a boozer, then another one written the following morning, when everyone’s sober and feeling like shit? They don’t quite tally.”

“What about the others on the list?”

“Known associates. They all came together at one time, most of them in the glass-house at Colchester before their discharge. Someone lumped them together on a file and cross-indexed them so I thought it was worth copying them all off.”

“So it’s likely Mitcheson knew Howard?”

“According to the file, he must have. Is it any good?”

Palmer nodded and drank some of his pint. “Could be. I owe you one for this.”

Charlie waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. Like I said, it’s been a bit of excitement.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better be off. I’ll have another dig, and if I come across anything else, I’ll be in touch. See you around, Frank. Eat that list before you leave.”

Palmer watched his friend disappear through the crowd and felt a tinge of satisfaction. Now he had some names he felt a lot better. Except for one. He reckoned Riley could look after herself, but seeing John Mitcheson on the same list as someone who might have trashed his office wasn’t good news. It meant Mitcheson, barring the most massive possible coincidence, had not contacted Riley Gavin by accident.

A waitress escorted Riley towards the back of the long, narrow restaurant. Most of the diners were couples, with the relaxed air of regular customers. The waitress stopped at a corner table where John Mitcheson was already seated.

He rose and smiled. “Riley. Good to see you again.” He held a chair out for her, eyes brushing over her with an appreciative expression. He looked tanned and fit, and Riley felt other eyes watching them.

“You made it difficult to refuse,” she told him.

They ordered drinks and exchanged pleasantries while studying the menu. The selection was limited but easy to choose from. Riley decided on soup and chicken, and Mitcheson went with her. When their drinks came, they toasted each other and exchanged looks over their glasses.

“So, was it worth coming back for?” Mitcheson asked.

For a moment Riley was lost. Then she remembered the call from Donald Brask that had broken into her holiday. “So far,” she replied cautiously. “More work, is what it was. But maybe I’ll get away somewhere later to make up for it.”

He nodded. “Research, wasn’t that what you said? You never said what kind of research, though.”

Riley had been deliberately vague out of habit, citing details about research for magazines, conducting interviews and building reports for organisations and individuals. It had been close enough to the truth to be sufficient at the time.

“You never said how you managed to get my mobile number,” she countered, to put him off-track.

He pulled a face, looking sheepish. “If I tell you I probably broke the law, will you have me arrested?”

“I might. It depends which law.”

“Well, you know I said I was a security consultant. That’s true. I have a few friends, also in the business, who have… access to various sources of information — phone records being one. I got your home address from the apartment manager in Spain and the rest was easy.” He held up both hands in surrender. “That was all, I promise. I didn't do a credit check or ask if you had a history of impulsive violence towards men.”

“Maybe you should have,” she said. It sounded plausible enough and there plenty of people in her own profession with access to similar sources. It was what made the difference between rumour and hard news.

“So, am I forgiven?” Mitcheson asked.

She shrugged. “I think I can live with it.” It really wasn’t worth getting in a spin about. Anyway, was she really so annoyed, being here? “It’s probably something I’d do myself, if I had to.”

He nodded. “Now that sounds like you might almost be in the same business as me. Or a journalist.” He said it with a smile but suddenly there was a crackle of tension in the air between them. Riley wondered if her response would decide the course of the evening.

“Would that be so bad?” she said. She felt a pulse begin to tick in her throat. Some people immediately put the shutters up when she mentioned what she did, as though they might appear next day splashed in lurid print across the country’s tabloids. Mostly, it turned out, they had something to hide. She wondered if John Mitcheson had any such fears.

He shrugged. “Not at all. Not as bad as if you were, say… something official.”

“Police, you mean? God, give me a break — I haven’t worn black tights since I was at school.”

“Actually, I was thinking Customs and Excise.” He put his glass down and sat back as their soup arrived. He said nothing while the waitress served them. When she walked away, he continued, “The way you handled that squaddie at Gibraltar airport was pretty efficient. Showed a lot of confidence.” He raised his glass and smiled with a show of sheepishness. “Proves how vivid my imagination can be, doesn’t it?”

“Too right,” she replied lightly with a raised eyebrow. “But why would my being in Customs be such a bad thing? Unless you’re a secret drug-runner, of course?”

For a split second Mitcheson’s smile faltered. He chuckled. “If I was, I’d be taking you to dinner somewhere a bit more exotic than this.”

Riley stared back at him, not sure if the sudden tension in the air was her imagination or not. “I guess so. Why don’t you like Customs and Excise?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, nothing much. Call it professional wariness, if you like. They don’t like private sector security operators for some reason. Probably think we’re all VAT dodgers. So, where are you hoping to take your next holiday?”

The change of subject was smoothly done but left Riley with a sense of unfinished business. “You’re not being evasive, are you?”

He looked at her, spoon hovering above his soup bowl. “I don't think so. Sorry — I have a bit of a grasshopper mind. I’m just curious about you, that’s all. And I’d rather talk about you than me, any day.”