Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Towards the end of the meal a phone buzzed and Mitcheson reached into an inside pocket and frowned.

“I’m really sorry,” he muttered. “I thought I’d switched this thing off. Would you excuse me?”

He left the table and walked towards the washrooms at the back of the restaurant. Riley felt an odd sense of disappointment, as though he had suddenly confessed to a wife and children somewhere, or had revealed a harmless but unpleasant character trait. She dismissed it. She was being unfair. He probably had meant to switch the phone off, but it had genuinely slipped his mind.

When he returned moments later he was smiling. “I’m sorry about that. I hate it when people do that to me.”

Riley shook her head. “That’s all right. Not bad news, I hope?”

“No. Some business I have to attend to tomorrow.”

Outside the restaurant a breeze skidded along the street, flicking litter against their legs. The sound of crowds and music from Piccadilly floated over the buildings, and one or two pedestrians hurried by, huddled against the chill. Riley shivered and Mitcheson put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

They reached the corner of the street and were just about to turn up towards Piccadilly when a shadow appeared in front of them. Riley looked up. It was the large man she had nearly bumped into earlier. This time, he held his ground and waited for her and Mitcheson to navigate around him. His eyes swept over them, and she could hear his breath hissing nasally as she stepped past him.

“Sorry,” Mitcheson muttered, and guided Riley with a firm hand, placing himself between her and the big man.

As they left him behind, she commented: “Amazing how often that happens.”

“Mm?” Mitcheson’s mind seemed far away as he glanced back towards the corner.

“Seeing the same person twice on the same day.” She explained about seeing the big man on her way to the restaurant.

When she glanced up she could see the muscles in Mitcheson’s jaw working. He spotted a taxi and whistled.

“Sorry, Riley,” he said. “I have to go. Business calls. Can I ring you in a day or two?”

“Yes, all right. But why don’t we share this taxi?”

He shook his head. “Can’t, I’m afraid. It’ll be quicker for me to take the underground. You go ahead.”

“All right. Thank you for this evening.”

He smiled briefly and opened the cab door for her. She’d barely climbed in when he waved and turned away as though distracted. She looked back to see him striding back towards the corner of Jermyn Street. The underground was in the opposite direction.

When Mitcheson reached the corner, he found the big man waiting for him. McManus seemed unaffected by the wind and was standing by the window of a travel agent, outlined by the neon tubing. There was nobody else about.

“Well, soldier boy,” he sneered. “Getting some pussy lined up? You’re forgetting what you’re being paid — ”

Mitcheson stepped in and hit him hard, putting his shoulder behind the blow. It was dirty and rough, and McManus dropped to the pavement, his breath leaving him in an explosive cough.

Mitcheson didn’t wait for him to recover; once back on his feet, the big man was far too dangerous. He dropped a knee onto McManus’s chest and grasped the lapels of his jacket with his hands crossed. McManus’s breathing, already strained through his damaged nose, was now in danger of stopping altogether. In the dim light Mitcheson could see his face darkening due to the lack of oxygen.

He eased off the pressure just sufficient to prevent the man dying on him, then bent and spoke into McManus’s ear. “Why are you following her?” he demanded. “I told you to leave her to me.”

McManus’s eyes slowly lost their pained look and focused on Mitcheson’s face. It was like having a malevolent dog staring up at him. A dog that knew only one thing: how to kill.

“I don’t take orders from you,” McManus croaked. “And I never will.”

Mitcheson shook him for a moment, then let him go. He wasn’t going to get anything from this man; he was too hard a nut to crack. All McManus understood was how to do what Lottie Grossman told him.

A noise made Mitcheson look along the street. A hundred yards away a pair of figures stepped out of a white van. There was mesh over the windows and the streetlights glinted off helmet badges. It was time to leave. He would have to deal with McManus another time.

As Mitcheson walked away, McManus levered himself up on one elbow and coughed, rubbing his damaged throat.

“I wasn’t following her, soldier boy,” he muttered. “I was following you.”

Riley showered and ate breakfast in a mental fog, thinking about her dinner date with John Mitcheson. Sleep had not come easily when she got home, and she had repeatedly run over the bones of their conversation during the meal, trying to make some sense of how she felt. She’d found John Mitcheson engaging company, yet all the time she had been with him she had felt there was something in the atmosphere. It had been like sharing a cage with a tiger.

She shook off the thoughts and dressed, then went through her notes to get back on track. Four deaths and no clue as to motive or who might be responsible. Yet what were the chances of this many old ex-gangsters dying within days of each other? Whatever was happening to them was focussed and calculated…and personal. She went back to the brief that Donald Brask had provided. It wasn’t likely to tell her much she hadn’t already been over before, but it might throw up a clue. Very often the information you needed was staring you in the face. All you had to do was recognise it.

Donald had included some details from the police investigation into the two murders on the coast. There was a reference to Bertrand Cage’s chauffeur, Peter Willis. He had discovered his employer’s body when he had gone to collect him from the beach. According to their custom, Willis would drop Cage at the beach by car at about 08.30 in the morning, settle him in his deckchair, then return at 11.00 prior to driving him back to the house for lunch. Discounting illness, the routine never varied.

Which must have made it easy for the killer. No doubt Cage must have felt secure in his old age. How wrong that had proved to be.

Willis, the report went on to say, had been in Cage’s employ for fifteen years. There followed some brief comments about his background, but little else about the man was known. The original silent retainer.

Riley dialled Willis’s number again. Still no answer. She replaced the phone with a feeling of apprehension. Willis had either gone to ground after all the fuss surrounding Cage’s death… or something much worse. She gathered her notes and mobile phone. A trip to Sussex, she thought. There was no way she was going to get any solid help from the police files, so she might as well drive down to see if she could trace Willis and have a quiet chat. Failing that, a talk with the neighbours was better than sitting here staring at the walls.

As she drove she called Donald Brask. The fat man had more contacts who owed him favours than anyone else she knew. He was also rightly proud of his database and the sources of information at his disposal, including some friendly reporters and a handful of police officers. He answered on the second ring.

“Donald,” she said. “I need a favour.”

Frederick Hyatt looked more like an academic than the head of a news bureau. Dressed in tweeds and a bow tie, he shuffled out into the foyer of the Charlwood Lodge hotel near Gatwick, blinking in the light after the gloom of the conference hall, and looked around urgently. When he spotted Riley waiting by the front desk, he nodded and crossed to greet her.