Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“I still think we’d be better waiting at the airport.” Mrs Willis bit out the words, meaning the airport would be an effective barrier against having to talk to people like Riley.

“How can we help?” Peter Willis said quietly.

Riley asked him if he had known Cook and Page. He looked blankly back at her, shaking his head. “In that case,” she continued, “do you know anything about a third man who used to be an associate of Bertrand Cage years ago — probably in the clubs.”

Willis chewed his lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about Mr Cage’s business. I only worked for him after he retired. The previous chap died and Mr Cage needed a chauffeur. He couldn’t get around easily, you see; he had bad arthritis and some other problems. I got the job through an agency. What he did before was none of my business.”

“But you know what he was — what business he was in?”

Willis looked defensive, jutting his chin forward. “I know what he used to be. But he was always good to me.”

“Did you meet any of the others?”

“McKee, mostly,” Willis said shortly, with a look of distaste. “I didn’t rate him. No finesse. Mr Cage couldn’t stand him, either. Not that he ever said as much. They were more like associates than friends.”

“Did they meet often?”

Willis shrugged. “Fairly regular — maybe every three months. But always at the house. They argued sometimes.”

“Violently?” She watched Willis’s eyes for reaction, but he looked back at her without any sign of concern.

“Not worth killing over. The police asked the same question.”

Riley nodded. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

“I wish I did.” Willis said emphatically. “At first I thought it might have been McKee, but couldn’t have been, could it?”

While Peter Willis had been speaking, Riley had been aware of his wife, shuffling her feet in the background, her mouth opening and closing as if about to say something. Riley took it as an opening and turned to the older woman.

“How about you, Mrs Willis? Any ideas?”

Mrs Willis looked surprised to be consulted, wavering for a moment as if regretting drawing attention to herself. Then she drew herself up with a forceful shrug of her shoulders as if determination had won the debate. “Peter lost his job over this,” she said in a fierce rush. “There wasn’t a pension, although Mr Cage did see us right.” She glanced at her husband. “Peter’s too… loyal to say what he really thinks, so I’ll have to say it for him.” She lifted her shoulders before continuing. “I used to clean at Mr Cage’s house a long time ago. I didn’t know him any better than Peter did, and I only heard him argue with someone the once. He was a very quiet man, you see… not given to raising his voice. Then, about five years ago, I suppose, I heard him arguing. I was in the kitchen. It was a real blazing row and the language was… well, not what you’d call nice, if you see what I mean. Mr Cage was almost shouting — which was very unusual.”

“Was this face to face or over the phone?”

“Face to face,” Mrs Willis confirmed. “The other man had come to the house and demanded to see him. Peter had let him in, but only after Mr Cage said it was all right.” She glanced at her husband. “It was Peter’s job to look after him, you see.”

Riley looked at Willis, who was smiling at his wife. “You were his minder?”

Willis nodded. “It came with the job. I used to be Regimental Provost when I was in the army; that’s how I got on an agency list. Good line of work when I was younger.” His expression mourned the passing of youth and its associated work.

“So who was this other man?”

“Gross by name, gross by nature,” Mrs Willis muttered bitterly. She nodded, glancing for confirmation at her husband. “Now there was a man could kill someone without blinking.”

In the silence that followed, Riley felt a tingle in her shoulders. “Gross?” she asked carefully. “That was his name?”

“Grossman.” Peter Willis stirred and looked at Riley. “Ray Grossman. This was years ago. Grossman could be dead by now. He wasn’t well, even then. Big man, he was. Overweight and soft looking. Like he’d been a couch potato all his life.”

“Where did he come from?”

“The Smoke, I think. I only met him that one time.” His expression made it clear that once had been enough.

Riley nodded. She’d ask Donald Brask to delve into his files. “I suppose there wouldn’t be anything at the house, would there — information about this Grossman?”

Willis gave her a flinty look and she dismissed that as an avenue to explore. There were obviously limits on the amount of help he was prepared to give.

“The police will have cleaned it out already if they’re doing their job right,” he said stiffly. When he stood up, Riley took the hint. The interview was over.

“Thanks for your help. I’m sorry I descended on you so abruptly. Are you going anywhere nice?”

“All over, really,” Willis replied vaguely, walking her to the door. “Nowhere for long. We like driving… moving around.” He opened the door and briefly checked the corridor, then stood back to let her pass. She turned to shake hands, but he was already closing the door firmly behind her.

“So we have a name.” It was three hours later and Frank Palmer was behind his desk, fiddling with a retractable ruler. He’d listened in silence to Riley’s account of her meetings with Hyatt and the Willises, occasionally making a note on a small pad at his elbow, but seemed to have something else on his mind.

“It’s a start,” Riley replied. “I gave Grossman’s name to Donald. He said he’d have a trawl through his files to see if it means anything. How about you and your army friend? Any luck?”

Palmer gave Riley a strange look and stood up. He walked over to the kettle on the floor and plugged it in, then busied himself spooning coffee into mugs with agonising deliberation. When he showed no signs of replying, she went across and glared at his back. “Did I just speak in Swahili or something?”

“Sorry,” he said, pouring water and handing her a mug. “Brain’s in overdrive at the moment.” He wandered to the window and stared out, blowing on his coffee. Almost as an aside he asked: “Apart from that, how did your evening out go?”

“My evening?” Riley was surprised by the sudden change of direction. “It went very well, thank you. But what’s that got to do with this — or you?”

“Did he tell you how he managed to get your phone number?” He smiled to soften the question. “Just concerned, that’s all.”

“Yes, he did,” Riley replied. She realised she was being unfair after her concerns the previous day and owed him an explanation. “He said he had friends in the security industry who could access that sort of thing. It seemed reasonable, and it would have been — I don’t know — churlish to object if all he wanted was to go out with me.” She described the events of the evening, finishing with the large man she had seen twice near the restaurant, although she wasn’t sure why she remembered that.

Palmer looked round, suddenly interested. “Can you describe him?”

“Big — maybe six-four. Forty-ish, thinning brown hair. Looked like an ex-boxer. Or a heavy. Why are you asking? You still haven’t told me what you got up to in the last couple of days. You were going to see if you could identify the two men who smashed up your office.”

Palmer puffed out his lips and took a sheet of paper from under a folder on his desk. “My mate in Whitehall,” he said, “works in a section of the Ministry of Defence that deals with military personnel records. They have a database down there that houses the name of every person who has served or is serving in the forces. It only goes back to about 1960 at the moment.” He flapped the paper in the air. “But he managed to come up with a few names.” He explained Charlie’s findings after feeding in the name of Howie, and the possibility of him being Malcolm Howard, late of the Royal Marines.