Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Lottie Grossman’s expression was ice cold. “I think we just have, Jerry,” she muttered. She picked up a mobile phone from a table nearby and toyed with it. “We made a good offer: ready cash in return for your business. No paperwork, no tax, no contracts… just let us get on with it and everyone’s happy. But you didn’t like our terms, did you? It seems your partners didn’t share your point of view, though. My boys had words with them… and guess what? They’ve just boarded a flight to Miami. Strange time to take a holiday on holiday, I’d have thought.”

Jerry stared at Lottie in disbelief. He shook his head and looked round the room at the others. “You’re having me on.”

Lottie studied her nails and said: “Of course, they might have gone to get some help, I suppose. What do you think?” She fluttered a manicured hand at McManus, who leaned forward and took the cigar from the man’s fingers, then crushed it out in an ashtray.

Mitcheson leaned forward, chest thumping with the tension. “What’s this about?”

For the first time, Ray Grossman made a move to join in the conversation. He glared at Mitcheson and pointed a bony finger. “Sit tight, you,” he grated. “You’re too late. If you’d been here when I wanted you, this would never have happened.” With that, he staggered to his feet and moved with difficulty out onto the patio, where he slumped into a plastic chair overlooking the pool. Gary looked to Lottie for a moment, and when she nodded, went over and closed the doors behind the old man.

Everyone’s attention swung back to Lottie.

Satisfied she had their full concentration, she turned and nodded to McManus, who stepped out from behind the armchair, a tight grin on his face. In one meaty hand he carried a large, black automatic pistol. Before the hapless Jerry could react — before any of them could — he turned and shot him in the chest, the crash of the shot deafening in the room. Jerry was slammed into the back of the chair and a faint smell of burning drifted in the air as his shirt smouldered. Nobody rushed to put it out.

McManus turned, the pistol swinging round to cover Doug, Howie, Gary and, most pointedly, Mitcheson. They all sat very still.

“And that, gentlemen,” Lottie Grossman smiled, “is what happens to people who don’t do what they’re told.” She flicked a hand towards McManus and Gary. “Get rid of that mess. The rest of you — we’ve got business to discuss.”

A fly buzzed in Palmer’s office as Riley scanned the piece of paper he had given her. When she saw the last name on the list, she went pale.

“What the hell is this?” she asked softly. “Why is this name on here?”

“I asked Charlie to pull out any name approximating Howie. He came up with just the one — Howard — who seemed to fit the age range. The others are all listed as KAs — known associates. Mitcheson’s name came out with them. The connection was made by the database, not me.”

“How efficient.” Her voice was coldly matter-of-fact.

Palmer calmly returned her look. “I’m sorry, Riley.”

“Really, Frank? But something tells me you’re not surprised.” She was furious, but knew he had done the right thing. Not that it helped her presence of mind or the fact that she felt so foolish.

Palmer shrugged. “Surprised, no. He got hold of your phone number far too easily — whatever mates he might have. Hot dates don’t do that. Hot dates don’t have those kind of connections.”

“So you’re my moral guardian, now, are you?” her voice stopped short of anger, but the gap was slim. “What have you been doing — taking tips from my mother?” She threw the list on the desk. “You’ll be asking me if I’ve slept with him next!”

She paced up and down while her anger subsided. It didn’t take long; she was nothing if not pragmatic and knew that given similar circumstances she would have done the same. It was what investigation work was all about.

“Okay,” she said finally, putting both hands up. “So we have a number of men — all ex-military and all connected — who seem to be involved with whatever is going on here. But that doesn’t tell us what it is. Nor why all those old gangsters were killed off. It wasn’t because they forgot to pay their golf club fees.”

Palmer nodded. “If we accept for the moment that Howard and Duggan are the two baseball fans and they appear to know Mitcheson, who happens to have got your mobile number by foul means, it seems more than just coincidence.”

“We know how he got it.”

Palmer pulled a face. “I’ve been thinking about that. There is another, simpler way he could have got it: the same way the baseball fans got my name.”

Riley thought about it. There was only one answer. “From my flat.”

“I doubt it was him,” Palmer said. “Mitcheson was in Intelligence in Northern Ireland but it wouldn’t necessarily make him a candidate for cat-burglary. I suppose he could have got someone else to do it, though.”

They sat and contemplated what they knew so far. It wasn’t much but the path was extending all the time.

“What about Ray Grossman?” said Riley. “Can we track him down?”

Palmer ducked his hand in a drawer, pulling out a slip of paper. “I rang an old contact in the Met. He’s retired now, but he’s got the memory of an elephant. He remembered Grossman, but he thought he’d died last year. Cancer.”

“Did he have any form?”

“Not officially. He was reckoned to be a top dog but they could never prove it.”

“It must be worth checking, though. How about an address?”

Palmer grinned. “Done it. There’s only one Grossman that fits that age range. Wrong sex but it could be a lead. A woman living out in Buckinghamshire.” He handed her a piece of paper with an address on it. Pantiles, Jordans, Bucks.

Riley gave him a cool look tinged with a smile. “For a bodyguard you’re not a bad investigator. How about we check on her?”

“Suits me.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll buy you a cream tea if we can find somewhere on the way.”

“You’re on. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

Palmer hesitated. “There’s one other piece of information my friend came up with.”

“Go on.”

“I ran the McKee and Cage names past him.”

“And?”

“He thought they and Grossman were linked. They were into clubs in a quite a big way back in the fifties and sixties. Nothing really heavy, but their turnover was good. Drinking dens, a bit of gambling, some girls… Low overheads, high profits. Mostly in London but there were a couple down on the south coast, too. Rumour had it they sold out in the mid-sixties.”

Riley recalled what Hyatt had said about the two men. “But that’s not necessarily the case?”

Palmer shook his head. “No. Think about it; the sixties were all about expansion. Gaming. Money. Kids with cash looking for kicks… sex… drugs. Everything was on the up after years of austerity. The Met was cracking down on organised crime with some of the biggest names in the underworld either dead or banged up, and even the main bulk of the opposition was suddenly dropping out of the picture. For someone not under scrutiny it must have been like being handed a monopoly on a plate and being told you had a clear field to play in. Would you sell out when you were coming to the crest of a wave?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Riley said. “I’m not a gangster — and I don’t remember the sixties.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “But you’re right — it doesn’t sound likely.” She walked over to the window, looking out. “Based on what Willis told me, the arguments he heard sounded like on-going business differences. If so, they weren’t as inactive as everyone thinks.”