Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Palmer nodded. “Why let someone else have all the cream when you can continue pulling it in yourself?”

“But your man said Grossman died last year. That leaves us none the wiser.” Riley hesitated and turned towards him. “Unless he left an heir to the throne.”

They took Riley’s Golf, following Frank’s directions out towards the A413 and the Chalfonts. He sat in the back, smoking, while she concentrated on negotiating the late afternoon traffic.

Suburban concrete became a brief stretch of uninspiring countryside, with a few horses cropping in scruffy fields, before entering the twilight zone of plush stockbroker housing and small, select estates. Main roads gave way to narrow, twisting lanes lined with lush hedges and leafy trees, where BMWs and Range Rovers parked in the curving, gravelled drives were the norm.

Riley slowed at Palmer’s direction. He flipped his cigarette out the window and sat forward.

“Should be somewhere in this area,” he said. “They probably don’t use anything as common as house numbers in this kind of place, so we’ll have to hope Mrs Grossman has a nice, ostentatious sign outside her gaff.”

They entered a narrow lane with houses on one side, spaced well apart, past a dog barking at them from a driveway, and an elderly man mowing his front verge to snooker-table neatness. Large trees towered overhead, their top-most branches meeting and creating dark pools of shadow.

A woman appeared out of a gateway some distance ahead. She mounted a bike and pedalled towards them. Riley slowed the car and flashed a white envelope through the open window. The woman stopped alongside the car. She was in her early thirties, with a care-worn look that spoke of too much work and too little time to do it in. In a basket on the front of her bike were a plastic bag and an overall.

“Excuse me, love,” Riley’s voice took on a beseeching tone. “I wonder if you could tell me where the Grossman house is — I’m afraid the office didn’t give terribly good directions. I’ve been driving for ages trying to find the place.”

The woman looked cautiously at Riley, then at Palmer relaxing in the back seat. Evidently satisfied they weren’t about to firebomb the area, she turned her head and pointed towards the gateway she had just left. “It’s about a hundred yards down on the right. Big place with a curved roof and white shutters. There’s a couple of willows out front.” She looked at the envelope. “I can take that if you want. I do cleaning for them.”

Riley smiled and dropped the envelope on the seat beside her. “No, that’s all right, thanks. I’m supposed to deliver this in person under pain of death, and maybe get some measurements.” She put on an annoyed expression and sighed. “Not that it looks likely today. They promised someone would be in, too. Oh, well… I’m only a Pee Bee Ee.”

“You what?”

“Poor bloody employee, sweetie. Do what I’m told — know what I mean? Do you know when Mrs Grossman will be back?”

The cleaner shook her head. “Couldn’t say, love. Might be tonight, could be tomorrow. I’ve worked here six months but they never tell me what they’re doing.”

“They?”

For a moment the woman seemed to have doubts about talking. But then she shrugged and said: “Well, Mrs G and them men that come and go all the time.” There was a note of disapproval in her voice mixed with a flash of relish at being able to confide in someone.

Riley managed to hide an instinctive surge of excitement and put on an understanding smirk. “The old devil. Young, are they?”

The woman gave a tired smile. “Yeah, but it’s not like that. They work for Mrs G and sometimes stay at the house.”

“What do they do?”

“Beats me, love. They’re young enough to do anything. But like I said, they don’t tell me what they get up to. It’s like it’s all a big secret.”

“Are they the only men in the house?”

“Yes, thank God,” the woman said with feeling. “There was an old man but I think he died years ago. Her trouble is, she can spot if I’ve missed something at a hundred yards. Mind, there’s one of them that does a better job of cleaning than I do. Bloody man’s a bit strange, if you ask me… especially with all the training he does.”

“Training?”

“Yeah. Out in the garden every day. Jogging, press-ups, sit-ups… My husband reckons he must be a keep-fit fanatic. I think he’s ex-army, myself; my dad was in REME. This bloke Gary jumps to it every time Mrs G so much as opens her mouth. Proper little poodle. My husband says he must be after my job, but that’s silly.”

“Maybe not,” Riley suggested casually. “If he’s ex-army, he’d be very good at cleaning. What else does he do?”

The woman looked surprised at the notion and her mouth dropped at the corners as she considered it. “I hadn’t thought of that. He also does her driving when she goes out, and makes sure everything’s working. He’s what my husband calls a gopher.” She shook her head as the idea Riley had implanted began to sink in. “Christ, I knew it!”

“And they’re all out?” said Riley quickly, before the woman could move on.

“Yes. Somewhere in Spain. Mrs G has a villa over there.” She sighed. “All right for some, isn’t it? Never asks me if I want a bit of sun.” She looked at Riley again and blushed. “Sorry, love. What was it you said you wanted?”

“Something else they haven’t told you,” Riley said sympathetically. “She’s putting the house on the market. She wants a valuation. This envelope holds the contract. Maybe she’ll give you a good reference.”

“Oh. I suppose.” The woman’s voice was faint at the prospect and she shook her head. “In that case maybe I can show you in… so you can measure up.” She peered into the car. “You do have a card, though? Some identification?”

“Of course.” Riley fished in her glove box and handed her a business card. “That’s really sweet of you — ”

“Marion,” the woman replied, and turned her bike round. “You follow me, then, and I’ll let you in. I’ll have to switch off the alarm first.”

As Marion pedalled away, Riley caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “Looks like we’re estate agents.”

Palmer nodded. “I’ve never been an estate agent before. Do I have to do unctuous as well?”

“If you do, I’ll kick you. There’s a clipboard and tape in the boot.”

She followed Marion down the short drive and parked in front of the house. As they got out she glanced around instinctively. There were no houses in direct line of sight, so more for Marion’s sake than any onlookers, she stood and looked at the house for a few seconds, pointing and chatting to Palmer about the exterior and briefing him on the measurements they needed.

“How the rich live,” Palmer murmured, looking down a path between the house and a double garage, to where they could see part of a patio. Beyond chequered ochre and grey paving slabs, the garden extended downwards in stepped layers, across a vast expanse of immaculate lawn dotted with flowerbeds, into a border of bushes and trees. Bird song echoed through the treetops, while a lawnmower chattered away on an adjacent property.

“Money,” Riley agreed. “Whatever they do — or did — it had to involve lots of cash.”

When Marion told them she had switched off the alarm, they followed her to a small side gate and were ushered into the kitchen.

“Shall I leave you to it?” said Marion. “There’s things I can be doing upstairs. I’ll make coffee in a bit, if you like.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” said Riley. “This is really sweet of you.”

As soon as Marion disappeared, Riley began a quick search of the ground floor while Palmer left her with the tape and clipboard and went back outside to look at the garage.