Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

As she accelerated in the direction of the hotel, a figure in a dark uniform stepped out from the side of the road a hundred yards ahead. She instantly felt a leaden feeling in her stomach. He was pointing at her and waving her down. Behind him stood a police car, its blue light flashing.

Frank Palmer knocked at Riley’s bedroom door. He’d already tried once but there was no reply. Was she asleep? He glanced at his watch. Surely she couldn’t be that tired?

He walked over to the rear windows and peered down into the car park. The car was gone. He ran downstairs and asked the desk clerk if he knew where Miss Gavin had gone. The man shrugged.

“Do you have a courtesy car I can use?”

“Sorry, no,” the clerk replied carefully. “It takes one hour and I can arrange one for you.”

Palmer spotted a small Fiat parked outside. “Who does that belong to?” he asked.

The clerk smiled proudly. “Is mine.”

“Great.” Palmer took a fistful of notes from his pocket. “I want to hire your car for an hour or so.” He figured it was more than the clerk earned in two days work.

“But, sir — I cannot… ”

“You can,” Palmer urged. “I’ve got to collect a friend from the airport — a business contact. If I don’t get there, I’m in deep shit — you understand?” He added more notes. “Come on — you’ve got my passport.”

Greed won. The clerk handed Palmer his keys and watched as the Englishman hurried out of the car park and down the road. He wondered if the man realised he was heading the wrong way for the airport.

Palmer drove the small Fiat fast along the coast road, wondering what the hell Riley was up to. He’d had a bad feeling about the men they had seen at the villa. The two who had visited his office had let him off without a beating then, but he doubted they would do so again.

He saw a blue flashing light up ahead and slowed down. No sense in him getting into trouble for speeding. As he crawled by on the tail of a van in front, he saw the reason for the hold-up was: Riley being escorted into a police car, as a second policeman climbed behind the wheel of her hire-car.

He drove on until he saw a convenient turning, then spun the wheel and headed back towards Malaga. Within minutes he’d caught up and settled in behind them.

“What happened?” Mitcheson asked, squatting beside Doug. Both men carried handguns. They were in the trees near the villa and Doug was checking through the pockets of a body lying on the ground. A bright splash of blood stained the throat and chest, and the remnants of the man’s shirt hung in tatters. Nearby was a baseball cap.

“The mutt got him.” Doug gestured to where the Rottweiler lay dead. Flies were already buzzing about their heads, attracted by the blood. “And he got the mutt.”

Mitcheson swore softly. “Christ — what with?”

Howie stepped up alongside them and scooped a handgun from the ground. “Star 9mm,” he said. “Cheap and cheerful version — most likely a copy.”

“Was he alone?”

“I counted three,” said Doug. “Two of them ran, then a car took off down the road.”

“Okay. Let’s get him inside. Bring the dog as well.”

Mitcheson and Howie lifted the man’s body and threaded their way through the trees, while Doug brought the dog. Gary was waiting on the patio with his gun drawn, while inside, McManus stood guard by the hallway.

In one armchair in the living room sat a slim, dark-skinned man in his mid-forties. He was expensively dressed in a lightweight silk suit and cotton shirt. Facing him were Lottie Grossman in another chair, and Ray Grossman scowling from his wheelchair.

Mitcheson and Howie dumped the body in the doorway. The man in the armchair glanced down but said nothing. His liquid eyes were glued to the firepower in the room, and he couldn’t have failed to be impressed by the speed with which the men had responded to the intruders.

“Know him, Mr Segassa?” Mitcheson asked. He gestured at the gun in Howie’s hand. “We found this near the body. Two others got away.”

Segassa looked surprised for an instant, then waved a dismissive hand. “I have never seen him before. There are many criminals in this area.” He stared at the surrounding faces and added dryly: “Mostly English.”

“All right, Andre,” Lottie Grossman said softly. She flicked a hand and the other men left the room. “Now that little matter is out of the way, we can talk terms for the first delivery.” She spoke as though nothing had happened, but her tone left the man in no doubt that he had just witnessed the power she held over the group of men she commanded.

Frank Palmer pulled up across the street from the police station and watched as the car carrying Riley turned through a guarded gateway, followed by the hire-car. He wondered why Riley had chosen to go off alone. Whatever the reason, she had fallen foul of the law and needed extracting.

He returned to the hotel and handed the keys back to the clerk and asked him to call a taxi. If he also got picked up, he didn’t want the clerk involved through his car number. He had the taxi drop him a block away from the police station and walked the rest of the way deep in thought. This latest development was an added complication. Had Lottie and her group called the cops? Or had Riley simply been unlucky and infringed a local traffic regulation? The third option was more worrying, and that was that the local cops might have acted in co-ordination with the Grossmans.

He stood outside for a moment, considering his options, then took a deep breath and walked up the steps and through the front doors. Nothing like a frontal attack, he figured, for upsetting the enemy.

The inside of the reception area was like police stations anywhere; the walls lined with lurid posters requesting information about offences committed and warning of the dangers of drugs and drinking.

Palmer filtered his way through a group of distressed German tourists in sun hats and shorts and arrived at the desk, where a stressed-looking sergeant was issuing orders to subordinates and hurling sheets of paper through a hatch in the back wall. Palmer flashed his passport. “I’ve been told you have a friend of mine under arrest,” he said politely. “She was picked up at Moharras. I wonder if you would be kind enough to give me some details?” He gave Riley’s name.

The desk sergeant disappeared, then returned a few minutes later and motioned him to sit down and wait. The minutes ticked away with grinding slowness. Palmer sat and half-listened as the German tourists told in angry detail how they had been the target of pickpockets on a nearby beach.

Two other men emerged from the back office and stood nearby talking in low tones. The one doing most of the talking was Spanish, and plainly a policeman. The other was English and dressed in a dusty suit and scuffed brown shoes with frayed, red laces. He had a beaten, ingratiating manner, and was scribbling in a battered notebook while constantly nudging the policeman for more information. Eventually, the detective managed to make his escape and retreated through the door.

The desk sergeant interrupted Palmer’s eavesdropping and motioned him through a side door. He led him down a corridor and knocked on a blank door at the end.

The office was sparse and lacked any personal touches. Behind the bare desk sat a captain in uniform, his cigarette smoke drawn upwards by a large ceiling fan. He stood up as Palmer walked in and dismissed the desk sergeant with a wave of his hand.

“I have already spoken to Mrs Grossman,” the captain said without preamble. “I did not expect anyone to come so soon.”

Palmer kept his expression blank and shrugged. He didn’t know where this was going, but it seemed already to have escaped him. He also had half his mind on the conversation he’d overheard out in the reception area.