Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

The captain shrugged, too. “Well, it is of no consequence. The young lady will be charged under our vagrancy laws and sent home.” He clapped his hands lightly together in a washing motion. “I understand she is English. You know her name?”

“Yes,” Palmer replied. “We know her.” He took out his wallet. “I will, of course, pay any fines your courts would normally apply.”

The officer nodded and wrote a figure on a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk for Palmer to see. It was a lot of money, but there was no other method of getting Riley out of Lottie Grossman’s reach. He counted out the notes and slid them across the desk. The officer nodded, slipped them in the desk drawer and locked it.

He picked up the phone and spoke rapidly, then replaced it and said, “The lady will be brought out immediately. I am sorry we could not bring her to Villa Almedina, but there are limits to what I can arrange.” He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a thick cloud of pungent smoke. “She was speeding,” he continued, as if sensing some justification was needed in exchange for the money. “My men were merely doing their job, of course.”

“I understand,” Palmer said. “Excellent work, captain.” Evidently Lottie Grossman liked to take extra precautions to protect her privacy. He felt a growing admiration for the woman; she certainly believed in good organisation. He wondered how much she was paying this officer for his discreet help.

There was a knock at the door and a squat, dour-looking woman in uniform appeared. Riley was close behind her, looking as if she could spit nails. She looked stunned to see Palmer and he shook his head to warn her not to say anything.

The officer ground out his cigarette and stood up. He muttered briefly to the policewoman who departed immediately, before ushering Palmer out into the corridor. Past the desk, they threaded their way through the group of German tourists and out onto the front steps. Palmer had never been so pleased to taste fresh air.

The officer indicated Riley’s car, which was now parked at the front kerb. “You may go. I strongly suggest you leave on the next plane.” He turned to Palmer, his look intense. “Both of you. This is not a good time to be here unless you are on holiday.” With that he turned on his heels and walked back inside.

There was a dangerous glint in Lottie Grossman’s eyes when she dropped the phone back on its hook, and a pulse began to beat in her throat as she turned to stare at Mitcheson. She had just finished talking to a contact at the police station to see if anyone suspicious had been seen in the area near the villa.

“That was the captain at the central station. He just released a woman his men stopped earlier along the coast road near here. She was driving the Peugeot you saw outside. He says one of my men just called in to pay a fine for her release.”

Mitcheson frowned. They had been out-manoeuvred. But he couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Did they have names?”

“The captain couldn’t recall,” Lottie muttered, her voice venomous with disbelief. “He says he ordered them to leave the country immediately. No doubt he was paid well for the decision.” She seemed oblivious of her own role in paying him off in the first place. “He’ll regret that lapse of memory.”

“I can’t believe that bunch of fuckwits!” Riley swore roundly and threw the last of her clothing into her bag. She was still outraged by her arrest and expulsion from the country. “And those people… they had guns, Palmer — and that monster of a dog. What in hell are they up to?”

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

Palmer took a miniature of brandy from the mini-bar, tipping the contents into a glass.

“Get that down you,” he said, handing her the glass. “Medicinal only — I don’t need you going into shock on me. Then we’d better move to another hotel. The police might just check this place — or let Grossman’s people do it.”

Riley stared at the roughness in his voice and realised he was right on both counts. If she let this thing get to her she was going to be useless, and if the police found her still here, they’d be in worse trouble. She drank the contents in one go, wincing as it burned her throat.

“God — what do they make that from?” she asked.

Palmer smiled. Protest was a good sign. He excused himself and went along to his room to make a phone call. When he returned, he was carrying a newspaper and his overnight bag. Riley was just putting her mobile down.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’ve just checked my messages,” she said nodding at the phone. “John Mitcheson wants to talk. It was timed thirty minutes ago.”

“If he’s out at the villa, he’ll know it was you the police picked up.”

Riley walked across to the window. “He left a mobile number where I can leave a message. He said it was urgent.”

Palmer looked sceptical. “And you’re going to call?”

“Why not? It could be a step forward.”

“Because,” Palmer said with quiet logic, “it could also be a trap. He might not be the worst of the bunch, but someone in that group has done the killing. If it wasn’t him, it was one of his men. How do you know it isn’t a set-up?”

“I don’t. I agreed to leave the country just to keep that police captain happy, but I never said I was giving up on the assignment. After what we’ve seen, I can’t. This is too big to ignore.” She sat back on the bed. “You go back if you want. I’ll pay you up to date.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Palmer dropped the newspaper he was carrying on the bed. It was an English-language edition for British residents. “While I was waiting to spring you from the nick, I heard a detective briefing a local reporter on a murder they discovered today in Malaga. An Englishman named Bignell was found shot dead in his house. They say it was probably drug-related, and that Bignell was a suspected local distributor. They’d been watching him for some time and were getting ready to make an arrest. Looks like someone beat them to it.”

“How does that involve us? There are loads of Brits living around here. Some of them are bound to be bent.”

Palmer nodded at the newspaper. It was folded back to a page with a thumbnail photo of the article’s author at the top. “This is the reporter I overheard being briefed at the station. His name’s Benson. I rang him just now and asked if he could give me the bare bones. At first he wouldn’t play — told me to buy tomorrow’s edition. When I pressed him, he said a kid saw two men delivering a carpet at Bignell’s house yesterday evening, and they didn’t look Spanish. Benson said Bignell was well known for making regular trips across to Morocco — and he wasn’t the type to go for the sand or scenery.”

“Does that mean there’s a connection with Grossman?”

“I didn’t ask,” Palmer said honestly. “I’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow morning. He wanted to know what was in it for him, so I said we’d see him right.”

“With my money? Thanks a lot.”

“Needs must. It could save us a lot of bother. Are we on?”

“Okay. But I’m still going to call John Mitcheson. Something tells me his reasons for wanting to talk aren’t merely social.”

Palmer stood up and walked to the door. “That’s what I was afraid of. Come on — I’ve booked us into another hotel along the coast. This place feels too exposed now you’ve gone and got yourself a criminal record.”

Breakfast next morning was on the patio behind their new hotel. The Ascona was a rambling three-storey complex of rooms and small apartments catering predominantly to English guests and a scattering of Germans and Scandinavians. While it wasn’t full, it provided sufficient noise and colour to give them a level of cover that would endure all but the most detailed examination.