Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“Because,” Riley said icily, “you’re an ignorant little shite.”

The soldier swore under his breath and made a move towards her. Before he could touch her, a tall figure stepped between them.

“Knock it off,” said the newcomer. His voice was soft but carried the unmistakable timbre of authority. The soldier stepped back, the anger subsiding to a sullen glare.

The man watched him walk away, then turned to Riley. “You all right?”

It was the swimmer from the pool. He was dressed in a linen suit and light blue shirt, and his tanned skin proclaimed regular exercise and above average fitness.

“Thank you,” said Riley gratefully. She felt a glow coming to her cheeks at the thought of what this man had seen of her by the pool. “You really didn’t have to. I was about to drop him.”

He nodded. “I’m sure you were. But they’re just young lads, full of vim and too much beer. They get a bit carried away.”

“Well,” she murmured coolly, “he nearly was, at that.”

An announcement called for all passengers to make their way to the departure gate, and the man excused himself and went over to the desk, where a young woman attendant smiled at him, then bent to her computer screen. She looked up at a question from the man and pointed towards a middle-aged woman with a hint of a moustache standing in the queue for departures. The man nodded at the attendant and walked across to the woman.

Moments later he was back beside Riley. “Stroke of luck,” he announced. “We’re travelling together.”

Riley looked at him. “Really? And what did you promise that woman with the hair problem — a baby?”

He barely batted an eyelid. “I’m sorry?”

“You asked her to change seats.”

He had the good grace to look sheepish. “I told her you were my fiancée and we’d been split up by computer error. She was glad to help.” He held out his hand. “John Mitcheson.”

“Riley Gavin.” As his warm hand engulfed hers, she wondered if he could feel her pulse beating in response.

“Riley? Is that Scottish?”

“No. My dad liked old cars.”

As they boarded the plane and settled in their seats, Riley was acutely aware of his body close by and a faint hint of aftershave. She gave a wistful thought to lost opportunities, and hoped Donald Brask hadn’t taken up an offer on her behalf which would turn out to be a turkey. She’d make his life hell if he had.

Not that Donald usually made mistakes. It was one of the reasons she had decided to use an agent for her work. It saved having to pitch for assignments and she could leave it to him to filter out anything she might not like to tackle. Not that that left much out; she needed the money and so did Donald. They were a good team, although she had only seen him twice. Fat, humourless and gay as a hatbox, he saw Riley purely as a money earner. At least it kept him on his toes.

“Sorry to disturb your hols, love,” he’d breathed insincerely on the phone that morning. “I’ve got an editor who needs some digging done, preferably by someone who isn’t a known Face.” When he mentioned the name of the newspaper, Riley found all thoughts of holidays fading into the background. Donald was talking high-profile national daily with a reputation for good fees. They specialised in crime stories that usually found their way onto television specials, which was good for the track record of the reporter involved and a near-guarantee of repeat work.

“What’s the assignment?”

“A couple of old men have been murdered,” Brask explained. “Nasty stuff. The editor smells a big story and wants to get the goods before the other rags realise what it’s all about, which won’t be long. He figures an unknown will have more chance of getting the details before being spotted.”

He relayed in succinct terms the execution-style deaths of two men on the south coast of England. Both jobs were professional and carried out with clinical neatness, and since it seemed the two men had known each other, with no obvious motive available, the police were dropping the word that it was probably an old gangland score being settled. “In other words it’ll do as an explanation until something else comes up,” he finished dryly. “Or until they find a smoking gun.”

“Gangland?” Riley asked. She had met a few crime figures, mostly self-effacing types who dressed well, if a little flashily, and kept themselves to themselves. They were a dying breed, preferring to live in the shadows and let their employees do the legwork, unlike their modern and younger equivalents who saw no reason to hide from anyone, least of all the law, because they used the law as camouflage.

“Used to be, a long time back. Contemporaries of the Krays, but not in the same league. These two worked a corridor from south London down to Brighton. Gambling, tarts, racecourses, clubs, that sort of thing. But nothing heavy. Retired now, according to my sources.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Respectable pillars and all that. Makes your heart bleed, doesn’t it?”

She heard Donald rustling paper at the other end, and the beep of a computer. He was first class at building files on assignments. “They were pretty successful in their own way,” he continued. “But they’d been out of it for so long everyone thought they were dead. One of them had a plush pad on the sea front; the other owned a Roller and a big house on the Downs. Rumour has it they used to operate with a third partner, but no one knows who. Maybe therein lies the motive.”

“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. “Do I get to use the paper’s resources?”

“Of course. But anything they’ve got won’t be much help, otherwise they’d use their own bodies. He wants you to do some background digging without attracting attention.”

“Fine. I’ll let you negotiate the fee as usual. Make it a good one and I won’t cut off your thumbs for spoiling my holiday.”

“Of course, dear heart,” he said dryly. “Like you couldn’t resist the call.” He paused, then added, “You might do well to get some help on this one, Riley.”

“Help?” This didn’t sound like Donald. Next thing he’d be suggesting she became a housewife with two-point-four and a licence to sell Tupperware. “What kind of help?”

“It’s just a precaution. From what I’ve picked up so far, these people might be a bit too sharp to play with by yourself. I’ve got a name for you — you can call him when you get back.”

“Thanks, Donald, but I don’t need it, you know that.”

“Listen, dear,” he countered bluntly. “This is serious. Get help or I don’t represent you again. I’m not talking about taking on a lifelong pal. You simply need someone to watch your back.” He hung up before she could argue.

Riley was disappointed when the plane finally touched down. The food had been avoidable, but easily traded in for the company of John Mitcheson to while away the journey. At least it had taken her mind off the aborted holiday and Donald Brask’s concerns. It turned out Mitcheson was a security consultant working between the UK and Spain, setting up systems for wealthy property owners with villas in the sun. He, too, had been on holiday and was now on his way back. Riley found him interesting, if physically unsettling company, and wondered if his claim to be unmarried was true. He certainly didn’t have the aura of a married man.

She had deliberately glossed over what she did for a living, dismissing it vaguely as “research”. Some men felt threatened when she told them she was an investigative reporter, as if she’d confessed to working for the Inland Revenue or the police. Maybe that said something about the sort of men she knew.

Mitcheson seemed satisfied by her description, and eventually switched topics, to Riley’s relief. The holiday was now in the background, and she was already beginning to focus on the priorities for the job ahead. First thing to do was get the file from Donald and brainstorm the details until they were firmly embedded in her mind. It was the least interesting part of an assignment, but fundamental to success. With much of her time spent on the move, carrying round a research library was a luxury she couldn’t afford.