Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Palmer tucked into the buffet bar with a healthy appetite, while Riley stirred her coffee absent-mindedly. The latest edition of the local English-language newspaper lay on the table between them. They had dissected the front page, which was splashed with headlines about the murder of the Englishman, Jerry Bignell, but the story contained little more than guesswork backed up with brief details about Bignell’s history in the Malaga area. The reporter had skirted carefully round making any direct accusation that Bignell was one of the local criminal imports, but the implications were clear for any readers wishing to indulge in a bit of speculation. A grainy head and shoulders photo showed a sour man in his late fifties, his blotchy face apparently suffering a bad case of sunburn.

“Not hungry?” Palmer asked her, pushing away his plate and lighting a cigarette.

“Not much,” she replied. “When are we meeting this reporter?”

Palmer looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes at a beachfront bar called the Oasis. Don’t come if you don’t feel up to it.” He regretted the words the moment he uttered them, then added: “He may know nothing… and he’s no oil painting.”

“Don’t relegate me to the position of wee girlie, Palmer,” Riley warned him. “I’m coming to see if this reporter actually knows anything or whether he’s just punting a line of guesswork to sell more papers. And what the hell do looks have to do with it?”

Palmer raised his hands in defence and smiled. “Hey — I was only thinking of you. This getting arrested lark can be quite draining on the emotions — or so I’m led to believe. You’re probably feeling quite traumatised and don’t realise it.”

Riley smiled in spite of herself. After a night of tossing and turning in the sticky atmosphere of her room, her head buzzing with images of the scene among the trees at the Villa Almedina, having to face a bright-eyed and cheerful Frank Palmer across the breakfast table did little to help her frame of mind. But he was right; she had better be alert if they were going to get anywhere with what information they had.

“I called Mitcheson last night,” she told him. “He wants to meet me at two this afternoon in Malaga. He suggested the Hotel Palacio in the centre.”

“So he knows you’re still here, then.”

She ignored the slight dig. “He sounded… I don’t know… uneasy.”

Palmer nodded and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “So would I if I had Lottie Grossman ready to bite me in the neck.” He looked her in the eye and continued: “Okay. But I’m coming with you.”

“Forget it.” Riley shot him a bleak look. “I only want you to watch my back, Palmer, not hold my hand. Anyway, one of us has to keep an eye on the villa, in case something blows up there.”

He held up a hand to signal defeat. “Okay. You’re the boss. But just so you know, I don’t trust this guy. If it looks dicey, get out of there.”

“Agreed. Now, are we going to see this reporter?”

They left the hotel thirty minutes later and Riley drove them along the coast road until they saw a large, garish sign pointing to the Oasis bar and restaurant. It was a low-slung building sandwiched between two gleaming white tourist palaces and facing out to sea. Extensive stretches of tinted glass bore brightly-coloured but unconvincing coconut palms, and unlit neon signs proclaimed nightly live music and Happy Hours. The main car park contained a single car — a sorry-looking Volkswagen Beetle — while a delivery lorry unloaded crates of beer through a set of double doors at the side. It was evidently too early for the morning trade to have begun in earnest.

“My, Palmer,” Riley remarked as they pushed through a double set of swing doors, to be greeted by a heady smell of stale beer, fried food and cigarette smoke. “I’m really glad you didn't choose somewhere down-market for this meeting.”

“Don’t knock it,” he replied cheerfully. “Most of my best work has been done in dives like this one.”

“Really? You should get out more.”

There was a single customer inside. It was the man Palmer had seen in the police station. He was sitting near a window overlooking the beach, staring into a coffee cup. Behind the bar a young man in a white shirt and black waistcoat was polishing a stack of saucers, with a row of cups on the top waiting to be cleaned.

Palmer led Riley over to the table, signalling to the barman for two coffees on the way.

“Mr Benson?”

Benson looked up and tried to look surprised. He gave a faltering grin which didn't quite come off either, and waved a hand instead. “That’s me. Take a seat.”

He nodded slowly and watched as Riley slid into the bench seat across from him, then turned towards the bar and raised his hand again. “What can I get you?” he offered. His voice sounded shaky and Palmer and Riley exchanged a glance. If this man had slept indoors last night, it must have been in a cement warehouse, because his clothes were covered in fine grains of grey powder and his shirt collar was crumpled and grubby.

“I’ve ordered coffee,” Palmer told him. He looked across at the connecting table, where an empty glass stood in the middle with a wet smear track running from near Benson’s elbow. “Is that brandy?”

Riley turned to Palmer, her mouth dropping open. But he ignored her, staring at Benson without expression until the local reporter licked his lips and nodded.

“Thanks. That’d be good.” His voice broke and he tried another smile. “Whatever gets the day going, right?” He stared down at his hands, then seemed to notice his frayed cuffs and dropped them into his lap.

When the barman brought their coffees, Palmer said: “And a brandy, please.”

The barman glanced at Benson, then back at Palmer. “Spanish or French?”

“Spanish. But make it a good one.”

The barman shrugged and walked away, flapping his tea towel at a fly on the next table before scooping up the empty glass.

“That’s decent of you,” said Benson. “Very underestimated, Spanish brandies. So who’s your lady colleague?” He eyed Riley with surprise, as though he had never seen a woman in the place so early before.

“My name’s Riley Gavin.” Riley began to reach across to shake his hand, but he sat back and closed his eyes briefly, as if overtaken by a sudden bout of tiredness. She threw Palmer a look that said ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ and dropped her hand.

Benson up close surpassed Palmer’s description earlier. He was reed-thin and angular, with bony hands and wrists. His fingers were coarse-looking, with bitten-down nails and ancient scar tissue across the knuckles as if he might have once been a fighter who’d fallen down a lot. His face was narrow and in need of a shave, with long sideboards and a curl of lank, grey hair hanging behind each ear. A widow’s peak gave him the appearance of a pantomime Dracula, encouraged by a flash of yellowing, uneven teeth between bloodless lips.

“So, what can I do for you?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“We’re gathering general background information,” said Palmer, taking the lead. “It’s a piece we’re thinking of doing on London firms who’ve moved out here.”

Benson looked back at him, his eyes suddenly rat-like. “By firms I take it you don’t mean B amp;Q or John Lewis.” When they said nothing, he continued with a shrug: “Just checking. You should know the criminal element’s been done to death already. The last exposé was in the Mirror a couple of months back. And the journo who covered that got his knees broken. He made the mistake of naming names.”

“Is that why you didn’t go into too much detail about Bignell’s death?” Riley asked him.