Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

If Benson was annoyed at this slur on his professional courage, he didn’t show it. “You obviously don’t know the type like I do,” he countered evenly. “Upset them and it’s not just you they come after; it’s your family, your friends — anybody. They don’t discriminate.”

“I’m sorry.”

The barman arrived with a glass of brandy and set it down carefully in front of Benson. His expression said clearly that this was a waste of good liquor.

“No worries,” Benson said matter-of-factly. “It’s a fact of life, that’s all.” He sipped his brandy almost daintily and winked gnome-like at Palmer in appreciation. “Couldn’t rush this if I tried.” He put the glass down and sat back. “Now, what is it you want to know about Mr Jerry Bignell?”

“Why he died. Who killed him. Stuff like that,” said Palmer. He took out his wallet and left it on the table in front of him. In the background came the squeak of the barman’s polishing cloth.

Benson sipped his drink, then stood up. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Just be a second.” Then he walked away towards the back of the club, with the exaggerated gait of someone who actually wanted to lie down.

Riley turned on Palmer with a furious look. “What the bloody hell are you doing, Palmer? That man’s a raging lush and you’re pouring drink down his throat! We’ll be lucky to get any sense out of him when he comes back. Sorry — if he comes back.”

Palmer nodded towards the coffee cup Benson had been looking into when they arrived. “You think that was his? It’s dried out. He took it off the bar for local colour. The glass on the next table was his — he heard us come in and got rid of it.”

Benson returned and slid into his seat. “Sorry ‘bout that. Where were we — oh, yes, Bignell. Well, what’s to say? He was a crook and he got killed. Happens all the time.” He sipped more of the brandy and sighed.

“We’d like to know who his friends were,” said Riley.

Benson smirked. “That’s easy enough: he never had any. The ones he thought were his mates all bunked off just before he got killed.”

“They were warned off?”

“Possibly. Bad news travels fast around here, but direct methods work faster.”

Palmer lifted his wallet and riffled through some notes inside. “Warned off by who?”

Benson licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Lay off. You said you wanted some info on Bignell.” He looked suddenly nervous, but his eyes were on the money.

“We’re more interested in who killed him. Aren’t you?”

“No.” Benson began to rise but Palmer put a hand on his wrist.

“Listen, I hate to come out with a well-worn cliché, Mr Benson,” he said, “but you help us and we’ll make it worth your while.”

“Why should I? These are dangerous people.”

“Because you’re not going anywhere with this story, that’s why. If there was anything harder to report or more money to make out of it, you’d have done it already.”

Benson sat down again with a resigned sigh. He picked up the glass, draining it in one, then pushed it across the table. “Go on, then.”

He waited until the fresh drink arrived, then twirled it around before continuing. “Bignell was nothing. He ran a small operation because his boat could get lost among all the other traffic in the area and the Spanish police had more important targets to chase, like property scams and organised crime. He wanted to be bigger but hadn’t got the balls or the money.” He sneered, showing yellowed teeth. “Drugs are like any other business; you need capital to set up a decent deal. Bignell hadn’t got it.” He shrugged. “Then somebody fingered him to the local police and they had to act. They stopped his boat.”

“By somebody,” said Riley, “you don’t mean a concerned citizen.”

“You got it.” Benson looked at Palmer. “Look, you were right, okay. I wasn’t going anywhere with this because it wasn’t worth the grief. But if I tell you anything else, I could still be in deep shit.” He glanced at Riley. “Sorry.”

Palmer took out some notes from his wallet and put them on the table. “How about that?”

Benson nodded. “I’ll need to get away straight after.”

“Won’t the paper object?” said Riley. “You leaving it like this?”

But Benson shook his head. “There is no paper, not any more. That last piece was the end of the line for me. I need to move on… go freelance.” The look he gave her showed what the admission had cost him, and that their respective ideas of freelance work were worlds apart.

Palmer added a few more notes to the pile. “That’s my last offer. Pick it up or leave it there.” He closed his wallet and put it away.

Benson shrugged, then dipped his finger in his brandy and licked it. “Okay. Word is, after Bignell got pulled, the locals wanted to charge him, but were out-voted by UDYCOS — that’s the Drugs and Organised Crime Unit. They wanted to roll up his contacts in Morocco. Unfortunately, someone else got to him first.” He picked at a patch of grot in one eye. “And before you ask, no, I don’t have any thoughts about police corruption. Bignell then started saying he’d been fitted up by some new firm moving in. I spoke to him a couple of days ago, and he gave me a name. Said this bloke has moved in locally and used to be something back in England years ago. Now he’s out here looking to set up in Bignell’s place… only bigger.”

Riley leaned forward. “The name?”

But Benson wasn’t ready yet. “Bignell said he’d already had threats against his family, then his mates pulled out and left him holding the limp end. He was scared witless, if you ask me. Bignell was no hero, but he wasn’t a rabbit, either.” He shifted in his seat again, then said softly: “Grossman. Ray Grossman. That’s all I know.” He fished a piece of card from his top pocket and placed it on the table. It held a name and phone number. “This is one of Bignell’s mates. He’s in Miami. Jerry said he knew Grossman from way back.” He finished his drink and smiled grimly, holding the glass. “On your way out…?”

Palmer stopped at the bar to settle the bill, and asked the barman to take a fresh glass across to the table. Then he followed Riley to the door. On the way they stepped aside as two men entered, carrying jackets. They looked like local labourers, both deeply tanned and wearing cheap, lightweight clothing, their shoes dusty and worn. One of them held the door open for Riley before going inside.

They were ten minutes along the road to Malaga when Palmer sat up in his seat and slapped his knee. “Christ — turn round!”

Riley looked startled. “Why? What’s up?”

“Those two men we passed on the way out. Did you see their car?”

Riley began to brake and look for a place to turn. “No. Yes… it was something big, wasn’t it? I didn’t really notice.” Then it hit her. “Oh, no.”

Palmer pointed. “Turn here. The car was too big and they didn’t look right. Foot down.” He drummed his hand on the side of the door, which was the most agitated Riley had ever seen him. She pulled the car round in a long turn and slammed her foot down, heading back towards the Oasis.

When they arrived, the car park still held the old VW Beetle, but no other vehicle. Palmer leapt from the car and ran inside, slamming through the sets of swing doors.

The bar was empty. On the table where they had left Benson stood a glass.

It was still half-full.

They left the Oasis bar, with no sign of Benson anywhere, and headed back to their hotel. On the way, they changed their hire car, since the police, and by implication, Lottie Grossman’s men, now had its description. They chose a nondescript blue saloon and parked it along the street from the hotel in a public lot, then walked along to another agency and hired a second car in case they needed to switch vehicles or split up.