Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” said Riley, as Palmer pocketed the keys of the second vehicle. She needed to talk to keep her mind off thinking about may have happened to the reporter.

Palmer nodded. “Standard procedure in SIB operations. But we didn’t have to pay for the wheels.”

Back in her room Riley dialled the number Benson had given them. The only name she had was Warren. It was answered by a male voice with a throaty English accent. Riley beckoned Palmer across to listen in.

“Is Warren there?” Riley said.

“Who wants him?” The man sounded as though he was struggling to wake up.

“I’m calling about Jerry Bignell. He’s had an accident.”

There was a silence broken by the sound of heavy breathing on the other end. Then the voice said: “I’m Warren. Who’s this?” He sounded suddenly wide-awake and Riley thought she heard springs groaning as he swung out of bed. There was the rasp of a cigarette lighter and an intake of breath.

Without giving her name, Riley told the man she was a journalist working locally and had been put on the story after Bignell was discovered murdered in Malaga.

“Yeah? Why should that bother me?”

“Because Jerry gave me your name.”

“Okay.” There was a pause. “What’s the gossip?”

She told him the barest details as related by Benson. “Before he was killed,” she continued, “Jerry said you knew who was heading up the group who’d moved in from London and taken over your set-up. Is that right?”

“Jerry always did talk too bloody much.”

“But you do know?”

“Maybe.”

“I spoke to Jerry a couple of nights before he was killed. He said you knew these people from way back.” Riley glanced at Palmer, wondering if she had pushed it too far. “This won’t come back on you, I promise. I just need to know. Is it Ray Grossman?”

There was another intake of breath and a lengthy pause, then the man said: “Ray used to be big years ago, raking it in from some clubs he bought into back in the sixties with a couple of other guys. They recently fell out but still ran the business between ‘em. Then a few days ago both the other guys got topped and Grossman was left holding the reins. I still can’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t his style, that’s why. Ray was hard, but he never went in for this stuff — not unless he was forced.”

“He might have changed since then.”

“Yeah, right.’” Warren sounded sceptical. “What would be the point, in his condition?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Christ, you ain’t dug very far, have you? Ray’s dying of cancer, that’s why. He can hardly hold a spoon, they reckon. Such a shame.” Warren’s voice was coldly unsympathetic.

Riley exchanged a look with Palmer, who looked blank. “Why didn’t you hang around, then?”

“Because I didn’t want to die. Ray might not be up to much any longer, but his missus is something else. She’s real poison. Her and her thugs.”

“So you’re saying-”

“That’s all I’m saying,” the man said. “This number’s changing as of right now. Don’t call again.” The phone went dead.

Riley switched off the phone and looked at Palmer. “So the lady’s in charge.”

Palmer nodded. “There’s a turn-up. I wonder if Mitcheson knows that.”

“He must do. But there’s only one way to find out.” Riley stood up and collected her car keys. “I’ll see you at the villa.” She gave him a warning look. “I mean it, Frank: don’t play big brother. I can handle this.” She left before Palmer could argue.

At the Hotel Palacio she ordered an iced tea in the lounge. The air was cool and smelled of something floral, a proper oasis after the Oasis. She tried not to think about it, or of the possibility that Mitcheson may have ordered Benson to be snatched. Yet how could he have found out Benson was meeting them at the bar? Unless Benson himself had been careless.

“Miss Gavin?” It was the waiter. “A phone call for you.” He gestured towards the reception desk.

The receptionist indicated a courtesy phone lying on the end of the counter and Riley picked it up. It was John Mitcheson.

“If you look in the mirror behind the counter,” he said without greeting, “you’ll see a pale Merc parked in the street outside.”

Riley looked. By the kerb was a large cream Mercedes, and she could just make out a figure sitting at the wheel, one arm outside the car, fingers drumming on the door. With the press of passing pedestrians, she couldn’t make out if it was Mitcheson or whether he was looking her way.

“I see it,” she confirmed. “What’s the matter — are you frightened of being seen in hotels with strange women? I’ll come out to you.”

“Don’t do that.” Mitcheson’s voice was urgent. “The man in the car is called McManus. He’s the one you saw in Piccadilly the other night. Remember?”

Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She instinctively turned away, shielding her face. “What does he want?”

Mitcheson didn’t speak for a few seconds. When his voice came it was flat and unemotional.

“He has orders to kill you.”

Riley felt a chill touch her shoulders. She was shocked by the contrast between the tone and conversation of Mitcheson’s voice compared with the other night.

“Is that why you suggested meeting here?” she asked coldly. “To finger me?”

“Don’t be bloody silly. McManus doesn’t even know you’re here. If he did he’d already be all over you. He’s on his way back to London to look for you. I got caught into giving him a lift to the airport — he’s taking a private plane back to the UK.” He paused. “I checked you were here because I figured it would be safer than London.”

Riley took a deep breath. “Okay — I’m sorry. Can we meet?”

“Give me half an hour, then go to room 1221. I’ll be along as quick as I can. Stay off the street.” The line went dead.

Riley rang Palmer. There was no answer. She broke the connection and walked back to the bar, selecting a chair set back out of sight of the reception area. Thirty minutes was going to seem like a lifetime.

At the Villa Almedina, a large, black Lexus purred through the gates. The man in the back told the driver to park facing back down the drive. As he did so, the front door of the villa opened and a young man emerged. At the same time, two more men appeared at the corners of the house and stood watching as the vehicle crunch to a stop. Those in the car recognised the men for what they were.

A slim, darkly tanned man emerged from the front passenger seat and stood waiting. He made no move to open the rear doors, his eyes settling bleakly for a moment on the thin belt of trees near the road. He gave a light tap on the bodywork of the car, and moments later, the man in the back climbed out. Andre Segassa nodded at the three men in turn. Professional to professional.

The young man held the front door open and gestured for the new arrivals to go inside.

“Mr Segassa,” Lottie Grossman greeted the drug-dealer. She shook his hand and indicated that they should follow her. As they passed across the hallway, Segassa glanced to one side and saw a man sitting hunched in a wheelchair at the end of a tiled corridor. He paused momentarily, then walked through the front room and out onto the patio, noting as he did so that the two men had followed them from the front of the building and were watching him and his companion closely.

“So,” Lottie smiled, pouring soft drinks from a vacuum jug into tall glasses. “Can we begin negotiations?”

Segassa nodded and took a glass. “Of course, Mrs Grossman. As long as all the terms are satisfactory, my colleagues are happy to talk with you. I will act as intermediary.”