Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Lottie looked at her watch. “Get them in here. I want to discuss tomorrow’s plan of action. And get onto our police captain… find out where that damned woman is staying.”

Riley powered up her laptop and logged on to check for emails, her mind still on what had happened earlier. The incident with the Moroccan had changed everything. She still wanted to find out who he was, but not at the risk of having Palmer’s life on her conscience. And if she was certain of anything, it was that the man had meant every word he’d said.

“It was my fault,” Palmer had said, after the Lexus had gone and he’d gone to check Riley was okay. He’d been as stunned as she to discover the Moroccan knew their names.

“He said something about reporters buying and selling information,” she’d told him. “I think he was referring to Benson.”

“I agree. Benson was the only one who knew our names. He must have tried to make a deal with them.” He’d looked angry with himself. “I’m sorry — I got careless.”

“Forget it,” she’d replied. “You couldn’t have known. At least we know he doesn’t trust Lottie Grossman any further than he can throw her.” Then she’d told him about the Moroccan’s threat. “I really don’t think he was bluffing.”

Palmer had shrugged philosophically. “Maybe. Maybe not. Come on, let’s get back to the hotel.”

Riley turned to fleshing out and updating the notes she had made so far. The report was beginning to take shape and she needed to email something to Brask.

Palmer was on the balcony, blowing smoke-rings into the evening air. He was on his second brandy sour and looking loose after the shock confrontation with the Moroccans.

Riley stopped typing as her laptop beeped to indicate an incoming message, and stared at the screen in dismay. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?” Palmer got up and came inside.

She spun the screen towards him. It was a message from Donald Brask:

Hyatt called. Peter Willis and his wife missing. Luggage still at hotel and tickets unused. Suggest you watch your backs.

Donald

Riley felt sick at the idea that any harm had come to the couple. What if she had been responsible for their whereabouts being discovered? She said as much to Palmer.

“Forget it,” he said flatly. “They were hardly that well hidden. Don’t forget, the airline might have known where they were staying.”

Riley closed the laptop and stared into the distance. He was right. But this whole business was beginning to ripple outwards, pulling in more people and impacting on more lives as it went. The question was, who else was going to be touched by it?

“Where to now?” Palmer asked. “Back to London?”

Riley shook her head, now more resolved than ever. “Are you kidding? We haven’t caught them doing anything yet. We can’t prove they killed Bignell, nor that they’ve set up a deal to bring in anything more harmless than dried dates and camel hats.”

Palmer raised an eyebrow. “Now why don’t I like the sound of this?”

“Because,” Riley told him, “I need proof. And the only way to get that is through John Mitcheson.” She picked up her mobile and dialled his number.

Breakfast at the Villa Almedina the following morning was a subdued affair. While Doug, Gary and Howie checked the villa’s perimeters and cleaned their weapons, Mitcheson, Lottie Grossman and McManus were on the patio. McManus had arrived earlier in the Cessna via Malaga, and was in a sour mood. His anger at not being able to find Riley Gavin was aimed openly at John Mitcheson.

“Seems to me she was tipped the wink,” he growled, ripping open a bread roll and spreading it thickly with red jam.

Mitcheson said nothing. There was little to be gained by having an argument with the man, and even Lottie Grossman seemed irritated by McManus’s constant sniping on the subject. She had also made it clear he no longer answered to her ailing husband. He had taken the news with ill grace, but said nothing. Even he must have known Ray Grossman was no longer capable of running things.

Mitcheson also knew that Lottie Grossman was capable of swinging suddenly and violently against himself, and he didn’t need that kind of aggravation just yet; she’d simply set McManus on him without warning.

What she said next, however, came as a shock.

“When you’ve finished your breakfast,” she told McManus pointedly, pushing a slip of folded paper across the table towards him, “that’s the hotel the Gavin woman gave when she was arrested. Go get her.”

“Where is it?” Mitcheson was alarmed but managed to keep his voice casual. He could feel the heat in his temples and wondered how he could stop this happening. McManus had only one way of dealing with a person, and it didn't involve much in the way of talk.

“You don’t need to know,” snapped Lottie. “He’s quite capable.”

McManus tucked the slip of paper into his breast pocket, flicking a snide smile at Mitcheson. “Easy-peasy,” he breathed. Coming from his lips, the childish comment seemed to take on an obscene tone Mitcheson had never known before.

“Find somewhere to keep her out of sight, then let us know you’ve got her, you understand?” Lottie instructed him. “And don’t do anything else. I don't want anything rebounding on us back here.”

“I can lose her for good if you want,” McManus countered. “Like Bignell.”

“No.” Lottie was adamant. “Bignell was a one-off. This isn’t our turf and now’s not the time to take chances. Just keep her out of our way until I decide what to do with her.”

“No problem.” He smiled nastily and looked pointedly at Mitcheson. “I’ll make sure she’s nice and comfortable, don’t you worry.”

“Why not bring her back here and talk to her?” suggested Mitcheson. He resisted the temptation to pick up a bread knife and drive it into the other man’s eye.

“Forget it.” Lottie pushed her cup away and impatiently brushed crumbs off her fingers. “Just neutralise her. Isn’t that the term you use?”

Mitcheson shrugged while McManus drained his coffee cup and left, wiping his mouth on his hand.

Lottie Grossman watched him go and turned to look at Mitcheson. “He’s an unpleasant, uncultured slob,” she said to him, “But he’s given years of good service to my husband. A bit like that Rottweiler the Moroccans killed.” She smiled thinly. “I don’t want you two busting each other’s balls all the time, do you understand me?”

He decided the safest way of getting through the day without throttling this old witch was to play along with her, so he nodded agreement and asked: “What’s on the cards for today?”

“Another meeting with Segassa. This time in Malaga — and with someone who can negotiate directly.” She smiled and patted Mitcheson’s hand, her earlier anger forgotten as though it had never occurred. “We don’t do middle-men anymore. Especially now they’ve seen what my men can do.”

Mitcheson felt a momentary irritation at how his men had suddenly become hers, but said nothing. He doubted Doug, Howie or Gary would care much who they reported to as long as they got paid. Where it might backfire was if this woman expected too much of them without realising the possible consequences. They were good but they weren’t fireproof.

“Where do you want it to happen?”

“I hear the Hotel Palacio’s good for meetings,” Lottie said.

Mitcheson glanced at her to see if there was any significance in her choice of words, but her head was angled so the sun reflected off her glasses, giving no hint of the expression in her eyes. He chose to believe it was just coincidence and nodded calmly.