Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“I’ve already had Gary arrange it,” Lottie continued, “for just after lunch. I want everyone there, but keep two of your men outside in reserve.” She looked at him. “I don’t trust those Moroccans, even in a public place.”

McManus watched them from inside the villa and scowled. His suspicions about Mitcheson were increasing all the time, not least fuelled by bitterness at his changing role in the Grossman organisation. There was a time when the only other person they included in their plans was himself. But that was in the days when Ray Grossman was in charge… when there was a proper respect for him. The sort of respect that meant he never had to pick up a bill, never had to fight for a parking space, never had to sit at home wondering what to do for entertainment.

Now this soldier boy and his mates had their feet under the table and his resentment and bitterness bubbled up like a poison. His thoughts turned to the Gavin woman and what he would do when he found her. He knew Lottie would have his balls if he overstepped instructions, so he’d have to be careful. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit of fun. He recalled the photos he’d found in her flat. Ripe looking woman. Looked like she’d strip down well. Maybe fight a bit, too, if he was lucky.

The sooner he picked her up the better. First he had to think of somewhere to hold her, like Lottie wanted. Somewhere nobody would look. Then he could find a deep hole to put her in. Because that’s where she’d end up eventually, no matter what Lottie might be saying now. He knew a building site where they were sinking pilings for a block of flats, and right next to a place where he could hold her, too. Easy stuff. He grinned, proud of himself, and walked out of the room and along the corridor past the bedrooms. He paused at Ray Grossman’s door and looked in.

The nurse was in there giving the poor old bastard a wash-down. He could just see a bowl and a large tube of gel on the side of the bed. The sickly smell of roses filled the air. There was a grunting sound as the nurse struggled to move Grossman’s body and the slick noise of soap on skin. McManus swore silently to himself that he’d never go through that. What a scummy thing to endure, he thought. Like a baby. I’d sooner put a bullet through my skull.

He thought about making a call to the hotel where the Gavin woman was staying. Check she was in. Better than going out there and finding she’d already flown. As he passed Mitcheson’s room on the way to the hall, he spotted a mobile phone lying on the bed. The idea of using Mitcheson’s phone to track down the Gavin woman appealed to his sense of fairness.

He was about to dial when he noticed a message symbol flashing on the display. His in-built suspicions about the former soldier got the better of him. He punched the button and waited while the recorded voice went through its patter. There was a buzz of static and what sounded like a burst of distant laughter in the background, then a woman’s voice spoke.

“John? It’s Riley… I need to see you… it’s urgent. Can we meet? Not in the same place as last time — it’s too public.”

McManus listened as Riley Gavin suggested somewhere called the Ascona along the coast road at midday tomorrow. She said goodbye and the recorded voice told him the message had been left at eight the previous evening. He checked the address on the slip of paper Lottie had given him. It wasn’t the Ascona, so they must have moved. Never mind — he’d find it. Couldn’t be too hard, could it?

He was about to delete the message but decided against it. Better if he left it so Mitcheson could find it later. When he saw how close he might have been to warning the Gavin bitch off, it would kill him. He grinned and switched off the phone, then went back into the living room and dumped it behind a cushion. There you are soldier boy, he thought maliciously. By the time you get the message, she’ll just be a memory.

Riley was edgy. So far Mitcheson hadn’t responded to her message for a meeting. Palmer had gone off earlier to watch the Palacio, and although she had argued that she should cover it, he had pointed out that if Mitcheson did call, she should be ready to move quickly. The centre of Malaga wasn’t the place to do that.

She finished her drink and went up to her room to go over her notes. After that she lay down on the bed to get some rest. If things were going to start moving, she’d need all the energy she could get. Within seconds she was fast asleep, head filled with tangled dreams of dogs, gun and Peter Willis and his wife, laughing as they queued for check-in at the airport.

As Riley gave in to a restless sleep, downstairs in reception a large man was pushing his way through a crowd of new arrivals clamouring for attention.

McManus used his bulk to get through and held up his car keys to the clerk. “Hire car for Miss Gavin,” he announced. “She needs to sign. Can I use the house phone?”

The receptionist, relieved at not having another job to do, told McManus the room number and indicated an internal phone to one side. McManus smiled. This was going to be easy.

The moment the receptionist looked away he replaced the phone and slipped round the corner to check the layout of the exits and the room numbers. Then he went back to his car and parked it at the nearest side door to the emergency staircase. Re-entering the hotel, he went to the lift and punched the call button. In his pocket he fingered a length of nylon cord.

Mitcheson was feeling a growing sense of desperation. His phone had disappeared and he couldn’t think where he’d left it. He had to warn Riley before McManus got to her. The man was like a bloodhound and wouldn’t stop until he had her. He couldn’t take a chance on using the phone in the hall because of the risk of being overheard, and he knew how voices echoed in this place.

He checked through his clothes again, then scoured the house a second time, throwing chairs aside. Eventually he came across the cleaning lady tidying up in the living room.

“Have you seen a mobile phone?” he asked her, indicating his shirt pocket. “Cellphone? Telefono ?” She stared mutely back at him, shaking her head, then turned to arrange the cushions on the chairs.

He continued searching, flicking open doors in the sideboard and checking the wastebasket, his nerves like a series of tiny needles under his skin. Give it two more minutes and he’d go crazy. He turned to watch the cleaner, finally running out of ideas and ready to take the chance with the phone in the hall. To hell with it; he couldn’t stand by here and let McManus get his hands on Riley. Just then the cleaner lifted one of the cushions off the sofa and he saw the mobile nestling underneath.

She picked it up and turned to him, holding out the phone with her fingertips. She was frowning and making what he assumed was a Spanish tutting noise, plainly unhappy about something.

Mitcheson switched it on and saw the message symbol flashing. He punched in the code and listened to Riley’s message. As he did so, he felt a sticky substance on the back of the instrument and realised why the cleaner was so unhappy and was now scrubbing furiously with a damp cloth at the sofa. He turned the mobile over.

Red jam.

His blood ran cold.

He dialled Riley’s number.

Riley was shaken by a loud knocking at her bedroom door. Struggling to wake up, she levered herself off the bed, her mouth gummy and dry. She felt a stab of alarm, then told herself it was probably Palmer forgotten his keys. After all, who else knew they were here?

Another knock, this time more urgent, followed by a man’s voice. “Police. Open, please.”

Riley swore softly, and wondered how they had found her. After the police captain’s warning, this meant instant deportation or worse. She stumbled across the room to the door, and had just lifted the safety catch out of its slot when her muddled brain triggered the realisation that the voice sounded wrong.