Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

They collected their bags from the carousel and walked through the crowded arrivals area, now simply two strangers who had come together for a short while. Riley wondered if there was a chance they might meet again.

As if sensing her thoughts, Mitcheson turned and placed a hand on her arm. “ I’m for the M25,” he said. “Can I give you a lift?”

Riley shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve got my car here.”

“Pity. Could we meet again…say, for dinner?”

She gave him a studied look. It never pays to be too eager with a man, her mother used to say. Take your time. Make him wait. “Sure. Why not?”

“Good. I’ll call in a day or two.”

It was only after he had gone that Riley realised he hadn’t asked for her telephone number. So, that was the end of that. On the other hand, nobody caught a prize by waiting. Perhaps she’d call the manager of the holiday flats in Sotogrande.

Twenty minutes later she was in her car on the way to Donald Brask’s Victorian pile in Finchley. Traffic was light and she made good time, calling him on the way to let him know she was coming. He was waiting for her at the front door and, with natural gallantry, lifted her hand briefly to his lips.

“My, you look delicious, sweetie,” he breathed, giving her a meaningless once-over. He was wearing a thin, light blue jacket and pale slacks, with a pink cotton shirt that didn’t quite match and a pair of trainers. The ensemble, Riley thought, looked as if he had dressed in the dark.

“Donald, you’re an old fake,” she said. “Why not tell me what’s cooking?”

He smiled and released her hand, then led her into his office. In a former life it had been the dining room, but was now lined with books wall-to-wall and contained two state-of-the-art computers linked to printers and scanners. A television sat in one corner, tuned permanently to CNN, with the latest in digital recording equipment wired in and ready to go at the press of a remote. She counted three phones but there were probably more beneath the swamp of newspapers and documents that seemed to float over every available surface. This was Brask’s nerve centre and she knew the disarray was misleading. He had a mind like one of his PCs and by the end of the day would have documented, copied, distributed or dumped every piece of information which had come into this house. Much of it arrived from contacts around the country, and what facts he couldn’t locate within this room he could source very quickly by fax, phone or online. As if on cue, one of the phones rang once before a machine took over, and an indistinct voice spoke briefly before hanging up.

“Don’t worry,” Donald waved a hand towards the unseen caller. “They’ll ring back.” He turned to the desk in the centre of the room and pushed aside that day’s newspapers to reveal a buff cardboard file. He flicked it with his fingers and handed it to her. “Everything we know is in there,” he murmured. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”

“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. The file was light, she noticed — too light to contain anything of substance. Considering Donald’s considerable resources it wasn’t a good sign. She was going to have to do some serious digging. Still, that was her job. “What’s the deadline?”

Brask raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking national here, sweetie, and being chased by whoever else is feeling wide awake enough to pick this up — which they will. The deadline’s yesterday, as always.”

“Donald! I’ve just got back.”

He sighed and sat down heavily at his desk. “You’ve got a week, max. More than that and it’ll either go stone cold or totally ballistic. The police are currently trying to play it down as two separate incidents — one as a robbery gone wrong, the other as a revenge killing. That might keep some of the pack off the story for a bit, but it won’t stay that way for long; it’s very quiet news-wise right now, which means editors and reporters will be getting bored. Once they stop kicking the government or the furniture and begin linking the two murders, this thing will be knee-deep in hacks. You can funnel your reports through me.” He handed her a slip of paper with a name, phone number and address on it. “Remember what I said about help. I strongly suggest you call this man.”

Gary opened the front door as a dark BMW crunched into the drive and stopped with its nose pointing towards the gate. He watched with apparent disinterest as the driver climbed out. The same scene was being played on a television screen in the kitchen.

“She in?” John Mitcheson asked. If he thought it odd that Gary kept one hand in his jacket pocket he made no comment.

“No, boss. Went out an hour ago — to the garden centre. She’ll be back later.” Gary stepped aside, allowing Mitcheson to enter. “You heard the news about the two old duffers?”

Mitcheson nodded with a faint show of distaste, and shrugged off his jacket. “Where are the others?”

“Keeping their heads down near the airport.” Gary followed him across the hallway into the kitchen. “She said to stay away from the house for a bit. The neighbours have been talking.”

“Makes sense.” Mitcheson helped himself to coffee from a jug on the side. “How is she?”

Gary hesitated. He had known Mitcheson for some years, and possessed sufficient ingrained caution towards officers to not take anything for granted. They were a world apart in many ways, even though they were no longer part of the military. But this situation was different. And changing. “She’s cool,” he said eventually. “Seems to take everything in her stride, in fact.” He smiled as if proud of a growing child: “Like weeding the garden.”

“Are you okay?” Mitcheson’s eyes were on him over the rim of his coffee cup, flickering down to where Gary’s hand was still in his pocket.

“Sure. I’m good.”

Mitcheson shrugged and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. “I’m going to the gym, then I’ll get some kip. I’ll be back later for the briefing.”

Gary nodded and let Mitcheson out, and stood watching the driveway as the car purred out onto the road. Only then did he let go of the gun in his jacket pocket.

The address Brask had given Riley was amid a row of glass- and steel-fronted refurbishments in Uxbridge. As she climbed out of the Golf, she caught glimpses of high-tech open-plan and discreet lighting, with a hint of tinted glass and tastefully-arranged potted plants. Nice, she thought. Feng Shui is alive and well in the bodyguard industry. Then her glance clicked on the number she was after and she questioned what Donald was getting her into. Between two of the stretches of clean glass modernity was a single brown doorway with an open letterbox, like a shocked mouth dressed in dried and peeling paintwork. A section of plain wood had been clumsily inserted down one side and left unpainted, as if the owners were going for shock value to annoy their neighbours.

Riley was glad she had dressed in her customary jeans and a sports jacket. It wasn’t the height of fashion but it suited her day-to-day movements. Especially here.

She crossed the pavement, pushing open the weathered door which led into a gloomy hallway. A narrow stairway led upwards to a glass-panelled door at the top, with piles of cardboard boxes vying for space on the treads and spilling onto the tiny landing. She shuddered, stepping past the rubbish, nudging open the door with one foot. There was no name on the frosted-glass panel. Inside, the dull atmosphere of a small, smoke-filled office replaced the gloom of the staircase.

“Always make an entrance, dear,” a drama teacher she’d known had often said. The theory was that women could conquer their surroundings by making their presence felt. On the other hand the teacher was unlikely to have seen this dump. The furniture was pre-war MOD surplus, with a touch of rough living thrown in. A sturdy desk, a side table, a couple of chairs and a battered, wooden filing cabinet all came together in an uninspiring collection of grot. And yellowed wallpaper. Decor to jump off a bridge by.