Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Palmer told him about his visit to the villa. “I saw Ray Grossman.”

“He’s a sick man, but there’s still some fire in his gut. Did he see you?”

“Only if he was looking up from the fires of Hell,” Palmer commented coolly. “He was dead.”

The large woman at the next table heard the comment and looked horrified.

Mitcheson gave her a nasty look and said: “Did you touch him?”

“You kidding? I stayed just long enough to see he’d definitely copped it and got out of there. It looked like a heart attack. Bad news for his wife, I suppose.”

Mitcheson looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t bet on it. I doubt she’ll care. But I’m not so sure it’s great news from my point of view.” He explained what had been discussed at the Palacio, and the warning given to Lottie Grossman by the Moroccan. “She took it, but not well. I half expected her to tell me and the lads to kill him there and then.”

“Good thing you didn’t. So with no Ray Grossman to be used as leverage, she’s got a clear field.”

“Dead right. And it’ll be my lads that cop the flack.”

“You must have known that when you took this on.”

Mitcheson nodded. “Kind of. But when we started out there was no mention of mixing it with a bunch of drug runners and illegal immigrants.”

Palmer raised an eyebrow. “So why were you taken on?”

“Protection, mostly. Back then, Ray Grossman was in charge. He wanted some visible muscle to sort out a couple of problems. He heard of us through an ex-army buddy and hired us as a group. We were just to be there in the background for a few weeks. This was before he got really ill. When it happened it was quick and knocked him off his feet.”

“Then his wife took over.”

Mitcheson nodded. “I knew as soon as I met her that she was poison, but I never expected her to slip into the driving seat so easily.” He shrugged. “Or maybe she was in it more than anyone realised. Anyway, she’s got ideas above her station, unfortunately… like thinking she’s the reincarnation of the Krays.”

“Why didn’t you quit?”

“We took a vote and decided not to. Big mistake.”

“Where does McManus fit in?”

“He’s not one of mine. He’s been with Ray from way back. He didn’t like me and the lads being brought in to help. He figured he could do it all by himself — which he has, so far.”

“The killings?”

Mitcheson looked squarely at Palmer, the muscles working in his jaw. “Not all of them. A couple of my lads are down for one. The difference is, McManus enjoys it.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Palmer muttered. “What’s his likely reaction when he finds out his boss is dead?”

The waitress brought Mitcheson’s tea and he gulped it down. “Not good. He’ll probably blame me.” He looked up suddenly. “Christ — I’ve just had an idea where he might be. You ready?”

Riley listened intently for sounds of movement downstairs. She desperately needed to know where McManus was, but the constant noise of machinery from the building site next door drowned out all noise within the house.

She rolled over on the bed and edged her body round until she could feel the plastic lighters behind her. The pain from the bindings was intense, and she knew she had to do something before her hands lost all sense of feeling.

She grasped one of the lighters and twisted it until she could put her thumb against the flint-wheel. The first two tries were useless — her fingers were practically numb and her thumb kept slipping off the wheel. She gripped harder and tried again. This time she felt the heat as the flame caught, but instantly burned her fingers and dropped the lighter.

She picked it up and tried again, but the bindings were so tight there was no room to direct the flame against the plastic for long enough to burn through. She dropped it to the bed and lay back, sweating furiously, her breathing coming in short gasps.

She rolled over on her side and wiped her face against the pillow, and felt the corner of the tape catch on the fabric. With renewed energy, she rubbed harder, gradually feeling the tape coming unstuck.

Then the machinery was switched off.

The silence was stunning. It was as if she had been struck stone deaf, every sound in the world cut off by the throw of a switch.

She waited, not daring to move in case McManus came up to check on her.

When there was no sound from downstairs, she rolled over. Every instinct told her she hadn’t long left. McManus sober was bad enough; drunk and resentful he was unpredictable and lethal. She had to do something now . She used her knee to move some of the paper rubbish on the bed to see what lay beneath.

Even more rubbish; some socks, two or three different kinds of cheap cufflinks, packets of condoms, several ball-point pens, batteries and other assorted junk. Even a set of large, gaudily-coloured nail clippers bearing a motif of Malaga. Bignell, it seemed, had been averse to throwing anything away.

Nail clippers. She twisted round and scrabbled for them, opening the lever-arm first time. She wiggled the cutting jaws onto a strand of the plastic line and forced the lever down; there was no time for finesse, but the last thing she could afford to do was drop the clippers off the bed. The noise would be enough to alert McManus, drunk as he was.

She felt the jaws cut through the line. Jesus — thank God for quality crap, she thought gratefully, promising to buy a dozen pairs if she ever got out of here. She twisted her hands, hoping the binding would part, but there was no movement. She moved the jaws again, clamping them over another strand. Hand shut and- damn… slipped… She tried again and this time heard a snick as the jaws closed and felt the plastic part. She gripped the clippers tightly and twisted and pulled with desperate strength in an attempt to force the bindings to slide loose. This time there was the slightest give, and she began to rub her hands back and forth, trying to spread the sweat over her wrists and make them as slick as possible.

There was a faint crunch outside the bedroom door, and Riley had just enough time to lay back and cover the clippers before the door was flung open and McManus was standing there, red-eyed, his handgun by his side. He looked angry and lost, and it was obvious he had continued drinking. In his other hand he carried a telephone receiver, the broken wire trailing along the floor.

He swayed slightly as he approached the bed, an aura of alcohol surrounding him. He bent down and forced her off the bed to her feet. “Come on,” he grunted. “It’s siesta time and you’re going sleepies.” He turned towards the door and dragged Riley behind him, losing one of her shoes in the process.

“Where are you taking me?” she mouthed, the sounds distorted behind the gag. As they reached the top of the stairs she tried to hook her foot round a metal banister upright, but McManus tugged her after him like a rag doll.

She bumped down the stairs on her knees and was slammed against the wall at the bottom. McManus pushed the barrel of his gun into the side of her face and leaned his weight against her, his face less than two inches from hers.

“It’s not your lucky day, is it?” he breathed, his eyes wild and staring. “Not your lucky day at all.” He let go of her and threw the broken telephone receiver to one side. “Spanish crap fell to bits. Still, won’t need it no more.”

“What’s happened?” Riley asked, trying to delay him. This time her words came out more clearly, although at first McManus seemed not to notice.

He tugged her towards the back door. “Happened? Shit’s happened, that’s what.”

“What kind of shit?” Keep him talking .