Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

A powerful-looking white launch was nosing in towards the platform and Palmer recognised the muscular form of Howie standing at the wheel. A younger, smaller man sat on the prow clutching a rope with a small grappling anchor attached. In his other hand he held an automatic, a quizzical look on his face.

“Easy, Frank,” Doug warned him. “The little fella’s a bit touchy on the trigger. I think he wants to shoot someone.”

Howie showed his expertise at handling boats by nosing the launch smoothly against the rock with the barest kiss, while the younger man tossed the anchor across. Palmer let it bounce on the rock before bending to settle it into a crack where it would hold fast.

“How’d it go?” Doug called across as the engine died.

Howie nodded and jumped ashore. “It went. What’s he doing here?” His gaze was not unfriendly — merely curious.

Doug grinned and looked at Palmer. “You remember Frank, don’t you? Of course you do. Frank’s volunteered to help us carry the goods.” His eyes turned cold and he hefted the pistol. “The alternative being we shoot him right now and drop him in the water. How about it, Frank?”

Riley crossed the road back to the Flores and checked everywhere. The feeling of unease in her stomach increased dramatically when she saw Frank’s cigarette lighter still lying on the table. Palmer and his smoking: he wouldn’t have gone without it. She asked one of the waiters to check the washrooms and waited impatiently, hoping to see Palmer’s grinning face coming along the corridor. But the waiter returned shaking his head.

‘Sorry, miss. Nobody in there.’

She thanked him and ran outside to the car, a clear image in her head of the Land Cruiser. If only she’d kept an eye on it.

She floored the accelerator, pulling the small car round in a tight circle, and set off towards Malaga. If Palmer was anywhere, she was betting it had to be in the Land Cruiser, and she could only be a few minutes behind it.

Traffic was light and consisted mainly of slow-moving hire cars and the odd delivery van. Riley was able to leapfrog them quite easily but found her progress irritatingly slow, with no sign of the Land Cruiser ahead of her. She shut her mind off from why Palmer had been taken and what his captors might have in mind. If they intended to kill him, they could have done so in the car park and no one would have been able to stop them.

The questions still remaining were: who had been in the vehicle and why were they there? Top of the list of reasons was to watch over the exchange, but it didn’t rule out the possibility that somehow the Grossman group had got wind of her and Palmer’s presence and had decided to take whichever one they could get as a bargaining tool.

But if so, how had they found out? Had Mitcheson talked? She couldn’t bring herself to believe that. And why not take her, too? Maybe they didn’t need both of them. If the threat was serious, one would do.

A horsebox had pulled in to a side turning near a large advertising hoarding, and the driver was scrubbing dust off the windscreen. Riley swerved round the protruding back end of the vehicle and put her foot down. If all else failed, there was one place left to go. But as double insurance, she pulled out her mobile phone and dialled Donald Brask’s number in London.

The Land Cruiser emerged from the side turning a few moments after Riley had passed. Palmer was in the back seat, hands tied in front of him with a length of rope.

In the front, Doug was driving while Gary lounged in the passenger seat, eyes flicking back and forth to watch Palmer. Howie had been left to take the boat back along the coast to the marina in Malaga.

All talking had stopped as the two men kept their eyes open for police or customs. Palmer guessed the easy part for the men had been out at sea. Here inland was another ball game, and even a simple traffic accident greatly enhanced their chances of being subjected to closer scrutiny than they wanted.

After Palmer had been forced to carry a large rubber package up the path to the Land Cruiser, the men had tied him up and left him in the back while they reported in by phone — presumably to Mitcheson and Lottie Grossman. He hadn’t been able to catch any of their conversation, but the description by Howie and Gary of their sea trip had been animated and triumphant. When Gary had produced a machine pistol from the launch and what looked like an empty magazine, he could see why.

They arrived back at the villa and Palmer was bundled out and made to lie down in a utility room at the back. Lottie Grossman appeared shortly afterwards and stood gazing down at him as though he was an insect that had wandered in from the garden. She held a pruning knife with a curved blade.

Palmer returned her gaze. He found it amazing she could be gardening while people were being killed and kidnapped. It was the first time he’d seen the woman up close, and he was surprised at her age. At a time when most people were thinking of taking things easy, this painted harridan seemed intent on breaking the mould by starting up a whole new criminal enterprise. Oddly, while her clothes looked expensive, the thickness of her make-up gave her the appearance of a cheap, gaudy doll.

He spotted Mitcheson in the background, his expression blank. The other men hovered close by, evidently waiting to see what their leader was going to do. Palmer began to understand what it was like to be a frog in a laboratory, awaiting vivisection.

The tension in the small room was palpable, and Palmer felt a sudden need to belittle the woman and show he wasn’t intimidated by her efforts to be the ruthless gangster. It was childish and potentially dangerous, but he smiled and said: “Sorry to hear about the old man, Lottie. Must have come as a big relief to have that old bastard out of your hair.”

She turned away without a flicker of reaction. When she came back she was holding a black automatic pistol gripped in both hands. She pointed it at Palmer’s head and looked along the barrel, here face totally blank of expression.

The look on Mitcheson’s face would have had Palmer laughing in other circumstances, and even Doug had his mouth open in shock.

“ No !”

As the woman’s finger began to tighten on the trigger, Mitcheson leapt forward and pushed her arm upwards. He stared down into Lottie Grossman’s face, reaching for the gun with his other hand and extracting it gently but firmly from her grasp.

The others stood rock still, the wheezing pool pump the only sound.

“We need him,” Mitcheson explained, passing the gun behind the woman’s back to Doug, who checked the safety and put it away. “We can use him as insurance. Until we know for sure that the Gavin woman’s out of the picture, we need whatever leverage we can get.”

Lottie Grossman blinked and studied Palmer for a few moments, her breathing heavy. Then she turned to the other men. “Do you agree?”

They exchanged looks, clearly baffled by her decision to include them on the investigator’s fate. Doug was first to react. Flicking a brief glance towards Mitcheson, he nodded. “Makes good sense to me,” he murmured.

The other two nodded and Lottie Grossman turned back to Mitcheson. “Very well. Keep him here until we leave.” She looked at her watch. “My husband’s body will be released at three. We leave for the airport as soon as it’s on its way. I’ve had clearance to use the plane instead of a commercial flight. Gary, make sure the pilot’s ready with his flight plan. The rest of you know what to do.”

As they left the room, Palmer let his breath out in a trickle. Jesus, he thought. Me and my big mouth. That was close.

He thought about what the woman had said. Leaving this afternoon? He sneaked a look at his watch. It was nearly one-thirty. Where the hell had the time gone? And what were they going to do with the drugs they’d picked up?