Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“You’re living dangerous, boy,” he growled, making Leech spin round with a grunt of fear. He grabbed the youth by the arm, pulling him close. It was the first time he’d let him see his face. “You got a death wish or something?”

Leech went very still, eyes wary. “What’s up? What’ve I done?” he whispered.

“You’re late. That’s what’s up. Carry on annoying me and you’ll end up in the river. Got it?”

Leech nodded his understanding and the man relaxed his hold for a moment. If he needed to, he could always get the gun out and stick it up Leech’s nose to reinforce the message. Leech and his kind didn’t do guns. Knives and bottles were more their line of work.

“Has anyone else been snooping?” He nodded towards the first floor where Cook’s flat was situated.

“No, honest,” said Leech, shaking his head. “Just the chick I told you about.” He scrabbled in his jeans pocket and handed the man a business card. “We thought she was from the Social.”

“Best leave the thinking to me, then, hadn’t you?” He tucked the card in his pocket. “Right. Tell you what I want you to do. Take this heap of shit,” he gestured to the Toyota, “and get rid of it. Up north along the river somewhere — and don’t get caught.”

Leech massaged his throat. “North?” The way he said it suggested crossing the Thames was like foreign travel, and the man wondered if Leech had ever been further than three streets away. Somehow he doubted it; the Leeches of this world didn’t have the imagination.

“Yeah — north. You know — where all the shiny lights are and the rich people live?”

Leech stared at the car with a frown. “What’s wrong with it? It looks new.”

“I said lose it. That’s all you need to know. Try palming it off on one of your scummy mates and I’ll hear about it.”

“What about my payment?” said Leech. “For watching Cook. You promised.”

“Call me when you’ve got rid of the car. Now piss off.”

Leech stalled the vehicle twice in his eagerness to get out of the car park, and the man shook his head in disgust. The sooner he finished with this loser the better. He knew Leech would offload the RAV without thinking twice, in spite of the warning. His kind couldn’t help it. Not that it really mattered; it couldn’t be traced back to anyone because it was already third-hand when he’d collected it and on its second change of plates. A favour for a favour. Now he’d done with it. When the car had gone he looked up at the block of windows and counted across from left to right. There was a light on. Easy-peasy.

Minutes later he was through the reinforced front door of the flat, holding his breath against the revolting smell. Jesus — didn’t this old bastard ever wash?

He took a handgun from inside his jacket, checking the silencer. The extra length on the barrel made awkward handling in a confined space, but he doubted the flat’s occupant would put up much resistance.

The blue light of a television flickered down the hall, and he could hear the build-up to the National Lottery. No wonder it was so quiet everywhere — the whole block was probably waiting for their fortune to come up. Some hope. Especially for Cook.

He poked his head round the corner of the small living room and spotted Cook’s scrawny figure stretched out on the settee, surrounded by crumpled beer cans and half-empty fast-food wrappings. He wore grubby, grey tracksuit trousers and a filthy vest discoloured by food stains. His eyes were half shut in the glow of the television screen. There was no one else in the room.

The intruder waited a moment until he was satisfied Cook was alone in his pigsty, then stepped around the doorway into the flickering half-light.

“Hey — Cook,” the man whispered. When Cook’s eyes snapped open the man raised his gun and snapped off two shots in quick succession. For one flickering moment Cook looked terrified, before he was slapped back into the settee under the impact of the two bullets.

The man counted to ten, watching for signs of life. Satisfied there were none he turned and left, gently closing the front door behind him. Once outside, he let out a lungful of air.

It was late by the time Riley arrived home bearing a growing feeling of frustration. So far she had tried to interview two men, both at one time closely connected to Cage and McKee. One was beyond helping himself, while the other was beyond reach of anyone unless over the Dragon Lady’s dead body. Both had been employed by the dead gangsters as toughs, ending up with Cook seemingly one short step away from the grave and Page in a home, with a solicitor making all his decisions for him.

As she stepped through the front door of her flat she heard a faint electronic beep from her answerphone. The neighbour’s cat was curled up on the armchair and raised one eyelid before going back to sleep. Tough life for some.

Riley dropped her bag and re-arranged a cushion on the sofa. She was about to press the message button when she felt a chill creep over her shoulders and down her back. Everything looked normal, but somehow wasn’t. Then she noticed the lid of her laptop was slightly open.

And the cat. How had he got in? She distinctly recalled putting him out before leaving.

The silence in the flat drummed in her ears. She reversed her car keys between her knuckles and quickly checked the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Nothing. Yet all around were minute signs of an intruder; a drawer slightly out here, contents disturbed there; the laptop partially open; the file from Brask and her notes from the library slightly disarrayed. Things as she would not have left them. Yet nothing was missing. She jumped when the phone rang.

“Yes?” She scooped up the handset and almost shouted with relief.

“Miss Gavin?” A man’s voice answered. “Frank Palmer. You all right?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she replied. “I just got in — I’m a bit breathless from the stairs, that’s all.” She huffed a couple of times, determined not to let Palmer know how wobbly she was feeling.

“Uh-huh. Listen — could you come to the office, say, tomorrow morning? I might have been a bit hasty turning you down.”

Brask. He must have persuaded Palmer to reconsider. With this latest shock, she wasn’t about to argue, and promised to be with him first thing.

She checked the flat again. In the kitchen she discovered where the intruder had come in. The window was missing a section of glass from one corner. Enough for a hand to gain access to the sash. A faint scuff of dirt showed where a foot had rested on the paintwork.

Yet still nothing seemed to be missing. Had they been disturbed — perhaps by her return just now? Or had they been looking for something specific, like stuff they could readily turn into cash to buy drugs? If so, they had missed the blindingly obvious laptop. She dropped her car keys on the table and called the building’s service department to arrange for the window to be mended. The manager wasn’t happy about touching anything before the police had been called, until she persuaded him that she didn’t want to spend the night waiting to see if the intruder would come back.

Lottie Grossman sat at her kitchen table shelling peas into a bowl. Across from her sat Gary, and alongside him John Mitcheson, listening on a mobile phone. He ended the call and switched off.

“That was McManus,” he told the woman. “A woman’s been asking questions about Cook and Page. She has a male partner in tow. They’re probably journalists. Weren’t Cook and Page once connected with the two dead men on the coast?” Mitcheson had done his homework, checking all the way back through his client’s history. Even with clients, it paid to know who you were dealing with. And against his better judgement, Lottie Grossman had turned out to have a history which was pretty unsavoury.