Half an eternity later there was a click at the side gate and a faint splash as someone entered the pool. She opened her eyes and looked. A dark head of hair and strong brown shoulders slipped smoothly through the blue water. A man, probably young. He turned and swam back to the other end, a smooth, uncluttered crawl. Mmm... Masculine and tidy. Now there’s a rarity.
After three lengths the swimmer pulled himself smoothly from the water and sat on the side of the pool, shaking droplets from his head. He reached for a towel and a packet of cigarettes.
A few years over thirty, Riley guessed, a bit gaunt in a hungry sort of way. Good muscles, but not cover-boy six-pack. She felt a stirring of interest and looked him over some more, enjoying the secretiveness of her survey. Nice, she thought. Can’t see his buns, which is a pity.
As the man blew smoke into the air, he seemed to notice her for the first time and nodded. Riley nodded back, inadvertently revealing that she was looking at him. She also remembered she wore no bikini top. Oh, what the hell, she thought. He’s seen me - it would be crass to go all girlish and cover up now.
She allowed herself to drift away again. What will happen will happen.
Moments later she sensed a presence nearby. It may have been the sudden coolness as his body cut off the sun, or the faint hint of aftershave against the background smell of chlorine.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. His voice was pleasant with a faint accent. French? Spanish? Maybe he’s rich and-
Riley snapped her eyes open. It was the waiter, Rafael. He was looking down at her with tactfully unseeing eyes, a drinks menu in one hand, a silver tray in the other. Across the pool, the swimmer was gone, a hint of smoke hanging in the air behind him.
Riley scooped up her bikini top and shook her head, embarrassed and irritated. “Nothing, thanks,” she said, and waited for Rafael to leave before settling back to sleep, her thoughts on the strong shoulders and the sleek, black hair of the man across the pool. She hoped he got sunburn.
The following day the pool was deserted. Riley shrugged off her bikini top, poured liberal amounts of Ambre Solaire into her palm and massaged it gently into her body, concentrating on where her skin was most tender. She was enjoying the sensation of the warm lotion when the gate clicked and the waiter entered. He stopped in front of her and lowered his silver tray. It held a cordless telephone.
“Call for you, Miss Gavin. Urgent, the man says.”
Riley sighed. “Did he give a name?” Who in hell knew she was here?
“Mr Brask, madam.”
Damn, she thought. But she took the phone anyway.
Chapter 3
Gibraltar airport was hot and noisy, with a combined smell of baking tarmac and aviation fuel soaking the atmosphere of the terminal building. By the time Riley checked in and went in search of a seat, she was in no mood to humour screaming kids, pushy parents or the openly lecherous squaddies standing around clutching cans of lager and staring at anything in a skirt.
She dropped her leather holdall on the floor, trying to calm down. Bugger them all, she thought rebelliously. Most of all, bugger Donald bloody Brask.
When a woman in a seat nearby stood up and walked away, Riley nudged her bag over. Before she could sit down, a young squaddie with garish tattoos on his arms and a mass of angry pimples on his chin pushed past, dropped into the seat, smirking proudly at two of his mates on the other side of the room. Then he lifted a can of lager to his mouth and swallowed noisily, a froth of beer escaping down his chin.
“It’s your lucky day, love” he said, staring hotly at her. “You want a seat? Be my guest.” He patted his bony lap in what he probably thought was an inviting manner, his pimples taking on an inflamed look as his hopes rose.
Riley looked down at him and sighed. Oh, yuck, why do they do it? Everyone’s an original half-arsed Romeo.
Before the soldier could react, she took the can of lager from his hand, and with a flick of her wrist, poured a squirt of the foaming liquid directly into his lap.
The man leapt to his feet with a howl of protest, while his mates and some of the passengers laughed.
“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” he demanded, brushing ineffectually at the spreading stain on his trouser front.
“Because,” Riley said icily, “you’re an ignorant little shite.”
The soldier swore under his breath and made a move towards her. Before he could touch her, a tall figure stepped between them.
“Knock it off,” said the newcomer. His voice was soft but carried the unmistakable timbre of authority. The soldier stepped back, the anger subsiding to a sullen glare.
The man watched him walk away, then turned to Riley. “You all right?”
It was the swimmer from the pool. He was dressed in a linen suit and light blue shirt, and his tanned skin proclaimed regular exercise and above average fitness.
“Thank you,” said Riley gratefully. She felt a glow coming to her cheeks at the thought of what this man had seen of her by the pool. “You really didn’t have to. I was about to drop him.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you were. But they’re just young lads, full of vim and too much beer. They get a bit carried away.”
“Well,” she murmured coolly, “he nearly was, at that.”
An announcement called for all passengers to make their way to the departure gate, and the man excused himself and went over to the desk, where a young woman attendant smiled at him, then bent to her computer screen. She looked up at a question from the man and pointed towards a middle-aged woman with a hint of a moustache standing in the queue for departures. The man nodded at the attendant and walked across to the woman.
Moments later he was back beside Riley. “Stroke of luck,” he announced. “We’re travelling together.”
Riley looked at him. “Really? And what did you promise that woman with the hair problem - a baby?”
He barely batted an eyelid. “I’m sorry?”
“You asked her to change seats.”
He had the good grace to look sheepish. “I told her you were my fiancée and we’d been split up by computer error. She was glad to help.” He held out his hand. “John Mitcheson.”
“Riley Gavin.” As his warm hand engulfed hers, she wondered if he could feel her pulse beating in response.
“Riley? Is that Scottish?”
“No. My dad liked old cars.”
As they boarded the plane and settled in their seats, Riley was acutely aware of his body close by and a faint hint of aftershave. She gave a wistful thought to lost opportunities, and hoped Donald Brask hadn’t taken up an offer on her behalf which would turn out to be a turkey. She’d make his life hell if he had.
Not that Donald usually made mistakes. It was one of the reasons she had decided to use an agent for her work. It saved having to pitch for assignments and she could leave it to him to filter out anything she might not like to tackle. Not that that left much out; she needed the money and so did Donald. They were a good team, although she had only seen him twice. Fat, humourless and gay as a hatbox, he saw Riley purely as a money earner. At least it kept him on his toes.
“Sorry to disturb your hols, love,” he’d breathed insincerely on the phone that morning. “I’ve got an editor who needs some digging done, preferably by someone who isn’t a known Face.” When he mentioned the name of the newspaper, Riley found all thoughts of holidays fading into the background. Donald was talking high-profile national daily with a reputation for good fees. They specialised in crime stories that usually found their way onto television specials, which was good for the track record of the reporter involved and a near-guarantee of repeat work.
“What’s the assignment?”
“A couple of old men have been murdered,” Brask explained. “Nasty stuff. The editor smells a big story and wants to get the goods before the other rags realise what it’s all about, which won’t be long. He figures an unknown will have more chance of getting the details before being spotted.”
He relayed in succinct terms the execution-style deaths of two men on the south coast of England. Both jobs were professional and carried out with clinical neatness, and since it seemed the two men had known each other, with no obvious motive available, the police were dropping the word that it was probably an old gangland score being settled. “In other words it’ll do as an explanation until something else comes up,” he finished dryly. “Or until they find a smoking gun.”
“Gangland?” Riley asked. She had met a few crime figures, mostly self-effacing types who dressed well, if a little flashily, and kept themselves to themselves. They were a dying breed, preferring to live in the shadows and let their employees do the legwork, unlike their modern and younger equivalents who saw no reason to hide from anyone, least of all the law, because they used the law as camouflage.
“Used to be, a long time back. Contemporaries of the Krays, but not in the same league. These two worked a corridor from south London down to Brighton. Gambling, tarts, racecourses, clubs, that sort of thing. But nothing heavy. Retired now, according to my sources.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Respectable pillars and all that. Makes your heart bleed, doesn’t it?”
She heard Donald rustling paper at the other end, and the beep of a computer. He was first class at building files on assignments. “They were pretty successful in their own way,” he continued. “But they’d been out of it for so long everyone thought they were dead. One of them had a plush pad on the sea front; the other owned a Roller and a big house on the Downs. Rumour has it they used to operate with a third partner, but no one knows who. Maybe therein lies the motive.”
“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. “Do I get to use the paper’s resources?”
“Of course. But anything they’ve got won’t be much help, otherwise they’d use their own bodies. He wants you to do some background digging without attracting attention.”
“Fine. I’ll let you negotiate the fee as usual. Make it a good one and I won’t cut off your thumbs for spoiling my holiday.”
“Of course, dear heart,” he said dryly. “Like you couldn’t resist the call.” He paused, then added, “You might do well to get some help on this one, Riley.”
“Help?” This didn’t sound like Donald. Next thing he’d be suggesting she became a housewife with two-point-four and a licence to sell Tupperware. “What kind of help?”
“It’s just a precaution. From what I’ve picked up so far, these people might be a bit too sharp to play with by yourself. I’ve got a name for you - you can call him when you get back.”
“Thanks, Donald, but I don’t need it, you know that.”
“Listen, dear,” he countered bluntly. “This is serious. Get help or I don’t represent you again. I’m not talking about taking on a lifelong pal. You simply need someone to watch your back.” He hung up before she could argue.
Chapter 4
Riley was disappointed when the plane finally touched down. The food had been avoidable, but easily traded in for the company of John Mitcheson to while away the journey. At least it had taken her mind off the aborted holiday and Donald Brask’s concerns. It turned out Mitcheson was a security consultant working between the UK and Spain, setting up systems for wealthy property owners with villas in the sun. He, too, had been on holiday and was now on his way back. Riley found him interesting, if physically unsettling company, and wondered if his claim to be unmarried was true. He certainly didn’t have the aura of a married man.
She had deliberately glossed over what she did for a living, dismissing it vaguely as “research”. Some men felt threatened when she told them she was an investigative reporter, as if she’d confessed to working for the Inland Revenue or the police. Maybe that said something about the sort of men she knew.
Mitcheson seemed satisfied by her description, and eventually switched topics, to Riley’s relief. The holiday was now in the background, and she was already beginning to focus on the priorities for the job ahead. First thing to do was get the file from Donald and brainstorm the details until they were firmly embedded in her mind. It was the least interesting part of an assignment, but fundamental to success. With much of her time spent on the move, carrying round a research library was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
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.”
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 2