NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer)

by Magson, Adrian

  She followed his directions onto the coast road towards Malaga, then out to a suburb of narrow streets and shabby housing. Whining mopeds buzzed around the big German car, overtaking on blind corners and slipping through gaps which looked suicidally small. And everywhere delivery trucks of all shapes and sizes seemed to fill the streets, causing jams and minor altercations as motorists leaned out of the vehicles and shouted at each other. McManus’s hand moved forward off the seat, resting heavily midway between Riley’s shoulder and neck as a reminder not to try anything.

  “Slow down.” McManus leaned forward as they nosed along a narrow street, then indicated a parking space ahead. “Pull in there.”

  Riley did as she was told and cut the engine, shivering as McManus’s hand curled warningly over her shoulder. She saw why: a hundred yards ahead, a dark blue car was nosing out of the gates to a house next to a hoarding advertising a new block of flats. A uniformed policeman closed the gates, then stretched a length of plastic tape across the front before climbing into the car. Another policeman stepped out of the front door of the house and closed the door, pinning another length of tape in place, before joining his colleague. Seconds later the car was disappearing down the street.

  McManus sniggered quietly. “That’s handy. Everything stops for lunch in this country, did you know that?” He pointed forward. “Okay. Up to the gates.”

  Riley started the car and drove forward. She briefly considered driving right through the ironwork but she knew McManus would kill her before they even made contact.

  “Keys,” McManus ordered, his hand held out as soon as she stopped. She handed them over and he got out and untied the police tape, then opened the gates. Returning the keys, he told her to drive the car inside, then retied the tape before closing the gates behind them.

  In one of the Hotel Palacio’s small conference rooms, Lottie Grossman was staring coolly at Andre Segassa. Alongside her sat John Mitcheson and Howie. They were watching Segassa’s escort as he stood against the wall behind his boss.

  Doug and Gary were in the corridor, watching the doorways on each side and the fire-exit at one end.

  The Grossman party had arrived fifteen minutes early and, to Lottie’s annoyance, was being made to wait for the privilege. Segassa had come down to meet them, but had explained that his colleague was busy on the telephone. In the meantime he had arranged for coffee and sandwiches to be served.

  There was a tap at the door and Gary appeared. Behind him stood a man with the wary expression of the professional bodyguard. His eyes flickered around the room and he nodded at the man behind Segassa.

  “Man wants us to clear the corridor, boss,” said Gary. He was looking directly at Lottie Grossman rather than Mitcheson. “Says the big chief’s on his way down.”

  Mitcheson kept his face blank, although Howie looked surprised. For a brief second nobody moved.

  “Very well,” said Lottie, and Gary disappeared, followed by the other man.

  Lottie leaned closer to Mitcheson and hissed: “Has McManus called? He was supposed to let us know if he’d found the girl.”

  Mitcheson shook his head, feeling the slow burn of anger and despair. Even with Gary’s casual display of transferred allegiance, he was asking himself the same question and trying hard not to freak out at the implications. Right now he was more concerned about Riley’s safety than Gary’s duplicity. “I haven’t heard from him. He went out this morning like you told him.”

  “I’ll have his balls,” Lottie grated angrily, ignoring the pointed dig at her orders. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  Moments later an elderly man entered the room. With gold-rimmed glasses and a receding hairstyle, he looked more like an academic than a Moroccan narcotics dealer. He nodded briefly at Lottie and sat down next to Segassa, produced a gold lighter and lit a cigarette.

  “Can we get on with this?” Lottie Grossman said stiffly.

  The man paused, cigarette mid-way to his mouth. He lowered it and stared at the woman with the beginnings of distaste. “You English are so impatient,” he said softly. “And discourteous.” He puffed on the cigarette, sending a cloud of strongly-scented smoke into the air. “Mr Bignell was also impatient, although always polite... in his own way.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” said Lottie, a flinty look in her eye. “For now I’d like to get things moving. When can we have the first shipment, Mr… ?”

  “You can have the shipment tomorrow,” the man replied, without giving his name. “Make the first payment now and the package will be landed in the afternoon.”

  Lottie seemed impressed in spite of herself. “That’s quick work.”

  The man shrugged. “We already had the route set up, until you... took over from Mr Bignell. It works - why change it?”

  “Isn’t it risky, using the same methods?”

  The man sighed and looked at the woman as if she was a child who had made a silly remark. Lottie’s face coloured beneath her heavy make-up and her pudgy hands balled into fists on the table top.

  Alongside her, Mitcheson was struggling to restrain himself. He wanted to grab the stupid old woman by the shoulders and tell her if she continued the way she was going, there wouldn’t be any deal and they could all go home again. But at least he could continue his search for Riley.

  “If you’re using existing routes,” Lottie pointed out doggedly, “your costs won’t be as high, will they?”

  Segassa spoke for the first time. “What are you suggesting - that we give you a special discount, maybe? Buy one, get one free?” The tone was mocking but his eyes were cold as a dead fish.

  Lottie ignored the sarcasm. “Why not? We’ll increase your volume by ten times what Bignell was shifting.”

  Segassa appeared unimpressed. “You know how much Bignell was moving?”

  “It was peanuts compared with what we can shift.”

  The elderly man stubbed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray and looked questioningly at Lottie. “Have you any idea what twenty kilos looks like? How difficult it is to... to manage?”

  “I compare it to bags of sugar,” Lottie replied simply. “And how I put it away is my business.”

  “No. Not quite.” The man wagged a finger from side to side, the most animated he had been since entering the room. A faint pulse had started to beat in his throat. “If you make a mistake, Mrs Grossman, it could lead back to us. And that will very definitely become my business.”

  In the silence that followed, a vacuum cleaner hummed in the distance. Outside the door a man cleared his throat.

  “Now,” the elderly man said, rising from his chair and placing his hands flat on the table, “at the risk of being discourteous also, I must go. Do you wish to deal, or not?”

  Lottie glared at him, aware the Moroccan was in the stronger position. “All right.”

  The man nodded and glanced at Segassa. “You know what to do.”

  He stepped away from the table, then paused and looked back at Lottie. “Payment now, delivery tomorrow. No problems, we do more business.”

  “What about the other matter?” Lottie’s voice was calm, but with a hint of resentment bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “Ah, yes. The travellers. There is a big demand. Maybe very big. Something we may have overlooked, perhaps.” He smiled, self-mockingly. “First, let us see how this arrangement goes. Then we will talk again.” He reached into his jacket and took out a white square of thick, glossy paper and flipped it onto the table. It skidded across the polished surface and came to rest against Lottie Grossman’s hands.

  “A small demonstration of how closely we control things around here, Mrs Grossman,” he said pleasantly. “Please do not underestimate my reach.”

  He left the room and closed the door. Lottie turned over the square of paper and gave a sharp intake of breath. Mitcheson and Howie craned their necks to see what she was looking at.

  It was a grainy photo of an elderly man lying on a bed, staring up at the camer
a. To one side lay a bowl and flannel, and a tube of soap gel.

  Chapter 37

  Riley woke with the noise of machinery clattering nearby and a sour taste on her lips. In the distance a horn sounded. She struggled to sit upright and found she was lying on a double bed, her hands bound tightly behind her back with plastic-coated clothes line. Underneath her was a mess of crumpled newspapers, a cardboard box from a pizza parlour, several cheap plastic cigarette lighters and what looked like the contents of someone’s rubbish drawer.

  There was an unpleasant smell of stale sweat in the room, and the heat was unbearable. She peered over the edge of the bed and saw clothes scattered everywhere, mixed with crumpled cigarette packets, shoes and dented beer cans. A dresser against one wall looked as if it had been sprinkled with a fine coating of talcum powder, and the drawers had been left drunkenly open or upturned on the floor.

  She tested her bindings and felt a rush of pain in her wrists. She swore silently, which did nothing to lessen the agony but made her feel better. She shifted over to the side of the bed and swung her feet onto the floor, kicking aside some of the rubbish. Among the papers on the carpet she saw a red passport. She eased off one shoe and flipped the passport open.

  The man looking up at her had been featured in the local paper a couple of day ago. Jerry Bignell. She was in the dead man’s bedroom.

  Palmer’s first and only concrete location to look for Riley was the Villa Almedina. In spite of Mitcheson telling him Lottie had counselled against taking Riley there, he couldn’t think of anywhere else to begin. At least the Villa’s residents would all be at the Palacio meeting. That left just Ray Grossman alone in his room, with possibly the nurse somewhere near. Palmer decided he would look there first for McManus, and meet Mitcheson outside the Palacio if the gunman or Riley failed to turn up. He didn’t like having to trust Mitcheson, but he believed the man’s concern for Riley was genuine. Whether that concern would stand up if Palmer or Riley posed a threat to the group’s plans, he didn’t want to find out.

  As soon as Mitcheson left for the Palacio, Palmer drove along the coast road and found a parking area within sight of the turning to the villa. He pulled in, turned off the engine and settled back to wait.

  When he reasoned it was safe to assume the group had left, he drove up to the villa. His knock on the door received no answer, so he walked round to the back and tried the patio door. It slid open smoothly and Palmer sent up a prayer of thanks to the God of Carelessness and listened carefully. The only sound was some music playing softly in the depths of the house.

  He stepped across to the hall door and listened. The music was louder and seemed to be coming from a corridor to his right. He crossed the tiled hallway and checked through a slit window overlooking the front steps and the drive. There were no cars in sight. Unless McManus had walked from the hotel with Riley slung over his shoulder, it didn’t look like the thug was here. Unfortunately, that left several thousand other places to search.

  Palmer followed the sound of music, sticking carefully to the carpet down the centre of the hall. There was a smell of soap and medicines in the warm air, and he guessed there must be a bathroom along here somewhere.

  He was just edging past an open doorway when he stopped dead, his breathing suspended. A man was lying on a bed inside the room, looking right at him.

  Riley jumped as the bedroom door opened and McManus entered. In one hand he carried his gun, in the other a roll of electrician’s tape. He approached the bed and looked down at her, his eyes dull but hostile. “You haven’t tried escaping yet, then? I’m disappointed. I thought we’d be having a bit of a chase.” He reached forward with the gun barrel and lifted the hem of her skirt. When Riley wrenched her legs away he laughed with indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he grunted, checking her bindings. “I ain’t that desperate.” As he breathed over her she recoiled. He’d been drinking heavily.

  She stared up at him with a look of loathing. “Why are you doing this?”

  He said nothing for a moment, but there was a taunting expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter? Pissed off ‘cos soldier boy ain’t turned up to rescue you?” He leaned over her again and said softly: “He’s been feeding you information, hasn’t he? Letting you in on all our tiny little secrets.” He reached down and rested the tip of the gun barrel against her cheekbone, then ran it very slowly around her face, first one way then back the other, scoring the metal into her skin in a way she found obscene and terrifying. He stopped for a moment, studying her without blinking, his breath hot and close. Then he pulled the gun barrel down her cheek and inserted the tip into her mouth, the cold steel clicking against her teeth. Riley gagged, the taste of gun oil heavy and musky, and tried to pull her head back, but there was nowhere for her to go. She closed her eyes tight and tried not to let out the scream that was building inside her.

  “Well, no more,” he said suddenly and stood up, leaving her shaking and nauseous with the ghost of the cold metal still vivid on her flesh. “No more.” He began pacing round the room, tapping the barrel of the gun on various objects with a casual flick of his wrist. Chink. A small china dog shattered into fragments. Chink. A glass photo frame split and fell to the floor. Chink. A dirty cup broke in half. Chink. A plastic lighter frosted and issued a hiss of escaping gas.

  Chink.

  Chink.

  Chink.

  Riley opened her eyes and watched him warily. The big man was behaving in an increasingly unstable manner, fuelled as much by drink as whatever inner emotions drove him, and she was powerless to stop him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she protested. “What do you want?” She had to keep him talking for as long as possible - to stop him from going after Mitcheson and to give her a chance to work out a way of escaping before he lost it completely.

  “Nice try, that. Almost innocent.” He approached the bed and glared down at her, breathing heavily. “You think I’m stupid?” he shouted. Then he stepped back again, looking confused. He stared at the wall, frowning and scrubbing furiously at his face with the back of his hand. “Something I was supposed to do,” he muttered. “Call someone…let them know…” He spun round, eyes scouring the room and sweat springing out on his face. The heat was making him more agitated and Riley felt a sudden charge in the foetid atmosphere of the squalid room, as though a powerful force had intruded and was hanging in the air around them. Then McManus seemed to come to. He shook himself and peeled off a strip of the electrical tape from the roll he carried, ripping it with his teeth. Leaning forward, he put the gun barrel to the side of Riley’s head and applied the tape across her mouth. Satisfied it was securely in place, he walked to the door. “Just so you don’t try screaming for the neighbours. Not that they’d come running, exactly. Don’t go away, will you?”

  His footsteps shuffled away and she was left to the stifling heat of the bedroom and the nightmare certainty that if her nose became blocked, she would suffocate within minutes.

  Frank Palmer didn’t like upsetting people, but he was in a sour mood. He sat in a small café across the street from the Palacio, waiting for Mitcheson to emerge. He ignored the dagger looks from a large woman at the next table, who was grumbling loudly about secondary smoking, and puffed at his cigarette. He was too busy going over the millions of places McManus could have taken Riley Gavin to worry about disapproving tourists.

  He tensed when he saw Mitcheson come out of the Palacio’s entrance and stand on the pavement. With him were the two men he recognised as Doug and Howie, and for a second his stomach lurched at the thought that Mitcheson had set him up. He was about to rise from his seat when Mitcheson nodded to the other two and they turned away and walked away down the street.

  When they were out of sight, Mitcheson crossed the street and entered the cafe where Palmer was sitting. He grinned at the tense expression on Palmer’s face. “Sorry if that gave you a scare. I couldn’t just walk out - they’d have been curious.” H
e ordered lemon tea from the waitress, then looked at Palmer. “We need to give them time to get clear.”

  “Have you heard from McManus?”

  “No. He hasn’t reported in yet. Any luck yourself?”

  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.”