Twin lights blazed across the garden area as a van turned into the cul-de-sac and stopped outside the middle unit. The driver got out and looked around, then went to the passenger door and opened it. Riley heard him grunting as he helped someone out. As they stepped into the pool of light spilling from the observation panels, she recognised Frank Palmer. He looked pale and drawn. The man holding him was Gary.
A single access door opened alongside the roller door, and a face showed briefly before retreating inside. As soon as the door slammed shut, Riley was on her feet and running over to the rubbish skip, where she took cover behind its comforting bulk. Her nose twitched involuntarily at the strong smell of paint, burned metal and petrol.
She breathed deeply, recalling Mitcheson’s comment about how once they had no need for Palmer they would do away with him. She had to do something… But what? She had no weapons and if she waited for the police to come, Palmer would be beyond caring.
She rubbed her nose as the sharp smell of petrol aggravated her nostrils.
“Jesus!” Doug snorted, and stepped back at the sight of Palmer’s vomit-stained clothing as Gary pushed him inside. The investigator sank to the floor, his face slack and pale under the lights.
“Think yourselves lucky,” Gary muttered. “I had to put up with the stink all the way from Malaga.” He glared at Palmer as if he had been ill deliberately, and dragged him to his feet again, grunting with the weight. Then he slapped him twice across the face; hard, solid blows which echoed in the empty space above their heads.
Mitcheson recognised what Gary was doing. He wasn’t merely being brutal; he was psyching himself up to carry out the next task. Pump up enough hatred or disgust for the victim and it made the killing so much easier.
Mitcheson slipped his hand in his pocket and felt for the screwdriver he’d taken off the bench. As a weapon it was about par with the plan he hadn’t got to get out of here with Palmer’s life intact. But it would have to do for now.
With Palmer upright against the wall, Gary produced a knife and flicked it open. He turned to Doug with a cold smile. “I need a hand with this.”
Chapter 46
Riley pulled a bottle from the skip. It felt half full of liquid and she sniffed at the top, instantly pulling back and gagging on the eye-watering smell of paint-thinner. She placed it carefully on the ground and looked for something else. Her fingers settled on a half-inch thick metal rod. That would be heavy enough.
She bent and peered carefully at the bottle. From a repeat-arson case she had researched the year before, she had learned some interesting facts. One was that some kids really did hate their schooldays and would get out of them almost any way they could. Another was that making a Molotov cocktail was surprisingly simple. It was also dangerous.
She reached into the skip and searched around until she felt some cloth. Pulling it free she tore off enough to stuff into the neck of the bottle, then shook the contents around until the cloth was saturated with the paint-thinner.
There was no one at the window. She picked up the metal rod and ran across to the unit and squatted against the wall. From inside she could hear the rumble of voices.
She stood upright until she could see through the nearest window, keeping her face back from the glass in case one of the men looked her way. The one known as Howie was standing by a workbench, a cup in his hand. Behind him a kettle steamed in the cold atmosphere.
Mitcheson was in the centre of the room facing the door, his expression blank and unemotional. She wondered what was going through his mind right now.
Moving further she caught a glimpse of Gary and, behind him, a partial sight of Palmer. Doug was moving to join them and Palmer seemed to be leaning away as if he was drunk.
In the distance she heard a faint wup-wup-wooo of a police siren. Coming here or somewhere else? Either way, it was going to be too bloody late. It was time to move.
Holding the rod between her knees, she pulled Palmer’s lighter from her pocket and held the bottle with the rag trailing down. It was now or never.
Palmer felt himself being dragged upright and shook his head. The nausea had gone but while he could hear and understand most of what was happening around him, he still lacked full control of his limbs, which seemed unbearably heavy.
He felt somebody pulling at his jacket. Over their shoulder he glimpsed John Mitcheson a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Doug was coming towards him with Howie close behind. Palmer shook his head and tried to piece together Gary’s request for help and the other man moving in to assist him. Assist him with what?
Then he caught a flash of light on shiny metal at the periphery of his vision and knew instinctively what it meant. He tensed himself for the blow he knew was coming, for the cold shock of steel cutting into his body.
“Wait!” It sounded like Mitcheson, speaking in the background. “I can hear a siren.”
“Won’t be for us, will it?” Gary muttered, his breath warm on Palmer’s cheek. “Nobody knows we’re here.”
Instead of the pain of the blade, Palmer felt something move, and a great weight seemed to slip from his shoulders. Was this what it was like to be stabbed?
Something was sliding down his legs. He looked down, vaguely expecting to see a part of his anatomy lying at his feet. Instead there on the floor was his soiled jacket, and on top was a pale yellow jerkin made of webbing. It reminded him of the hunting jackets worn by Olympic marksmen, with pockets and loops for all their equipment.
This jerkin, however, contained hard, tightly-packed bundles sewn into the webbing, giving it the appearance of a bulky flack-jacket. One of the packages had sprung a leak and a thin dusting of white powder had spilled on the concrete floor of the workshop.
No wonder I was so bloody hot, Palmer thought stupidly. I would have been the one to cop it if I’d been searched. All they had to say was I’d begged for a flight back rather than take a commercial one.
The thought helped drive out the fogginess, replacing it with a surge of anger.
Gary pushed him away until he bounced off the wall, and smiled with contempt. “Christ, to think I had to sit with you all that way,” he muttered coldly. He held out his knife hand and stepped forward in a fluid motion.
Instinctively, Palmer sagged to one side, feeling his back scrape against the rough brickwork, and sucked in his stomach. In the same instant he took his hand from his trouser pocket and slashed with the pruning knife across Gary’s wrist. The sharp blade cut deep, severing tendons, muscle and flesh all the way to the bone.
As Gary screamed, the roller door behind him seemed to pulse with light, before exploding in a ball of red and yellow flame. Heat poured through the cold air and tongues of flame came licking through the gaps, reaching out for the men inside. A fire alarm went off with deafening intensity.
Mitcheson propelled himself forward and intercepted Howie as the ex-Marine threw his cup aside and ran towards Palmer. He hit him with a shoulder charge, stopping him short, then chopped him across the throat, dropping him to the floor.
Doug reached down to grab the jerkin and lurched towards the door. As he did so, Gary reached behind his back with his good hand and brought out an automatic pistol. His eyes were crazed, flecks of spit gathered around his mouth as the shock of pain began to hit him. He backed towards the door, making beckoning motions at Doug.
“Doug. C’mon,” he muttered shakily, holding his bloodied hand under his other arm. “Throw it here.”
Outside, the police sirens were growing louder. Mitcheson edged towards the door, hoping Gary would be distracted by the noise. In his hand he held the screwdriver from the bench.
“What are you doing, Gary?” Doug yelled. “What about Howie, man?”
“Howie’s down,” Gary replied, his face in spasm. “It’s every man for himself. Throw me the jacket!” He swung the pistol round and pointed it at Doug’s face, his stance rock-solid in spite of his obvious pain. “You know me. I’ll use it.”
Mitcheso
n ran forward, knowing he could never make it in time. At the same moment, the door behind Gary opened inwards and a figure ducked inside. There was a swish of movement through the air, and a sickening sound of metal hitting flesh. Gary’s head flew back, eyes open wide with shock. Then he pitched forward.
As he did so, his finger tightened on the trigger.
Doug took the bullet in the chest and was kicked back under the impact, the jerkin falling at his feet.
Riley looked across at Mitcheson and threw the metal rod aside. “Thanks,” she said. “We’re quits.”
Mitcheson nodded and walked over to help Palmer to his feet. Frank indicated Howie lying on the floor and murmured: “Thanks for that. What kept you?”
For a moment they all stood looking at each other in the dying light. Then Palmer waved his hand, taking deep breaths to clear his head. “Wassamatter, Mitcheson?” he slurred drunkenly. “You want an invitation? Piss off, for Christ’s sake. Me’n Riley will finish off here... ”
When Riley nodded at Mitcheson, he smiled and stepped past her into the night.
Chapter 47
Riley parked her Golf and walked into the main foyer of the Sheraton Heathrow. She took the lift to first floor and found the room number she wanted. She stood for a moment, indecision threatening to win over curiosity, then she took a deep breath and knocked.
The door swung open under her hand. Inside, she saw an open suitcase on the trestle, clothes packed neatly inside. The air was touched with a familiar aftershave.
A polished circular table near the window held a bottle in an ice bucket, the ceiling light glinting off two glasses. John Mitcheson was standing by the window. As she closed the door behind her, he turned to greet her, smiling hesitantly.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said with evident relief, and reached out to touch her shoulder.
Riley smiled back and indicated the bottle. “If I hadn’t, you’d have had to drink all that by yourself.”
“Yeah, well, to be honest, I ordered it but now I don’t feel thirsty.”
“That’s okay - I’ll drink, you watch.”
Mitcheson busied himself opening the champagne and filled two glasses. He handed her one and raised his own.
“I’m not sure what I should be toasting,” he said awkwardly. “It can hardly be to us, can it?”
Riley shook her head. She lifted her glass and sipped the cold wine, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue. “Where are you going?”
“The States, for a while. Seems best after all that’s happened. I can disappear.”
She nodded. After the violence at West Drayton, she’d only tried his mobile once, to let him know she’d managed to keep his name out of the story.
“Lottie Grossman’s already done a vanishing act,” she said, stirring her drink with her finger. “Did you know that?”
“I heard. I get nervous every time I see a blue rinse or a pair of gardening gloves.”
“It’s not funny,” Riley cautioned. “She’s probably got money stashed away… and that woman’s got a long memory.”
“I promise to watch my back. You should do the same.”
Howie and Gary had been arrested and were refusing to talk. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, in view of Gary’s reaction at the warehouse. In the meantime they were being encouraged to consider helping with drug squad enquiries in England and Spain. The length of their sentence, it was rumoured, would depend on how much help they gave.
“Will they implicate you?”
“Gary might,” Mitcheson said. “Howie I’m not sure about. That’s why I’m leaving for a while. I’ll see how things pan out.”
“Good idea. Frank told me what they’d done in Bosnia. They’re not nice people.”
“How is Frank?”
“Smoking too much. He’s off to Germany on a job. He said to say thanks for the pruning knife. What did he mean?”
Mitcheson shrugged. “It’s a guy thing. Anyway,” he added lightly, “if I remember, it was you fire-bombing the place and beating Gary to a pulp that saved us. Otherwise we might have been in real trouble.”
Riley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Frank says this man needs a security consultant. It’s in San Francisco, if you’re interested.”
Mitcheson nodded and tucked the paper in his wallet. “Tell him I appreciate it.”
“He knows.”
They smiled, both aware that they were circling each other, awkward and tense and suddenly with little to say.
“You never did get that holiday,” Mitcheson began, looking into his glass. “I suppose you’ll be making up for it now this is over?”
Riley took off her earrings and dropped them on the side table. “I might be,” she replied. “The trouble is, since the Grossman business, I’ve got work coming from all directions.” She kicked her shoes off and sipped her wine. “But you know what they say: all work and no play.”
“I feel responsible for ruining the last one,” Mitcheson said, his voice uncertain.
Riley undid the top button of her dress, then sipped more wine, her eyes on his. “Don’t worry - I’m sure you’ll make up for it somehow.”
She undid more buttons, revealing a froth of pale blue lace, and swung her foot to and fro. Mitcheson stood very still, mesmerised.
Two more buttons popped and the dress whispered apart. She flicked the material aside, allowing Mitcheson to see her all the way down.
“Maybe,” Mitcheson’s voice was strained, “maybe you could make it to San Francisco.”
“Who knows?” Riley shrugged her shoulders and the dress slid to the floor. She stepped towards him and placed her glass on the table, then did the same with his. She took his fingers and held them against her. “I may be an independent sort of girl,” she breathed softly, releasing his hand. “But the last bit really is up to you.”
In the glove box of her Golf, Riley’s mobile was ringing. After six rings the answering service took over and recorded a message. It was from Donald Brask.
“Riley, sweetie,” he intoned heavily. “Get off the nest, there’s a good girl. I’ve got a job for you. Riley? You there?”
END
Read more about Adrian Magson’s other books at http://www.adrianmagson.com
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 23