No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1

by Adrian Magson

  Riley felt a finger of ice brush her neck. The break-in at her flat.

  Palmer must have noticed. He said: “What?”

  She told him about the disturbed items and the broken glass, then frowned. “But you’re not involved in this — at least, not yet. And what’s with the ‘we’ bit?”

  “‘You and your lady friend’ were the words they used. That’s pretty specific. Have you been bandying my name about?”

  “Why would I?” Riley pointed out. “Didn’t you tell them you’d refused the job?”

  “We didn’t really get that well acquainted.” He turned to look out of the window again, revealing a piece of his computer attached to the tail of his jacket. Riley reached over and plucked it off.

  He stared at it quizzically. “So that’s where it got to. All I need now is some glue and I’m back in business.” He tossed the component across the room and bent down to plug in a battered kettle. “At least this survived. Fancy a brew?”

  “Aren’t you private eyes in the habit of offering shots of whisky?”

  “Only near Christmas. Sorry.”

  “In that case, black, no sugar.”

  “So. Want to brief me on what has happened so far?” Palmer spooned instant coffee into two cups. “So I can decide whether to help or not.”

  Riley recounted her activities of the last two days. Palmer’s face showed little expression at the mention of the young thugs at the block of flats. He poured boiling water, handing Riley a cup. “About the break-in; you’re sure there was nothing missing?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Well, that rules out burglary; an opportunist would’ve grabbed your laptop on the way out. You said it was open, though.”

  “Yes. But I’d also made some paper notes to work from, and there was a file from Donald Brask. I’m pretty sure they had a look through them. I didn’t really notice the order — they were mostly loose pages.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow. “Would these pages have included my name and details?”

  Riley opened her mouth to say no, then realised he was right; Donald Brask had given her the details on a slip of paper and she’d stuck it in the file for easy reference. She bit her lip. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. So, have you worked crime scenes before?”

  “Yes. What about you?”

  “Plenty. Crime in the army is pretty much the same as anywhere else.” He stopped, frowning as if a thought had occurred. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I thought there was something vaguely familiar about my two visitors. I’ve just realised what it was.”

  “You knew them?”

  He shook his head. “Not personally… but I know the type.” He blew on his coffee. “They were ex-squaddies.”

  They digested the statement between them for a moment. Then Riley asked: “Does this mean you’ll help?”

  He frowned, taking out another cigarette. “You’re still going ahead with the job, then?”

  “Of course. Why do you smoke so much? You never finish them.”

  He looked at the cigarette. “No idea. Nerves, probably. Why — is it a problem?”

  “Only if we’re going to be sharing the same breathing space.”

  He put the cigarette back in the pack. “Consider me hired. Do I get regular smoke and tea breaks?”

  The phone interrupted Riley’s reply. Palmer scooped it up and muttered his name. “Yes, she’s here,” he said, glancing at Riley. After a few moments he put it down without a word. “That was Brask,” he explained. “The wires are humming all over London. He’s getting calls from mates in the business and the Met. Another ex-villain’s been shot. This one was late last night, south of the river. The dailies are starting to make connections.”

  “Where south of the river?” Riley queried.

  “Near the Elephant and Castle. Bloke named Cook. Hey — wasn’t he-?”

  Riley nodded. “One of the men I visited.”

  Palmer pulled at his tie knot. “These boys don’t hang about, do they? They find someone sniffing about and swing straight into action; burgle your flat, smash my office and kill a potential source — all within twelve hours. Looks like the body count’s going up.”

  “And likely to go higher,” said Riley. “If they haven’t already called on Page, he must be the luckiest man in London.” She reached for her mobile and dialled the nursing home. It was answered promptly by the matron.

  “Hello, Mrs Marsh? It’s Riley Gavin… I came by yesterday to see Norman Page. Is he okay…? Only I was wondering if anyone had been to visit him. You’ve seen him? I see… Thank you.” She switched off her phone with a grimace and looked at Palmer.

  “That didn’t sound too positive,” he said sympathetically.

  “Basically, I can stick my request for a visit because he’s as fit as a performing flea and how dare I question her integrity.”

  Palmer barely suppressed a laugh. “She sounds a real charmer. So what do you want to do?”

  “What do you think? If he’s got a pulse he can talk.” She walked towards the door. “You coming?”

  Chapter 11

  Mitcheson parked his BMW near Covent Garden and walked down to the Embankment, skirting groups of tourists and office workers. In spite of the cool breeze blowing off the Thames, there was already a heavy tang of exhaust fumes in the air, and he wondered why he wasn’t somewhere far from here where the air was clean and pure.

  He checked his back several times out of habit. By the time he was leaning on the embankment wall overlooking the grey waters, he was satisfied no one was following.

  Moments later the man he knew as McManus approached and leaned on the wall alongside him, breathing noisily through his ex-boxer’s nose. Big-boned and florid, he looked like a farmer in town for the day. Mitcheson didn’t care for the man, but since he was Lottie Grossman’s pet thug, he had little choice but to endure his brooding presence. Fortunately, he was brighter than he looked. Just.

  McManus slapped a business card on the wall and pinned it down with a large finger so Mitcheson could read it. “This is the skirt doing the investigating.”

  Mitcheson read the name and felt as if someone had kicked him in the belly. Christ, it couldn’t be…

  “Are you sure?” he asked, staring at McManus. The big man was watching a seagull strut along the wall in search of food and missed Mitcheson’s look of surprise.

  “Certain. She left a card with Cook before he gave her the elbow. I went round to her place for a quick look-see as soon as I got the details. That’s where I got the name of the bloke named Palmer. She’s a freelance reporter but I don’t know what he does — it didn’t say. I was lucky to get out of her place; couple of minutes later and she would have caught me.” He grinned dirtily, displaying a mouth full of false teeth. “It could have been fun, though.”

  Mitcheson rounded on him. “Knock it off. You didn’t leave any trace, did you?”

  “Do me a favour, soldier boy,” McManus said softly, and stared back unflinchingly. “I’m a pro — I don’t leave traces. Talking of which, how did your two squaddies manage? I hope they didn’t leave any.”

  Mitcheson ignored the jibe. “I’ll deal with the woman.”

  “Yeah? Like I dealt with Cook?” His expression was full of contempt. “I don't reckon you’ve got the balls.”

  Mitcheson felt a twist of distaste at the man’s coldness. He was no stranger to killing, but he’d had never killed helpless men who were too far gone mentally or physically to pose any kind of threat. Or women. He remembered Lottie Grossman’s instructions to deal with the two old gang members, and felt a momentary self-contempt for having sat and done nothing while those instructions were carried out.

  “What about Page?’ he asked.

  “Page isn’t your problem. Don’t overreach yourself, soldier boy.”

  Mitcheson debated pushing it, but right here wasn’t the time or the place. He left the man standing by the
embankment wall and returned to his car. He might have to deal with McManus before long, otherwise his own position was going to be threatened. He didn't relish the prospect.

  Mrs Marsh replaced the phone and stood for a while, trying to overcome her sudden feeling of unease. Ever since Norman Page had arrived here, she had felt she was in some kind of limbo. She couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because most of her residents came from normal backgrounds, mundane and out of the ordinary, free of any mystery. But Page was different. He had arrived as arranged by his solicitor, and since then not a thing. No visitors, no calls, no history and only a couple of letters, since vanished. It was like he’d been put here in the shade to wither and die, unseen and unwanted.

  She crossed the hallway towards the back stairs and frowned as her feet crackled through something on the carpet. For heaven’s sake, she thought. How did leaves get in here? And in the kitchen, too. Someone must have left the back door open again. One of the temps no doubt, who didn’t give a fig about health, safety or the heating bills. She bent and flicked the worst of them to one side where they wouldn’t get trampled in any further. She’d get Mrs Donachy to see to it later.

  Walking up the stairs, she thought about the call from the young woman — what was the name — Gavin? After so long with no contact and no interest from anybody, why should this woman suddenly be asking questions about Page?

  She crossed the landing and peered through the door of Page’s room. She didn’t go in; he was a light sleeper and woke at the slightest noise. One of his hands, she noticed, was clenched tight around the duvet, as if reacting to a sudden pain. A bad dream, perhaps.

  She noticed the spare pillow had fallen onto the floor by the window. She could just see it beneath the bed. He obviously wasn’t missing it. She’d pick it up later when she gave him his medicine.

  Chapter 12

  Riley drove from Uxbridge to Kenton in silence. Palmer, ignoring her rules, sat in the back and smoked, his head to the open window, contemplating the passing scenery as he blew smoke through the gap.

  Riley drove as aggressively as traffic would allow, using the speed and agility of the Golf to counter her feelings of anxiety. Occasional glances in the rear-view mirror showed Palmer apparently unconcerned at the ride, and she wondered what the ex-army man was thinking. If he was worried about the attack on his office he seemed well able to conceal it. She wished she could share his air of calm. It wouldn’t take the police long to spot the coincidence of a young woman visiting an old man like Cook shortly before his death; even the most junior traffic cop couldn’t fail to fasten eagerly on that one.

  “What are we going to do when we get there?” asked Palmer. “Kick the door in? Toss in a smoke grenade?” He flicked his cigarette through the window.

  Riley forced her way between two trucks, drawing angry blasts from both vehicles. She caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “I haven’t thought that far yet. She’s a bit of a tough nut. Any suggestions?”

  “Sorry. Matrons aren’t my strong point, ever since I puked up over one at junior school during a test for measles. I think it was the uniform that did it. I’ve never been able to date a nurse since.”

  “God, you’re a big help,” Riley muttered. But she found the imagery amusing enough to ease her tension and make her slow down. She pulled up outside Brambleside and turned off the engine. If there was anything happening inside, it was all taking place very quietly. There were no more than the usual cars parked along the kerb — all appeared to be empty — and no signs of either ambulance or police in the driveway. It looked very normal and suburban. Maybe Norman Page would be able to talk after all. As long as she could get inside and speak to him.

  A tabby cat jumped down from a wall and ambled across to the car, where it turned its back and sprayed the front tyre, tail quivering like an antenna.

  “Charming,” Palmer muttered. “Fills you with confidence, doesn’t it?”

  “Where I come from,” said Riley, “that’s good luck.”

  The cat ducked through the fence in front of Brambleside, and disappeared from view, leaving a faint smell of ammonia drifting through the open car window.

  “I’ll go in,” Riley announced. “You stay here and watch out for visitors. If you hear any screams, come and rescue me.”

  Palmer showed his teeth. “A piece of RMP advice: use maximum force and go in low. If that doesn’t work, go to plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?”

  “Run like hell.”

  She left him in the car and walked to the front door. The doorbell sounded faintly from within the building and she listened for sounds of movement. Eventually the matron appeared in the doorway. The way she stared past Riley’s shoulder to the road outside and the pallor of her face instantly told its own story.

  “Mrs Marsh? What is it? What’s happened?” Riley reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.

  “What do you want?” she demanded in shrill voice. “I’ve already told you, you can’t see anyone-” She began to close the door with a shaking hand.

  But Riley stepped forward and blocked it. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said bluntly. “Tell me what happened.”

  Mrs Marsh’s face seemed to fold in on itself and she backed away inside, letting go of the door. Her steely façade was crumbling before Riley’s eyes. “You’d better come in,” she muttered eventually. “But you can’t stay long — the ambulance is on its way.”

  Mrs Marsh led the way into the kitchen, where she filled the kettle and switched it on. It was the routine of safety, the automatic response of someone in shock. She seemed content to fuss for a moment, moving things about on the work surface before turning to face Riley as the kettle began to hiss.

  The kitchen was large enough to hold two large cookers and twin freezers, and an industrial size dishwasher with its front door open revealing a full load of breakfast plates and cups and saucers waiting to be done. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a few dried leaves nestling against the foot of one of the freezers.

  The matron noticed Riley’s glance and looked defensive. “The cleaner hasn’t been yet. She takes care of that.”

  “What happened, Mrs Marsh?” Riley asked. She reached past the matron and switched off the kettle. Mrs Marsh stirred herself and began to make the tea.

  “I just…. found him,” she said, replacing the teapot lid with a clatter. “After your call.” Her eyes welled and Riley guessed she was terrified that she was going to be held professionally responsible for Page’s death. She felt sorry for her — there was no accounting for one of your patients suddenly becoming a target on someone’s death list.

  “He was dead,” she continued. “Just like that. No warning at all.”

  “Was there normally one — a warning, I mean?” Riley asked. For a moment she had a grisly image of inmates filling out a departure card before they could pass on to the next life.

  Mrs March shook her head, turning to pour the tea.

  “How healthy was he?” Riley asked.

  “As fit as you or me,” the matron said firmly, pushing a cup and saucer towards Riley. “He may have been confined to his room — voluntarily, I might add — but there was nothing really wrong with him. Physically, anyway.”

  “Physically?”

  Mrs Marsh shrugged. “The problem was all up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I don’t mean the sex thing, either.” She looked up at Riley and pulled a face. “Well, you know how some old men get.”

  Riley didn’t, but she could guess.

  “So what did he die of?”

  Mrs Marsh held her cup and stared at the tiny bubbles moving slowly round on the surface. In the street a car horn sounded.

  “What killed him, Mrs Marsh?” Riley repeated. There wasn’t much time left.

  Mrs Marsh’s eyes suddenly filled with something other than professional concern, and she turned and placed the cup on the work-surface. She took a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at
her nose.

  “Natural causes, of course,” she replied defensively. “Mr Page wasn’t unwell, but he wasn’t strong, either.” Her words sounded unconvincing.

  “May I see him?”

  The matron looked horrified at the idea. Then, to Riley’s surprise she nodded with something approaching eagerness. “Yes. I suppose so. But you mustn’t touch anything.”

  Riley followed her from the kitchen past heavy pieces of utilitarian furniture dark with age and shiny with polishing. Up stairs lined with thick carpeting and lit by an art-deco window showing wan fairies hovering over large, colourful lupins. The air was musty and over-warm with a heady tang of air-freshener.

  The room was cooler than Riley had expected, and if there was any smell lingering here, it was of aftershave. The furniture was simple and practical, and if Page had wanted any personal touches, his wishes had either been ignored or he had no family, no interests and no artistic feelings. It was more of a cell than a home.

  The form under the duvet was smaller than she had expected, too. Whatever Page had been in life, he had not been very imposing immediately before or after death.

  Mrs Marsh lifted the duvet and revealed the dead man’s face. It was little more than a mask, neither good looking nor evil. There was no obvious sign that his death had been anything but natural, and Riley felt a small twinge of disappointment.

  “I came up after your call and checked on him,” said Mrs Marsh quietly. “He was fine, I’m sure… apart from his pillow on the floor. I left it to go back down to get his medicine. He was such a light sleeper.”

  Riley looked down to where the pillow had fallen to the floor between the bed and the window. As she bent to pick it up she noticed a large indentation in the fabric. As she placed the pillow on the bed Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She held her hand above the pillow, fingers spread wide. The indentation was much bigger than her hand, but followed the same outline, with clear impressions of thumb and fingers.