Mitcheson looked back at Doug who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
He was puzzled by McManus’s presence. He wondered how the man had got here; he evidently hadn’t had the same problems with flights that had affected his own journey. He looked towards the fifth occupant of the room, hunched in a chair near an open set of patio doors. Beyond was the blue glint of a swimming pool. The man’s frame indicated he had once been broad across the shoulders, and Mitcheson knew that in his younger days the man had allegedly been a dangerous person to cross. Now he was shrunken and frail, with a pallor that was sharply at odds with the hot sun outside.
“Ray,” Mitcheson said with a nod of recognition.
“Glad you could make it,” Grossman replied, his voice dry as gravel. There was something still menacing about him, in spite of his obvious incapacity, and Mitcheson knew that behind the half-closed eyelids lurked a mind that was still sharp and deadly. “Enjoy your night out, did you?” There was no mistaking the implied rebuke. One characteristic the man shared with his wife was a mania about position and respect. Mitcheson had rarely met anyone in the army so insecure, and he still found it odd that these people set so much by pecking order.
He glanced at McManus, who seemed to have found something to smile about, and decided to ignore the bait. He walked across the room and sat down in another armchair.
“I was told to take this morning’s flight,” he explained. “I ran into problems getting out here.” The last thing he wanted was to get into a war of words with Grossman. It wasn’t worth it and would only serve to give McManus an excuse to drive a wedge between them.
Gary appeared in the doorway. Behind him came the plump, heavily made-up figure of Lottie Grossman.
Mitcheson shot Gary a steely look for not warning him. The younger man ignored it, unperturbed, and set his eyes set rigidly in front. Mitcheson made a mental note to speak to him afterwards; he had an uneasy feeling Lottie had been working on his sense of duty behind Mitcheson’s back.
More interesting, however, was Ray Grossman’s reaction. He seemed to shrink into his chair with a sour expression, and there was a palpable feeling in the air of a transfer of authority.
Lottie Grossman advanced into the room while Gary shut the door and leant against it, hands crossed in front of him. The signal was clear; no one was leaving.
“Now then, Jerry,” Lottie murmured softly, as if continuing a conversation that had been interrupted earlier. The man in the armchair brought his attention back to the room and tensed, the cigar forgotten. “You don’t want to go ahead with our plan, is that right? What’s the problem — our money not good enough for you?”
A clock ticked in the silence and Mitcheson looked at Doug and Howie for a clue, but they seemed as puzzled as he was.
“I don’t- ” The man choked on his cigar smoke and sat forward, his eyes dark and angry. He looked hard at Ray Grossman, who was staring into his lap, then back at Lottie. As he moved, McManus stepped slightly closer, one hand resting on the back of the man’s armchair. “You’re robbing us blind, Lottie,” Jerry protested with a whine. His eyes flicked towards the huge man at his shoulder. “We had a good thing going, you know… it worked. You can’t just walk in and take it!”
Lottie Grossman’s expression was ice cold. “I think we just have, Jerry,” she muttered. She picked up a mobile phone from a table nearby and toyed with it. “We made a good offer: ready cash in return for your business. No paperwork, no tax, no contracts… just let us get on with it and everyone’s happy. But you didn’t like our terms, did you? It seems your partners didn’t share your point of view, though. My boys had words with them… and guess what? They’ve just boarded a flight to Miami. Strange time to take a holiday on holiday, I’d have thought.”
Jerry stared at Lottie in disbelief. He shook his head and looked round the room at the others. “You’re having me on.”
Lottie studied her nails and said: “Of course, they might have gone to get some help, I suppose. What do you think?” She fluttered a manicured hand at McManus, who leaned forward and took the cigar from the man’s fingers, then crushed it out in an ashtray.
Mitcheson leaned forward, chest thumping with the tension. “What’s this about?”
For the first time, Ray Grossman made a move to join in the conversation. He glared at Mitcheson and pointed a bony finger. “Sit tight, you,” he grated. “You’re too late. If you’d been here when I wanted you, this would never have happened.” With that, he staggered to his feet and moved with difficulty out onto the patio, where he slumped into a plastic chair overlooking the pool. Gary looked to Lottie for a moment, and when she nodded, went over and closed the doors behind the old man.
Everyone’s attention swung back to Lottie.
Satisfied she had their full concentration, she turned and nodded to McManus, who stepped out from behind the armchair, a tight grin on his face. In one meaty hand he carried a large, black automatic pistol. Before the hapless Jerry could react — before any of them could — he turned and shot him in the chest, the crash of the shot deafening in the room. Jerry was slammed into the back of the chair and a faint smell of burning drifted in the air as his shirt smouldered. Nobody rushed to put it out.
McManus turned, the pistol swinging round to cover Doug, Howie, Gary and, most pointedly, Mitcheson. They all sat very still.
“And that, gentlemen,” Lottie Grossman smiled, “is what happens to people who don’t do what they’re told.” She flicked a hand towards McManus and Gary. “Get rid of that mess. The rest of you — we’ve got business to discuss.”
Chapter 20
A fly buzzed in Palmer’s office as Riley scanned the piece of paper he had given her. When she saw the last name on the list, she went pale.
“What the hell is this?” she asked softly. “Why is this name on here?”
“I asked Charlie to pull out any name approximating Howie. He came up with just the one — Howard — who seemed to fit the age range. The others are all listed as KAs — known associates. Mitcheson’s name came out with them. The connection was made by the database, not me.”
“How efficient.” Her voice was coldly matter-of-fact.
Palmer calmly returned her look. “I’m sorry, Riley.”
“Really, Frank? But something tells me you’re not surprised.” She was furious, but knew he had done the right thing. Not that it helped her presence of mind or the fact that she felt so foolish.
Palmer shrugged. “Surprised, no. He got hold of your phone number far too easily — whatever mates he might have. Hot dates don’t do that. Hot dates don’t have those kind of connections.”
“So you’re my moral guardian, now, are you?” her voice stopped short of anger, but the gap was slim. “What have you been doing — taking tips from my mother?” She threw the list on the desk. “You’ll be asking me if I’ve slept with him next!”
She paced up and down while her anger subsided. It didn’t take long; she was nothing if not pragmatic and knew that given similar circumstances she would have done the same. It was what investigation work was all about.
“Okay,” she said finally, putting both hands up. “So we have a number of men — all ex-military and all connected — who seem to be involved with whatever is going on here. But that doesn’t tell us what it is. Nor why all those old gangsters were killed off. It wasn’t because they forgot to pay their golf club fees.”
Palmer nodded. “If we accept for the moment that Howard and Duggan are the two baseball fans and they appear to know Mitcheson, who happens to have got your mobile number by foul means, it seems more than just coincidence.”
“We know how he got it.”
Palmer pulled a face. “I’ve been thinking about that. There is another, simpler way he could have got it: the same way the baseball fans got my name.”
Riley thought about it. There was only one answer. “From my flat.”
“I doubt it was him,” Palmer said. “Mitcheson was in Intellige
nce in Northern Ireland but it wouldn’t necessarily make him a candidate for cat-burglary. I suppose he could have got someone else to do it, though.”
They sat and contemplated what they knew so far. It wasn’t much but the path was extending all the time.
“What about Ray Grossman?” said Riley. “Can we track him down?”
Palmer ducked his hand in a drawer, pulling out a slip of paper. “I rang an old contact in the Met. He’s retired now, but he’s got the memory of an elephant. He remembered Grossman, but he thought he’d died last year. Cancer.”
“Did he have any form?”
“Not officially. He was reckoned to be a top dog but they could never prove it.”
“It must be worth checking, though. How about an address?”
Palmer grinned. “Done it. There’s only one Grossman that fits that age range. Wrong sex but it could be a lead. A woman living out in Buckinghamshire.” He handed her a piece of paper with an address on it. Pantiles, Jordans, Bucks.
Riley gave him a cool look tinged with a smile. “For a bodyguard you’re not a bad investigator. How about we check on her?”
“Suits me.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll buy you a cream tea if we can find somewhere on the way.”
“You’re on. I haven’t eaten anything today.”
Palmer hesitated. “There’s one other piece of information my friend came up with.”
“Go on.”
“I ran the McKee and Cage names past him.”
“And?”
“He thought they and Grossman were linked. They were into clubs in a quite a big way back in the fifties and sixties. Nothing really heavy, but their turnover was good. Drinking dens, a bit of gambling, some girls… Low overheads, high profits. Mostly in London but there were a couple down on the south coast, too. Rumour had it they sold out in the mid-sixties.”
Riley recalled what Hyatt had said about the two men. “But that’s not necessarily the case?”
Palmer shook his head. “No. Think about it; the sixties were all about expansion. Gaming. Money. Kids with cash looking for kicks… sex… drugs. Everything was on the up after years of austerity. The Met was cracking down on organised crime with some of the biggest names in the underworld either dead or banged up, and even the main bulk of the opposition was suddenly dropping out of the picture. For someone not under scrutiny it must have been like being handed a monopoly on a plate and being told you had a clear field to play in. Would you sell out when you were coming to the crest of a wave?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Riley said. “I’m not a gangster — and I don’t remember the sixties.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “But you’re right — it doesn’t sound likely.” She walked over to the window, looking out. “Based on what Willis told me, the arguments he heard sounded like on-going business differences. If so, they weren’t as inactive as everyone thinks.”
Palmer nodded. “Why let someone else have all the cream when you can continue pulling it in yourself?”
“But your man said Grossman died last year. That leaves us none the wiser.” Riley hesitated and turned towards him. “Unless he left an heir to the throne.”
Chapter 21
They took Riley’s Golf, following Frank’s directions out towards the A413 and the Chalfonts. He sat in the back, smoking, while she concentrated on negotiating the late afternoon traffic.
Suburban concrete became a brief stretch of uninspiring countryside, with a few horses cropping in scruffy fields, before entering the twilight zone of plush stockbroker housing and small, select estates. Main roads gave way to narrow, twisting lanes lined with lush hedges and leafy trees, where BMWs and Range Rovers parked in the curving, gravelled drives were the norm.
Riley slowed at Palmer’s direction. He flipped his cigarette out the window and sat forward.
“Should be somewhere in this area,” he said. “They probably don’t use anything as common as house numbers in this kind of place, so we’ll have to hope Mrs Grossman has a nice, ostentatious sign outside her gaff.”
They entered a narrow lane with houses on one side, spaced well apart, past a dog barking at them from a driveway, and an elderly man mowing his front verge to snooker-table neatness. Large trees towered overhead, their top-most branches meeting and creating dark pools of shadow.
A woman appeared out of a gateway some distance ahead. She mounted a bike and pedalled towards them. Riley slowed the car and flashed a white envelope through the open window. The woman stopped alongside the car. She was in her early thirties, with a care-worn look that spoke of too much work and too little time to do it in. In a basket on the front of her bike were a plastic bag and an overall.
“Excuse me, love,” Riley’s voice took on a beseeching tone. “I wonder if you could tell me where the Grossman house is — I’m afraid the office didn’t give terribly good directions. I’ve been driving for ages trying to find the place.”
The woman looked cautiously at Riley, then at Palmer relaxing in the back seat. Evidently satisfied they weren’t about to firebomb the area, she turned her head and pointed towards the gateway she had just left. “It’s about a hundred yards down on the right. Big place with a curved roof and white shutters. There’s a couple of willows out front.” She looked at the envelope. “I can take that if you want. I do cleaning for them.”
Riley smiled and dropped the envelope on the seat beside her. “No, that’s all right, thanks. I’m supposed to deliver this in person under pain of death, and maybe get some measurements.” She put on an annoyed expression and sighed. “Not that it looks likely today. They promised someone would be in, too. Oh, well… I’m only a Pee Bee Ee.”
“You what?”
“Poor bloody employee, sweetie. Do what I’m told — know what I mean? Do you know when Mrs Grossman will be back?”
The cleaner shook her head. “Couldn’t say, love. Might be tonight, could be tomorrow. I’ve worked here six months but they never tell me what they’re doing.”
“They?”
For a moment the woman seemed to have doubts about talking. But then she shrugged and said: “Well, Mrs G and them men that come and go all the time.” There was a note of disapproval in her voice mixed with a flash of relish at being able to confide in someone.
Riley managed to hide an instinctive surge of excitement and put on an understanding smirk. “The old devil. Young, are they?”
The woman gave a tired smile. “Yeah, but it’s not like that. They work for Mrs G and sometimes stay at the house.”
“What do they do?”
“Beats me, love. They’re young enough to do anything. But like I said, they don’t tell me what they get up to. It’s like it’s all a big secret.”
“Are they the only men in the house?”
“Yes, thank God,” the woman said with feeling. “There was an old man but I think he died years ago. Her trouble is, she can spot if I’ve missed something at a hundred yards. Mind, there’s one of them that does a better job of cleaning than I do. Bloody man’s a bit strange, if you ask me… especially with all the training he does.”
“Training?”
“Yeah. Out in the garden every day. Jogging, press-ups, sit-ups… My husband reckons he must be a keep-fit fanatic. I think he’s ex-army, myself; my dad was in REME. This bloke Gary jumps to it every time Mrs G so much as opens her mouth. Proper little poodle. My husband says he must be after my job, but that’s silly.”
“Maybe not,” Riley suggested casually. “If he’s ex-army, he’d be very good at cleaning. What else does he do?”
The woman looked surprised at the notion and her mouth dropped at the corners as she considered it. “I hadn’t thought of that. He also does her driving when she goes out, and makes sure everything’s working. He’s what my husband calls a gopher.” She shook her head as the idea Riley had implanted began to sink in. “Christ, I knew it!”
“And they’re all out?” said Riley quickly, before the woman could move on.
“Yes. Somewhere in Spain. Mrs G has a villa over there.” She sighed. “All right for some, isn’t it? Never asks me if I want a bit of sun.” She looked at Riley again and blushed. “Sorry, love. What was it you said you wanted?”
“Something else they haven’t told you,” Riley said sympathetically. “She’s putting the house on the market. She wants a valuation. This envelope holds the contract. Maybe she’ll give you a good reference.”
“Oh. I suppose.” The woman’s voice was faint at the prospect and she shook her head. “In that case maybe I can show you in… so you can measure up.” She peered into the car. “You do have a card, though? Some identification?”
“Of course.” Riley fished in her glove box and handed her a business card. “That’s really sweet of you — ”
“Marion,” the woman replied, and turned her bike round. “You follow me, then, and I’ll let you in. I’ll have to switch off the alarm first.”
As Marion pedalled away, Riley caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “Looks like we’re estate agents.”
Palmer nodded. “I’ve never been an estate agent before. Do I have to do unctuous as well?”
“If you do, I’ll kick you. There’s a clipboard and tape in the boot.”
She followed Marion down the short drive and parked in front of the house. As they got out she glanced around instinctively. There were no houses in direct line of sight, so more for Marion’s sake than any onlookers, she stood and looked at the house for a few seconds, pointing and chatting to Palmer about the exterior and briefing him on the measurements they needed.
“How the rich live,” Palmer murmured, looking down a path between the house and a double garage, to where they could see part of a patio. Beyond chequered ochre and grey paving slabs, the garden extended downwards in stepped layers, across a vast expanse of immaculate lawn dotted with flowerbeds, into a border of bushes and trees. Bird song echoed through the treetops, while a lawnmower chattered away on an adjacent property.
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