Mitcheson felt the other two staring at him and returned the woman’s look as calmly as possible. He wondered how long it would be before Doug and Howie joined Gary in his gradual drift across the floor to the Grossman camp. If this continued, he was in danger of losing what control he had over them to a woman being carried away by a rush of power to the head.
He took a deep breath. He had no idea what McManus had told Lottie about his findings in Riley’s flat, but it was safe to assume he hadn’t left anything out — including their fight near Piccadilly. He spoke calmly. “She’s a freelance reporter named Riley Gavin. She doesn’t have an inside track on what’s going on, but by the sounds of it she’s managed to trace your address. But that’s all. She doesn’t know about the villa, and there’s no way she can find out — unless there were any clues at the house.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Mitcheson,” Lottie said softly, her hand beating double-time on her thigh. “Of course there are no clues — I spent weeks stripping the place of anything like that.”
Mitcheson shrugged. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” He returned her stare, irritated by her obsession with position. “The reason I didn’t take steps against her or-” he paused meaningfully, “let McManus anywhere near her, was because we can’t go round getting rid of everyone as casually as swatting flies. It attracts too much attention.”
The silence was broken by the sound of a car pulling up outside. The Rottweiler growled and trotted away to investigate.
Lottie said nothing. To Mitcheson, that was the most worrying of all.
From the hire car under the tree, Palmer and Riley watched as the dust settled from the cream Mercedes that had just passed through the gate. They had caught a brief glimpse of the driver and passenger, and Riley had felt a jolt at recognising the big man she had seen in Piccadilly.
“Seems like Grossman’s gathering his forces,” Palmer said.
“I wish we could get inside,” said Riley. “Perhaps we can come back later.”
“Maybe.” Palmer had his doubts; these people were trained soldiers. “Right now, though, I think we’d better move. Those latest two may have spotted us. If we hang about they could be swarming all over us.”
He started the engine and drove quietly away down the road towards the coast.
Ten minutes later, Doug and Howie stepped out from the trees not far from where the hire-car had been parked. They both carried handguns and had made their way silently all the way round the villa, checking bushes and undergrowth.
Howie spoke into his mobile: “The car’s gone. Could have been tourists.”
“Check the perimeter again, anyway,” Mitcheson’s voice came back. There was a click as he cut the connection.
“Can somebody stop that infernal noise?” A detective of the Malaga Criminal Investigation Unit spoke loudly enough to attract everyone’s attention while he stared at the body of Jerry Bignell. Downstairs a cleaning woman was wailing like an air-raid siren which she’d been doing since she first arrived and made her discovery. While a uniformed officer went down to attend to the woman, the detective sighed and wondered why these English criminals were littering his country with their rubbish. He’d long suspected what Bignell was up to, but hadn’t yet got round to reeling him in. Now there was no need. He couldn’t see the man’s death was any great loss.
He winced at the smell fouling the air, swatting at the flies buzzing around the body. If they left it much longer this place would be a serious health hazard. He went downstairs to call for assistance and see what the wailing woman had to say.
Chapter 26
“I’m going for a walk,” said Palmer, poking his head round the doorway of Riley’s room. “You want anything?”
They had booked into a small hotel along the coast road outside Malaga. It was sandwiched between a new development of half-built holiday apartments and a shopping complex bright with multi-coloured lights and gaudy adverts for suntan oil and Ray-Ban sunglasses.
After hanging around the garden behind the hotel for a while, discussing their next move and subconsciously waiting for dusk to fall, they had returned to their rooms to catch up on the sleep they had missed during their flight from England.
Riley looked up from where she was hunched over her laptop on the bed. “Nothing, thanks,” she said. She had been indulging in some mind-mapping, randomly jotting down thoughts about the investigation. The names of Cook, Page, McKee and the others were dotted about the screen, joined by a series of lines, arrows and exclamation marks. She had just added John Mitcheson’s name with a question mark and another line to Ray Grossman and his wife.
She listened as Palmer’s footsteps echoed down the tiled stairs towards the lobby, and wondered if she shouldn’t have tagged along with him. It might be better than sitting here uselessly staring at her screen while getting eye strain, with her thoughts equally jumbled like scattered pieces of a puzzle. The inactivity was beginning to get to her and she desperately wanted to have another look at the villa. But Palmer would throw a fit if she went without him.
Half an hour later, when he had still not returned, she closed the laptop and drove back along the coast road. She knew it was risky, but she really couldn’t take the waiting any longer. Besides, it would hardly be the first time she had gone snooping alone.
She turned onto the road leading to the Villa Almedina and drove past it into open countryside. In spite of the falling light there was still a remnant of heat-haze in the distance over the fields, and a line of trees danced like chorus girls along the brow of a hill. There was little other movement, save for two men with deeply weathered faces scuffing wearily along the road. Both were dressed in faded work-clothes and carried tool-bags over their shoulders. One wore a scruffy baseball cap with a Coca-Cola logo, while the other fanned himself with a battered straw hat that had seen better days. They stared as Riley drove by, but didn’t pause in their measured tread.
After half a mile she turned the car round and drove slowly back. There was no sign of the two men, so she cut the engine and coasted into the side of the road just before reaching the villa. She climbed out to the sound of a turgid breeze in the trees and the distant hum of an electric motor.
She took a bottle of water and locked the car, then walked along the verge until she reached the stone wall where she and Palmer had stood earlier. The dry undergrowth crackled beneath her boots, and she tried to banish all thoughts of snakes. The atmosphere here was cooler, with a strong smell of sap hanging in the air. She wormed her way into the trees and squatted down to watch the rear of the villa, focusing on the patio and pool.
She sipped sparingly from the water bottle but soon began to wish she’d used the bathroom before coming out. It wouldn’t take long for the thought to become intense and nagging. It’s easy for men on this kind of job, she thought. All they have to do is unzip where they stand and no one gives it a thought.
A twig snapped off to her left. She resisted the impulse to spin round and turned her head slowly, her breathing stopped. A flash of movement caught her eye. When it wasn’t repeated she decided it must have been a bird and settled back on her heels to wait.
Ten minutes later still nothing had happened around the villa. She wondered what Palmer was doing. Probably propping up a bar listening to the gossip, knowing him. Not that she thought he was idle; in fact there was something about Palmer that told her once he took on a job, he was the type never to be off duty. Her opinion of the private detective had risen considerably since she had first met him, and she realised his laid-back aura of weariness was little more than an act. She felt guilty at having come out here without him, but it was too late now.
A car engine sounded nearby and she saw a flash of light off paintwork towards the front of the house. Doors slammed and voices drifted through the branches, then silence. More members of the household, or visitors?
There was a scuff of movement to her left. Again she turned her head but couldn’t see an
ything. Then she heard a low growl to her front. She looked towards the sound and realised that what she had first taken to be a dark patch of tree trunk was now moving.
The Rottweiler was standing barely twenty feet away, looking right at her.
The yellow eyes stayed on her as the animal approached. Its pupils contained pale flecks, and there was a line of dried, white saliva around the dog’s jaws. Riley could see the muscle bunched around the beast’s shoulders, and her mouth went dry as she realised trying to run would be hopeless; this animal would be on her before she got to her feet.
Another snap sounded to her left and someone muttered a low curse. The effect on the dog was instantaneous. It stopped dead, its head whipping round.
The result was dramatic. A man rose from the undergrowth thirty feet away and stared at the dog with a look of terror. His face was deeply tanned, and he wore a familiar baseball cap bearing a Coca-Cola motif. It was one of the workmen Riley had seen earlier along the road.
It explained why she hadn’t seen the two men on her way back. So this was where they had gone, to catch some sleep under the trees. Now one of them had woken up and disturbed the Rottweiler.
It was then she realised that the man was holding a handgun.
The dog saw it in the same instant and launched itself forward through the trees like an arrow, a deep rumbling coming from its chest. There was a crash of trampled undergrowth as the man stumbled backwards, then a noise like a branch snapping. The dog gave a howl.
Then silence.
Voices called from the direction of the villa, and Riley decided it was time to go. She turned and hopped over the wall, running along the verge to the car. Behind her she heard shouting and more snapping sounds from among the trees.
She fumbled with the car keys, perspiration making them slippery. Finally the door opened and she skidded off the grass verge onto the road, a billowing cloud of dust building behind her, masking her from the view of anyone coming out of the trees.
At the end of the road she pulled out onto the main coastal highway. Her nerves were screaming at her close brush with disaster. Palmer would throw a fit if he found out. She shivered again at the thought of the dog, and thanked the gods that its attention had been diverted by the man in the cap.
As she accelerated in the direction of the hotel, a figure in a dark uniform stepped out from the side of the road a hundred yards ahead. She instantly felt a leaden feeling in her stomach. He was pointing at her and waving her down. Behind him stood a police car, its blue light flashing.
Chapter 27
Frank Palmer knocked at Riley’s bedroom door. He’d already tried once but there was no reply. Was she asleep? He glanced at his watch. Surely she couldn’t be that tired?
He walked over to the rear windows and peered down into the car park. The car was gone. He ran downstairs and asked the desk clerk if he knew where Miss Gavin had gone. The man shrugged.
“Do you have a courtesy car I can use?”
“Sorry, no,” the clerk replied carefully. “It takes one hour and I can arrange one for you.”
Palmer spotted a small Fiat parked outside. “Who does that belong to?” he asked.
The clerk smiled proudly. “Is mine.”
“Great.” Palmer took a fistful of notes from his pocket. “I want to hire your car for an hour or so.” He figured it was more than the clerk earned in two days work.
“But, sir — I cannot… ”
“You can,” Palmer urged. “I’ve got to collect a friend from the airport — a business contact. If I don’t get there, I’m in deep shit — you understand?” He added more notes. “Come on — you’ve got my passport.”
Greed won. The clerk handed Palmer his keys and watched as the Englishman hurried out of the car park and down the road. He wondered if the man realised he was heading the wrong way for the airport.
Palmer drove the small Fiat fast along the coast road, wondering what the hell Riley was up to. He’d had a bad feeling about the men they had seen at the villa. The two who had visited his office had let him off without a beating then, but he doubted they would do so again.
He saw a blue flashing light up ahead and slowed down. No sense in him getting into trouble for speeding. As he crawled by on the tail of a van in front, he saw the reason for the hold-up was: Riley being escorted into a police car, as a second policeman climbed behind the wheel of her hire-car.
He drove on until he saw a convenient turning, then spun the wheel and headed back towards Malaga. Within minutes he’d caught up and settled in behind them.
“What happened?” Mitcheson asked, squatting beside Doug. Both men carried handguns. They were in the trees near the villa and Doug was checking through the pockets of a body lying on the ground. A bright splash of blood stained the throat and chest, and the remnants of the man’s shirt hung in tatters. Nearby was a baseball cap.
“The mutt got him.” Doug gestured to where the Rottweiler lay dead. Flies were already buzzing about their heads, attracted by the blood. “And he got the mutt.”
Mitcheson swore softly. “Christ — what with?”
Howie stepped up alongside them and scooped a handgun from the ground. “Star 9mm,” he said. “Cheap and cheerful version — most likely a copy.”
“Was he alone?”
“I counted three,” said Doug. “Two of them ran, then a car took off down the road.”
“Okay. Let’s get him inside. Bring the dog as well.”
Mitcheson and Howie lifted the man’s body and threaded their way through the trees, while Doug brought the dog. Gary was waiting on the patio with his gun drawn, while inside, McManus stood guard by the hallway.
In one armchair in the living room sat a slim, dark-skinned man in his mid-forties. He was expensively dressed in a lightweight silk suit and cotton shirt. Facing him were Lottie Grossman in another chair, and Ray Grossman scowling from his wheelchair.
Mitcheson and Howie dumped the body in the doorway. The man in the armchair glanced down but said nothing. His liquid eyes were glued to the firepower in the room, and he couldn’t have failed to be impressed by the speed with which the men had responded to the intruders.
“Know him, Mr Segassa?” Mitcheson asked. He gestured at the gun in Howie’s hand. “We found this near the body. Two others got away.”
Segassa looked surprised for an instant, then waved a dismissive hand. “I have never seen him before. There are many criminals in this area.” He stared at the surrounding faces and added dryly: “Mostly English.”
“All right, Andre,” Lottie Grossman said softly. She flicked a hand and the other men left the room. “Now that little matter is out of the way, we can talk terms for the first delivery.” She spoke as though nothing had happened, but her tone left the man in no doubt that he had just witnessed the power she held over the group of men she commanded.
Frank Palmer pulled up across the street from the police station and watched as the car carrying Riley turned through a guarded gateway, followed by the hire-car. He wondered why Riley had chosen to go off alone. Whatever the reason, she had fallen foul of the law and needed extracting.
He returned to the hotel and handed the keys back to the clerk and asked him to call a taxi. If he also got picked up, he didn’t want the clerk involved through his car number. He had the taxi drop him a block away from the police station and walked the rest of the way deep in thought. This latest development was an added complication. Had Lottie and her group called the cops? Or had Riley simply been unlucky and infringed a local traffic regulation? The third option was more worrying, and that was that the local cops might have acted in co-ordination with the Grossmans.
He stood outside for a moment, considering his options, then took a deep breath and walked up the steps and through the front doors. Nothing like a frontal attack, he figured, for upsetting the enemy.
The inside of the reception area was like police stations anywhere; the walls lined with lurid posters requesting information
about offences committed and warning of the dangers of drugs and drinking.
Palmer filtered his way through a group of distressed German tourists in sun hats and shorts and arrived at the desk, where a stressed-looking sergeant was issuing orders to subordinates and hurling sheets of paper through a hatch in the back wall. Palmer flashed his passport. “I’ve been told you have a friend of mine under arrest,” he said politely. “She was picked up at Moharras. I wonder if you would be kind enough to give me some details?” He gave Riley’s name.
The desk sergeant disappeared, then returned a few minutes later and motioned him to sit down and wait. The minutes ticked away with grinding slowness. Palmer sat and half-listened as the German tourists told in angry detail how they had been the target of pickpockets on a nearby beach.
Two other men emerged from the back office and stood nearby talking in low tones. The one doing most of the talking was Spanish, and plainly a policeman. The other was English and dressed in a dusty suit and scuffed brown shoes with frayed, red laces. He had a beaten, ingratiating manner, and was scribbling in a battered notebook while constantly nudging the policeman for more information. Eventually, the detective managed to make his escape and retreated through the door.
The desk sergeant interrupted Palmer’s eavesdropping and motioned him through a side door. He led him down a corridor and knocked on a blank door at the end.
The office was sparse and lacked any personal touches. Behind the bare desk sat a captain in uniform, his cigarette smoke drawn upwards by a large ceiling fan. He stood up as Palmer walked in and dismissed the desk sergeant with a wave of his hand.
No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Page 12