No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1

by Adrian Magson

  “I have already spoken to Mrs Grossman,” the captain said without preamble. “I did not expect anyone to come so soon.”

  Palmer kept his expression blank and shrugged. He didn’t know where this was going, but it seemed already to have escaped him. He also had half his mind on the conversation he’d overheard out in the reception area.

  The captain shrugged, too. “Well, it is of no consequence. The young lady will be charged under our vagrancy laws and sent home.” He clapped his hands lightly together in a washing motion. “I understand she is English. You know her name?”

  “Yes,” Palmer replied. “We know her.” He took out his wallet. “I will, of course, pay any fines your courts would normally apply.”

  The officer nodded and wrote a figure on a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk for Palmer to see. It was a lot of money, but there was no other method of getting Riley out of Lottie Grossman’s reach. He counted out the notes and slid them across the desk. The officer nodded, slipped them in the desk drawer and locked it.

  He picked up the phone and spoke rapidly, then replaced it and said, “The lady will be brought out immediately. I am sorry we could not bring her to Villa Almedina, but there are limits to what I can arrange.” He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a thick cloud of pungent smoke. “She was speeding,” he continued, as if sensing some justification was needed in exchange for the money. “My men were merely doing their job, of course.”

  “I understand,” Palmer said. “Excellent work, captain.” Evidently Lottie Grossman liked to take extra precautions to protect her privacy. He felt a growing admiration for the woman; she certainly believed in good organisation. He wondered how much she was paying this officer for his discreet help.

  There was a knock at the door and a squat, dour-looking woman in uniform appeared. Riley was close behind her, looking as if she could spit nails. She looked stunned to see Palmer and he shook his head to warn her not to say anything.

  The officer ground out his cigarette and stood up. He muttered briefly to the policewoman who departed immediately, before ushering Palmer out into the corridor. Past the desk, they threaded their way through the group of German tourists and out onto the front steps. Palmer had never been so pleased to taste fresh air.

  The officer indicated Riley’s car, which was now parked at the front kerb. “You may go. I strongly suggest you leave on the next plane.” He turned to Palmer, his look intense. “Both of you. This is not a good time to be here unless you are on holiday.” With that he turned on his heels and walked back inside.

  There was a dangerous glint in Lottie Grossman’s eyes when she dropped the phone back on its hook, and a pulse began to beat in her throat as she turned to stare at Mitcheson. She had just finished talking to a contact at the police station to see if anyone suspicious had been seen in the area near the villa.

  “That was the captain at the central station. He just released a woman his men stopped earlier along the coast road near here. She was driving the Peugeot you saw outside. He says one of my men just called in to pay a fine for her release.”

  Mitcheson frowned. They had been out-manoeuvred. But he couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Did they have names?”

  “The captain couldn’t recall,” Lottie muttered, her voice venomous with disbelief. “He says he ordered them to leave the country immediately. No doubt he was paid well for the decision.” She seemed oblivious of her own role in paying him off in the first place. “He’ll regret that lapse of memory.”

  Chapter 28

  “I can’t believe that bunch of fuckwits!” Riley swore roundly and threw the last of her clothing into her bag. She was still outraged by her arrest and expulsion from the country. “And those people… they had guns, Palmer — and that monster of a dog. What in hell are they up to?”

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Palmer took a miniature of brandy from the mini-bar, tipping the contents into a glass.

  “Get that down you,” he said, handing her the glass. “Medicinal only — I don’t need you going into shock on me. Then we’d better move to another hotel. The police might just check this place — or let Grossman’s people do it.”

  Riley stared at the roughness in his voice and realised he was right on both counts. If she let this thing get to her she was going to be useless, and if the police found her still here, they’d be in worse trouble. She drank the contents in one go, wincing as it burned her throat.

  “God — what do they make that from?” she asked.

  Palmer smiled. Protest was a good sign. He excused himself and went along to his room to make a phone call. When he returned, he was carrying a newspaper and his overnight bag. Riley was just putting her mobile down.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I’ve just checked my messages,” she said nodding at the phone. “John Mitcheson wants to talk. It was timed thirty minutes ago.”

  “If he’s out at the villa, he’ll know it was you the police picked up.”

  Riley walked across to the window. “He left a mobile number where I can leave a message. He said it was urgent.”

  Palmer looked sceptical. “And you’re going to call?”

  “Why not? It could be a step forward.”

  “Because,” Palmer said with quiet logic, “it could also be a trap. He might not be the worst of the bunch, but someone in that group has done the killing. If it wasn’t him, it was one of his men. How do you know it isn’t a set-up?”

  “I don’t. I agreed to leave the country just to keep that police captain happy, but I never said I was giving up on the assignment. After what we’ve seen, I can’t. This is too big to ignore.” She sat back on the bed. “You go back if you want. I’ll pay you up to date.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Palmer dropped the newspaper he was carrying on the bed. It was an English-language edition for British residents. “While I was waiting to spring you from the nick, I heard a detective briefing a local reporter on a murder they discovered today in Malaga. An Englishman named Bignell was found shot dead in his house. They say it was probably drug-related, and that Bignell was a suspected local distributor. They’d been watching him for some time and were getting ready to make an arrest. Looks like someone beat them to it.”

  “How does that involve us? There are loads of Brits living around here. Some of them are bound to be bent.”

  Palmer nodded at the newspaper. It was folded back to a page with a thumbnail photo of the article’s author at the top. “This is the reporter I overheard being briefed at the station. His name’s Benson. I rang him just now and asked if he could give me the bare bones. At first he wouldn’t play — told me to buy tomorrow’s edition. When I pressed him, he said a kid saw two men delivering a carpet at Bignell’s house yesterday evening, and they didn’t look Spanish. Benson said Bignell was well known for making regular trips across to Morocco — and he wasn’t the type to go for the sand or scenery.”

  “Does that mean there’s a connection with Grossman?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Palmer said honestly. “I’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow morning. He wanted to know what was in it for him, so I said we’d see him right.”

  “With my money? Thanks a lot.”

  “Needs must. It could save us a lot of bother. Are we on?”

  “Okay. But I’m still going to call John Mitcheson. Something tells me his reasons for wanting to talk aren’t merely social.”

  Palmer stood up and walked to the door. “That’s what I was afraid of. Come on — I’ve booked us into another hotel along the coast. This place feels too exposed now you’ve gone and got yourself a criminal record.”

  Breakfast next morning was on the patio behind their new hotel. The Ascona was a rambling three-storey complex of rooms and small apartments catering predominantly to English guests and a scattering of Germans and Scandinavians. While it wasn’t full, it provided sufficient noise and colour to give them a level o
f cover that would endure all but the most detailed examination.

  Palmer tucked into the buffet bar with a healthy appetite, while Riley stirred her coffee absent-mindedly. The latest edition of the local English-language newspaper lay on the table between them. They had dissected the front page, which was splashed with headlines about the murder of the Englishman, Jerry Bignell, but the story contained little more than guesswork backed up with brief details about Bignell’s history in the Malaga area. The reporter had skirted carefully round making any direct accusation that Bignell was one of the local criminal imports, but the implications were clear for any readers wishing to indulge in a bit of speculation. A grainy head and shoulders photo showed a sour man in his late fifties, his blotchy face apparently suffering a bad case of sunburn.

  “Not hungry?” Palmer asked her, pushing away his plate and lighting a cigarette.

  “Not much,” she replied. “When are we meeting this reporter?”

  Palmer looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes at a beachfront bar called the Oasis. Don’t come if you don’t feel up to it.” He regretted the words the moment he uttered them, then added: “He may know nothing… and he’s no oil painting.”

  “Don’t relegate me to the position of wee girlie, Palmer,” Riley warned him. “I’m coming to see if this reporter actually knows anything or whether he’s just punting a line of guesswork to sell more papers. And what the hell do looks have to do with it?”

  Palmer raised his hands in defence and smiled. “Hey — I was only thinking of you. This getting arrested lark can be quite draining on the emotions — or so I’m led to believe. You’re probably feeling quite traumatised and don’t realise it.”

  Riley smiled in spite of herself. After a night of tossing and turning in the sticky atmosphere of her room, her head buzzing with images of the scene among the trees at the Villa Almedina, having to face a bright-eyed and cheerful Frank Palmer across the breakfast table did little to help her frame of mind. But he was right; she had better be alert if they were going to get anywhere with what information they had.

  “I called Mitcheson last night,” she told him. “He wants to meet me at two this afternoon in Malaga. He suggested the Hotel Palacio in the centre.”

  “So he knows you’re still here, then.”

  She ignored the slight dig. “He sounded… I don’t know… uneasy.”

  Palmer nodded and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “So would I if I had Lottie Grossman ready to bite me in the neck.” He looked her in the eye and continued: “Okay. But I’m coming with you.”

  “Forget it.” Riley shot him a bleak look. “I only want you to watch my back, Palmer, not hold my hand. Anyway, one of us has to keep an eye on the villa, in case something blows up there.”

  He held up a hand to signal defeat. “Okay. You’re the boss. But just so you know, I don’t trust this guy. If it looks dicey, get out of there.”

  “Agreed. Now, are we going to see this reporter?”

  They left the hotel thirty minutes later and Riley drove them along the coast road until they saw a large, garish sign pointing to the Oasis bar and restaurant. It was a low-slung building sandwiched between two gleaming white tourist palaces and facing out to sea. Extensive stretches of tinted glass bore brightly-coloured but unconvincing coconut palms, and unlit neon signs proclaimed nightly live music and Happy Hours. The main car park contained a single car — a sorry-looking Volkswagen Beetle — while a delivery lorry unloaded crates of beer through a set of double doors at the side. It was evidently too early for the morning trade to have begun in earnest.

  “My, Palmer,” Riley remarked as they pushed through a double set of swing doors, to be greeted by a heady smell of stale beer, fried food and cigarette smoke. “I’m really glad you didn't choose somewhere down-market for this meeting.”

  “Don’t knock it,” he replied cheerfully. “Most of my best work has been done in dives like this one.”

  “Really? You should get out more.”

  Chapter 29

  There was a single customer inside. It was the man Palmer had seen in the police station. He was sitting near a window overlooking the beach, staring into a coffee cup. Behind the bar a young man in a white shirt and black waistcoat was polishing a stack of saucers, with a row of cups on the top waiting to be cleaned.

  Palmer led Riley over to the table, signalling to the barman for two coffees on the way.

  “Mr Benson?”

  Benson looked up and tried to look surprised. He gave a faltering grin which didn't quite come off either, and waved a hand instead. “That’s me. Take a seat.”

  He nodded slowly and watched as Riley slid into the bench seat across from him, then turned towards the bar and raised his hand again. “What can I get you?” he offered. His voice sounded shaky and Palmer and Riley exchanged a glance. If this man had slept indoors last night, it must have been in a cement warehouse, because his clothes were covered in fine grains of grey powder and his shirt collar was crumpled and grubby.

  “I’ve ordered coffee,” Palmer told him. He looked across at the connecting table, where an empty glass stood in the middle with a wet smear track running from near Benson’s elbow. “Is that brandy?”

  Riley turned to Palmer, her mouth dropping open. But he ignored her, staring at Benson without expression until the local reporter licked his lips and nodded.

  “Thanks. That’d be good.” His voice broke and he tried another smile. “Whatever gets the day going, right?” He stared down at his hands, then seemed to notice his frayed cuffs and dropped them into his lap.

  When the barman brought their coffees, Palmer said: “And a brandy, please.”

  The barman glanced at Benson, then back at Palmer. “Spanish or French?”

  “Spanish. But make it a good one.”

  The barman shrugged and walked away, flapping his tea towel at a fly on the next table before scooping up the empty glass.

  “That’s decent of you,” said Benson. “Very underestimated, Spanish brandies. So who’s your lady colleague?” He eyed Riley with surprise, as though he had never seen a woman in the place so early before.

  “My name’s Riley Gavin.” Riley began to reach across to shake his hand, but he sat back and closed his eyes briefly, as if overtaken by a sudden bout of tiredness. She threw Palmer a look that said ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ and dropped her hand.

  Benson up close surpassed Palmer’s description earlier. He was reed-thin and angular, with bony hands and wrists. His fingers were coarse-looking, with bitten-down nails and ancient scar tissue across the knuckles as if he might have once been a fighter who’d fallen down a lot. His face was narrow and in need of a shave, with long sideboards and a curl of lank, grey hair hanging behind each ear. A widow’s peak gave him the appearance of a pantomime Dracula, encouraged by a flash of yellowing, uneven teeth between bloodless lips.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asked, opening his eyes.

  “We’re gathering general background information,” said Palmer, taking the lead. “It’s a piece we’re thinking of doing on London firms who’ve moved out here.”

  Benson looked back at him, his eyes suddenly rat-like. “By firms I take it you don’t mean B amp;Q or John Lewis.” When they said nothing, he continued with a shrug: “Just checking. You should know the criminal element’s been done to death already. The last exposé was in the Mirror a couple of months back. And the journo who covered that got his knees broken. He made the mistake of naming names.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go into too much detail about Bignell’s death?” Riley asked him.

  If Benson was annoyed at this slur on his professional courage, he didn’t show it. “You obviously don’t know the type like I do,” he countered evenly. “Upset them and it’s not just you they come after; it’s your family, your friends — anybody. They don’t discriminate.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The barman arrived with a glass of brandy and set i
t down carefully in front of Benson. His expression said clearly that this was a waste of good liquor.

  “No worries,” Benson said matter-of-factly. “It’s a fact of life, that’s all.” He sipped his brandy almost daintily and winked gnome-like at Palmer in appreciation. “Couldn’t rush this if I tried.” He put the glass down and sat back. “Now, what is it you want to know about Mr Jerry Bignell?”

  “Why he died. Who killed him. Stuff like that,” said Palmer. He took out his wallet and left it on the table in front of him. In the background came the squeak of the barman’s polishing cloth.

  Benson sipped his drink, then stood up. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Just be a second.” Then he walked away towards the back of the club, with the exaggerated gait of someone who actually wanted to lie down.

  Riley turned on Palmer with a furious look. “What the bloody hell are you doing, Palmer? That man’s a raging lush and you’re pouring drink down his throat! We’ll be lucky to get any sense out of him when he comes back. Sorry — if he comes back.”

  Palmer nodded towards the coffee cup Benson had been looking into when they arrived. “You think that was his? It’s dried out. He took it off the bar for local colour. The glass on the next table was his — he heard us come in and got rid of it.”

  Benson returned and slid into his seat. “Sorry ‘bout that. Where were we — oh, yes, Bignell. Well, what’s to say? He was a crook and he got killed. Happens all the time.” He sipped more of the brandy and sighed.

  “We’d like to know who his friends were,” said Riley.

  Benson smirked. “That’s easy enough: he never had any. The ones he thought were his mates all bunked off just before he got killed.”

  “They were warned off?”

  “Possibly. Bad news travels fast around here, but direct methods work faster.”

  Palmer lifted his wallet and riffled through some notes inside. “Warned off by who?”

  Benson licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Lay off. You said you wanted some info on Bignell.” He looked suddenly nervous, but his eyes were on the money.