No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1

by Adrian Magson

  “John? It’s Riley… I need to see you… it’s urgent. Can we meet? Not in the same place as last time — it’s too public.”

  McManus listened as Riley Gavin suggested somewhere called the Ascona along the coast road at midday tomorrow. She said goodbye and the recorded voice told him the message had been left at eight the previous evening. He checked the address on the slip of paper Lottie had given him. It wasn’t the Ascona, so they must have moved. Never mind — he’d find it. Couldn’t be too hard, could it?

  He was about to delete the message but decided against it. Better if he left it so Mitcheson could find it later. When he saw how close he might have been to warning the Gavin bitch off, it would kill him. He grinned and switched off the phone, then went back into the living room and dumped it behind a cushion. There you are soldier boy, he thought maliciously. By the time you get the message, she’ll just be a memory.

  Chapter 35

  Riley was edgy. So far Mitcheson hadn’t responded to her message for a meeting. Palmer had gone off earlier to watch the Palacio, and although she had argued that she should cover it, he had pointed out that if Mitcheson did call, she should be ready to move quickly. The centre of Malaga wasn’t the place to do that.

  She finished her drink and went up to her room to go over her notes. After that she lay down on the bed to get some rest. If things were going to start moving, she’d need all the energy she could get. Within seconds she was fast asleep, head filled with tangled dreams of dogs, gun and Peter Willis and his wife, laughing as they queued for check-in at the airport.

  As Riley gave in to a restless sleep, downstairs in reception a large man was pushing his way through a crowd of new arrivals clamouring for attention.

  McManus used his bulk to get through and held up his car keys to the clerk. “Hire car for Miss Gavin,” he announced. “She needs to sign. Can I use the house phone?”

  The receptionist, relieved at not having another job to do, told McManus the room number and indicated an internal phone to one side. McManus smiled. This was going to be easy.

  The moment the receptionist looked away he replaced the phone and slipped round the corner to check the layout of the exits and the room numbers. Then he went back to his car and parked it at the nearest side door to the emergency staircase. Re-entering the hotel, he went to the lift and punched the call button. In his pocket he fingered a length of nylon cord.

  Mitcheson was feeling a growing sense of desperation. His phone had disappeared and he couldn’t think where he’d left it. He had to warn Riley before McManus got to her. The man was like a bloodhound and wouldn’t stop until he had her. He couldn’t take a chance on using the phone in the hall because of the risk of being overheard, and he knew how voices echoed in this place.

  He checked through his clothes again, then scoured the house a second time, throwing chairs aside. Eventually he came across the cleaning lady tidying up in the living room.

  “Have you seen a mobile phone?” he asked her, indicating his shirt pocket. “Cellphone? Telefono?” She stared mutely back at him, shaking her head, then turned to arrange the cushions on the chairs.

  He continued searching, flicking open doors in the sideboard and checking the wastebasket, his nerves like a series of tiny needles under his skin. Give it two more minutes and he’d go crazy. He turned to watch the cleaner, finally running out of ideas and ready to take the chance with the phone in the hall. To hell with it; he couldn’t stand by here and let McManus get his hands on Riley. Just then the cleaner lifted one of the cushions off the sofa and he saw the mobile nestling underneath.

  She picked it up and turned to him, holding out the phone with her fingertips. She was frowning and making what he assumed was a Spanish tutting noise, plainly unhappy about something.

  Mitcheson switched it on and saw the message symbol flashing. He punched in the code and listened to Riley’s message. As he did so, he felt a sticky substance on the back of the instrument and realised why the cleaner was so unhappy and was now scrubbing furiously with a damp cloth at the sofa. He turned the mobile over.

  Red jam.

  His blood ran cold.

  He dialled Riley’s number.

  Riley was shaken by a loud knocking at her bedroom door. Struggling to wake up, she levered herself off the bed, her mouth gummy and dry. She felt a stab of alarm, then told herself it was probably Palmer forgotten his keys. After all, who else knew they were here?

  Another knock, this time more urgent, followed by a man’s voice. “Police. Open, please.”

  Riley swore softly, and wondered how they had found her. After the police captain’s warning, this meant instant deportation or worse. She stumbled across the room to the door, and had just lifted the safety catch out of its slot when her muddled brain triggered the realisation that the voice sounded wrong.

  On the bedside table, her mobile phone began ringing.

  She pushed furiously against the door and tried to slide the chain back into place, but the door slammed against her like a battering ram, propelling her backwards into the room. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of McManus’s huge shape bearing down on her, a smile of triumph on his face.

  Although winded, she broke her fall with the flat of her hands and desperately kicked out with her right foot, connecting with the side of McManus’s left kneecap. He didn’t even flinch but grasped her foot and twisted it painfully, flipping her onto her face. In his other hand he was holding a length of rope. With practised ease and two turns of the rope, he had Riley effectively neutralised on the floor.

  He pressed a foot against the side of her neck and leered down at her. “Ain’t no good strugglin’,” he told her. “You’ll only make things worse.” He stepped over to the bedside cabinet where Riley’s mobile phone was still ringing and stabbed the ‘off’ button.

  “The good news is, your message got through to soldier boy. The bad news is, he couldn’t make it so I’ve come instead.” He flicked the curtain aside and peered out onto the car park. Satisfied the way was clear he came back and lifted her on to the bed. She could smell coffee on his breath and a strong aftershave that made her feel nauseous.

  “Now listen, darlin’,” he said, face close to hers. “I ain’t messin’, so don’t piss me about. We’re goin’ walkies. Out of this room, down the back stairs and out to the car park. Simple and easy, okay?”

  Riley stared up at him, her revulsion evident by the white-hot look in her eyes.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I said okay?” He prodded her stomach with a massive finger, doubling her forward.

  She nodded. “Yes… all right.”

  “Good.” He cupped a huge hand around her neck. “Do anything silly, I’ll snap your spine like a twig. And believe me, darlin’, I’ve snapped stronger than yours.”

  He untied the cord from her wrists and flung it to one side, then pushed her across to the door and opened it.

  “Remember,” he whispered. “One wrong move and you’re dead.” Then he pushed her out into the corridor.

  Mitcheson switched off his phone, a sick feeling in his gut. The phone had started ringing, then been switched off. Why should she do that?

  He went out to the hallway and picked up a local business directory. According to the listing the Ascona was just along the coast road. He dialled the number. No reply. He swore, glancing at his watch. There was plenty of time before the afternoon meeting in Malaga. Lottie Grossman wouldn’t like the idea of him going walkabout, any more than McManus would, but that was too bad. They didn’t own him lock, stock and barrel — not yet.

  He found Doug standing by the front door, eyeing the surrounding scenery.

  “I’ll be back in a while,” he told him. “Did McManus go out?”

  Doug nodded. “Yeah. Beats me the caveman can even drive. He looked like he’d won the Lottery. What’s going on?”

  Mitcheson felt guilty not trusting a man he’d known for a number of years, but he couldn’t ta
ke the chance. “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  The Land Cruiser was free, so he got in and wheeled it down the drive.

  When Frank Palmer returned to the hotel for lunch, he walked along the corridor to Riley’s room and was surprised to see the door open. Inside he found John Mitcheson standing at the window looking out. The bed was rumpled and Mitcheson was holding a length of nylon cord.

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was your scene,” Palmer said softly.

  Mitcheson snapped round, eyes seeking a way out. When he saw who it was, he relaxed slightly, but began to move towards the door. “Frank Palmer, isn’t it?” His voice was calm and relaxed, as though meeting an old friend.

  The investigator stepped aside and indicated the open doorway. He had no illusions about being able to take on the former soldier; the man was younger, fitter and had the advantage of desperation on his side. All Palmer would get in the process was a trampled body and bruised pride.

  “You can go if you like,” he said coolly. “I won’t stop you. But I’d rather you told me what’s happened to Riley first.”

  Mitcheson stopped and reassessed Palmer. “I don’t know,” he told Palmer with obvious honesty. “I was supposed to meet her here at midday.” He glanced at his watch; it was just gone eleven.

  “Bit eager, aren’t you?”

  Mitcheson ignored the crack. “I think the message was intercepted by McManus. If it was, she’s in real trouble.”

  Palmer indicated the cord in Mitcheson’s hand. “Well, I doubt Riley’s into bondage, so that could only have been left by your primeval mate. Where would he have taken her — the villa?”

  “No there, no. Lottie Grossman told him to deal with her. Where he takes her is up to him.” He glanced at his watch again. “I have to be at a meeting soon. If I don't turn up Riley definitely won’t survive.”

  Palmer nodded. “Well, that gives us a bit of time, doesn’t it?” He glanced around the room, then went to the wardrobe where Riley’s laptop sat on a shelf. Evidently McManus hadn’t been interested in taking anything else. He left it where it was; Riley had already emailed her notes to Brask. He turned back to Mitcheson. “We’d better come up with something bloody quick. And while we’re about it, you’d best figure out which side of the fence you’re on.”

  Chapter 36

  Riley felt the skin tightening on the back of her neck and debated driving the Mercedes into the nearest brick wall. But she knew it wouldn’t work. McManus was sitting beside her with a handgun in one huge fist and the other hand resting on the seat-back behind her. The proximity of the gun repulsed her almost as much as the touch of his hand.

  After leaving the hotel, he had walked her to his car with his arm clamped around her shoulder, then pushed her into the driving seat, handing her the keys.

  “You’re driving,” he told her. “And forget about any silly shunts on the way. Make a wrong move and I’ll top you where you sit.” As he got in the passenger seat he produced a gun, which he held under his jacket with the muzzle pointing at Riley’s stomach. “Yeah. Look at it, darlin’,” he muttered. “Imagine what kind of bullet comes out of a barrel this big. Think of the damage it’d do to that precious little body.”

  She followed his directions onto the coast road towards Malaga, then out to a suburb of narrow streets and shabby housing. Whining mopeds buzzed around the big German car, overtaking on blind corners and slipping through gaps which looked suicidally small. And everywhere delivery trucks of all shapes and sizes seemed to fill the streets, causing jams and minor altercations as motorists leaned out of the vehicles and shouted at each other. McManus’s hand moved forward off the seat, resting heavily midway between Riley’s shoulder and neck as a reminder not to try anything.

  “Slow down.” McManus leaned forward as they nosed along a narrow street, then indicated a parking space ahead. “Pull in there.”

  Riley did as she was told and cut the engine, shivering as McManus’s hand curled warningly over her shoulder. She saw why: a hundred yards ahead, a dark blue car was nosing out of the gates to a house next to a hoarding advertising a new block of flats. A uniformed policeman closed the gates, then stretched a length of plastic tape across the front before climbing into the car. Another policeman stepped out of the front door of the house and closed the door, pinning another length of tape in place, before joining his colleague. Seconds later the car was disappearing down the street.

  McManus sniggered quietly. “That’s handy. Everything stops for lunch in this country, did you know that?” He pointed forward. “Okay. Up to the gates.”

  Riley started the car and drove forward. She briefly considered driving right through the ironwork but she knew McManus would kill her before they even made contact.

  “Keys,” McManus ordered, his hand held out as soon as she stopped. She handed them over and he got out and untied the police tape, then opened the gates. Returning the keys, he told her to drive the car inside, then retied the tape before closing the gates behind them.

  In one of the Hotel Palacio’s small conference rooms, Lottie Grossman was staring coolly at Andre Segassa. Alongside her sat John Mitcheson and Howie. They were watching Segassa’s escort as he stood against the wall behind his boss.

  Doug and Gary were in the corridor, watching the doorways on each side and the fire-exit at one end.

  The Grossman party had arrived fifteen minutes early and, to Lottie’s annoyance, was being made to wait for the privilege. Segassa had come down to meet them, but had explained that his colleague was busy on the telephone. In the meantime he had arranged for coffee and sandwiches to be served.

  There was a tap at the door and Gary appeared. Behind him stood a man with the wary expression of the professional bodyguard. His eyes flickered around the room and he nodded at the man behind Segassa.

  “Man wants us to clear the corridor, boss,” said Gary. He was looking directly at Lottie Grossman rather than Mitcheson. “Says the big chief’s on his way down.”

  Mitcheson kept his face blank, although Howie looked surprised. For a brief second nobody moved.

  “Very well,” said Lottie, and Gary disappeared, followed by the other man.

  Lottie leaned closer to Mitcheson and hissed: “Has McManus called? He was supposed to let us know if he’d found the girl.”

  Mitcheson shook his head, feeling the slow burn of anger and despair. Even with Gary’s casual display of transferred allegiance, he was asking himself the same question and trying hard not to freak out at the implications. Right now he was more concerned about Riley’s safety than Gary’s duplicity. “I haven’t heard from him. He went out this morning like you told him.”

  “I’ll have his balls,” Lottie grated angrily, ignoring the pointed dig at her orders. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  Moments later an elderly man entered the room. With gold-rimmed glasses and a receding hairstyle, he looked more like an academic than a Moroccan narcotics dealer. He nodded briefly at Lottie and sat down next to Segassa, produced a gold lighter and lit a cigarette.

  “Can we get on with this?” Lottie Grossman said stiffly.

  The man paused, cigarette mid-way to his mouth. He lowered it and stared at the woman with the beginnings of distaste. “You English are so impatient,” he said softly. “And discourteous.” He puffed on the cigarette, sending a cloud of strongly-scented smoke into the air. “Mr Bignell was also impatient, although always polite… in his own way.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” said Lottie, a flinty look in her eye. “For now I’d like to get things moving. When can we have the first shipment, Mr…?”

  “You can have the shipment tomorrow,” the man replied, without giving his name. “Make the first payment now and the package will be landed in the afternoon.”

  Lottie seemed impressed in spite of herself. “That’s quick work.”

  The man shrugged. “We already had the route set up, until you… took over from Mr Bi
gnell. It works — why change it?”

  “Isn’t it risky, using the same methods?”

  The man sighed and looked at the woman as if she was a child who had made a silly remark. Lottie’s face coloured beneath her heavy make-up and her pudgy hands balled into fists on the table top.

  Alongside her, Mitcheson was struggling to restrain himself. He wanted to grab the stupid old woman by the shoulders and tell her if she continued the way she was going, there wouldn’t be any deal and they could all go home again. But at least he could continue his search for Riley.

  “If you’re using existing routes,” Lottie pointed out doggedly, “your costs won’t be as high, will they?”

  Segassa spoke for the first time. “What are you suggesting — that we give you a special discount, maybe? Buy one, get one free?” The tone was mocking but his eyes were cold as a dead fish.

  Lottie ignored the sarcasm. “Why not? We’ll increase your volume by ten times what Bignell was shifting.”

  Segassa appeared unimpressed. “You know how much Bignell was moving?”

  “It was peanuts compared with what we can shift.”

  The elderly man stubbed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray and looked questioningly at Lottie. “Have you any idea what twenty kilos looks like? How difficult it is to… to manage?”

  “I compare it to bags of sugar,” Lottie replied simply. “And how I put it away is my business.”

  “No. Not quite.” The man wagged a finger from side to side, the most animated he had been since entering the room. A faint pulse had started to beat in his throat. “If you make a mistake, Mrs Grossman, it could lead back to us. And that will very definitely become my business.”

  In the silence that followed, a vacuum cleaner hummed in the distance. Outside the door a man cleared his throat.

  “Now,” the elderly man said, rising from his chair and placing his hands flat on the table, “at the risk of being discourteous also, I must go. Do you wish to deal, or not?”