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.
She picked it up again, this time by sliding her hand beneath it. There was a damp patch in the centre on the other side. The old man must have drooled on it. Or coughed. The thought made her nauseous.
Mrs Marsh seemed unaware of anything, her eyes dull with shock. One thing Riley was sure of was that while the matron had followed instructions about restricting access to Page while he was alive, she had taken no part in his death.
“You’re certain no one else has been in here?” she asked carefully. “In the last few hours, for example. When did you last see him alive - for certain?”
Mrs Marsh hesitated momentarily before shaking her head. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “Probably last night, when I gave him his last dose. But those leaves you noticed downstairs? They were there when I woke up this morning… in the hallway. The back door must have been left open.” She looked away guiltily.
Before Riley could say anything, a vehicle drew to a halt outside.
Chapter 13
“It’s the ambulance,” the matron explained. She glanced towards the door, stopping Riley before she could move. “The doors make a special sound... you get used to it in this job. You won’t say anything, will you - about being in here? I could lose my job. They’re clamping down on security now.” Her eyes looked imploringly at Riley, desperate for the whole thing to go away. Yet even she must have known it was not as simple as that.
“I won’t say a word, Mrs Marsh,” Riley assured her. “But I think you’ll have to. They’re bound to do a post-mortem.”
Riley suspected that while Mrs Marsh might have taken some financial favour here and there to give special consideration to a resident, going against the law by covering up what
she suspected to be a death from unnatural causes was beyond her.
She put a hand on the matron’s arm. “Mrs Marsh. Were you expecting him to die?”
The woman shook her head. “No. He was weak, of course, but not terminally ill.” She looked beseechingly at Riley. “Who could have done such a thing?”
Without waiting for a reply she left the room and went downstairs to admit the ambulance crew. The moment she was out of sight, Riley went through the bedside cabinet, but it was devoid of any papers save for some cheap books and magazines. Evidently anything of a personal nature had been cleared out. She checked the cabinet over the sink but that revealed no helpful clues, either. And no aftershave.
There wasn’t time to get Palmer in here to take a look; he’d have to rely on her observations. She followed Mrs Marsh downstairs. A private ambulance stood near the front door and one of the crew was just entering. Mrs Marsh’s voice floated out from inside, giving directions, telling them to mind the furniture. She sounded more in control now she was on familiar ground.
Palmer was leaning against the car smoking, with the cat they had seen earlier winding its way round his ankles. When he saw Riley he flicked the cigarette into the hedge and shooed the cat away before sliding into the rear seat. “Any luck?”
Riley shook her head and tossed her shoulder bag into the back. “He’s dead. The matron’s terrified and thinks he was helped along. So do I.” She explained about the indentations in the pillow and the leaves lying around inside.
“Convenient,” Palmer muttered bluntly. “Any chance she deliberately left the door unlocked?”
Riley glanced in the mirror at him. “You’ve got a nasty mind, Frank Palmer. She may be open to the odd inducement, but our Mrs Marsh isn’t the conspiracy sort - certainly not to murder. And the only reason I noticed the leaves was because the place is spotless.”
Palmer nodded. “Sounds like somebody’s doing a spot of clearing up of a different kind.”
“Yes. I wonder if there are any more old associates like Page and Cook - ones I never found a mention of? If there are, they must be wondering who’s going to be next on the list.”
“You said there was a third man at the top of the tree - someone who ran things with Cage and McKee.”
“There was. But no one knows who he was - or even if he’s still alive. And Cage and McKee aren’t telling.”
Riley started the car and drove away. As they passed the driveway, Mrs Marsh was standing by the open rear doors of the ambulance, staring off into space.
Back at Palmer’s office, Riley checked her mobile for messages. There was one. It was a familiar voice: “Riley? John Mitcheson... Remember, we met on the plane? How about that dinner we talked about? Give me a call.” His voice was calm and steady, as confident as she remembered from their talk on the plane. There was no hesitation when he had finished speaking, no repeated goodbye. He simply left a number and rang off.
“Will you go?” Palmer asked, when Riley explained about the message.
“Probably. Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“You tell me.”
Riley caught his eye and reflected that Palmer wasn’t as sleepy as he pretended. “I never gave him my mobile number.”
“Well,” Palmer commented, plugging in the kettle and scratching for tea bags in a drawer, “that’s no big deal. If it was me that wanted to track down a hot babe I’d met on holiday, I’d drop a few Euros down the hotel manager’s shirtfront. Tea... coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Riley said, flushing at the thought that she had planned to do exactly what Palmer had just suggested. “But I didn’t give the hotel my number, either. I never give it to anyone - not even my mother. It’s strictly for outward use when I’m on the move. How could anyone trace it so quickly?”
Frank contemplated the ceiling, then said: “Maybe he’s not just anyone.”
Chapter 14
The beaches between Malaga and Almeria were virtually deserted as a spiteful breeze stung flesh with sand and sent beach balls and towels tumbling out of reach. The open-air cafes, usually busy throughout the day, were temporarily shuttered, with customers huddled inside waiting for the inevitable up-turn in the weather, while staff hurried to rescue sunshades and plastic chairs sent skittering across the promenades. Only the hardiest of tourists braved the drop in temperature and ventured onto the beaches, determination driving them to endure the unenjoyable come what may.
Even for these tough souls there was, initially, little to attract attention. A single boat moved on the water, approaching land from the south and sending up fans of spray as it bounced across the angry waves towards Torre del Mar. A boat like hundreds of others on this stretch of coastline, but at least it was moving and therefore watchable, unlike the dozens of others bouncing aimlessly at their moorings.
From the direction of the air force base in Malaga barely ten miles away, an AS 532 Super Puma helicopter with Spanish navy markings clattered over the villas and hotels, out across the expanse of beach and the white froth of the waves breaking on the shore. At the same time a powerful-looking launch surged round the headland, its stern flag snapping in the wind and announcing its origins with the Spanish Coastguard. Both craft seemed to be converging towards the small boat out at sea.
For several moments nothing changed, the three craft separate players in an unconnected drama on a blustery day. Then the incoming boat broke from its course, veering north and increasing speed to run parallel to the shore. The helicopter and launch adjusted their course to compensate. The incomer changed direction again, this time heading south, the creamy wake increasing at its stern as it put on speed. The other two craft did the same, giant sheepdogs herding their quarry toward the shore.
The helicopter reached its target first. Bearing down on the incomer and beginning to lose height, it sank to a point fifty feet above the waves in front of the speeding boat, while the Coastguard launch curved round to take up station out at sea. The small boat tried one final evasive manoeuvre, dashing like a terrier for a non-existent gap, then the nose sank as the engine was cut.
Lottie Grossman stared out over the rear garden where she had not long finished another bout of weeding, and heard the click of the disconnection from the phone in her hand. She waited a few seconds before dialling an overseas number. After the news she had just heard, she was going to enjoy this, she decided. She was going to really enjoy it.
When the response came it was in bad Spanish. Lottie recognised the voice. The man on the other end was a small-time, low-level crooked ex-car dealer named Jerry Bignell. He had scuttled off to Spain several years previously when things had got too warm at home. Unable to lead any other life, he had set up a small drugs channel from Morocco with the help of some former London contacts. It wasn’t a big operation, and hardly worth the Spanish anti-drug agencies or Customs wasting their time on. But the contacts across the Med were good and the product was high quality. In Lottie’s opinion, it was time to step up a gear or two and make some changes.
“Your little boat has just been stopped by the Spanish Coastguard,” she informed the man on the other end. “The crew are under arrest. I hope you promised their families a pension.”
“Who the fuck is this?” Bignell demanded. His voice was whiney and nasal with the harsh tones of south London. He sounded drunk, which didn’t surprise Lottie one bit. Bignell was addicted to lots of things.
“As of now,” she continued, “your operation is dead in the water. You don’t have the money to buy a fresh load - and the last I heard your suppliers don’t accept Visa. You’re busted.”
“Cow!” the man screamed down the phone. “I’ll have you for this, you bitch!”
“No,” Lottie said calmly, her voice curling down the phone like a snake. “You won’t. You don’t have the reach or the manpower. If you try anything I’ll send someone round to see your daughter. Kensal Rise, she lives, doesn’t she? Nice place... bit open to knife crime, though. But then, so is everyw
here these days.”
Bignell said nothing, but she could hear his laboured breathing as he struggled to control his temper. He had to know without a shadow of doubt that she wasn’t bluffing. If he didn’t, she’d never get his co-operation.
“That’s better. Now then, I’ll pay you ten thousand pounds to forge a new link between my people and your contacts in Spain and Morocco. We’ll call it an introduction and retirement fee.”
“What?” Bignell spat incredulously. “Are you fucking mad? You don’t just buy into this like a fruit and veg stall down the Oval! They’re not going to let you take my spot just like that!”
“Why should they care?” Lottie countered. “Money talks - especially if we offer to raise the stakes. Let’s call it a change of management.” She smiled down the phone and purred: “Let’s face it, what else have you got going for you, Jerry?”
In the silence that followed, she knew she had him. Just as she’d predicted. It was like taking sweets off kids. “Good. We appear to have an understanding. I’ll send my men round later today with the money. Get stupid and they’ll be on the phone to London. After they’ve dealt with you, that is.”
She dropped the phone and let out her breath in a rush. Her face felt flushed. It had been a long time since she had experienced the thrill of sex - not that she’d ever been that keen on all that undignified grappling, anyway. But she reckoned this buzz more than made up for it.
She wondered where Mitcheson was. It was time he started earning his money. She hadn’t seen McManus for a couple of days, either. But that wasn’t surprising; his loyalties always had been divided.
“Gary!” she called, and the young man appeared before her voice had ceased echoing round the hallway. He had the uncanny knack, she had found, of being always within reach when she needed him. “Find Mr Mitcheson and tell him we’re going to Spain.”
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 6
