He eased off the pressure just sufficient to prevent the man dying on him, then bent and spoke into McManus’s ear. “Why are you following her?” he demanded. “I told you to leave her to me.”
McManus’s eyes slowly lost their pained look and focused on Mitcheson’s face. It was like having a malevolent dog staring up at him. A dog that knew only one thing: how to kill.
“I don’t take orders from you,” McManus croaked. “And I never will.”
Mitcheson shook him for a moment, then let him go. He wasn’t going to get anything from this man; he was too hard a nut to crack. All McManus understood was how to do what Lottie Grossman told him.
A noise made Mitcheson look along the street. A hundred yards away a pair of figures stepped out of a white van. There was mesh over the windows and the streetlights glinted off helmet badges. It was time to leave. He would have to deal with McManus another time.
As Mitcheson walked away, McManus levered himself up on one elbow and coughed, rubbing his damaged throat.
“I wasn’t following her, soldier boy,” he muttered. “I was following you.”
Chapter 17
Riley showered and ate breakfast in a mental fog, thinking about her dinner date with John Mitcheson. Sleep had not come easily when she got home, and she had repeatedly run over the bones of their conversation during the meal, trying to make some sense of how she felt. She’d found John Mitcheson engaging company, yet all the time she had been with him she had felt there was something in the atmosphere. It had been like sharing a cage with a tiger.
She shook off the thoughts and dressed, then went through her notes to get back on track. Four deaths and no clue as to motive or who might be responsible. Yet what were the chances of this many old ex-gangsters dying within days of each other? Whatever was happening to them was focussed and calculated…and personal. She went back to the brief that Donald Brask had provided. It wasn’t likely to tell her much she hadn’t already been over before, but it might throw up a clue. Very often the information you needed was staring you in the face. All you had to do was recognise it.
Donald had included some details from the police investigation into the two murders on the coast. There was a reference to Bertrand Cage’s chauffeur, Peter Willis. He had discovered his employer’s body when he had gone to collect him from the beach. According to their custom, Willis would drop Cage at the beach by car at about 08.30 in the morning, settle him in his deckchair, then return at 11.00 prior to driving him back to the house for lunch. Discounting illness, the routine never varied.
Which must have made it easy for the killer. No doubt Cage must have felt secure in his old age. How wrong that had proved to be.
Willis, the report went on to say, had been in Cage’s employ for fifteen years. There followed some brief comments about his background, but little else about the man was known. The original silent retainer.
Riley dialled Willis’s number again. Still no answer. She replaced the phone with a feeling of apprehension. Willis had either gone to ground after all the fuss surrounding Cage’s death… or something much worse. She gathered her notes and mobile phone. A trip to Sussex, she thought. There was no way she was going to get any solid help from the police files, so she might as well drive down to see if she could trace Willis and have a quiet chat. Failing that, a talk with the neighbours was better than sitting here staring at the walls.
As she drove she called Donald Brask. The fat man had more contacts who owed him favours than anyone else she knew. He was also rightly proud of his database and the sources of information at his disposal, including some friendly reporters and a handful of police officers. He answered on the second ring.
“Donald,” she said. “I need a favour.”
Frederick Hyatt looked more like an academic than the head of a news bureau. Dressed in tweeds and a bow tie, he shuffled out into the foyer of the Charlwood Lodge hotel near Gatwick, blinking in the light after the gloom of the conference hall, and looked around urgently. When he spotted Riley waiting by the front desk, he nodded and crossed to greet her.
“You must be Miss Gavin. Donald always had an accurate eye for description.”
“Mr Hyatt.” Riley checked his name badge and shook his hand. “Thank you for sparing me the time”
“No problem. He said it was urgent.” He indicated a quiet corner of the foyer and led the way over. “I can only give you a few minutes, I’m afraid. I’m on next. The local Chamber of Commerce seems to think I can enthuse its members on the subject of modern media awareness.” He smiled briefly. “As if they need it these days.”
Riley took the hint and launched straight in. “Mr Hyatt, I believe you interviewed Peter Willis after Bertrand Cage’s murder, is that right?”
“Yes. Only because he was fairly close by and I already knew about his job. We handled a profile about Cage a while back: local mystery man of substance and all that. It didn't go anywhere because Cage’s lawyer stamped all over it and the story died. What can I tell you?”
“I’d like to speak to Willis, but I can’t raise him on the phone. I though you might know something before I go to his home.”
Hyatt raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised he’s gone to ground. Peter Willis and his wife are hardly media-savvy. They’re an ordinary couple who’ve found themselves pitched into this thing without warning. I spoke to them before the main press arrived, just after the story broke. Unfortunately, they had a rough ride after that, especially when the television crews turned up. There’s a big difference between a man with a recorder and a van bristling with antennae. In the end they’d had enough. What do you want from them?”
“I’m doing background on the two dead men,” explained Riley. “And I’d like to track down any known associates of Cage and McKee. One of the most recent seems to be Peter Willis. I’m hoping he can give me some colour about their former activities.”
“Such as?” Hyatt sounded cautious, his head tilted to one side.
“Such as what they did, who their friends were… their business partners. Why their past seems to have caught up with them the way it has.”
Hyatt smiled and considered the pattern in the carpet. He nodded and pursed his lips as if making a decision, and it was obvious he’d had time to think about Riley’s visit.
“Okay. Two things, Miss Gavin. You’re assuming it was their past that has a bearing on their deaths. It wasn’t - at least, not in the sense you mean. These men had no past because they had never fully left it behind. All they had was what they had done last. Oh, they might not have been as fully active as they used to be - they were old men, after all - but that didn't mean they were no longer involved.”
“They were still running things, then?”
“To an extent. It doesn’t take muscle to own shares, Miss Gavin. All the front work is undoubtedly being carried out by professional managers. From what I could determine, Cage, at least, still had revenue coming in from a variety of enterprises, channelled through a network of holding companies. McKee would have been the same.” He smiled crookedly. “I tried to join the same golf club as McKee once. When I told my wife what the membership fee was, she threatened to divorce me.”
“Do you know who these holding companies are?”
“Well, I could get the names for you, but unless you’re a corporate or tax expert it won’t do you much good. Most of them are perfectly respectable. It’s not like it was back in the fifties and sixties, you know, when criminals acted as if they were untouchable. A few of them - the Cages and the McKees of this world - learned to take their business seriously and moved with the times.”
Riley looked doubtful. “Well, if their deaths are anything to go by, someone seems to have stuck with tradition.”
Hyatt shrugged apologetically and glanced at his watch as a volley of applause leaked out from the direction of the conference hall. “I’m sorry, Miss Gavin, that sounds like my spot coming up.” He reached into his pocket and took out a slip of paper. �
��Donald vouches for you, so I’m willing to go with him. This is the hotel where the Willis couple are staying. It’s just down the road from here. They’re booked in under the name of Watson. I can’t guarantee they’ll give you much, but they have agreed to talk.”
“I appreciate that.”
He leaned forward suddenly. “Also, I don’t know how much longer they’ll be there before someone else finds them.”
“What do you mean?” Riley felt a shiver at the sudden change in his tone.
Hyatt looked cautious. “It might be nothing. I had a call first thing this morning from someone claiming to be from one of the broadsheets wanting background on Willis. Address, phone number, stuff like that.”
“And?”
“It didn’t sound right. I know most of the personnel. The dailies have gathered all the local background colour they want - and they certainly know where Willis lives. This one didn't want to give his name so I gave him the brush-off and called head office. They haven’t got anyone else down here other than their normal man, so why they would need to send another body doesn’t make sense.”
Riley found she was holding her breath. If the mystery caller was the killer, and he had managed to find where Willis was hiding, there was little hope of reaching the chauffeur in time. One thing she had learned about these people was that they didn’t waste time.
“Thank you for warning me. Does Peter Willis know?”
“I called him immediately.” He gave her a stern look. “Please be kind to them. They’re not really a part of this - I’d put money on it.”
Riley followed Hyatt’s directions to a neat, anonymous hotel just off the A34 south of Crawley. She went inside and asked to speak to Mr Watson. After a brief call, the receptionist gave her the room number and directed her to the first floor.
A man answered the door, opening it a small way and peering past her shoulder down the corridor. “Can I see some identity?” he murmured quietly, sliding his hand out through the gap.
Riley handed over her passport. He took it and studied it carefully before standing back to let her in. Seeing him properly, she recognised him from the photo in the newspaper library, although he now looked thinner and somehow smaller. He wore a dark blazer and highly polished shoes, and looked ready to go out. Just inside the door were two suitcases.
“Mr Hyatt said you’d be round,” he said, closing the door softly behind her. He sounded nervous, and clamped his lips shut, snapping off the words as if trying to hold in a growing sense of panic. In spite of that, his tone was polite, and Riley felt a momentary surprise. She had expected a degree of annoyance or aggression after what they must have been through.
His wife was a different problem. She stood by the window, hands clasped in front of her in a manner that was plainly hostile. She was plump and homely and wearing a print dress and summer sandals, but there was no warmth in her expression. Riley felt a faint stirring of guilt; she was hardly helping matters by turning up here.
“You know why I’m here?” said Riley quickly, glancing at the suitcases. “Do you have time to talk?”
“No.” Mrs Willis answered immediately, throwing her husband a defiant look. Plainly, this meeting had not been unanimous.
But Willis nodded, trying to smile reassuringly back at his wife. “It’s okay. Mr Hyatt explained. We’ve decided to take a short break,” he said, intercepting Riley’s look at the luggage. “Get a little sun after all this... business.” He indicated a club chair by the television and sat on the double bed, neat in his blazer and shiny shoes, while his wife stood her ground by the window. “Actually, our flight’s been delayed. Overbooking or something. They said they’d call, but it could be quite a while.”
“I still think we’d be better waiting at the airport.” Mrs Willis bit out the words, meaning the airport would be an effective barrier against having to talk to people like Riley.
“How can we help?” Peter Willis said quietly.
Riley asked him if he had known Cook and Page. He looked blankly back at her, shaking his head. “In that case,” she continued, “do you know anything about a third man who used to be an associate of Bertrand Cage years ago - probably in the clubs.”
Willis chewed his lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about Mr Cage’s business. I only worked for him after he retired. The previous chap died and Mr Cage needed a chauffeur. He couldn’t get around easily, you see; he had bad arthritis and some other problems. I got the job through an agency. What he did before was none of my business.”
“But you know what he was - what business he was in?”
Willis looked defensive, jutting his chin forward. “I know what he used to be. But he was always good to me.”
“Did you meet any of the others?”
“McKee, mostly,” Willis said shortly, with a look of distaste. “I didn’t rate him. No finesse. Mr Cage couldn’t stand him, either. Not that he ever said as much. They were more like associates than friends.”
“Did they meet often?”
Willis shrugged. “Fairly regular - maybe every three months. But always at the house. They argued sometimes.”
“Violently?” She watched Willis’s eyes for reaction, but he looked back at her without any sign of concern.
“Not worth killing over. The police asked the same question.”
Riley nodded. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“I wish I did.” Willis said emphatically. “At first I thought it might have been McKee, but couldn’t have been, could it?”
While Peter Willis had been speaking, Riley had been aware of his wife, shuffling her feet in the background, her mouth opening and closing as if about to say something. Riley took it as an opening and turned to the older woman.
“How about you, Mrs Willis? Any ideas?”
Mrs Willis looked surprised to be consulted, wavering for a moment as if regretting drawing attention to herself. Then she drew herself up with a forceful shrug of her shoulders as if determination had won the debate. “Peter lost his job over this,” she said in a fierce rush. “There wasn’t a pension, although Mr Cage did see us right.” She glanced at her husband. “Peter’s too... loyal to say what he really thinks, so I’ll have to say it for him.” She lifted her shoulders before continuing. “I used to clean at Mr Cage’s house a long time ago. I didn’t know him any better than Peter did, and I only heard him argue with someone the once. He was a very quiet man, you see… not given to raising his voice. Then, about five years ago, I suppose, I heard him arguing. I was in the kitchen. It was a real blazing row and the language was... well, not what you’d call nice, if you see what I mean. Mr Cage was almost shouting - which was very unusual.”
“Was this face to face or over the phone?”
“Face to face,” Mrs Willis confirmed. “The other man had come to the house and demanded to see him. Peter had let him in, but only after Mr Cage said it was all right.” She glanced at her husband. “It was Peter’s job to look after him, you see.”
Riley looked at Willis, who was smiling at his wife. “You were his minder?”
Willis nodded. “It came with the job. I used to be Regimental Provost when I was in the army; that’s how I got on an agency list. Good line of work when I was younger.” His expression mourned the passing of youth and its associated work.
“So who was this other man?”
“Gross by name, gross by nature,” Mrs Willis muttered bitterly. She nodded, glancing for confirmation at her husband. “Now there was a man could kill someone without blinking.”
Chapter 18
In the silence that followed, Riley felt a tingle in her shoulders. “Gross?” she asked carefully. “That was his name?”
“Grossman.” Peter Willis stirred and looked at Riley. “Ray Grossman. This was years ago. Grossman could be dead by now. He wasn’t well, even then. Big man, he was. Overweight and soft looking. Like he’d been a couch potato all his life.”
“Wh
ere did he come from?”
“The Smoke, I think. I only met him that one time.” His expression made it clear that once had been enough.
Riley nodded. She’d ask Donald Brask to delve into his files. “I suppose there wouldn’t be anything at the house, would there - information about this Grossman?”
Willis gave her a flinty look and she dismissed that as an avenue to explore. There were obviously limits on the amount of help he was prepared to give.
“The police will have cleaned it out already if they’re doing their job right,” he said stiffly. When he stood up, Riley took the hint. The interview was over.
“Thanks for your help. I’m sorry I descended on you so abruptly. Are you going anywhere nice?”
“All over, really,” Willis replied vaguely, walking her to the door. “Nowhere for long. We like driving… moving around.” He opened the door and briefly checked the corridor, then stood back to let her pass. She turned to shake hands, but he was already closing the door firmly behind her.
“So we have a name.” It was three hours later and Frank Palmer was behind his desk, fiddling with a retractable ruler. He’d listened in silence to Riley’s account of her meetings with Hyatt and the Willises, occasionally making a note on a small pad at his elbow, but seemed to have something else on his mind.
“It’s a start,” Riley replied. “I gave Grossman’s name to Donald. He said he’d have a trawl through his files to see if it means anything. How about you and your army friend? Any luck?”
Palmer gave Riley a strange look and stood up. He walked over to the kettle on the floor and plugged it in, then busied himself spooning coffee into mugs with agonising deliberation. When he showed no signs of replying, she went across and glared at his back. “Did I just speak in Swahili or something?”
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 8
