“Sorry,” he said, pouring water and handing her a mug. “Brain’s in overdrive at the moment.” He wandered to the window and stared out, blowing on his coffee. Almost as an aside he asked: “Apart from that, how did your evening out go?”
“My evening?” Riley was surprised by the sudden change of direction. “It went very well, thank you. But what’s that got to do with this - or you?”
“Did he tell you how he managed to get your phone number?” He smiled to soften the question. “Just concerned, that’s all.”
“Yes, he did,” Riley replied. She realised she was being unfair after her concerns the previous day and owed him an explanation. “He said he had friends in the security industry who could access that sort of thing. It seemed reasonable, and it would have been - I don’t know - churlish to object if all he wanted was to go out with me.” She described the events of the evening, finishing with the large man she had seen twice near the restaurant, although she wasn’t sure why she remembered that.
Palmer looked round, suddenly interested. “Can you describe him?”
“Big - maybe six-four. Forty-ish, thinning brown hair. Looked like an ex-boxer. Or a heavy. Why are you asking? You still haven’t told me what you got up to in the last couple of days. You were going to see if you could identify the two men who smashed up your office.”
Palmer puffed out his lips and took a sheet of paper from under a folder on his desk. “My mate in Whitehall,” he said, “works in a section of the Ministry of Defence that deals with military personnel records. They have a database down there that houses the name of every person who has served or is serving in the forces. It only goes back to about 1960 at the moment.” He flapped the paper in the air. “But he managed to come up with a few names.” He explained Charlie’s findings after feeding in the name of Howie, and the possibility of him being Malcolm Howard, late of the Royal Marines.
“God, Palmer, that’s a stretch,” Riley pointed out. “Howie could be a nickname for all sorts of reasons. This Malcolm Howard could be an anorexic weakling with a pot-belly and flat feet - too feeble to even lift a baseball bat.”
“Unlikely,” said Palmer, “if he was in the Marines. Same with Duggan, the other one. I’d lay good money they were the two who trashed my office. They have the right background: military training, accustomed to giving orders and not frightened to chuck their weight around. On the other hand, clever enough to know when beating the crap out of me wasn’t necessary.”
Riley felt sceptical but had to concede the point. She held out her hand. “Can I see?”
Palmer looked up. “Pardon?”
“You said he came up with a few names. Can I see them?”
Palmer hesitated, then pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. “You’re really not going to like it, though. ”
Chapter 19
John Mitcheson spent the short drive from Malaga airport to Almeria in the back seat with his eyes closed, trying to quell a looming headache. He’d already seen this stretch of coast road more than once, and with the way he was feeling, the sun was far too bright. At least the cream Mercedes had air-conditioning and floated along with barely a shudder. After being stranded at Barcelona for two hours due to air traffic problems, he knew he was in for a hard time for being late.
Gary, neat as a pin as usual, was at the wheel. He occasionally glanced at his passenger in the mirror, but apart from that spent most of the journey with his eyes on the road.
“Who’s at the villa?” asked Mitcheson. The call to his mobile the previous evening had instructed him to get on a flight to Malaga the following morning without fail. Gary would be there to meet him.
“Not sure, boss,” Gary replied. “Doug and Howie, of course... they’ve been dealing with the other bunch, getting them out of the picture.”
“Any problems?”
Gary gave a sharp grin. “Not much. Bignell tried to show some muscle by pulling in hired help from Malaga, but they didn’t amount to much. Pity, really - I was looking forward to some action.”
Mitcheson knew what he meant. After years of active service, the sudden inactivity after leaving the army was a problem many men had difficulty adjusting to. It wasn’t hard for him, but he knew men like Gary, Doug and Howie still hankered after the release of action. It was why they had been taken on: Mitcheson to do the organising and them to be the blunt face of the hammer. When that skill wasn’t used, they became restless.
Unfortunately, what had seemed a straightforward exercise in a show of strength was turning into something darker. They had all been prepared to do whatever was asked of them - disposing of McKee, Cage and the others - although Mitcheson doubted the last two had been necessary. But Lottie Grossman’s emergence as psychotic queen bee and her instructions for Bignell's disposal had changed the nature of the game.
The car slowed and turned up a side road, the surface becoming uneven as they headed inland. After two hundred yards, they passed through some orange groves and turned through an imposing gateway. A gravel drive led through a parade of trees and ended before a long, ranch-style, single-storey villa gleaming white in the morning sun. Two other vehicles, a Land Cruiser and another Mercedes, stood in the shade of some trees to one side.
As Mitcheson emerged from the car he heard a low growl and a Rottweiler padded out from the porch. It must have weighed as much as a man and he wondered how you trained such a beast not to eat your friends instead of your enemies.
“Fuck off, Bonzo,” he muttered, and stepped past the quivering animal into the front entrance. He was the only one who could get away with it, and was amazed Doug and Howie, not renowned for their tolerance, hadn’t put a bullet in the dog’s pea-sized brain by now.
The smell of air-freshener and soap assailed his senses. The aroma reminded him of a couple of military hospitals he’d stayed in. He crossed the large tiled hallway and noted a large vase of what he thought vaguely might be dahlias. He wondered if they’d been brought over from England, a touch of home garden for ex-pats. He entered the living room.
There were five men present. He knew four of them.
Doug and Howie were lounging on a settee near the window, looking tanned and fit. They nodded, Doug flicking his eyes towards the towering figure of McManus, who was standing behind a slim, swarthy individual sprawled in an armchair. This man, in his early fifties, was flashily dressed, with a heavy gold chain on one wrist. He was staring into space and blowing smoke-rings from a large cigar as if he hadn’t a care in the world, yet there was something about his manner that was entirely false.
Mitcheson looked back at Doug who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
He was puzzled by McManus’s presence. He wondered how the man had got here; he evidently hadn’t had the same problems with flights that had affected his own journey. He looked towards the fifth occupant of the room, hunched in a chair near an open set of patio doors. Beyond was the blue glint of a swimming pool. The man’s frame indicated he had once been broad across the shoulders, and Mitcheson knew that in his younger days the man had allegedly been a dangerous person to cross. Now he was shrunken and frail, with a pallor that was sharply at odds with the hot sun outside.
“Ray,” Mitcheson said with a nod of recognition.
“Glad you could make it,” Grossman replied, his voice dry as gravel. There was something still menacing about him, in spite of his obvious incapacity, and Mitcheson knew that behind the half-closed eyelids lurked a mind that was still sharp and deadly. “Enjoy your night out, did you?” There was no mistaking the implied rebuke. One characteristic the man shared with his wife was a mania about position and respect. Mitcheson had rarely met anyone in the army so insecure, and he still found it odd that these people set so much by pecking order.
He glanced at McManus, who seemed to have found something to smile about, and decided to ignore the bait. He walked across the room and sat down in another armchair.
“I was told to take this morning’s flight,” he explai
ned. “I ran into problems getting out here.” The last thing he wanted was to get into a war of words with Grossman. It wasn’t worth it and would only serve to give McManus an excuse to drive a wedge between them.
Gary appeared in the doorway. Behind him came the plump, heavily made-up figure of Lottie Grossman.
Mitcheson shot Gary a steely look for not warning him. The younger man ignored it, unperturbed, and set his eyes set rigidly in front. Mitcheson made a mental note to speak to him afterwards; he had an uneasy feeling Lottie had been working on his sense of duty behind Mitcheson’s back.
More interesting, however, was Ray Grossman’s reaction. He seemed to shrink into his chair with a sour expression, and there was a palpable feeling in the air of a transfer of authority.
Lottie Grossman advanced into the room while Gary shut the door and leant against it, hands crossed in front of him. The signal was clear; no one was leaving.
“Now then, Jerry,” Lottie murmured softly, as if continuing a conversation that had been interrupted earlier. The man in the armchair brought his attention back to the room and tensed, the cigar forgotten. “You don’t want to go ahead with our plan, is that right? What’s the problem - our money not good enough for you?”
A clock ticked in the silence and Mitcheson looked at Doug and Howie for a clue, but they seemed as puzzled as he was.
“I don’t- ” The man choked on his cigar smoke and sat forward, his eyes dark and angry. He looked hard at Ray Grossman, who was staring into his lap, then back at Lottie. As he moved, McManus stepped slightly closer, one hand resting on the back of the man’s armchair. “You’re robbing us blind, Lottie,” Jerry protested with a whine. His eyes flicked towards the huge man at his shoulder. “We had a good thing going, you know... it worked. You can’t just walk in and take it!”
Lottie Grossman’s expression was ice cold. “I think we just have, Jerry,” she muttered. She picked up a mobile phone from a table nearby and toyed with it. “We made a good offer: ready cash in return for your business. No paperwork, no tax, no contracts... just let us get on with it and everyone’s happy. But you didn’t like our terms, did you? It seems your partners didn’t share your point of view, though. My boys had words with them… and guess what? They’ve just boarded a flight to Miami. Strange time to take a holiday on holiday, I’d have thought.”
Jerry stared at Lottie in disbelief. He shook his head and looked round the room at the others. “You’re having me on.”
Lottie studied her nails and said: “Of course, they might have gone to get some help, I suppose. What do you think?” She fluttered a manicured hand at McManus, who leaned forward and took the cigar from the man’s fingers, then crushed it out in an ashtray.
Mitcheson leaned forward, chest thumping with the tension. “What’s this about?”
For the first time, Ray Grossman made a move to join in the conversation. He glared at Mitcheson and pointed a bony finger. “Sit tight, you,” he grated. “You’re too late. If you’d been here when I wanted you, this would never have happened.” With that, he staggered to his feet and moved with difficulty out onto the patio, where he slumped into a plastic chair overlooking the pool. Gary looked to Lottie for a moment, and when she nodded, went over and closed the doors behind the old man.
Everyone’s attention swung back to Lottie.
Satisfied she had their full concentration, she turned and nodded to McManus, who stepped out from behind the armchair, a tight grin on his face. In one meaty hand he carried a large, black automatic pistol. Before the hapless Jerry could react - before any of them could - he turned and shot him in the chest, the crash of the shot deafening in the room. Jerry was slammed into the back of the chair and a faint smell of burning drifted in the air as his shirt smouldered. Nobody rushed to put it out.
McManus turned, the pistol swinging round to cover Doug, Howie, Gary and, most pointedly, Mitcheson. They all sat very still.
“And that, gentlemen,” Lottie Grossman smiled, “is what happens to people who don’t do what they’re told.” She flicked a hand towards McManus and Gary. “Get rid of that mess. The rest of you - we’ve got business to discuss.”
Chapter 20
A fly buzzed in Palmer’s office as Riley scanned the piece of paper he had given her. When she saw the last name on the list, she went pale.
“What the hell is this?” she asked softly. “Why is this name on here?”
“I asked Charlie to pull out any name approximating Howie. He came up with just the one - Howard - who seemed to fit the age range. The others are all listed as KAs - known associates. Mitcheson’s name came out with them. The connection was made by the database, not me.”
“How efficient.” Her voice was coldly matter-of-fact.
Palmer calmly returned her look. “I’m sorry, Riley.”
“Really, Frank? But something tells me you’re not surprised.” She was furious, but knew he had done the right thing. Not that it helped her presence of mind or the fact that she felt so foolish.
Palmer shrugged. “Surprised, no. He got hold of your phone number far too easily - whatever mates he might have. Hot dates don’t do that. Hot dates don’t have those kind of connections.”
“So you’re my moral guardian, now, are you?” her voice stopped short of anger, but the gap was slim. “What have you been doing - taking tips from my mother?” She threw the list on the desk. “You’ll be asking me if I’ve slept with him next!”
She paced up and down while her anger subsided. It didn’t take long; she was nothing if not pragmatic and knew that given similar circumstances she would have done the same. It was what investigation work was all about.
“Okay,” she said finally, putting both hands up. “So we have a number of men - all ex-military and all connected - who seem to be involved with whatever is going on here. But that doesn’t tell us what it is. Nor why all those old gangsters were killed off. It wasn’t because they forgot to pay their golf club fees.”
Palmer nodded. “If we accept for the moment that Howard and Duggan are the two baseball fans and they appear to know Mitcheson, who happens to have got your mobile number by foul means, it seems more than just coincidence.”
“We know how he got it.”
Palmer pulled a face. “I’ve been thinking about that. There is another, simpler way he could have got it: the same way the baseball fans got my name.”
Riley thought about it. There was only one answer. “From my flat.”
“I doubt it was him,” Palmer said. “Mitcheson was in Intelligence in Northern Ireland but it wouldn’t necessarily make him a candidate for cat-burglary. I suppose he could have got someone else to do it, though.”
They sat and contemplated what they knew so far. It wasn’t much but the path was extending all the time.
“What about Ray Grossman?” said Riley. “Can we track him down?”
Palmer ducked his hand in a drawer, pulling out a slip of paper. “I rang an old contact in the Met. He’s retired now, but he’s got the memory of an elephant. He remembered Grossman, but he thought he’d died last year. Cancer.”
“Did he have any form?”
“Not officially. He was reckoned to be a top dog but they could never prove it.”
“It must be worth checking, though. How about an address?”
Palmer grinned. “Done it. There’s only one Grossman that fits that age range. Wrong sex but it could be a lead. A woman living out in Buckinghamshire.” He handed her a piece of paper with an address on it. Pantiles, Jordans, Bucks.
Riley gave him a cool look tinged with a smile. “For a bodyguard you’re not a bad investigator. How about we check on her?”
“Suits me.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll buy you a cream tea if we can find somewhere on the way.”
“You’re on. I haven’t eaten anything today.”
Palmer hesitated. “There’s one other piece of information my friend came up with.”
“Go on.”
; “I ran the McKee and Cage names past him.”
“And?”
“He thought they and Grossman were linked. They were into clubs in a quite a big way back in the fifties and sixties. Nothing really heavy, but their turnover was good. Drinking dens, a bit of gambling, some girls... Low overheads, high profits. Mostly in London but there were a couple down on the south coast, too. Rumour had it they sold out in the mid-sixties.”
Riley recalled what Hyatt had said about the two men. “But that’s not necessarily the case?”
Palmer shook his head. “No. Think about it; the sixties were all about expansion. Gaming. Money. Kids with cash looking for kicks... sex... drugs. Everything was on the up after years of austerity. The Met was cracking down on organised crime with some of the biggest names in the underworld either dead or banged up, and even the main bulk of the opposition was suddenly dropping out of the picture. For someone not under scrutiny it must have been like being handed a monopoly on a plate and being told you had a clear field to play in. Would you sell out when you were coming to the crest of a wave?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Riley said. “I’m not a gangster - and I don’t remember the sixties.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “But you’re right - it doesn’t sound likely.” She walked over to the window, looking out. “Based on what Willis told me, the arguments he heard sounded like on-going business differences. If so, they weren’t as inactive as everyone thinks.”
Palmer nodded. “Why let someone else have all the cream when you can continue pulling it in yourself?”
“But your man said Grossman died last year. That leaves us none the wiser.” Riley hesitated and turned towards him. “Unless he left an heir to the throne.”
Chapter 21
They took Riley’s Golf, following Frank’s directions out towards the A413 and the Chalfonts. He sat in the back, smoking, while she concentrated on negotiating the late afternoon traffic.
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 9
