Suburban concrete became a brief stretch of uninspiring countryside, with a few horses cropping in scruffy fields, before entering the twilight zone of plush stockbroker housing and small, select estates. Main roads gave way to narrow, twisting lanes lined with lush hedges and leafy trees, where BMWs and Range Rovers parked in the curving, gravelled drives were the norm.
Riley slowed at Palmer’s direction. He flipped his cigarette out the window and sat forward.
“Should be somewhere in this area,” he said. “They probably don’t use anything as common as house numbers in this kind of place, so we’ll have to hope Mrs Grossman has a nice, ostentatious sign outside her gaff.”
They entered a narrow lane with houses on one side, spaced well apart, past a dog barking at them from a driveway, and an elderly man mowing his front verge to snooker-table neatness. Large trees towered overhead, their top-most branches meeting and creating dark pools of shadow.
A woman appeared out of a gateway some distance ahead. She mounted a bike and pedalled towards them. Riley slowed the car and flashed a white envelope through the open window. The woman stopped alongside the car. She was in her early thirties, with a care-worn look that spoke of too much work and too little time to do it in. In a basket on the front of her bike were a plastic bag and an overall.
“Excuse me, love,” Riley’s voice took on a beseeching tone. “I wonder if you could tell me where the Grossman house is - I’m afraid the office didn’t give terribly good directions. I’ve been driving for ages trying to find the place.”
The woman looked cautiously at Riley, then at Palmer relaxing in the back seat. Evidently satisfied they weren’t about to firebomb the area, she turned her head and pointed towards the gateway she had just left. “It’s about a hundred yards down on the right. Big place with a curved roof and white shutters. There’s a couple of willows out front.” She looked at the envelope. “I can take that if you want. I do cleaning for them.”
Riley smiled and dropped the envelope on the seat beside her. “No, that’s all right, thanks. I’m supposed to deliver this in person under pain of death, and maybe get some measurements.” She put on an annoyed expression and sighed. “Not that it looks likely today. They promised someone would be in, too. Oh, well... I’m only a Pee Bee Ee.”
“You what?”
“Poor bloody employee, sweetie. Do what I’m told - know what I mean? Do you know when Mrs Grossman will be back?”
The cleaner shook her head. “Couldn’t say, love. Might be tonight, could be tomorrow. I’ve worked here six months but they never tell me what they’re doing.”
“They?”
For a moment the woman seemed to have doubts about talking. But then she shrugged and said: “Well, Mrs G and them men that come and go all the time.” There was a note of disapproval in her voice mixed with a flash of relish at being able to confide in someone.
Riley managed to hide an instinctive surge of excitement and put on an understanding smirk. “The old devil. Young, are they?”
The woman gave a tired smile. “Yeah, but it’s not like that. They work for Mrs G and sometimes stay at the house.”
“What do they do?”
“Beats me, love. They’re young enough to do anything. But like I said, they don’t tell me what they get up to. It’s like it’s all a big secret.”
“Are they the only men in the house?”
“Yes, thank God,” the woman said with feeling. “There was an old man but I think he died years ago. Her trouble is, she can spot if I’ve missed something at a hundred yards. Mind, there’s one of them that does a better job of cleaning than I do. Bloody man’s a bit strange, if you ask me... especially with all the training he does.”
“Training?”
“Yeah. Out in the garden every day. Jogging, press-ups, sit-ups... My husband reckons he must be a keep-fit fanatic. I think he’s ex-army, myself; my dad was in REME. This bloke Gary jumps to it every time Mrs G so much as opens her mouth. Proper little poodle. My husband says he must be after my job, but that’s silly.”
“Maybe not,” Riley suggested casually. “If he’s ex-army, he’d be very good at cleaning. What else does he do?”
The woman looked surprised at the notion and her mouth dropped at the corners as she considered it. “I hadn’t thought of that. He also does her driving when she goes out, and makes sure everything’s working. He’s what my husband calls a gopher.” She shook her head as the idea Riley had implanted began to sink in. “Christ, I knew it!”
“And they’re all out?” said Riley quickly, before the woman could move on.
“Yes. Somewhere in Spain. Mrs G has a villa over there.” She sighed. “All right for some, isn’t it? Never asks me if I want a bit of sun.” She looked at Riley again and blushed. “Sorry, love. What was it you said you wanted?”
“Something else they haven’t told you,” Riley said sympathetically. “She’s putting the house on the market. She wants a valuation. This envelope holds the contract. Maybe she’ll give you a good reference.”
“Oh. I suppose.” The woman’s voice was faint at the prospect and she shook her head. “In that case maybe I can show you in… so you can measure up.” She peered into the car. “You do have a card, though? Some identification?”
“Of course.” Riley fished in her glove box and handed her a business card. “That’s really sweet of you - ”
“Marion,” the woman replied, and turned her bike round. “You follow me, then, and I’ll let you in. I’ll have to switch off the alarm first.”
As Marion pedalled away, Riley caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “Looks like we’re estate agents.”
Palmer nodded. “I’ve never been an estate agent before. Do I have to do unctuous as well?”
“If you do, I’ll kick you. There’s a clipboard and tape in the boot.”
She followed Marion down the short drive and parked in front of the house. As they got out she glanced around instinctively. There were no houses in direct line of sight, so more for Marion’s sake than any onlookers, she stood and looked at the house for a few seconds, pointing and chatting to Palmer about the exterior and briefing him on the measurements they needed.
“How the rich live,” Palmer murmured, looking down a path between the house and a double garage, to where they could see part of a patio. Beyond chequered ochre and grey paving slabs, the garden extended downwards in stepped layers, across a vast expanse of immaculate lawn dotted with flowerbeds, into a border of bushes and trees. Bird song echoed through the treetops, while a lawnmower chattered away on an adjacent property.
“Money,” Riley agreed. “Whatever they do - or did - it had to involve lots of cash.”
When Marion told them she had switched off the alarm, they followed her to a small side gate and were ushered into the kitchen.
“Shall I leave you to it?” said Marion. “There’s things I can be doing upstairs. I’ll make coffee in a bit, if you like.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” said Riley. “This is really sweet of you.”
As soon as Marion disappeared, Riley began a quick search of the ground floor while Palmer left her with the tape and clipboard and went back outside to look at the garage.
The kitchen was a shade smaller than vast, with quarry tiles covering the floor and elegant, hand-made Italian tiles running from floor to ceiling. State-of-the-art gadgets were everywhere, and she got the impression that the house might have been designed around this one room. Evidently Mrs Grossman liked entertaining or cooking.
She walked across the kitchen into a large hallway. A circular table big enough to seat eight people in comfort stood against one wall with a large vase of dried flowers in the centre. A smaller one holding a telephone and a directory stood against another. To her right was a staircase with polished mahogany banisters; to the left were two doors. One led to the sitting room at the rear of the house. She tried the other and found a walk-in clothes cupboard fitted with shelves, drawers and hang
ing space for coats. On the hooks hung a variety of coats, waterproofs and jackets. Recalling what the cleaner had said about the keep-fit fanatic, Riley checked all the pockets. Nothing.
She spotted a large laundry-type bag in one corner and flipped it open. Inside was a crumpled tracksuit, still sweat-stained. She pulled it out and checked the pockets. In the jacket was a scribbled note, limp with dampness. The writing was barely legible, but she could just make out the words ‘Bentley’s. Tickets’.
The other pockets yielded nothing of interest, so she prowled the rest of the ground floor looking for clues. Photos on the cabinets caught her eye. They were mostly family snaps at various celebrations. The same man and woman appeared in several of the shots, smiling at the camera. They were both expensively dressed, the man in suits with a flash of a large ring on his left hand and an opulent wristwatch clearly visible at his cuff, while the woman varied from an exotic sweep of hair and large drop earrings to a more severe bob cut and a display of gold chains at her neck.
To Riley, for all their cosy, middle-aged smiles, neither looked the sort she would like to share living space with. She guessed the man must be the late Mr Grossman.
Interestingly, none of the photos included children.
She drifted quickly up the carpeted stairs and into the bedrooms. She could hear Marion opening and shutting drawers at the other end of the landing. Two small rooms were full of toiletries and clothes, clearly belonging to younger men. Neither gave any clues to their occupants’ names, and she realised they had been expertly cleaned of all means of identification.
The largest bedroom overlooked the sweep of stepped lawns, and was bigger than most living rooms. There were no signs of a man’s effects in evidence, nor any jewellery. Odd, she thought. Every woman in creation has something of value lying around.
She discovered why when she moved aside some dresses in the wardrobe; a small, steel door with a central dial gleamed in the dark recess. She was tempted to try the dial but decided against it; the house alarm would be off but the safe might not be.
Back downstairs she looked through the kitchen drawers. Kitchens were where people spent most of their time, and all the bits of paper that concerned daily life found their way tucked into drawers or clips, pending being moved to a better place.
Her search yielded two items of interest. One was an instruction booklet for a motorised wheelchair. On the back page was a guarantee and the manufacturer’s address. The second was a small brochure for a private airfield near Rickmansworth. Inside were details about hangar facilities and membership fees. She pocketed both and went back into the hallway, where she found a telephone directory on the smaller of the two tables. Bentley’s turned out to be a local travel agent. That made sense, since the note in the tracksuit jacket had mentioned tickets. She noted the address and phone number and went in search of Marion, to say they had all the information they needed.
Two minutes later, Riley was taking them at speed back along the road.
Chapter 22
“I thought you said you’d buy me a cream tea, you cheapskate.”
Riley stared at the battered decor in the cafe off the North Circular, and at the heavy tan liquid that passed for tea. Outside, evening rush hour traffic crawled past in a welter of exhaust fumes.
Apart from the owner, the place was deserted. Palmer set two plates down on the table, each bearing a solid looking currant bun of indeterminate vintage.
“Sorry,” he said. “No cream, no jam, strawberries are off. Champagne isn’t quite chilled enough for the wine waiter’s liking.”
Riley stabbed her bun with a battered knife. It was solid and unyielding. She sighed, pushing the plate away. “Okay, so what have we got?”
Palmer picked up his bun and bit into the crust. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then put it down and drank some tea.
“We have a house of some size, owned by an elderly woman, possibly the widow of an old, bad man who never got caught. Whatever - there’s money in there somewhere. We have at least one very fit man - possibly ex-army - who lives in, who may or may not be strange.”
“A toy boy?” Riley ventured. But even as she said it, she couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm for the notion. Something about the austere atmosphere of the house ruled out any idea of physical passion.
Palmer also looked sceptical. “If there was any hanky-panky going on I think Marion would have known. She seemed the observant sort. There are no obvious signs of children, so that does away with the heirs inheriting the club empire bit. But other than that, we have nothing else that makes any sense.” He sighed and prodded the bun as though it might stir into life. “All in all, I’ve never seen a house with fewer clues in it. Almost as if it’s been swept clean by experts.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. I know the signs.”
“If it’s the right place,” Riley observed. “The only link we have is your friend knowing the address of Ray Grossman - who’s probably dead, anyway. This Mrs Grossman could be a sweet old cousin with the same name.”
“I bet she isn’t,” Palmer muttered cynically. He chewed another piece of bun.
After leaving the Grossman house, they had driven to the nearby town centre and found the travel agents. It was a small family firm and the young girl behind the desk looked bored with the lack of business.
Riley had plunged straight in. “I don’t suppose you handled the Grossman party tickets, did you?” she’d asked. She wanted to present the picture of someone in a jam, but not about to forget other wage slaves with too much to do.
“We handle all Mrs Grossman’s travel arrangements,” the girl replied formally, as though she’d been reading from a prepared script. “How can I help you?”
Riley explained about the house being about to go on the market with her agency, and that an urgent buyer had popped up. “Problem is,” Riley continued, “Mrs G didn’t leave us her number in Spain. We didn’t expect to have anything until she got back, you see.”
The girl continued to look bored and Riley had seized on a sudden flash of inspiration. “Gary was supposed to give it to us before he left, but I think he had other things on his mind.” She raised an eyebrow and gave the girl a knowing look. “I wonder what that could have been.”
The girl blushed. Evidently tickets were not the only things Gary got at this travel agency. “I’m not sure,” she said, glancing towards the back office. She pulled a note-pad towards her and copied a number from a file, then passed the piece of paper to Riley. “I don’t have the address,” she said softly. “Only Gary said he was driving from Malaga up the coast towards Almeria. If you see him, will you get him to call me?”
Riley smiled. “Of course. But I bet you’ll be seeing him soon.”
The girl shook her head. “I don't think so. We probably won’t be handling their account anymore.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Mrs Grossman’s got herself a private plane. Gary said these tickets would be the last ones.”
Riley took one last chance and nudged the girl a bit further. “You couldn’t tell us who they were for, could you?”
The girl stared up at her, before shrugging and tapping at her keyboard. “They were for a Mr Duggan, a Mr Howard and- ” She paused as if teetering on the edge of changing her mind, then added, “ - and a Mr Mitcheson.”
Riley turned and walked out, leaving Palmer to thank the girl for her help. When he joined her on the pavement, her face was pale and tight. She spoke briefly before listening, then switched off.
“Riley-” Palmer began, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
“Don’t, Frank.” She glanced at him, her face softening a little, but the muscles in her jaw were bunched with tension. “Please don’t say a word. That was the International Operator. She couldn’t put the number any closer than Malaga - which doesn’t help us. Come on. I need some tea.”
Now, in the quiet of the café, she pulled out the other two bits
of information she’d found in the kitchen drawer. One was the leaflet about the airfield at Rickmansworth, the other was the motorised wheelchair brochure. “All we’ve got is these.”
“Interesting,” Palmer commented, studying the wheelchair details. “I wouldn’t have thought this would be very practical around all those terraced bits of garden, would you? I didn’t see any ramps.” He reached for her mobile and dialled a number. While he was doing that, Riley stood up and went to the washroom. When she came back he was sitting with two fresh cups of tea looking very pleased with himself. On the brochure he had written an address. Villa Almedina, Moharras. In brackets he had written the word Nerja.
“Are you going to tell me how you did that?” Riley asked coolly. “Or are you just going to sit there all day looking smug?”
“I told them I’d been asked to fit ramps for a wheelchair at the Grossman house, and could they give me some measurements. They told me it was being delivered anytime now - but by special instructions to this place in Spain.” He grinned. “Easy when you know how.”
“Don’t be a smart-arse. What about the airfield?”
He handed her the phone. “That’s more an insurance thing, I reckon.”
“I see.” Riley gave him a flinty look. “And playing the insurance role is a girlie kind of thing.” She snatched the phone and dialled the number on the leaflet, asking to be put through to the airfield manager.
“Hi, General Accident here,” she announced smoothly. “We’re just checking details of a group of policies on behalf of a client. Could you confirm the location of a private plane? ” Riley fought for the name of a likely model. “ It’s a Beechcraft, I believe, with secure facilities at the airfield. Mrs Grossman is the owner. Thanks, I’ll wait.”
The manager came back moments later. “Yes, we have a plane owned by Mrs Grossman, but it’s a Cessna Titan.”
“That’s great,” Riley intoned. “If we need to inspect the aircraft, would that be possible? It’s only a formality.”
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 10
