No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1

by Adrian Magson

  Riley took out her card, handing it to her. “Can I make an appointment to see him in a couple of days? I know I’m not family, but it is important.”

  “Well, perhaps,” the woman considered carefully. “I’ll have to discuss it first.”

  “Who with?”

  The matron looked at Riley as if she’d developed horns. “With his solicitor, of course. All our guests have solicitors. We don’t just accept anyone here.” With that she slammed the door, snapping the security chain into place.

  At Trinity Court a dark blue Toyota RAV4 slid quietly into a space between a battered transit van and a rubbish skip, and the driver cut the engine. He sat for a few minutes, occasionally checking his watch, then climbed out and walked across to stand under the overhang of the first floor balcony running the length of the building.

  Ten minutes passed before footsteps echoed down a spiral stairway, and a familiar figure crossed the open space towards the RAV. The driver let out a pent-up breath through gritted teeth and stepped out to confront him.

  “You’re living dangerous, boy,” he growled, making Leech spin round with a grunt of fear. He grabbed the youth by the arm, pulling him close. It was the first time he’d let him see his face. “You got a death wish or something?”

  Leech went very still, eyes wary. “What’s up? What’ve I done?” he whispered.

  “You’re late. That’s what’s up. Carry on annoying me and you’ll end up in the river. Got it?”

  Leech nodded his understanding and the man relaxed his hold for a moment. If he needed to, he could always get the gun out and stick it up Leech’s nose to reinforce the message. Leech and his kind didn’t do guns. Knives and bottles were more their line of work.

  “Has anyone else been snooping?” He nodded towards the first floor where Cook’s flat was situated.

  “No, honest,” said Leech, shaking his head. “Just the chick I told you about.” He scrabbled in his jeans pocket and handed the man a business card. “We thought she was from the Social.”

  “Best leave the thinking to me, then, hadn’t you?” He tucked the card in his pocket. “Right. Tell you what I want you to do. Take this heap of shit,” he gestured to the Toyota, “and get rid of it. Up north along the river somewhere — and don’t get caught.”

  Leech massaged his throat. “North?” The way he said it suggested crossing the Thames was like foreign travel, and the man wondered if Leech had ever been further than three streets away. Somehow he doubted it; the Leeches of this world didn’t have the imagination.

  “Yeah — north. You know — where all the shiny lights are and the rich people live?”

  Leech stared at the car with a frown. “What’s wrong with it? It looks new.”

  “I said lose it. That’s all you need to know. Try palming it off on one of your scummy mates and I’ll hear about it.”

  “What about my payment?” said Leech. “For watching Cook. You promised.”

  “Call me when you’ve got rid of the car. Now piss off.”

  Leech stalled the vehicle twice in his eagerness to get out of the car park, and the man shook his head in disgust. The sooner he finished with this loser the better. He knew Leech would offload the RAV without thinking twice, in spite of the warning. His kind couldn’t help it. Not that it really mattered; it couldn’t be traced back to anyone because it was already third-hand when he’d collected it and on its second change of plates. A favour for a favour. Now he’d done with it. When the car had gone he looked up at the block of windows and counted across from left to right. There was a light on. Easy-peasy.

  Minutes later he was through the reinforced front door of the flat, holding his breath against the revolting smell. Jesus — didn’t this old bastard ever wash?

  He took a handgun from inside his jacket, checking the silencer. The extra length on the barrel made awkward handling in a confined space, but he doubted the flat’s occupant would put up much resistance.

  The blue light of a television flickered down the hall, and he could hear the build-up to the National Lottery. No wonder it was so quiet everywhere — the whole block was probably waiting for their fortune to come up. Some hope. Especially for Cook.

  He poked his head round the corner of the small living room and spotted Cook’s scrawny figure stretched out on the settee, surrounded by crumpled beer cans and half-empty fast-food wrappings. He wore grubby, grey tracksuit trousers and a filthy vest discoloured by food stains. His eyes were half shut in the glow of the television screen. There was no one else in the room.

  The intruder waited a moment until he was satisfied Cook was alone in his pigsty, then stepped around the doorway into the flickering half-light.

  “Hey — Cook,” the man whispered. When Cook’s eyes snapped open the man raised his gun and snapped off two shots in quick succession. For one flickering moment Cook looked terrified, before he was slapped back into the settee under the impact of the two bullets.

  The man counted to ten, watching for signs of life. Satisfied there were none he turned and left, gently closing the front door behind him. Once outside, he let out a lungful of air.

  It was late by the time Riley arrived home bearing a growing feeling of frustration. So far she had tried to interview two men, both at one time closely connected to Cage and McKee. One was beyond helping himself, while the other was beyond reach of anyone unless over the Dragon Lady’s dead body. Both had been employed by the dead gangsters as toughs, ending up with Cook seemingly one short step away from the grave and Page in a home, with a solicitor making all his decisions for him.

  As she stepped through the front door of her flat she heard a faint electronic beep from her answerphone. The neighbour’s cat was curled up on the armchair and raised one eyelid before going back to sleep. Tough life for some.

  Riley dropped her bag and re-arranged a cushion on the sofa. She was about to press the message button when she felt a chill creep over her shoulders and down her back. Everything looked normal, but somehow wasn’t. Then she noticed the lid of her laptop was slightly open.

  And the cat. How had he got in? She distinctly recalled putting him out before leaving.

  The silence in the flat drummed in her ears. She reversed her car keys between her knuckles and quickly checked the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Nothing. Yet all around were minute signs of an intruder; a drawer slightly out here, contents disturbed there; the laptop partially open; the file from Brask and her notes from the library slightly disarrayed. Things as she would not have left them. Yet nothing was missing. She jumped when the phone rang.

  “Yes?” She scooped up the handset and almost shouted with relief.

  “Miss Gavin?” A man’s voice answered. “Frank Palmer. You all right?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she replied. “I just got in — I’m a bit breathless from the stairs, that’s all.” She huffed a couple of times, determined not to let Palmer know how wobbly she was feeling.

  “Uh-huh. Listen — could you come to the office, say, tomorrow morning? I might have been a bit hasty turning you down.”

  Brask. He must have persuaded Palmer to reconsider. With this latest shock, she wasn’t about to argue, and promised to be with him first thing.

  She checked the flat again. In the kitchen she discovered where the intruder had come in. The window was missing a section of glass from one corner. Enough for a hand to gain access to the sash. A faint scuff of dirt showed where a foot had rested on the paintwork.

  Yet still nothing seemed to be missing. Had they been disturbed — perhaps by her return just now? Or had they been looking for something specific, like stuff they could readily turn into cash to buy drugs? If so, they had missed the blindingly obvious laptop. She dropped her car keys on the table and called the building’s service department to arrange for the window to be mended. The manager wasn’t happy about touching anything before the police had been called, until she persuaded him that she didn’t want to spend the night waiting to see if the i
ntruder would come back.

  Chapter 9

  Lottie Grossman sat at her kitchen table shelling peas into a bowl. Across from her sat Gary, and alongside him John Mitcheson, listening on a mobile phone. He ended the call and switched off.

  “That was McManus,” he told the woman. “A woman’s been asking questions about Cook and Page. She has a male partner in tow. They’re probably journalists. Weren’t Cook and Page once connected with the two dead men on the coast?” Mitcheson had done his homework, checking all the way back through his client’s history. Even with clients, it paid to know who you were dealing with. And against his better judgement, Lottie Grossman had turned out to have a history which was pretty unsavoury.

  “I know perfectly well who they are,” Lottie replied. “So what?” She continued shelling the peas, her varnished fingernails ripping into the pods with vicious efficiency.

  “Because you wanted us to watch anyone who could prove to be a link to the past,” Mitcheson pointed out. “People you didn’t want talking to the press… or anyone else. If someone’s found these two men, they might find others.”

  “There are no others. Forget them. They’re old men.”

  “How much do they know?”

  “They don’t. And they can’t talk. If they do, it’s rubbish and nobody listens.” She plucked a piece of broken pod out of the bowl and tossed it aside, the movement oddly birdlike. It bounced off the table and landed on the floor, and she looked pointedly at Gary, who reached down and retrieved it.

  “So we ignore whoever’s digging around?” Mitcheson persisted. He found her lack of concern puzzling. He’d been hired to do a job of work, to ensure her security, she had said. Yet she seemed oddly unconcerned about obvious loose ends.

  She dropped the pod she was working on and glanced at Gary. “Leave us a moment, would you, dear?”

  When the door was closed she turned to Mitcheson and stared at him, a faint pulse beating under one eye.

  “My husband, Mr Mitcheson,” she said with quiet venom, “would have your eyes out for taking that tone of voice with me. Especially in front of another employee.” The pulse beat a little faster. “I suggest you remember that. Do you understand me?”

  Mitcheson stared back at her and wondered why he was taking this. He felt almost ashamed of himself. “My apologies,” he murmured bluntly. “It won’t happen again.”

  Lottie reached up and patted his cheek, her fingernails stopping at the corner of one eye. Mitcheson wanted to slap her hand away but restrained himself. She’d probably break like a twig — and he needed this job for a while yet. If it meant taking some shit from this woman until something better came along, then he could do it.

  “Very well,” she said quietly. “We won’t mention it again. Don’t worry about Cook and Page. They’re unimportant. In any case, McManus knows what to do about them. I suggest you deal with the people doing the investigating. They’re much more of a threat.”

  He stared at her. McManus had already checked on the woman’s background, and given Mitcheson the address of a man working with her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Simple. Get your men to warn them off. We don’t want them becoming a nuisance, do we?”

  He wondered who the investigators were working for. Tabloid hacks, probably, sniffing around for links to the dead men. Someone must have been trawling through the files and making connections.

  “Tonight would be good,” she added pointedly. “I want it stopped. Now.” She turned back to the table and began to hum as she busied herself again with the bowl of peas.

  Mitcheson slowly exhaled and left the kitchen, punching numbers into his mobile. His men weren’t far away. It shouldn’t take them long to deliver the message.

  Frank Palmer looked up from his computer screen and rubbed at his face. It was dark outside and he hadn’t realised it was so late. He needed something to eat and a breath of fresh air. Jobs were proving hard to find at the moment and competition was tough, and staring at his screen for hours on end trying to drum up some interest was fast losing its attraction. Maybe this work with Riley Gavin would be what he needed to get himself going.

  He glanced up as a faint noise echoed up the stairway. A few cars were still drifting by, but the evening rush home had died down, leaving only late workers like himself in the local shops and offices as darkness settled. He knew he was alone in the building. Yet a faint rush of cold air was circling around his feet.

  Somebody had coming up the stairs, moving lightly and fast.

  Before Palmer could rise, a shadow moved across the glass panel of his office door. Then the handle turned and the door flew back with a crash, the glass shattering under the impact and showering across the floor.

  Two men moved swiftly into the room and stood close to his desk. The manoeuvre was smooth and well-rehearsed. Professional. Both were in their mid- thirties, dressed in jeans and bomber jackets and, Palmer noted with a chill, both were carrying baseball bats. The larger of the two men placed the tip of his bat on the monitor immediately in front of Palmer. The area around the widest part of the bat was chipped and dented, and he doubted it had ever been used for baseball.

  “Don’t get up,” the man said quietly. “We’re not stopping. Are you Frank Palmer?”

  Palmer counted to three before nodding. There was no point in denying it; if they knew their business, and he guessed they did, they had known who he was before busting into the building. It wasn’t the first time he’d had visitors bearing a message; it kind of went with the territory. He didn’t like the look of the baseball bats, though. This wasn’t an angry husband, client or partner, but hinted at something heavier. He searched his mind, wondering who he’d upset recently, at the same time wondering if there was a way he could get out of whatever bother these two were going to rain down on him.

  The spokesman nodded back. “Thought so. Don’t worry, Frank — you don’t know us, so forget reviewing your files. We don’t exist.” He indicated his companion. “We have a message for you, and it would be kind of easy if you watched and listened, but didn’t try to interrupt.” He glanced at his companion. “First of all, though, my friend Howie here will offer a brief demonstration of intent.” He smiled and stepped to one side, a parody of a demonstrator showing an eager public how something worked.

  At his nod, the second man stepped forward and, with a lift of his shoulders, swung his baseball bat and brought it crashing down on the computer monitor. The casing shattered under the massive blow, and the screen burst out in one piece, hitting Palmer on the shoulder. Bits of wiring and electronic components flew in all directions under repeated blows, until the computer was a mangled heap on the desk, the floor littered with debris.

  The first man pointed to the filing cabinet. This, too, suffered the same fate, bits of wood and chipboard skidding off across the room as Howie hurled himself into his work, drawers flying open and spilling their contents across the floor.

  Palmer sat and watched, powerless to intervene with the first man standing over him, ready to stop him. He waited until the attack had ended.

  “Thank you, Howie,” the spokesman said politely. “Now, Frank, please listen. If you don’t, he’ll do to you what he’s just done to your office.” He smiled coldly and hefted his baseball bat onto his shoulder. “The message is, you and your pretty friend would be well advised to forget anything about the unfortunate deaths of John McKee and Bertrand Cage. If you persist, Howie and I will come back and… well, I don’t need to repeat myself, do I?” He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for an acknowledgment of the message.

  “Do I get to hear who the message is from?” Palmer asked finally.

  The man shook his head. “No. You don’t. Let’s call it a well-wisher. Message understood? Good.” He turned and walked towards the door. “Come on, Howie, let’s leave Frank to do the dusting, shall we?”

  As they crunched through the remains of the door panel, the man paused and looked back. His eyes were cold and deadl
y serious, all parody now gone. “You don’t want us to come back, Frank, you really don’t. Nor does your lady friend.”

  Chapter 10

  Riley didn’t need to open the door to enter Palmer’s office — there was no glass and very little door left. Through the hole she could see him in front of the window, calmly smoking a cigarette and staring out at the street. The place was a shambles, the remains of his computer spread over the office floor like electronic confetti.

  “Earthquake?” she asked, glass crunching underfoot.

  “Computer virus.” He turned to greet her. “One of the nasty ones.”

  “Ouch.” She nodded at the smashed PC. “Did it cost much?”

  Palmer shrugged. “Two days of trudging around after an air-conditioning salesman. His partner thought he was cheating on him. I managed to prove otherwise. The client couldn’t pay me in cash in case the partner found out.” When she looked blank, he explained, “They were partners in their private account, too.”

  Riley dusted off one of the chairs — remarkably, still in one piece — and sat down. She wondered how Palmer could be so calm amid this wreckage. She studied him for signs of injury, but there were none. “Were you here when this was done?”

  “I had a ring-side seat. I think that was the intention. It was called delivering a message.”

  “Who did it — an angry husband?”

  Palmer sat too. “I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, his greyish eyes boring into hers.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention?” he said dryly. “There were two of them — both big, both with baseball bats. And they seemed to know you.”

  “But how would they? I’ve only been here once.”

  “Beats me. I figured it had to be you, because they referred to you as the pretty one — which, unless the guy was gay, leaves me out. They also said to stop whatever we were looking into. Otherwise they’d come back and use my head as a baseball.” He flicked at a piece of grey plastic on his desk. “Whatever you’ve been doing, you’ve seriously rattled somebody’s cage.”