“Now we need to make it happen, before we lose momentum. I want to move forward. The clubs were dying — and had been for years. McKee was getting old and comfortable, and Cage was senile. My husband has not enjoyed the best of health, and there was no one capable of taking over the running of the clubs the way I wanted.” She smiled grimly. “Basically, we needed a new product line under new management. It’s done every day in the City of London and nobody turns a hair.”
It was the first time Mitcheson had heard anyone admit that Ray Grossman was no longer in control. He wondered if her husband knew. After the way the old man had left the room just before Bignell was shot, he probably did but was powerless to stop her. Maybe this villa and the fancy new wheelchair was his payoff.
“Anyway,” Lottie waved a dismissive hand, “where I need your particular skills is making sure there are no problems with this end of the operation… in particular with our new friends across the water in Morocco, who will also source our new product. They’re bound to be suspicious at first, but I’m sure we’ll win them round as soon as turn-over increases substantially.”
“Won’t they kick up at Bignell being dumped?” Doug asked, finally taking an interest.
“They might,” Lottie replied coolly, “but I doubt it. Bignell was never going to amount to anything significant. He was a minnow who thought he was big-time.” She sniffed with contempt. “He was happy making peanuts. I’m after much bigger rewards. And anyone who works with me will share in those rewards.”
Mitcheson said nothing. He had no wish to be involved in drugs or illegal immigrants at any level, but you couldn’t always choose the path you trod. At least this way offered a chance of getting some money together until he decided what else he could turn his hand to. Unbidden, a vision of Riley crept into his head, sitting alongside the swimming pool. He shook his head to dismiss the image. That was over. For now, anyway. Maybe he could meet up with her sometime.
“All right,” he said. “So what’s the next move?”
Lottie Grossman smiled. “I’ve called a meeting,” she announced. “Here, tomorrow afternoon at four-thirty. The Moroccans are sending a representative over. His name’s Andre Segassa. I want absolute security in place.”
Mitcheson was surprised. “You want the meeting here? That’s risky.”
“Why?”
“Because once they clock the layout, you’re exposed; they might try something later.”
“What do you suggest?”
He shrugged. “I’d use a hotel — somewhere big and public with more than one way in and out. They wouldn’t want to try anything and you also don’t compromise your base.”
Lottie nodded. “Of course. You’re thinking like a soldier, aren’t you? Quite right. But I may decide to get rid of this place; it’s going to be too small for future needs. We may have occasional… guests to accommodate for a day or two. Besides,” she plucked a sugar lump from the tea tray beside her and popped it in her mouth. “I want them to see a show of strength. So it’s all hands on deck, please — and as much hardware as you can bring.”
Mitcheson nodded. “Fine. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want Gary to go back to check the house in Jordans for me.”
Mitcheson checked his watch. “I doubt we’ll get him on a plane in time this evening. Doing a round trip tomorrow is cutting it fine if there are any delays.”
Lottie stood up, signifying the meeting was over. “That’s not a problem — he can take the plane.”
They all looked at her. “Plane?”
She turned at the door. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve bought a plane. McManus and I flew over in it this morning from England. The previous owner went bust and needed a quick sale. The pilot’s on standby at Malaga. He can fly Gary over this evening and back tomorrow morning. See to it, would you?”
A battered builder’s van coughed to a stop outside the gates of a small villa on the outskirts of Malaga. The two men inside sat for a few moments, listening and watching while the engine ticked as it cooled down. Cicadas filled the air with their endless clicking as the evening closed in, and a moped buzzed frantically in an adjacent street. Further along the pavement was the building site for a medium-size hotel. A huge crane towered overhead and the dying sun outlined the skeletal structure of the scaffolding and framework for the concrete shell. Outside the wooden fence a bedraggled dog, tongue lolling in the heat, rolled over in the shade.
Gary climbed down from the driver’s seat and opened the gates of the villa, while McManus went to the front door and pressed the bell. Both men wore gardening gloves, with baseball caps pulled down over their eyes. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the villa, but it had the melancholy sound of an empty space.
They eyed the buildings nearby. Satisfied no one was watching, Gary went back to the van and drove it into the small courtyard, while McManus closed the gates behind him.
Using the van as cover, they took a heavy roll of carpet from the back of the van and carried it to a side door. McManus fished in his pockets and took out some keys and opened the door, which led into a kitchen and utility room.
Gary wrinkled his nose in disgust. Rubbish was piled high in a bin in one corner and overflowing onto the floor, a mix of empty wine bottles, cans and food-wrappers from take-way restaurants. The living area was a mess of crumpled UK newspapers — mostly national dailies — and soft-porn magazines.
The men wrestled the carpet upstairs and dropped it on the double bed in the main bedroom. McManus unravelled it. He peeled away the plastic bin-liners covering Jerry Bignell’s body and carefully rolled them up inside the carpet.
“Welcome home, Jerry,” he laughed softly. “Sleep well, you loser.”
Gary went through the drawers, taking anything of value and liberally spreading the contents on the floor. When someone did finally check on Bignell — if they ever did — it would be written up as a burglary gone wrong.
The two men did the same downstairs, emptying out the contents of a bureau and desk. Then they took the carpet out to the van and drove away.
Chapter 24
“I feel like a Goth at a white wedding, sitting out here,” Riley muttered darkly, sliding down further in her seat. She and Palmer were in a hired Peugeot 306 just along the road from the Villa Almedina. A large pine tree threw dappled shadow over the car, providing some relief from the hot sun. Palmer had assured her it would also provide camouflage should anyone exit or enter the gate to the villa and cast a glance their way. The nearest house was two hundred metres away, with all its windows shuttered, and traffic on this road was nearly non-existent. The only danger was that a member of the local police might take an interest, although Palmer thought that unlikely. Anyway, they were tourists, with a hotel booking just outside Malaga to prove it. Tourists did strange things like sitting in cars instead of on beaches. English tourists being the strangest of all.
“Cars in the shade are commonplace,” he told her confidently. “No one’s going to pay any attention.”
Riley glanced at her watch. It was just after mid-day. They had caught an early flight to Malaga and picked up the hire-car to drive the thirty-odd miles to Moharras. The road — like the airport — had been busy with tourist traffic, and they had been glad of the air-conditioning in the small car. On the way, Palmer had popped into a small supermarket, returning with a cold-box filled with drinks and sandwiches.
“An army marches on its stomach,” he’d announced. “I hope you like ham and cheese — it’s all they’d got.”
“Thanks, Palmer,” Riley said, peeling back one of the wrappings to reveal two slices of bread surrounding a thick slice of yellow cheese and a slab of palid meat. “I see you’ve obviously never heard of cholesterol and heart disease.” She dumped the sandwich back in the box and took a can of cola instead. It was already too hot for picnics, anyway.
Palmer swooped on the sandwich with a grin. “After some of the field rations I’ve had, this is lux
ury.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
She was halfway through the drink when a Land Cruiser nosed out from the entrance to the Villa Almedina. Sun flashed on the windscreen, obscuring the occupants, but Riley counted three men inside. The vehicle paused briefly before heading towards the coast, a swirl of dust in its wake.
Palmer let out a long sigh. “Didn’t get any detail. You?”
Riley shook her head. “No. But I had a feeling the people inside might have.”
He nodded. “Let’s hope they’re not observant.”
Riley got out of the car. “How about a stroll, Palmer? Fancy a bit of sun and fresh air?” She stepped out from the shade of the tree and the heat weighed down on her, drawing the air from her lungs. A thin taste of dust from the disappearing Land Cruiser touched her lips and she reached into the car for a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth.
“Where we going?” Palmer levered himself out of the car and stretched his back.
“Not far.” Riley settled her sunglasses in place, then set off along the road away from the entrance to the villa. With her tan shorts and T-shirt, and a pair of lightweight walking boots, she could have been from any one of several hotels and villas in the area.
Palmer followed, pausing to clap a Panama hat on his head. In the burst of direct heat, his chinos stuck to his legs and a thin ridge of hot skin began to itch around his neck. Uxbridge and its chilly pavements suddenly seemed a universe away.
If they were spotted by anyone from the villa, Palmer hoped they would pass as tourists who had fancied a stroll off the beaten track. Just as long as they didn’t meet the men he knew as Doug and Howie. The memory of the debris that had once been his office was still fresh in his mind.
They followed the curve of the narrow road past a thin belt of pine trees forming a natural boundary to the villa. Through the tangle of branches they caught glimpses of the single-storey building, and flashes of reflected sunlight from the windows. There was a faint sound of running water, with the occasional hiss of a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, and a dog barked twice with a short, flat coughing noise.
Riley veered off the road and angled towards the trees, with Palmer following and watching their backs. Soon they were out of sight of the road.
They stopped before a low, dry-stone wall overgrown with a covering of dry grass and old pine needles. Beyond the wall they had a fairly clear view of the back of the villa showing a length of patio and a splash of blue swimming pool. The sound of running water was louder now, augmented by the gentle buzz of a generator.
“Nice place,” said Riley.
“Apart from the dog,” said Palmer, his voice tight. A large Rottweiler was standing near the house looking towards them. As they watched, the dog bunched its powerful muscles and shot towards the trees. Just as Riley and Palmer were ready to turn and run, the dog skidded to a halt on the edge of the patio as a seagull launched into the air from the lawn where it had been toying with a stray flap of paper. The dog stared up in frustration before turning and trotting back to the house, where it flopped down in the shade of a table, oblivious to their presence.
Riley felt the tension flow out of her. “I never thought I’d be grateful for seagulls,” she whispered.
Palmer nodded. “As soon as we get back I’m joining the RSPB.”
The patio door opened and a woman emerged. Dressed in a sundress and high-heeled sandals she was large and pale-skinned, and from this distance they could see she wasn’t young. She called to the dog, slapping her hand against her ample hip. The Rottweiler lifted its head, then stood up and padded over to her. They couldn’t hear the words but the tone was sharp, biting. The dog obediently lowered its head and sank to the floor and the woman walked away, leaving it panting in the open heat of the sun.
“Lottie Grossman?” Palmer asked. He was counting on Riley recognising the woman from the photographs she’d seen in the house.
“That’s her,” Riley confirmed.
The patio door opened again and a figure in a wheelchair appeared, the buzz of an electric motor drifting across to them.
“Well, well,” Palmer murmured. “Look what we have here.”
They watched as the man drove the wheelchair in a jerky fashion across the tiled surface to within a few feet of the pool, where he sat staring into its depths. The woman watched his progress until he stopped, then began deadheading some flowers in tubs by the house.
“He was in the photos with the woman,” Riley said. “At least, I think it was him. He looks smaller and thinner now, though.”
“Ray Grossman,” Palmer guessed.
“But your friend in the Met-”
Palmer nodded. “I know. But he only thought he was dead. Could be Grossman simply dropped out of sight and rumour did the rest.”
The Rottweiler climbed to its feet and walked slowly back to the shelter of the table, its large head swinging towards Lottie Grossman. The manoeuvre failed. The woman turned her head and shouted at the animal, then she picked up a long-poled skim-net used for cleaning the swimming pool and, with a darting movement surprisingly quick for a woman of her size and age, was upon the dog. She beat it three times with the handle end of the net, each stroke on the Rottweiler’s flanks echoing across the garden. The dog cowered, trying to avoid the pole, then moved back to the centre of the patio, where it lay down again and licked its side.
The man in the wheelchair didn’t look round.
Riley and Palmer exchanged a glance.
“Bloody Nora,” Palmer breathed. “I wouldn’t want to change places with that dog.”
“If you do, take a suicide pill with you,” Riley replied. “Come on — I’ve seen enough.”
They walked back towards the car. As they approached the edge of the trees, Palmer held out a hand to stop Riley and motioned her to get down. Then he edged forward until he had a clearer view through the branches. He swore silently. The Land Cruiser was parked alongside the Peugeot and two men were peering into its windows. A third figure sat in the driver’s seat, watching.
Palmer felt a movement behind him as Riley squatted down and peered over his shoulder. He was about to suggest she go back when she glared at him. “Don’t even think it, Palmer,” she warned him. “I don’t do helpless female.”
He let it go and nodded towards the car. “Recognise anyone?”
“The driver, maybe… could be Mitcheson. But not the other two. How about you?”
Palmer nodded. “They’re the baseball fans who junked my office.”
Chapter 25
“What d’you reckon?” Doug was lounging against the Land Cruiser looking at Mitcheson. Howie was studying the contents of the Peugeot.
“Anything inside?”
“Picnic stuff. Sandwich wrappers… cold-box… couple of empty coke tins. A local map on the dash. Could be tourists.” He looked back towards where the road curved out of sight alongside the villa grounds. “Probably gone for walkies — or a bit of fun in the trees.” He grinned and looked as if he might take a walk along the road to find out, when a mobile phone buzzed in the Land Cruiser. Mitcheson picked it up and listened. Seconds later he dropped it and shook his head.
“Leave it,” he called. “Gary’s just called from the airport — he’s on his way in. Problems, apparently.” He started the engine.
“What about this?” Doug asked, jerking a thumb at the car.
“Leave it. If it’s still here in an hour, we’ll scout the perimeter and flush them out.”
He drove back down the drive to the villa and parked in the shade. Doug took a heavy canvas sports bag from the back and followed the other two to the front door. As he did so, the Rottweiler appeared at the corner of the building.
Howie threw it a nasty look. “I’m gonna slot that brute,” he said quietly. There was a look about the dog that didn’t seem right. They had all seen Lottie Grossman’s method of treatment, and were all convinced that one day the animal would lose it and turn on her… and on anyone e
lse around at the time.
“Cool it,” Mitcheson warned him. “If he senses a threat, he’ll have you marked down first. Let’s keep him primed for real trouble — if it comes.”
Lottie Grossman met them in the cool of the hallway.
“Problems?” she asked.
Mitcheson inclined his head. “A car parked along the road. Could be tourists. Could be someone having a snoop. Segassa’s people, maybe.”
Lottie nodded and took a phone from the wall nearby. “I’ll call my friend the chief of police. Did you get the registration?”
Mitcheson gave it to her. She dialled a number and spoke briefly, then replaced the receiver. She watched as Doug placed the sports bag on the floor and opened the top. Inside, under a tracksuit and towel, were four handguns and boxes of ammunition, along with silencers and a nondescript cardboard box
“What’s that?” Lottie asked, pointing at the box.
“Image intensifier,” Doug replied. “Second-hand crap, but it was all we could get at short notice. Might be useful when it gets dark.”
She nodded and walked through to the living room, gesturing for the men to take chairs. She appeared cool and relaxed, but a faint bead of perspiration shone on her forehead, and her heavy make-up had smudged in the corner of one eye.
“Gary and McManus should be here soon,” she informed them. “They’ve just got back from Jordans.”
“They?” Mitcheson thought only Gary had gone back to check the house. He’d been wondering where Lottie’s tame gorilla was hiding. Now he knew. The news made him uneasy. McManus was a stray bullet looking for a target; having him wandering about uncontrolled gave him an itchy feeling in the middle of his back. “Why McManus?”
“He had a couple of things to take care of.” The words came out flat and final, and Mitcheson’s unease grew even more. What couple of things? Maybe he’d find out from Gary. “What did he say?”
“There have been visitors at the house. My cleaner was questioned by a man and a woman, supposedly estate agents. Stupid woman even let them look around the place. Not that there’s anything they could find. McManus says the description fits the woman making enquiries about Cook and Page.” She looked at Mitcheson, a pulse flickering at her temple. From outside they could hear the sound of the Rottweiler’s relentless pacing. “I thought you were dealing with her. Why is she still bothering us?”
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