“We’re more interested in who killed him. Aren’t you?”
“No.” Benson began to rise but Palmer put a hand on his wrist.
“Listen, I hate to come out with a well-worn cliché, Mr Benson,” he said, “but you help us and we’ll make it worth your while.”
“Why should I? These are dangerous people.”
“Because you’re not going anywhere with this story, that’s why. If there was anything harder to report or more money to make out of it, you’d have done it already.”
Benson sat down again with a resigned sigh. He picked up the glass, draining it in one, then pushed it across the table. “Go on, then.”
He waited until the fresh drink arrived, then twirled it around before continuing. “Bignell was nothing. He ran a small operation because his boat could get lost among all the other traffic in the area and the Spanish police had more important targets to chase, like property scams and organised crime. He wanted to be bigger but hadn’t got the balls or the money.” He sneered, showing yellowed teeth. “Drugs are like any other business; you need capital to set up a decent deal. Bignell hadn’t got it.” He shrugged. “Then somebody fingered him to the local police and they had to act. They stopped his boat.”
“By somebody,” said Riley, “you don’t mean a concerned citizen.”
“You got it.” Benson looked at Palmer. “Look, you were right, okay. I wasn’t going anywhere with this because it wasn’t worth the grief. But if I tell you anything else, I could still be in deep shit.” He glanced at Riley. “Sorry.”
Palmer took out some notes from his wallet and put them on the table. “How about that?”
Benson nodded. “I’ll need to get away straight after.”
“Won’t the paper object?” said Riley. “You leaving it like this?”
But Benson shook his head. “There is no paper, not any more. That last piece was the end of the line for me. I need to move on… go freelance.” The look he gave her showed what the admission had cost him, and that their respective ideas of freelance work were worlds apart.
Palmer added a few more notes to the pile. “That’s my last offer. Pick it up or leave it there.” He closed his wallet and put it away.
Benson shrugged, then dipped his finger in his brandy and licked it. “Okay. Word is, after Bignell got pulled, the locals wanted to charge him, but were out-voted by UDYCOS — that’s the Drugs and Organised Crime Unit. They wanted to roll up his contacts in Morocco. Unfortunately, someone else got to him first.” He picked at a patch of grot in one eye. “And before you ask, no, I don’t have any thoughts about police corruption. Bignell then started saying he’d been fitted up by some new firm moving in. I spoke to him a couple of days ago, and he gave me a name. Said this bloke has moved in locally and used to be something back in England years ago. Now he’s out here looking to set up in Bignell’s place… only bigger.”
Riley leaned forward. “The name?”
But Benson wasn’t ready yet. “Bignell said he’d already had threats against his family, then his mates pulled out and left him holding the limp end. He was scared witless, if you ask me. Bignell was no hero, but he wasn’t a rabbit, either.” He shifted in his seat again, then said softly: “Grossman. Ray Grossman. That’s all I know.” He fished a piece of card from his top pocket and placed it on the table. It held a name and phone number. “This is one of Bignell’s mates. He’s in Miami. Jerry said he knew Grossman from way back.” He finished his drink and smiled grimly, holding the glass. “On your way out…?”
Palmer stopped at the bar to settle the bill, and asked the barman to take a fresh glass across to the table. Then he followed Riley to the door. On the way they stepped aside as two men entered, carrying jackets. They looked like local labourers, both deeply tanned and wearing cheap, lightweight clothing, their shoes dusty and worn. One of them held the door open for Riley before going inside.
They were ten minutes along the road to Malaga when Palmer sat up in his seat and slapped his knee. “Christ — turn round!”
Riley looked startled. “Why? What’s up?”
“Those two men we passed on the way out. Did you see their car?”
Riley began to brake and look for a place to turn. “No. Yes… it was something big, wasn’t it? I didn’t really notice.” Then it hit her. “Oh, no.”
Palmer pointed. “Turn here. The car was too big and they didn’t look right. Foot down.” He drummed his hand on the side of the door, which was the most agitated Riley had ever seen him. She pulled the car round in a long turn and slammed her foot down, heading back towards the Oasis.
When they arrived, the car park still held the old VW Beetle, but no other vehicle. Palmer leapt from the car and ran inside, slamming through the sets of swing doors.
The bar was empty. On the table where they had left Benson stood a glass.
It was still half-full.
Chapter 30
They left the Oasis bar, with no sign of Benson anywhere, and headed back to their hotel. On the way, they changed their hire car, since the police, and by implication, Lottie Grossman’s men, now had its description. They chose a nondescript blue saloon and parked it along the street from the hotel in a public lot, then walked along to another agency and hired a second car in case they needed to switch vehicles or split up.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” said Riley, as Palmer pocketed the keys of the second vehicle. She needed to talk to keep her mind off thinking about may have happened to the reporter.
Palmer nodded. “Standard procedure in SIB operations. But we didn’t have to pay for the wheels.”
Back in her room Riley dialled the number Benson had given them. The only name she had was Warren. It was answered by a male voice with a throaty English accent. Riley beckoned Palmer across to listen in.
“Is Warren there?” Riley said.
“Who wants him?” The man sounded as though he was struggling to wake up.
“I’m calling about Jerry Bignell. He’s had an accident.”
There was a silence broken by the sound of heavy breathing on the other end. Then the voice said: “I’m Warren. Who’s this?” He sounded suddenly wide-awake and Riley thought she heard springs groaning as he swung out of bed. There was the rasp of a cigarette lighter and an intake of breath.
Without giving her name, Riley told the man she was a journalist working locally and had been put on the story after Bignell was discovered murdered in Malaga.
“Yeah? Why should that bother me?”
“Because Jerry gave me your name.”
“Okay.” There was a pause. “What’s the gossip?”
She told him the barest details as related by Benson. “Before he was killed,” she continued, “Jerry said you knew who was heading up the group who’d moved in from London and taken over your set-up. Is that right?”
“Jerry always did talk too bloody much.”
“But you do know?”
“Maybe.”
“I spoke to Jerry a couple of nights before he was killed. He said you knew these people from way back.” Riley glanced at Palmer, wondering if she had pushed it too far. “This won’t come back on you, I promise. I just need to know. Is it Ray Grossman?”
There was another intake of breath and a lengthy pause, then the man said: “Ray used to be big years ago, raking it in from some clubs he bought into back in the sixties with a couple of other guys. They recently fell out but still ran the business between ‘em. Then a few days ago both the other guys got topped and Grossman was left holding the reins. I still can’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t his style, that’s why. Ray was hard, but he never went in for this stuff — not unless he was forced.”
“He might have changed since then.”
“Yeah, right.’” Warren sounded sceptical. “What would be the point, in his condition?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Christ, you ain’t dug
very far, have you? Ray’s dying of cancer, that’s why. He can hardly hold a spoon, they reckon. Such a shame.” Warren’s voice was coldly unsympathetic.
Riley exchanged a look with Palmer, who looked blank. “Why didn’t you hang around, then?”
“Because I didn’t want to die. Ray might not be up to much any longer, but his missus is something else. She’s real poison. Her and her thugs.”
“So you’re saying-”
“That’s all I’m saying,” the man said. “This number’s changing as of right now. Don’t call again.” The phone went dead.
Riley switched off the phone and looked at Palmer. “So the lady’s in charge.”
Palmer nodded. “There’s a turn-up. I wonder if Mitcheson knows that.”
“He must do. But there’s only one way to find out.” Riley stood up and collected her car keys. “I’ll see you at the villa.” She gave him a warning look. “I mean it, Frank: don’t play big brother. I can handle this.” She left before Palmer could argue.
At the Hotel Palacio she ordered an iced tea in the lounge. The air was cool and smelled of something floral, a proper oasis after the Oasis. She tried not to think about it, or of the possibility that Mitcheson may have ordered Benson to be snatched. Yet how could he have found out Benson was meeting them at the bar? Unless Benson himself had been careless.
“Miss Gavin?” It was the waiter. “A phone call for you.” He gestured towards the reception desk.
The receptionist indicated a courtesy phone lying on the end of the counter and Riley picked it up. It was John Mitcheson.
“If you look in the mirror behind the counter,” he said without greeting, “you’ll see a pale Merc parked in the street outside.”
Riley looked. By the kerb was a large cream Mercedes, and she could just make out a figure sitting at the wheel, one arm outside the car, fingers drumming on the door. With the press of passing pedestrians, she couldn’t make out if it was Mitcheson or whether he was looking her way.
“I see it,” she confirmed. “What’s the matter — are you frightened of being seen in hotels with strange women? I’ll come out to you.”
“Don’t do that.” Mitcheson’s voice was urgent. “The man in the car is called McManus. He’s the one you saw in Piccadilly the other night. Remember?”
Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She instinctively turned away, shielding her face. “What does he want?”
Mitcheson didn’t speak for a few seconds. When his voice came it was flat and unemotional.
“He has orders to kill you.”
Riley felt a chill touch her shoulders. She was shocked by the contrast between the tone and conversation of Mitcheson’s voice compared with the other night.
“Is that why you suggested meeting here?” she asked coldly. “To finger me?”
“Don’t be bloody silly. McManus doesn’t even know you’re here. If he did he’d already be all over you. He’s on his way back to London to look for you. I got caught into giving him a lift to the airport — he’s taking a private plane back to the UK.” He paused. “I checked you were here because I figured it would be safer than London.”
Riley took a deep breath. “Okay — I’m sorry. Can we meet?”
“Give me half an hour, then go to room 1221. I’ll be along as quick as I can. Stay off the street.” The line went dead.
Riley rang Palmer. There was no answer. She broke the connection and walked back to the bar, selecting a chair set back out of sight of the reception area. Thirty minutes was going to seem like a lifetime.
At the Villa Almedina, a large, black Lexus purred through the gates. The man in the back told the driver to park facing back down the drive. As he did so, the front door of the villa opened and a young man emerged. At the same time, two more men appeared at the corners of the house and stood watching as the vehicle crunch to a stop. Those in the car recognised the men for what they were.
A slim, darkly tanned man emerged from the front passenger seat and stood waiting. He made no move to open the rear doors, his eyes settling bleakly for a moment on the thin belt of trees near the road. He gave a light tap on the bodywork of the car, and moments later, the man in the back climbed out. Andre Segassa nodded at the three men in turn. Professional to professional.
The young man held the front door open and gestured for the new arrivals to go inside.
“Mr Segassa,” Lottie Grossman greeted the drug-dealer. She shook his hand and indicated that they should follow her. As they passed across the hallway, Segassa glanced to one side and saw a man sitting hunched in a wheelchair at the end of a tiled corridor. He paused momentarily, then walked through the front room and out onto the patio, noting as he did so that the two men had followed them from the front of the building and were watching him and his companion closely.
“So,” Lottie smiled, pouring soft drinks from a vacuum jug into tall glasses. “Can we begin negotiations?”
Segassa nodded and took a glass. “Of course, Mrs Grossman. As long as all the terms are satisfactory, my colleagues are happy to talk with you. I will act as intermediary.”
“I’m so pleased.” Lottie took a sip of her juice and tapped a painted fingernail on the side of her glass. “Such a pity about your man’s accident with my dog. Did I tell you I have another one on order?”
Segassa was momentarily taken aback by the bleakness of her words. Where he came from, life was cheap and liable to be snatched away on the whim of man or nature. Yet he could not recall having ever come across a woman before who seemed to value a dog higher than a man… and in the end rate neither of them as anything more than a commodity to be replaced like a broken light-bulb.
He sipped his juice and wondered if it was all an act. Fear sometimes made weak people puff themselves out like cockerels. Yet there was something different about this woman. Something indefinable. Maybe she was just crazy. Crazy people, in his experience, were the very worst to deal with.
“Hello, John.” Riley walked past Mitcheson into the room, wondering if this had been a good idea. She wasn’t expecting any heavies to leap out of the wardrobe, but she knew Palmer was partly right in his suspicions, and that Mitcheson was more involved than she would have liked.
“Riley.” He closed the door behind her. “Care for a drink?”
His eyes briefly scanned her figure in the sun-dress she had put on before leaving the hotel, and she remembered with a warm blush how he had seen in her in much less.
She sat down in a club chair away from the window. It seemed safer somehow, even this far above the street. “Please.” She watched him pour two glasses of white wine. He had an economy of movement, as if he didn’t wish to waste energy unecessarily. He handed her a glass and lifted his own.
“Are we celebrating something?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I wish we were. But it’s not like that. I…” he gestured with a vague wave of his hand and ran out of words.
“So why don’t you tell me how it is, then?” Riley was surprised by her own calmness. Was it foolishness on her part or did she feel deep down that this man meant her no harm? “Like, why has this man — McManus? — been told to kill me?” Her voice stuttered on the final words. She hadn’t realised how difficult it would be to say it.
“Because you got involved, and the business in London.”
“What business?”
“McManus was the one who broke into your flat. He’d picked up your business card from one of the men you visited. Cook, was it? Anyway, he must have seen a photo of you. When he saw us together he started to make connections. He couldn’t be sure if you and I were working together, so he made do with putting the poison in with his bosses. I tried to head them off, but they weren’t having it. In their line of work, they tend to see things in black and white.”
“They?”
“Lottie Grossman and her husband, Ray. And McManus.” He stared into his glass. “I think one of my men has been dragged in, too. Maybe all of the
m.”
“Your men?”
He shrugged. “It’s a long story. It’ll keep.”
“So what are they getting into? Drugs? Is that why Bignell was murdered — to get him out of the way so they can take over?”
Mitcheson put his glass down and walked across to the window, shaking his head. “You’ve got to stay out of this, Riley,” he said quietly. “It’s dangerous and getting worse… and not just from the Grossmans. There are others involved now.”
“What others? Bignell’s Moroccan contacts?”
He turned and looked at her, clearly surprised by how much she knew. He didn't deny it, she noticed.
“McManus will soon find out you’re not in London, and when he does he’ll come back looking for you. It won’t take him long to track you down. He’s no Einstein, believe me, but he’s got strong instincts and he uses them. It makes him very good at what he does.”
“And what’s that, exactly?”
“He hurts people. And he kills them if he has to.”
Riley felt a shiver of apprehension. “Like that Rottweiler.” Riley could have bitten her lip the moment she uttered the words, but Mitcheson didn’t react. He must have already worked out that she’d been out to the villa.
“Like the Rottweiler,” he agreed eventually, with an expression of distaste. “The only difference between them is, I don’t think the dog enjoyed its job quite as much.”
Chapter 31
He spoke of the dog in the past tense, Riley noted. She hoped it had managed to get a bite or two in before the gunman had killed it. With Lottie Grossman as its owner, the poor animal hadn’t had much of a life.
“What do they hope to gain by the killings?” Riley asked. “Most people would know it would draw too much attention.”
Mitcheson turned back to the window and shrugged. “You’re talking about normal rules,” he said grimly. “Normal rules don’t apply to this lot. There’s a ton of money out there waiting to be grabbed, and they want their share. In fact, the way Lottie sees it, it’s essential.”
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