NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Read online

  The clerk smiled proudly. “Is mine.”

  “Great.” Palmer took a fistful of notes from his pocket. “I want to hire your car for an hour or so.” He figured it was more than the clerk earned in two days work.

  “But, sir - I cannot... ”

  “You can,” Palmer urged. “I’ve got to collect a friend from the airport - a business contact. If I don’t get there, I’m in deep shit - you understand?” He added more notes. “Come on - you’ve got my passport.”

  Greed won. The clerk handed Palmer his keys and watched as the Englishman hurried out of the car park and down the road. He wondered if the man realised he was heading the wrong way for the airport.

  Palmer drove the small Fiat fast along the coast road, wondering what the hell Riley was up to. He’d had a bad feeling about the men they had seen at the villa. The two who had visited his office had let him off without a beating then, but he doubted they would do so again.

  He saw a blue flashing light up ahead and slowed down. No sense in him getting into trouble for speeding. As he crawled by on the tail of a van in front, he saw the reason for the hold-up was: Riley being escorted into a police car, as a second policeman climbed behind the wheel of her hire-car.

  He drove on until he saw a convenient turning, then spun the wheel and headed back towards Malaga. Within minutes he’d caught up and settled in behind them.

  “What happened?” Mitcheson asked, squatting beside Doug. Both men carried handguns. They were in the trees near the villa and Doug was checking through the pockets of a body lying on the ground. A bright splash of blood stained the throat and chest, and the remnants of the man’s shirt hung in tatters. Nearby was a baseball cap.

  “The mutt got him.” Doug gestured to where the Rottweiler lay dead. Flies were already buzzing about their heads, attracted by the blood. “And he got the mutt.”

  Mitcheson swore softly. “Christ - what with?”

  Howie stepped up alongside them and scooped a handgun from the ground. “Star 9mm,” he said. “Cheap and cheerful version - most likely a copy.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “I counted three,” said Doug. “Two of them ran, then a car took off down the road.”

  “Okay. Let’s get him inside. Bring the dog as well.”

  Mitcheson and Howie lifted the man’s body and threaded their way through the trees, while Doug brought the dog. Gary was waiting on the patio with his gun drawn, while inside, McManus stood guard by the hallway.

  In one armchair in the living room sat a slim, dark-skinned man in his mid-forties. He was expensively dressed in a lightweight silk suit and cotton shirt. Facing him were Lottie Grossman in another chair, and Ray Grossman scowling from his wheelchair.

  Mitcheson and Howie dumped the body in the doorway. The man in the armchair glanced down but said nothing. His liquid eyes were glued to the firepower in the room, and he couldn’t have failed to be impressed by the speed with which the men had responded to the intruders.

  “Know him, Mr Segassa?” Mitcheson asked. He gestured at the gun in Howie’s hand. “We found this near the body. Two others got away.”

  Segassa looked surprised for an instant, then waved a dismissive hand. “I have never seen him before. There are many criminals in this area.” He stared at the surrounding faces and added dryly: “Mostly English.”

  “All right, Andre,” Lottie Grossman said softly. She flicked a hand and the other men left the room. “Now that little matter is out of the way, we can talk terms for the first delivery.” She spoke as though nothing had happened, but her tone left the man in no doubt that he had just witnessed the power she held over the group of men she commanded.

  Frank Palmer pulled up across the street from the police station and watched as the car carrying Riley turned through a guarded gateway, followed by the hire-car. He wondered why Riley had chosen to go off alone. Whatever the reason, she had fallen foul of the law and needed extracting.

  He returned to the hotel and handed the keys back to the clerk and asked him to call a taxi. If he also got picked up, he didn’t want the clerk involved through his car number. He had the taxi drop him a block away from the police station and walked the rest of the way deep in thought. This latest development was an added complication. Had Lottie and her group called the cops? Or had Riley simply been unlucky and infringed a local traffic regulation? The third option was more worrying, and that was that the local cops might have acted in co-ordination with the Grossmans.

  He stood outside for a moment, considering his options, then took a deep breath and walked up the steps and through the front doors. Nothing like a frontal attack, he figured, for upsetting the enemy.

  The inside of the reception area was like police stations anywhere; the walls lined with lurid posters requesting information about offences committed and warning of the dangers of drugs and drinking.

  Palmer filtered his way through a group of distressed German tourists in sun hats and shorts and arrived at the desk, where a stressed-looking sergeant was issuing orders to subordinates and hurling sheets of paper through a hatch in the back wall. Palmer flashed his passport. “I’ve been told you have a friend of mine under arrest,” he said politely. “She was picked up at Moharras. I wonder if you would be kind enough to give me some details?” He gave Riley’s name.

  The desk sergeant disappeared, then returned a few minutes later and motioned him to sit down and wait. The minutes ticked away with grinding slowness. Palmer sat and half-listened as the German tourists told in angry detail how they had been the target of pickpockets on a nearby beach.

  Two other men emerged from the back office and stood nearby talking in low tones. The one doing most of the talking was Spanish, and plainly a policeman. The other was English and dressed in a dusty suit and scuffed brown shoes with frayed, red laces. He had a beaten, ingratiating manner, and was scribbling in a battered notebook while constantly nudging the policeman for more information. Eventually, the detective managed to make his escape and retreated through the door.

  The desk sergeant interrupted Palmer’s eavesdropping and motioned him through a side door. He led him down a corridor and knocked on a blank door at the end.

  The office was sparse and lacked any personal touches. Behind the bare desk sat a captain in uniform, his cigarette smoke drawn upwards by a large ceiling fan. He stood up as Palmer walked in and dismissed the desk sergeant with a wave of his hand.

  “I have already spoken to Mrs Grossman,” the captain said without preamble. “I did not expect anyone to come so soon.”

  Palmer kept his expression blank and shrugged. He didn’t know where this was going, but it seemed already to have escaped him. He also had half his mind on the conversation he’d overheard out in the reception area.

  The captain shrugged, too. “Well, it is of no consequence. The young lady will be charged under our vagrancy laws and sent home.” He clapped his hands lightly together in a washing motion. “I understand she is English. You know her name?”

  “Yes,” Palmer replied. “We know her.” He took out his wallet. “I will, of course, pay any fines your courts would normally apply.”

  The officer nodded and wrote a figure on a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk for Palmer to see. It was a lot of money, but there was no other method of getting Riley out of Lottie Grossman’s reach. He counted out the notes and slid them across the desk. The officer nodded, slipped them in the desk drawer and locked it.

  He picked up the phone and spoke rapidly, then replaced it and said, “The lady will be brought out immediately. I am sorry we could not bring her to Villa Almedina, but there are limits to what I can arrange.” He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a thick cloud of pungent smoke. “She was speeding,” he continued, as if sensing some justification was needed in exchange for the money. “My men were merely doing their job, of course.”

  “I understand,” Palmer said. “Excellent work, captain.” Evidently Lottie Grossman liked to take ex
tra precautions to protect her privacy. He felt a growing admiration for the woman; she certainly believed in good organisation. He wondered how much she was paying this officer for his discreet help.

  There was a knock at the door and a squat, dour-looking woman in uniform appeared. Riley was close behind her, looking as if she could spit nails. She looked stunned to see Palmer and he shook his head to warn her not to say anything.

  The officer ground out his cigarette and stood up. He muttered briefly to the policewoman who departed immediately, before ushering Palmer out into the corridor. Past the desk, they threaded their way through the group of German tourists and out onto the front steps. Palmer had never been so pleased to taste fresh air.

  The officer indicated Riley’s car, which was now parked at the front kerb. “You may go. I strongly suggest you leave on the next plane.” He turned to Palmer, his look intense. “Both of you. This is not a good time to be here unless you are on holiday.” With that he turned on his heels and walked back inside.

  There was a dangerous glint in Lottie Grossman’s eyes when she dropped the phone back on its hook, and a pulse began to beat in her throat as she turned to stare at Mitcheson. She had just finished talking to a contact at the police station to see if anyone suspicious had been seen in the area near the villa.

  “That was the captain at the central station. He just released a woman his men stopped earlier along the coast road near here. She was driving the Peugeot you saw outside. He says one of my men just called in to pay a fine for her release.”

  Mitcheson frowned. They had been out-manoeuvred. But he couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Did they have names?”

  “The captain couldn’t recall,” Lottie muttered, her voice venomous with disbelief. “He says he ordered them to leave the country immediately. No doubt he was paid well for the decision.” She seemed oblivious of her own role in paying him off in the first place. “He’ll regret that lapse of memory.”

  Chapter 28

  “I can’t believe that bunch of fuckwits!” Riley swore roundly and threw the last of her clothing into her bag. She was still outraged by her arrest and expulsion from the country. “And those people… they had guns, Palmer - and that monster of a dog. What in hell are they up to?”

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Palmer took a miniature of brandy from the mini-bar, tipping the contents into a glass.

  “Get that down you,” he said, handing her the glass. “Medicinal only - I don’t need you going into shock on me. Then we’d better move to another hotel. The police might just check this place - or let Grossman’s people do it.”

  Riley stared at the roughness in his voice and realised he was right on both counts. If she let this thing get to her she was going to be useless, and if the police found her still here, they’d be in worse trouble. She drank the contents in one go, wincing as it burned her throat.

  “God - what do they make that from?” she asked.

  Palmer smiled. Protest was a good sign. He excused himself and went along to his room to make a phone call. When he returned, he was carrying a newspaper and his overnight bag. Riley was just putting her mobile down.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I’ve just checked my messages,” she said nodding at the phone. “John Mitcheson wants to talk. It was timed thirty minutes ago.”

  “If he’s out at the villa, he’ll know it was you the police picked up.”

  Riley walked across to the window. “He left a mobile number where I can leave a message. He said it was urgent.”

  Palmer looked sceptical. “And you’re going to call?”

  “Why not? It could be a step forward.”

  “Because,” Palmer said with quiet logic, “it could also be a trap. He might not be the worst of the bunch, but someone in that group has done the killing. If it wasn’t him, it was one of his men. How do you know it isn’t a set-up?”

  “I don’t. I agreed to leave the country just to keep that police captain happy, but I never said I was giving up on the assignment. After what we’ve seen, I can’t. This is too big to ignore.” She sat back on the bed. “You go back if you want. I’ll pay you up to date.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Palmer dropped the newspaper he was carrying on the bed. It was an English-language edition for British residents. “While I was waiting to spring you from the nick, I heard a detective briefing a local reporter on a murder they discovered today in Malaga. An Englishman named Bignell was found shot dead in his house. They say it was probably drug-related, and that Bignell was a suspected local distributor. They’d been watching him for some time and were getting ready to make an arrest. Looks like someone beat them to it.”

  “How does that involve us? There are loads of Brits living around here. Some of them are bound to be bent.”

  Palmer nodded at the newspaper. It was folded back to a page with a thumbnail photo of the article’s author at the top. “This is the reporter I overheard being briefed at the station. His name’s Benson. I rang him just now and asked if he could give me the bare bones. At first he wouldn’t play – told me to buy tomorrow’s edition. When I pressed him, he said a kid saw two men delivering a carpet at Bignell’s house yesterday evening, and they didn’t look Spanish. Benson said Bignell was well known for making regular trips across to Morocco - and he wasn’t the type to go for the sand or scenery.”

  “Does that mean there’s a connection with Grossman?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Palmer said honestly. “I’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow morning. He wanted to know what was in it for him, so I said we’d see him right.”

  “With my money? Thanks a lot.”

  “Needs must. It could save us a lot of bother. Are we on?”

  “Okay. But I’m still going to call John Mitcheson. Something tells me his reasons for wanting to talk aren’t merely social.”

  Palmer stood up and walked to the door. “That’s what I was afraid of. Come on - I’ve booked us into another hotel along the coast. This place feels too exposed now you’ve gone and got yourself a criminal record.”

  Breakfast next morning was on the patio behind their new hotel. The Ascona was a rambling three-storey complex of rooms and small apartments catering predominantly to English guests and a scattering of Germans and Scandinavians. While it wasn’t full, it provided sufficient noise and colour to give them a level of cover that would endure all but the most detailed examination.

  Palmer tucked into the buffet bar with a healthy appetite, while Riley stirred her coffee absent-mindedly. The latest edition of the local English-language newspaper lay on the table between them. They had dissected the front page, which was splashed with headlines about the murder of the Englishman, Jerry Bignell, but the story contained little more than guesswork backed up with brief details about Bignell’s history in the Malaga area. The reporter had skirted carefully round making any direct accusation that Bignell was one of the local criminal imports, but the implications were clear for any readers wishing to indulge in a bit of speculation. A grainy head and shoulders photo showed a sour man in his late fifties, his blotchy face apparently suffering a bad case of sunburn.

  “Not hungry?” Palmer asked her, pushing away his plate and lighting a cigarette.

  “Not much,” she replied. “When are we meeting this reporter?”

  Palmer looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes at a beachfront bar called the Oasis. Don’t come if you don’t feel up to it.” He regretted the words the moment he uttered them, then added: “He may know nothing… and he’s no oil painting.”

  “Don’t relegate me to the position of wee girlie, Palmer,” Riley warned him. “I’m coming to see if this reporter actually knows anything or whether he’s just punting a line of guesswork to sell more papers. And what the hell do looks have to do with it?”

  Palmer raised his hands in defence and smiled. “Hey - I was only thinking of you. This getting arrested lark can be
quite draining on the emotions - or so I’m led to believe. You’re probably feeling quite traumatised and don’t realise it.”

  Riley smiled in spite of herself. After a night of tossing and turning in the sticky atmosphere of her room, her head buzzing with images of the scene among the trees at the Villa Almedina, having to face a bright-eyed and cheerful Frank Palmer across the breakfast table did little to help her frame of mind. But he was right; she had better be alert if they were going to get anywhere with what information they had.

  “I called Mitcheson last night,” she told him. “He wants to meet me at two this afternoon in Malaga. He suggested the Hotel Palacio in the centre.”

  “So he knows you’re still here, then.”

  She ignored the slight dig. “He sounded... I don’t know… uneasy.”

  Palmer nodded and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “So would I if I had Lottie Grossman ready to bite me in the neck.” He looked her in the eye and continued: “Okay. But I’m coming with you.”

  “Forget it.” Riley shot him a bleak look. “I only want you to watch my back, Palmer, not hold my hand. Anyway, one of us has to keep an eye on the villa, in case something blows up there.”

  He held up a hand to signal defeat. “Okay. You’re the boss. But just so you know, I don’t trust this guy. If it looks dicey, get out of there.”

  “Agreed. Now, are we going to see this reporter?”

  They left the hotel thirty minutes later and Riley drove them along the coast road until they saw a large, garish sign pointing to the Oasis bar and restaurant. It was a low-slung building sandwiched between two gleaming white tourist palaces and facing out to sea. Extensive stretches of tinted glass bore brightly-coloured but unconvincing coconut palms, and unlit neon signs proclaimed nightly live music and Happy Hours. The main car park contained a single car - a sorry-looking Volkswagen Beetle - while a delivery lorry unloaded crates of beer through a set of double doors at the side. It was evidently too early for the morning trade to have begun in earnest.