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

  “My, Palmer,” Riley remarked as they pushed through a double set of swing doors, to be greeted by a heady smell of stale beer, fried food and cigarette smoke. “I’m really glad you didn't choose somewhere down-market for this meeting.”

  “Don’t knock it,” he replied cheerfully. “Most of my best work has been done in dives like this one.”

  “Really? You should get out more.”

  Chapter 29

  There was a single customer inside. It was the man Palmer had seen in the police station. He was sitting near a window overlooking the beach, staring into a coffee cup. Behind the bar a young man in a white shirt and black waistcoat was polishing a stack of saucers, with a row of cups on the top waiting to be cleaned.

  Palmer led Riley over to the table, signalling to the barman for two coffees on the way.

  “Mr Benson?”

  Benson looked up and tried to look surprised. He gave a faltering grin which didn't quite come off either, and waved a hand instead. “That’s me. Take a seat.”

  He nodded slowly and watched as Riley slid into the bench seat across from him, then turned towards the bar and raised his hand again. “What can I get you?” he offered. His voice sounded shaky and Palmer and Riley exchanged a glance. If this man had slept indoors last night, it must have been in a cement warehouse, because his clothes were covered in fine grains of grey powder and his shirt collar was crumpled and grubby.

  “I’ve ordered coffee,” Palmer told him. He looked across at the connecting table, where an empty glass stood in the middle with a wet smear track running from near Benson’s elbow. “Is that brandy?”

  Riley turned to Palmer, her mouth dropping open. But he ignored her, staring at Benson without expression until the local reporter licked his lips and nodded.

  “Thanks. That’d be good.” His voice broke and he tried another smile. “Whatever gets the day going, right?” He stared down at his hands, then seemed to notice his frayed cuffs and dropped them into his lap.

  When the barman brought their coffees, Palmer said: “And a brandy, please.”

  The barman glanced at Benson, then back at Palmer. “Spanish or French?”

  “Spanish. But make it a good one.”

  The barman shrugged and walked away, flapping his tea towel at a fly on the next table before scooping up the empty glass.

  “That’s decent of you,” said Benson. “Very underestimated, Spanish brandies. So who’s your lady colleague?” He eyed Riley with surprise, as though he had never seen a woman in the place so early before.

  “My name’s Riley Gavin.” Riley began to reach across to shake his hand, but he sat back and closed his eyes briefly, as if overtaken by a sudden bout of tiredness. She threw Palmer a look that said ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ and dropped her hand.

  Benson up close surpassed Palmer’s description earlier. He was reed-thin and angular, with bony hands and wrists. His fingers were coarse-looking, with bitten-down nails and ancient scar tissue across the knuckles as if he might have once been a fighter who’d fallen down a lot. His face was narrow and in need of a shave, with long sideboards and a curl of lank, grey hair hanging behind each ear. A widow’s peak gave him the appearance of a pantomime Dracula, encouraged by a flash of yellowing, uneven teeth between bloodless lips.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asked, opening his eyes.

  “We’re gathering general background information,” said Palmer, taking the lead. “It’s a piece we’re thinking of doing on London firms who’ve moved out here.”

  Benson looked back at him, his eyes suddenly rat-like. “By firms I take it you don’t mean B&Q or John Lewis.” When they said nothing, he continued with a shrug: “Just checking. You should know the criminal element’s been done to death already. The last exposé was in the Mirror a couple of months back. And the journo who covered that got his knees broken. He made the mistake of naming names.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go into too much detail about Bignell’s death?” Riley asked him.

  If Benson was annoyed at this slur on his professional courage, he didn’t show it. “You obviously don’t know the type like I do,” he countered evenly. “Upset them and it’s not just you they come after; it’s your family, your friends - anybody. They don’t discriminate.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The barman arrived with a glass of brandy and set it down carefully in front of Benson. His expression said clearly that this was a waste of good liquor.

  “No worries,” Benson said matter-of-factly. “It’s a fact of life, that’s all.” He sipped his brandy almost daintily and winked gnome-like at Palmer in appreciation. “Couldn’t rush this if I tried.” He put the glass down and sat back. “Now, what is it you want to know about Mr Jerry Bignell?”

  “Why he died. Who killed him. Stuff like that,” said Palmer. He took out his wallet and left it on the table in front of him. In the background came the squeak of the barman’s polishing cloth.

  Benson sipped his drink, then stood up. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Just be a second.” Then he walked away towards the back of the club, with the exaggerated gait of someone who actually wanted to lie down.

  Riley turned on Palmer with a furious look. “What the bloody hell are you doing, Palmer? That man’s a raging lush and you’re pouring drink down his throat! We’ll be lucky to get any sense out of him when he comes back. Sorry - if he comes back.”

  Palmer nodded towards the coffee cup Benson had been looking into when they arrived. “You think that was his? It’s dried out. He took it off the bar for local colour. The glass on the next table was his - he heard us come in and got rid of it.”

  Benson returned and slid into his seat. “Sorry ‘bout that. Where were we - oh, yes, Bignell. Well, what’s to say? He was a crook and he got killed. Happens all the time.” He sipped more of the brandy and sighed.

  “We’d like to know who his friends were,” said Riley.

  Benson smirked. “That’s easy enough: he never had any. The ones he thought were his mates all bunked off just before he got killed.”

  “They were warned off?”

  “Possibly. Bad news travels fast around here, but direct methods work faster.”

  Palmer lifted his wallet and riffled through some notes inside. “Warned off by who?”

  Benson licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Lay off. You said you wanted some info on Bignell.” He looked suddenly nervous, but his eyes were on the money.

  “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 b
e 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 lyin
g 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.