NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Page 4

  “Reggie Cook?” she asked bluntly.

  He blinked slowly. “Who wants to know?”

  Riley handed him a card. He took it without looking at it. “You from the Social?”

  She almost smiled at the irony; here was a man who had brought pain and violence to people and he was frightened of a visit from the DSS. She became aware of movement along the open corridor to her right. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  “No. What do you want?” His eyes began to look less vague, as if sensing there might be something he could gain from her presence.

  “I want to talk to you about Bertrand Cage and John McKee.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re both dead. You used to work for them, didn’t - ”

  “Fuck off.” As the door slammed in her face a stab of laughter drifted along the corridor. She hammered on the door again but Cook had obviously gone deaf.

  As she walked back downstairs the kids appeared. A stringy boy in an oversized denim jacket pushed forward. “Cook’s mad. You wanna watch him!” The others laughed, jostling for support and egging each other on.

  “Why’s that?” Riley asked.

  “He talks to himself,” put in a podgy girl with short, streaked hair. “And he’s a perve.” She grinned and nudged her nearest companion, a slender girl with coffee skin, eyes glinting beneath a tracksuit hood.

  “Would be, if we let him,” she muttered.

  “Are you the filth?” a boy with a moon face demanded. He had an air of edgy tension about him that Riley had seen in kids where she had been born. Some grew out of it; some never lost it, ingrained from birth and carried through life like a badge.

  “She’s a snoop!” crowed the podgy girl. “I bet old Cookie’s being watched by the Social!” She spat out a wad of chewing gum, deftly kicking it away before it hit the ground.

  “I’m not a snoop,” said Riley. “Why do you say Cook’s mad?”

  “She’s not the filth,” said another, deeper voice. “But she ain’t far off it.”

  The kids looked round, their mood changing instantly. Two older youths had appeared out of nowhere. The one who had spoken jerked a thumb sideways and the group of kids melted away, their scuffed footsteps clattering off the walls.

  Riley’s mouth went dry. These two weren’t that much older than the others, but it was time to leave.

  “Why you calling on old Cook?” the first youth demanded. His stance was tense and full of aggression, and he had a painful-looking graze on one cheek. The other youth drifted off to one side, feigning disinterest. The move made the hairs bristle on Riley’s neck. Both were dressed in baggy jeans, trainers and hooded jackets, brand names colourful splashes against the drabness. Old faces in young bodies.

  “That’s my business,” Riley said flatly. She glanced around and saw no movement, no sign that anyone else was aware of events happening here.

  The first youth scratched at the graze on his face. “Yeah? Like, his aunt’s died and left him a fortune, right?” He was anywhere between fourteen and eighteen, with a thin, colourless face and a coarse crew cut. There was a crudely drawn tattoo of a bird on one side of his neck. He had maybe an inch of height over Riley, and did his best to stare down his nose at her. “Maybe we should have a chat about it.” He leered sideways at his mate.

  A scraping sound came from the end of the block and a man appeared dragging a dustbin. He didn’t look at them but concentrated on tipping the contents into a large rubbish skip. The two youths shuffled their feet, caught momentarily off-guard.

  It was enough to break the tension. Before they could say anything Riley stepped to one side and walked past them. They made no move to stop her, turning instead to watch her go. The second youth scuffed over to join his companion, and she felt their eyes boring into her back as she hurried away.

  Chapter 8

  Back in her car, Riley quickly locked the doors and let out a deep breath. She found her hands shaking and a cold shiver running between her shoulder blades. She cursed herself for being so careless. It had been stupid coming here alone; she was out of her depth and Palmer would be rightly critical of her. But for whatever reason she had got away without harm. Next time she might not be so lucky. She started the car and drove away.

  As she negotiated her way out of the area and headed north, she mentally scratched Reginald Cook off her list of interviewees. Even if he were willing to talk about Cage and McKee, his story would probably change with every new drink. And there was nothing worse for a journalist than an unreliable source.

  Her next call was very different. Brambleside old peoples’ home, set in leafy Kenton, had no brambles that she could see, and was new, fresh and serene, a world away from the flats where Cook lived.

  A tall, imposing looking woman appeared in response to Riley ringing the bell. Starched in uniform and manner, she announced herself as Mrs Marsh, the matron, and looked surprised when Riley explained the reason for her visit.

  “Norman Page?” she echoed. “Goodness - it’s ages since we had anyone asking for him. I didn’t realise there was anybody. Are you family?”

  “Not exactly,” Riley confessed smoothly, letting a touch of Kensington slip into her voice. “My name’s Riley Gavin. I’m a writer... You may have heard of my work...? Well, I was hoping Mr Page might be able to give me some background material for some articles I’m writing. Would it be possible to have a quick word?”

  Mrs Marsh hesitated, then retreated behind her matron’s rulebook. “We normally expect at least two days’ notice for visits. And then only family. You’re not family,” she finished unnecessarily but with a smile, her tone clearly reflecting that this young woman was obviously well bred. Rules, however, were rules.

  “Yes, I know, but-”

  “And in any case, Mr Page is not allowed visits at the moment.” She glanced at the watch hanging from her chest. “And it’s late.”

  “Is he ill?”

  The matron pursed her lips in an authoritarian huff. “If you must know he’s been misbehaving again.”

  Riley killed the grim thoughts that entered her head. “Seriously?”

  “Serious enough,” the matron replied sourly, misinterpreting the meaning. “We don’t need to put up with his sort of carry on.” She began to move backwards, the subject closed.

  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 intruder 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.