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

  Mitcheson slowly exhaled and left the kitchen, punching numbers into his mobile. His men weren’t far away. It shouldn’t take them long to deliver the message.

  Frank Palmer looked up from his computer screen and rubbed at his face. It was dark outside and he hadn’t realised it was so late. He needed something to eat and a breath of fresh air. Jobs were proving hard to find at the moment and competition was tough, and staring at his screen for hours on end trying to drum up some interest was fast losing its attraction. Maybe this work with Riley Gavin would be what he needed to get himself going.

  He glanced up as a faint noise echoed up the stairway. A few cars were still drifting by, but the evening rush home had died down, leaving only late workers like himself in the local shops and offices as darkness settled. He knew he was alone in the building. Yet a faint rush of cold air was circling around his feet.

  Somebody had coming up the stairs, moving lightly and fast.

  Before Palmer could rise, a shadow moved across the glass panel of his office door. Then the handle turned and the door flew back with a crash, the glass shattering under the impact and showering across the floor.

  Two men moved swiftly into the room and stood close to his desk. The manoeuvre was smooth and well-rehearsed. Professional. Both were in their mid- thirties, dressed in jeans and bomber jackets and, Palmer noted with a chill, both were carrying baseball bats. The larger of the two men placed the tip of his bat on the monitor immediately in front of Palmer. The area around the widest part of the bat was chipped and dented, and he doubted it had ever been used for baseball.

  “Don’t get up,” the man said quietly. “We’re not stopping. Are you Frank Palmer?”

  Palmer counted to three before nodding. There was no point in denying it; if they knew their business, and he guessed they did, they had known who he was before busting into the building. It wasn’t the first time he’d had visitors bearing a message; it kind of went with the territory. He didn’t like the look of the baseball bats, though. This wasn’t an angry husband, client or partner, but hinted at something heavier. He searched his mind, wondering who he’d upset recently, at the same time wondering if there was a way he could get out of whatever bother these two were going to rain down on him.

  The spokesman nodded back. “Thought so. Don’t worry, Frank - you don’t know us, so forget reviewing your files. We don’t exist.” He indicated his companion. “We have a message for you, and it would be kind of easy if you watched and listened, but didn’t try to interrupt.” He glanced at his companion. “First of all, though, my friend Howie here will offer a brief demonstration of intent.” He smiled and stepped to one side, a parody of a demonstrator showing an eager public how something worked.

  At his nod, the second man stepped forward and, with a lift of his shoulders, swung his baseball bat and brought it crashing down on the computer monitor. The casing shattered under the massive blow, and the screen burst out in one piece, hitting Palmer on the shoulder. Bits of wiring and electronic components flew in all directions under repeated blows, until the computer was a mangled heap on the desk, the floor littered with debris.

  The first man pointed to the filing cabinet. This, too, suffered the same fate, bits of wood and chipboard skidding off across the room as Howie hurled himself into his work, drawers flying open and spilling their contents across the floor.

  Palmer sat and watched, powerless to intervene with the first man standing over him, ready to stop him. He waited until the attack had ended.

  “Thank you, Howie,” the spokesman said politely. “Now, Frank, please listen. If you don’t, he’ll do to you what he’s just done to your office.” He smiled coldly and hefted his baseball bat onto his shoulder. “The message is, you and your pretty friend would be well advised to forget anything about the unfortunate deaths of John McKee and Bertrand Cage. If you persist, Howie and I will come back and... well, I don’t need to repeat myself, do I?” He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for an acknowledgment of the message.

  “Do I get to hear who the message is from?” Palmer asked finally.

  The man shook his head. “No. You don’t. Let’s call it a well-wisher. Message understood? Good.” He turned and walked towards the door. “Come on, Howie, let’s leave Frank to do the dusting, shall we?”

  As they crunched through the remains of the door panel, the man paused and looked back. His eyes were cold and deadly serious, all parody now gone. “You don’t want us to come back, Frank, you really don’t. Nor does your lady friend.”

  Chapter 10

  Riley didn’t need to open the door to enter Palmer’s office - there was no glass and very little door left. Through the hole she could see him in front of the window, calmly smoking a cigarette and staring out at the street. The place was a shambles, the remains of his computer spread over the office floor like electronic confetti.

  “Earthquake?” she asked, glass crunching underfoot.

  “Computer virus.” He turned to greet her. “One of the nasty ones.”

  “Ouch.” She nodded at the smashed PC. “Did it cost much?”

  Palmer shrugged. “Two days of trudging around after an air-conditioning salesman. His partner thought he was cheating on him. I managed to prove otherwise. The client couldn’t pay me in cash in case the partner found out.” When she looked blank, he explained, “They were partners in their private account, too.”

  Riley dusted off one of the chairs - remarkably, still in one piece - and sat down. She wondered how Palmer could be so calm amid this wreckage. She studied him for signs of injury, but there were none. “Were you here when this was done?”

  “I had a ring-side seat. I think that was the intention. It was called delivering a message.”

  “Who did it - an angry husband?”

  Palmer sat too. “I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, his greyish eyes boring into hers.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention?” he said dryly. “There were two of them - both big, both with baseball bats. And they seemed to know you.”

  “But how would they? I’ve only been here once.”

  “Beats me. I figured it had to be you, because they referred to you as the pretty one - which, unless the guy was gay, leaves me out. They also said to stop whatever we were looking into. Otherwise they’d come back and use my head as a baseball.” He flicked at a piece of grey plastic on his desk. “Whatever you’ve been doing, you’ve seriously rattled somebody’s cage.”

  Riley felt a finger of ice brush her neck. The break-in at her flat.

  Palmer must have noticed. He said: “What?”

  She told him about the disturbed items and the broken glass, then frowned. “But you’re not involved in this - at least, not yet. And what’s with the ‘we’ bit?”

  “‘You and your lady friend’ were the words they used. That’s pretty specific. Have you been bandying my name about?”

  “Why would I?” Riley pointed out. “Didn’t you tell them you’d refused the job?”

  “We didn’t really get that well acquainted.” He turned to look out of the window again, revealing a piece of his computer attached to the tail of his jacket. Riley reached over and plucked it off.

  He stared at it quizzically. “So that’s where it got to. All I need now is some glue and I’m back in business.” He tossed the component across the room and bent down to plug in a battered kettle. “At least this survived. Fancy a brew?”

  “Aren’t you private eyes in the habit of offering shots of whisky?”

  “Only near Christmas. Sorry.”

  “In that case, black, no sugar.”

  “So. Want to brief me on what has happened so far?” Palmer spooned instant coffee into two cups. “So I can decide whether to help or not.”

  Riley recounted her activities of the last two days. Palmer’s face showed little expression at the mention of the young thugs at the block of flats. He poured boiling water, handing Riley a cup. “About
the break-in; you’re sure there was nothing missing?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Well, that rules out burglary; an opportunist would’ve grabbed your laptop on the way out. You said it was open, though.”

  “Yes. But I’d also made some paper notes to work from, and there was a file from Donald Brask. I’m pretty sure they had a look through them. I didn’t really notice the order - they were mostly loose pages.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow. “Would these pages have included my name and details?”

  Riley opened her mouth to say no, then realised he was right; Donald Brask had given her the details on a slip of paper and she’d stuck it in the file for easy reference. She bit her lip. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. So, have you worked crime scenes before?”

  “Yes. What about you?”

  “Plenty. Crime in the army is pretty much the same as anywhere else.” He stopped, frowning as if a thought had occurred. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I thought there was something vaguely familiar about my two visitors. I’ve just realised what it was.”

  “You knew them?”

  He shook his head. “Not personally… but I know the type.” He blew on his coffee. “They were ex-squaddies.”

  They digested the statement between them for a moment. Then Riley asked: “Does this mean you’ll help?”

  He frowned, taking out another cigarette. “You’re still going ahead with the job, then?”

  “Of course. Why do you smoke so much? You never finish them.”

  He looked at the cigarette. “No idea. Nerves, probably. Why - is it a problem?”

  “Only if we’re going to be sharing the same breathing space.”

  He put the cigarette back in the pack. “Consider me hired. Do I get regular smoke and tea breaks?”

  The phone interrupted Riley’s reply. Palmer scooped it up and muttered his name. “Yes, she’s here,” he said, glancing at Riley. After a few moments he put it down without a word. “That was Brask,” he explained. “The wires are humming all over London. He’s getting calls from mates in the business and the Met. Another ex-villain’s been shot. This one was late last night, south of the river. The dailies are starting to make connections.”

  “Where south of the river?” Riley queried.

  “Near the Elephant and Castle. Bloke named Cook. Hey - wasn’t he-?”

  Riley nodded. “One of the men I visited.”

  Palmer pulled at his tie knot. “These boys don’t hang about, do they? They find someone sniffing about and swing straight into action; burgle your flat, smash my office and kill a potential source - all within twelve hours. Looks like the body count’s going up.”

  “And likely to go higher,” said Riley. “If they haven’t already called on Page, he must be the luckiest man in London.” She reached for her mobile and dialled the nursing home. It was answered promptly by the matron.

  “Hello, Mrs Marsh? It’s Riley Gavin… I came by yesterday to see Norman Page. Is he okay…? Only I was wondering if anyone had been to visit him. You’ve seen him? I see… Thank you.” She switched off her phone with a grimace and looked at Palmer.

  “That didn’t sound too positive,” he said sympathetically.

  “Basically, I can stick my request for a visit because he’s as fit as a performing flea and how dare I question her integrity.”

  Palmer barely suppressed a laugh. “She sounds a real charmer. So what do you want to do?”

  “What do you think? If he’s got a pulse he can talk.” She walked towards the door. “You coming?”

  Chapter 11

  Mitcheson parked his BMW near Covent Garden and walked down to the Embankment, skirting groups of tourists and office workers. In spite of the cool breeze blowing off the Thames, there was already a heavy tang of exhaust fumes in the air, and he wondered why he wasn’t somewhere far from here where the air was clean and pure.

  He checked his back several times out of habit. By the time he was leaning on the embankment wall overlooking the grey waters, he was satisfied no one was following.

  Moments later the man he knew as McManus approached and leaned on the wall alongside him, breathing noisily through his ex-boxer’s nose. Big-boned and florid, he looked like a farmer in town for the day. Mitcheson didn’t care for the man, but since he was Lottie Grossman’s pet thug, he had little choice but to endure his brooding presence. Fortunately, he was brighter than he looked. Just.

  McManus slapped a business card on the wall and pinned it down with a large finger so Mitcheson could read it. “This is the skirt doing the investigating.”

  Mitcheson read the name and felt as if someone had kicked him in the belly. Christ, it couldn’t be…

  “Are you sure?” he asked, staring at McManus. The big man was watching a seagull strut along the wall in search of food and missed Mitcheson’s look of surprise.

  “Certain. She left a card with Cook before he gave her the elbow. I went round to her place for a quick look-see as soon as I got the details. That’s where I got the name of the bloke named Palmer. She’s a freelance reporter but I don’t know what he does – it didn’t say. I was lucky to get out of her place; couple of minutes later and she would have caught me.” He grinned dirtily, displaying a mouth full of false teeth. “It could have been fun, though.”

  Mitcheson rounded on him. “Knock it off. You didn’t leave any trace, did you?”

  “Do me a favour, soldier boy,” McManus said softly, and stared back unflinchingly. “I’m a pro – I don’t leave traces. Talking of which, how did your two squaddies manage? I hope they didn’t leave any.”

  Mitcheson ignored the jibe. “I’ll deal with the woman.”

  “Yeah? Like I dealt with Cook?” His expression was full of contempt. “I don't reckon you’ve got the balls.”

  Mitcheson felt a twist of distaste at the man’s coldness. He was no stranger to killing, but he’d had never killed helpless men who were too far gone mentally or physically to pose any kind of threat. Or women. He remembered Lottie Grossman’s instructions to deal with the two old gang members, and felt a momentary self-contempt for having sat and done nothing while those instructions were carried out.

  “What about Page?’ he asked.

  “Page isn’t your problem. Don’t overreach yourself, soldier boy.”

  Mitcheson debated pushing it, but right here wasn’t the time or the place. He left the man standing by the embankment wall and returned to his car. He might have to deal with McManus before long, otherwise his own position was going to be threatened. He didn't relish the prospect.

  Mrs Marsh replaced the phone and stood for a while, trying to overcome her sudden feeling of unease. Ever since Norman Page had arrived here, she had felt she was in some kind of limbo. She couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because most of her residents came from normal backgrounds, mundane and out of the ordinary, free of any mystery. But Page was different. He had arrived as arranged by his solicitor, and since then not a thing. No visitors, no calls, no history and only a couple of letters, since vanished. It was like he’d been put here in the shade to wither and die, unseen and unwanted.

  She crossed the hallway towards the back stairs and frowned as her feet crackled through something on the carpet. For heaven’s sake, she thought. How did leaves get in here? And in the kitchen, too. Someone must have left the back door open again. One of the temps no doubt, who didn’t give a fig about health, safety or the heating bills. She bent and flicked the worst of them to one side where they wouldn’t get trampled in any further. She’d get Mrs Donachy to see to it later.

  Walking up the stairs, she thought about the call from the young woman - what was the name - Gavin? After so long with no contact and no interest from anybody, why should this woman suddenly be asking questions about Page?

  She crossed the landing and peered through the door of Page’s room. She didn’t go in; he was a light sleeper and woke at t
he slightest noise. One of his hands, she noticed, was clenched tight around the duvet, as if reacting to a sudden pain. A bad dream, perhaps.

  She noticed the spare pillow had fallen onto the floor by the window. She could just see it beneath the bed. He obviously wasn’t missing it. She’d pick it up later when she gave him his medicine.

  Chapter 12

  Riley drove from Uxbridge to Kenton in silence. Palmer, ignoring her rules, sat in the back and smoked, his head to the open window, contemplating the passing scenery as he blew smoke through the gap.

  Riley drove as aggressively as traffic would allow, using the speed and agility of the Golf to counter her feelings of anxiety. Occasional glances in the rear-view mirror showed Palmer apparently unconcerned at the ride, and she wondered what the ex-army man was thinking. If he was worried about the attack on his office he seemed well able to conceal it. She wished she could share his air of calm. It wouldn’t take the police long to spot the coincidence of a young woman visiting an old man like Cook shortly before his death; even the most junior traffic cop couldn’t fail to fasten eagerly on that one.

  “What are we going to do when we get there?” asked Palmer. “Kick the door in? Toss in a smoke grenade?” He flicked his cigarette through the window.

  Riley forced her way between two trucks, drawing angry blasts from both vehicles. She caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “I haven’t thought that far yet. She’s a bit of a tough nut. Any suggestions?”

  “Sorry. Matrons aren’t my strong point, ever since I puked up over one at junior school during a test for measles. I think it was the uniform that did it. I’ve never been able to date a nurse since.”

  “God, you’re a big help,” Riley muttered. But she found the imagery amusing enough to ease her tension and make her slow down. She pulled up outside Brambleside and turned off the engine. If there was anything happening inside, it was all taking place very quietly. There were no more than the usual cars parked along the kerb - all appeared to be empty - and no signs of either ambulance or police in the driveway. It looked very normal and suburban. Maybe Norman Page would be able to talk after all. As long as she could get inside and speak to him.