No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Read online

  Lottie glared at him, aware the Moroccan was in the stronger position. “All right.”

  The man nodded and glanced at Segassa. “You know what to do.”

  He stepped away from the table, then paused and looked back at Lottie. “Payment now, delivery tomorrow. No problems, we do more business.”

  “What about the other matter?” Lottie’s voice was calm, but with a hint of resentment bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “Ah, yes. The travellers. There is a big demand. Maybe very big. Something we may have overlooked, perhaps.” He smiled, self-mockingly. “First, let us see how this arrangement goes. Then we will talk again.” He reached into his jacket and took out a white square of thick, glossy paper and flipped it onto the table. It skidded across the polished surface and came to rest against Lottie Grossman’s hands.

  “A small demonstration of how closely we control things around here, Mrs Grossman,” he said pleasantly. “Please do not underestimate my reach.”

  He left the room and closed the door. Lottie turned over the square of paper and gave a sharp intake of breath. Mitcheson and Howie craned their necks to see what she was looking at.

  It was a grainy photo of an elderly man lying on a bed, staring up at the camera. To one side lay a bowl and flannel, and a tube of soap gel.

  Chapter 37

  Riley woke with the noise of machinery clattering nearby and a sour taste on her lips. In the distance a horn sounded. She struggled to sit upright and found she was lying on a double bed, her hands bound tightly behind her back with plastic-coated clothes line. Underneath her was a mess of crumpled newspapers, a cardboard box from a pizza parlour, several cheap plastic cigarette lighters and what looked like the contents of someone’s rubbish drawer.

  There was an unpleasant smell of stale sweat in the room, and the heat was unbearable. She peered over the edge of the bed and saw clothes scattered everywhere, mixed with crumpled cigarette packets, shoes and dented beer cans. A dresser against one wall looked as if it had been sprinkled with a fine coating of talcum powder, and the drawers had been left drunkenly open or upturned on the floor.

  She tested her bindings and felt a rush of pain in her wrists. She swore silently, which did nothing to lessen the agony but made her feel better. She shifted over to the side of the bed and swung her feet onto the floor, kicking aside some of the rubbish. Among the papers on the carpet she saw a red passport. She eased off one shoe and flipped the passport open.

  The man looking up at her had been featured in the local paper a couple of day ago. Jerry Bignell. She was in the dead man’s bedroom.

  Palmer’s first and only concrete location to look for Riley was the Villa Almedina. In spite of Mitcheson telling him Lottie had counselled against taking Riley there, he couldn’t think of anywhere else to begin. At least the Villa’s residents would all be at the Palacio meeting. That left just Ray Grossman alone in his room, with possibly the nurse somewhere near. Palmer decided he would look there first for McManus, and meet Mitcheson outside the Palacio if the gunman or Riley failed to turn up. He didn’t like having to trust Mitcheson, but he believed the man’s concern for Riley was genuine. Whether that concern would stand up if Palmer or Riley posed a threat to the group’s plans, he didn’t want to find out.

  As soon as Mitcheson left for the Palacio, Palmer drove along the coast road and found a parking area within sight of the turning to the villa. He pulled in, turned off the engine and settled back to wait.

  When he reasoned it was safe to assume the group had left, he drove up to the villa. His knock on the door received no answer, so he walked round to the back and tried the patio door. It slid open smoothly and Palmer sent up a prayer of thanks to the God of Carelessness and listened carefully. The only sound was some music playing softly in the depths of the house.

  He stepped across to the hall door and listened. The music was louder and seemed to be coming from a corridor to his right. He crossed the tiled hallway and checked through a slit window overlooking the front steps and the drive. There were no cars in sight. Unless McManus had walked from the hotel with Riley slung over his shoulder, it didn’t look like the thug was here. Unfortunately, that left several thousand other places to search.

  Palmer followed the sound of music, sticking carefully to the carpet down the centre of the hall. There was a smell of soap and medicines in the warm air, and he guessed there must be a bathroom along here somewhere.

  He was just edging past an open doorway when he stopped dead, his breathing suspended. A man was lying on a bed inside the room, looking right at him.

  Riley jumped as the bedroom door opened and McManus entered. In one hand he carried his gun, in the other a roll of electrician’s tape. He approached the bed and looked down at her, his eyes dull but hostile. “You haven’t tried escaping yet, then? I’m disappointed. I thought we’d be having a bit of a chase.” He reached forward with the gun barrel and lifted the hem of her skirt. When Riley wrenched her legs away he laughed with indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he grunted, checking her bindings. “I ain’t that desperate.” As he breathed over her she recoiled. He’d been drinking heavily.

  She stared up at him with a look of loathing. “Why are you doing this?”

  He said nothing for a moment, but there was a taunting expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter? Pissed off ‘cos soldier boy ain’t turned up to rescue you?” He leaned over her again and said softly: “He’s been feeding you information, hasn’t he? Letting you in on all our tiny little secrets.” He reached down and rested the tip of the gun barrel against her cheekbone, then ran it very slowly around her face, first one way then back the other, scoring the metal into her skin in a way she found obscene and terrifying. He stopped for a moment, studying her without blinking, his breath hot and close. Then he pulled the gun barrel down her cheek and inserted the tip into her mouth, the cold steel clicking against her teeth. Riley gagged, the taste of gun oil heavy and musky, and tried to pull her head back, but there was nowhere for her to go. She closed her eyes tight and tried not to let out the scream that was building inside her.

  “Well, no more,” he said suddenly and stood up, leaving her shaking and nauseous with the ghost of the cold metal still vivid on her flesh. “No more.” He began pacing round the room, tapping the barrel of the gun on various objects with a casual flick of his wrist. Chink. A small china dog shattered into fragments. Chink. A glass photo frame split and fell to the floor. Chink. A dirty cup broke in half. Chink. A plastic lighter frosted and issued a hiss of escaping gas.

  Chink.

  Chink.

  Chink.

  Riley opened her eyes and watched him warily. The big man was behaving in an increasingly unstable manner, fuelled as much by drink as whatever inner emotions drove him, and she was powerless to stop him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she protested. “What do you want?” She had to keep him talking for as long as possible — to stop him from going after Mitcheson and to give her a chance to work out a way of escaping before he lost it completely.

  “Nice try, that. Almost innocent.” He approached the bed and glared down at her, breathing heavily. “You think I’m stupid?” he shouted. Then he stepped back again, looking confused. He stared at the wall, frowning and scrubbing furiously at his face with the back of his hand. “Something I was supposed to do,” he muttered. “Call someone…let them know…” He spun round, eyes scouring the room and sweat springing out on his face. The heat was making him more agitated and Riley felt a sudden charge in the foetid atmosphere of the squalid room, as though a powerful force had intruded and was hanging in the air around them. Then McManus seemed to come to. He shook himself and peeled off a strip of the electrical tape from the roll he carried, ripping it with his teeth. Leaning forward, he put the gun barrel to the side of Riley’s head and applied the tape across her mouth. Satisfied it was securely in place, he walked to the door. “Just so you don’t try scr
eaming for the neighbours. Not that they’d come running, exactly. Don’t go away, will you?”

  His footsteps shuffled away and she was left to the stifling heat of the bedroom and the nightmare certainty that if her nose became blocked, she would suffocate within minutes.

  Frank Palmer didn’t like upsetting people, but he was in a sour mood. He sat in a small café across the street from the Palacio, waiting for Mitcheson to emerge. He ignored the dagger looks from a large woman at the next table, who was grumbling loudly about secondary smoking, and puffed at his cigarette. He was too busy going over the millions of places McManus could have taken Riley Gavin to worry about disapproving tourists.

  He tensed when he saw Mitcheson come out of the Palacio’s entrance and stand on the pavement. With him were the two men he recognised as Doug and Howie, and for a second his stomach lurched at the thought that Mitcheson had set him up. He was about to rise from his seat when Mitcheson nodded to the other two and they turned away and walked away down the street.

  When they were out of sight, Mitcheson crossed the street and entered the cafe where Palmer was sitting. He grinned at the tense expression on Palmer’s face. “Sorry if that gave you a scare. I couldn’t just walk out — they’d have been curious.” He ordered lemon tea from the waitress, then looked at Palmer. “We need to give them time to get clear.”

  “Have you heard from McManus?”

  “No. He hasn’t reported in yet. Any luck yourself?”

  Palmer told him about his visit to the villa. “I saw Ray Grossman.”

  “He’s a sick man, but there’s still some fire in his gut. Did he see you?”

  “Only if he was looking up from the fires of Hell,” Palmer commented coolly. “He was dead.”

  The large woman at the next table heard the comment and looked horrified.

  Mitcheson gave her a nasty look and said: “Did you touch him?”

  “You kidding? I stayed just long enough to see he’d definitely copped it and got out of there. It looked like a heart attack. Bad news for his wife, I suppose.”

  Mitcheson looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t bet on it. I doubt she’ll care. But I’m not so sure it’s great news from my point of view.” He explained what had been discussed at the Palacio, and the warning given to Lottie Grossman by the Moroccan. “She took it, but not well. I half expected her to tell me and the lads to kill him there and then.”

  “Good thing you didn’t. So with no Ray Grossman to be used as leverage, she’s got a clear field.”

  “Dead right. And it’ll be my lads that cop the flack.”

  “You must have known that when you took this on.”

  Mitcheson nodded. “Kind of. But when we started out there was no mention of mixing it with a bunch of drug runners and illegal immigrants.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow. “So why were you taken on?”

  “Protection, mostly. Back then, Ray Grossman was in charge. He wanted some visible muscle to sort out a couple of problems. He heard of us through an ex-army buddy and hired us as a group. We were just to be there in the background for a few weeks. This was before he got really ill. When it happened it was quick and knocked him off his feet.”

  “Then his wife took over.”

  Mitcheson nodded. “I knew as soon as I met her that she was poison, but I never expected her to slip into the driving seat so easily.” He shrugged. “Or maybe she was in it more than anyone realised. Anyway, she’s got ideas above her station, unfortunately… like thinking she’s the reincarnation of the Krays.”

  “Why didn’t you quit?”

  “We took a vote and decided not to. Big mistake.”

  “Where does McManus fit in?”

  “He’s not one of mine. He’s been with Ray from way back. He didn’t like me and the lads being brought in to help. He figured he could do it all by himself — which he has, so far.”

  “The killings?”

  Mitcheson looked squarely at Palmer, the muscles working in his jaw. “Not all of them. A couple of my lads are down for one. The difference is, McManus enjoys it.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Palmer muttered. “What’s his likely reaction when he finds out his boss is dead?”

  The waitress brought Mitcheson’s tea and he gulped it down. “Not good. He’ll probably blame me.” He looked up suddenly. “Christ — I’ve just had an idea where he might be. You ready?”

  Chapter 38

  Riley listened intently for sounds of movement downstairs. She desperately needed to know where McManus was, but the constant noise of machinery from the building site next door drowned out all noise within the house.

  She rolled over on the bed and edged her body round until she could feel the plastic lighters behind her. The pain from the bindings was intense, and she knew she had to do something before her hands lost all sense of feeling.

  She grasped one of the lighters and twisted it until she could put her thumb against the flint-wheel. The first two tries were useless — her fingers were practically numb and her thumb kept slipping off the wheel. She gripped harder and tried again. This time she felt the heat as the flame caught, but instantly burned her fingers and dropped the lighter.

  She picked it up and tried again, but the bindings were so tight there was no room to direct the flame against the plastic for long enough to burn through. She dropped it to the bed and lay back, sweating furiously, her breathing coming in short gasps.

  She rolled over on her side and wiped her face against the pillow, and felt the corner of the tape catch on the fabric. With renewed energy, she rubbed harder, gradually feeling the tape coming unstuck.

  Then the machinery was switched off.

  The silence was stunning. It was as if she had been struck stone deaf, every sound in the world cut off by the throw of a switch.

  She waited, not daring to move in case McManus came up to check on her.

  When there was no sound from downstairs, she rolled over. Every instinct told her she hadn’t long left. McManus sober was bad enough; drunk and resentful he was unpredictable and lethal. She had to do something now. She used her knee to move some of the paper rubbish on the bed to see what lay beneath.

  Even more rubbish; some socks, two or three different kinds of cheap cufflinks, packets of condoms, several ball-point pens, batteries and other assorted junk. Even a set of large, gaudily-coloured nail clippers bearing a motif of Malaga. Bignell, it seemed, had been averse to throwing anything away.

  Nail clippers. She twisted round and scrabbled for them, opening the lever-arm first time. She wiggled the cutting jaws onto a strand of the plastic line and forced the lever down; there was no time for finesse, but the last thing she could afford to do was drop the clippers off the bed. The noise would be enough to alert McManus, drunk as he was.

  She felt the jaws cut through the line. Jesus — thank God for quality crap, she thought gratefully, promising to buy a dozen pairs if she ever got out of here. She twisted her hands, hoping the binding would part, but there was no movement. She moved the jaws again, clamping them over another strand. Hand shut and- damn… slipped… She tried again and this time heard a snick as the jaws closed and felt the plastic part. She gripped the clippers tightly and twisted and pulled with desperate strength in an attempt to force the bindings to slide loose. This time there was the slightest give, and she began to rub her hands back and forth, trying to spread the sweat over her wrists and make them as slick as possible.

  There was a faint crunch outside the bedroom door, and Riley had just enough time to lay back and cover the clippers before the door was flung open and McManus was standing there, red-eyed, his handgun by his side. He looked angry and lost, and it was obvious he had continued drinking. In his other hand he carried a telephone receiver, the broken wire trailing along the floor.

  He swayed slightly as he approached the bed, an aura of alcohol surrounding him. He bent down and forced her off the bed to her feet. “Come on,” he grunted. “It’s siesta time and you’
re going sleepies.” He turned towards the door and dragged Riley behind him, losing one of her shoes in the process.

  “Where are you taking me?” she mouthed, the sounds distorted behind the gag. As they reached the top of the stairs she tried to hook her foot round a metal banister upright, but McManus tugged her after him like a rag doll.

  She bumped down the stairs on her knees and was slammed against the wall at the bottom. McManus pushed the barrel of his gun into the side of her face and leaned his weight against her, his face less than two inches from hers.

  “It’s not your lucky day, is it?” he breathed, his eyes wild and staring. “Not your lucky day at all.” He let go of her and threw the broken telephone receiver to one side. “Spanish crap fell to bits. Still, won’t need it no more.”

  “What’s happened?” Riley asked, trying to delay him. This time her words came out more clearly, although at first McManus seemed not to notice.

  He tugged her towards the back door. “Happened? Shit’s happened, that’s what.”

  “What kind of shit?” Keep him talking.

  “I’ve just heard the boss has gone and died on me. How about that? And now I’ve got nowhere to go. Bloody rich, that. After all these fucking years, too, the old bitch!” He slammed his gun against a mirror on the wall, shattering the glass. Blood dripped from his hand where he’d been cut, but he seemed oblivious to it.

  He dragged her out into the sunlight, the sudden brightness painful to her eyes, the heat intense and stifling, even after the foetid bedroom.

  Facing them across the courtyard was a makeshift plasterboard wall. Beyond it Riley saw a towering crane and the skeletal structure of the new building where, until a few minutes ago, men had been working. Now there wasn’t a sound.

  McManus dragged her over to the wall and slammed her against it, jarring her teeth. Dust fell around her, stinging her eyes and gritty on her tongue. Her mouth was now so dry she couldn’t have called out even if she’d wanted to.