No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Page 19

  McManus reached up and tugged at the top of one of the boards with his free hand, grunting with the effort until it sagged and fell to one side with a dry, rasping sound.

  He pushed Riley through the gap and stood looking around for a moment, his great head swaying from side to side. Then he grunted and propelled her towards a small square of posts and planks at one corner of the development. Above the posts hung a large metal chute with a cut-away mouth, shiny and battered with use. A cement lorry stood close by.

  As they neared the planks, Riley could see they guarded a deep shaft lined with boards and sprouting rusty metal rods thick as a man’s thumb. It was the foundations of one of the main support pillars for the building.

  McManus peered over the edge and grinned drunkenly. “Long way down, I reckon,” he taunted her. “You any good at diving?”

  He began to pull the nearest planks aside and Riley struggled furiously as she realised what he was about to do. McManus seemed unaware, intent only on clearing any obstacles. She waited until he bent over to clear the lip, then twisted her body until she was side on to him. With every ounce of her strength, she stabbed her leg out and downwards, the side of her shoe connecting with the outside of his knee.

  Even on a man of McManus’s solid build it was a weak point. There was a crunch as his knee gave way, and he roared with pain and anger and fell sideways, his flailing hand grabbing hold of her clothing and dragging her down with him. He grunted and swore, launching himself onto his knees over her, his eyes blazing with a fierce light and spittle spraying from his mouth.

  “Bitch!” he shouted, and grasped her shoulders ready to flip her over the lip of the shaft. As his hands fastened on her, Riley remembered her father telling her that one thing no man ever expected a woman to do when defending herself was to use her head. Scratch, yes, Scream, even — and kick. But never the head.

  “In your dreams, you pig!” she screamed and, as McManus pulled her towards him, she launched herself forward, using his own strength against him.

  As her head slammed into his face she felt his breath against her skin and heard a crunch as his nose took the full power of the blow. His hands released their grip and he fell back with a roar of pain, blood spraying down his front.

  Riley scrambled away from him, looking for a way out from the building site. Somewhere nearby a car stopped in the street and doors slammed. Police?

  McManus staggered upright and lifted his gun, spittle and blood dripping from his face, a look of shock and outrage twisting his features. She kicked again, this time at a pile of cement powder at her feet, trying to scoop it up into his eyes.

  “McManus!” A man’s voice shouted from behind her.

  There was a blur of movement as somebody ran past her, and she heard a loud slap of something hard against flesh. Then she was grabbed around the waist and dragged away through the gap in the wall, away from what was happening at the lip of the shaft.

  The last image she had was of two figures; the huge McManus teetering on the edge of the hole, his arms scrabbling for a hold on thin air; and another man, slightly smaller and slimmer, standing before him. Then came then sound of a blow and McManus seemed to dance backwards before plunging silently out of sight. The other figure began turning away, his face set and hard.

  John Mitcheson.

  Riley sagged against whoever was holding her and looked up to see Frank Palmer smiling grimly. “Palmer, you idle bastard,” she muttered, fighting the urge to throw up. “I thought you were supposed to be protecting me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Palmer retorted calmly. “Try telling McManus that.”

  Chapter 39

  Riley opened her eyes and stared out at the passing scenery. She was in the back of Mitcheson’s car and they were driving past a row of shops and estate agents, with the tall shape of a holiday hotel in the background. The sky was deep blue without a cloud in sight, and the pavements were crowded with tanned bodies in shorts, T-shirts and sunglasses. She vaguely recognised the outskirts of Malaga on the way to their hotel and slumped back onto the seat, stunned with relief.

  “Welcome back,” said Palmer, handing her a bottle of water. “You went out for a few minutes there.”

  She took it gratefully and swallowed half the contents. It was warm and slightly metallic. “What happened?” she asked. Her throat was sore and her voice sounded as though she’d been smoking cigars all her life. She was surprised to find she had both shoes on. “You got my other shoe.” Her clothing was another matter; she felt grubby and soiled and covered in a gritty substance. Cement powder. Then she remembered.

  “We cleaned up,” said Mitcheson, before she could ask. “No clues.”

  “Except for McManus,” she said. She also remembered the cigarette lighter but decided the chance of the police latching onto it was too remote. “Will they notice him?”

  Mitcheson shook his head. “I doubt it. That shaft looked deep. Unless he survived the fall and begins to shout, they won’t even look. We left the Mercedes where it was.”

  Riley shivered, imagining the process when the men returned from their siesta and began pouring cement into the shaft. The gruesome thought was countered by remembering that it could so easily have been herself down there if things had gone differently. “He knew Ray Grossman was dead.”

  They both looked at her. “He told you?” said Palmer. He looked at Mitcheson. “He must have rung the villa. That’s not good.”

  Mitcheson said nothing.

  “He was really angry,” Riley continued. “He was drinking heavily and saying he was being cheated.”

  “I wonder if he told them where he was,” Palmer pondered, lighting a cigarette.

  “If he did it won’t do them much good,” Mitcheson responded coldly. “Anyway, as far as they know, he’s taking care of Riley… and probably having some fun in the process.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Sorry.”

  Riley preferred not to think about it. If she dwelled on what might have happened, she knew she’d be useless from here on. Right now she had to blot it out of her mind and concentrate on the next moves.

  “Won’t they look for him?” she asked.

  “I doubt it. Lottie’ll go berserk but that won’t last long. He was always more Ray’s man than hers. She’ll just convince herself he’s had enough being bossed around by a woman and scarpered. The worst he’s done is taken the Mercedes. She might put the police onto him for that, knowing her. She’s a vindictive woman.”

  Riley tapped Mitcheson on the shoulder. “What about you?” she asked. “You’re not going back to the villa, are you?”

  Mitcheson shrugged and pulled out to overtake a gaggle of cyclists. “I have to,” he said quietly. It sounded like the end of the matter, and Palmer glanced across at him, smoke dribbling from his lips. He returned her look and raised an eyebrow.

  Riley sat forward on her seat. “Mitcheson, are you mad?” she asked bluntly. “They’re about to start running drugs and people into the UK and you think you can carry on working with them? Anyway, why do you have to? You talk as though you’ve signed a blood oath with them.”

  They had reached the Ascona. Mitcheson pulled into the car park and cut the engine. He looked at them in turn.

  “It was me who got the lads into this,” he explained. “I was offered the job through a contact providing I brought some men in with me. I knew they were having a hard time after leaving the army, so I recruited them.”

  “And you feel responsible? They’re big boys, you know.”

  Mitcheson nodded. “They served under me in Bosnia.” He glanced at Palmer. “Ask him — he knows what I mean.”

  Palmer shrugged and got out of the car, followed by Riley. She leaned back in and stared at Mitcheson with a cool expression. “I’m grateful for what you did back there, John,” she said quietly, “but I’m not giving up on this one. That woman’s got to be stopped. The only way I know how is to gather all the information I can and let the police have it. I’ve alre
ady sent a report back to England. Brask will probably run it past the client editor to keep him sweet until I get back. But if he wants to break the story immediately, that’s his privilege. You could end up being scooped up with the rest of them.”

  He returned her stare. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep it in mind.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.”

  “Get out of it, John,” she insisted. “You’ve got a couple of days at most.” Then she turned and walked into the hotel.

  Palmer watched her go. He knew she was suffering and would need some care after what she had been through. On the way to the car he’d asked her if McManus had done anything and she’d said no. He believed her but it still couldn’t have been pleasant. He leaned on the car roof and pulled a sheet of paper from an inside pocket. He unfolded it and scanned it quickly.

  “Got an note from a friend in London this morning,” he said casually. “He works in military records in Whitehall.” Mitcheson looked up but said nothing. “Says here you got in a jam after a couple of tours in Bosnia. Some of your blokes were caught adding a few items to their baggage, apparently, when it was shipped to the UK. Pistols, mostly, some ammo, the odd bit of high-tech battlefield equipment — even an Uzi and a couple of stripped-down AK47s. War souvenirs, your boys claimed.”

  “Is this leading somewhere?” Mitcheson asked coolly. “Only I ought to be going before they miss me.”

  “Sorry,” Palmer remarked dryly. “I forgot you were so conscientious. Where it’s leading is, those items of hardware being shipped out of Bosnia by your mates weren’t war souvenirs, were they? And neither were they the only items in the bags going back.”

  Mitcheson frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Is that really what your lads told you at the time? That they were a little something to show the grandkids in years to come? What grand-dad did in the war in Bosnia?” Palmer shook his head. “It’s about time you got wise.”

  Mitcheson reached out and grabbed Palmer’s wrist. “What are you driving at? What else do you know — and why the sudden interest?”

  Palmer glanced down at the hand gripping his. With little more than a casual flick, Mitcheson’s hand was bent painfully backwards.

  “That,” Palmer said conversationally, “was one of the first tricks I learned in training. Useful for when drunken squaddies object to being arrested and try to grip you by the throat. I did my training at a depot near Chichester, in case you’re interested. It’s also how I got the information about you and the others.” He released Mitcheson and stepped back.

  Mitcheson gave him a sour look, then smiled faintly, massaging his wrist. “Redcap, huh? I should have guessed.” He seemed to re-assess Palmer for a moment. “That bit about the bags from Bosnia. What did you mean?”

  “Drugs. They were shipping drugs and using the weapons as a diversionary tactic. It worked well for a time, too. Stash a gun where it’ll be found and all hell breaks loose while everybody and their dog concentrates on place where weapons can be hidden. That leaves plenty of places where they can’t but where drugs can. And that’s where the real money is. As a bonus they even got to sell any weapons that got through. Until they got careless, anyway.”

  “How come I never heard about this?”

  “The army covered it up. They didn’t want it known that any of our UN chaps were shipping in drugs bought on the Serb black market. Bad publicity, you see. Especially involving men with good records. Unfortunately, you went into bat for them, didn’t you, without thinking about it? You were on a loser right from the start, with those guys As an officer that was enough to ruin your career.” His eyes bored into Mitcheson with growing amazement. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

  Mitcheson shook his head. “No. I did wonder, but they denied it. Just souvenirs, they said. Seemed best to let it go after that, the way things turned out. As you say, it was enough to kill my career prospects.” He looked through the windscreen, his eyes suddenly cold. “I had no idea.”

  “You were used,” Palmer said brutally. “You were used then just like you’re being used now. Pity your ‘lads’ don’t set as much store by loyalty as you do, isn’t it?”

  He stepped back and watched Mitcheson drive away.

  Chapter 40

  Mitcheson sensed an atmosphere the moment he arrived at the villa. Gary nodded without meeting his eyes, and he could see Doug scouting the trees to one side. Howie was standing by the pool as backup.

  Lottie Grossman was in the living room, smoking and staring out at the water. Painted and powdered as usual, she seemed amazingly calm considering her husband had died and one of her men had disappeared with a valuable car.

  “Glad you could make it,” she muttered, echoing her late husband’s words. “Ray’s dead.” She began clicking her nails together in irritation, and Mitcheson readied himself for the inevitable blast. He wondered what was annoying her most — her husband’s death or McManus’s disappearance.

  “I thought I’d follow Segassa and his boss,” he said. “Just in case we need to know where their base is. Sorry to hear about Ray.”

  Lottie looked surprised. “You followed them? Where to?”

  “A hotel the other side of Malaga. It’s probably a temporary base. They must have come in specially for the meeting but I doubt they’ll hang around long.” He wondered if it sounded as plausible to her as it had to himself as he walked into the house. Nothing like living on the wing to get the blood going.

  “Good thinking,” she said, eyes sweeping over him. After a moment her face seemed to click shut on the subject but he could see she was still burning over something. Her next words confirmed it. “I still don't like it. McManus called earlier. Unfortunately, one of your men answered the phone and told him Ray was dead and he rang off without saying where he was. We don't know if he got the Gavin woman or not — and we still haven’t seen this Palmer who’s working with her. If McManus hasn’t got the girl she could still make trouble.”

  “Maybe he’s dealt with Palmer as well.”

  She shrugged and took a deep breath, then said with studied calmness: “I’m flying my husband’s body home tomorrow or the next day, after the local coroner has signed a release. And after we’ve completed the deal.”

  “Okay.” Mitcheson gently let his breath out, relieved she seemed to have been temporarily diverted from focusing her paranoia on him. “What about the payment?”

  “Tomorrow. The usual way — on delivery.”

  Mitcheson raised his eyebrows, remembering how adamant the Moroccan had been. Payment today, delivery tomorrow.

  “I arranged it with Segassa by phone,” Lottie informed him smugly. “After all, how could I know they wouldn’t just skip with our money?”

  No wonder she looked so pleased with herself, he thought. It made sense, but it put more pressure on him and his men. Taking delivery of illegal goods was problem enough; having to exchange them simultaneously for large amounts of money was compounding the risk or discovery — or treachery.

  Her next statement came like a cold shower. “There won’t, of course, be any money.”

  “Come again?”

  “We take the drugs and keep the money. Simple.”

  He stared at her. “You can’t be serious. Those people can’t be messed with, for God’s sake. They’re killers — we’ve already seen that.”

  Lottie seemed unconcerned. “The others don’t agree. It’s manageable.”

  So she’d already run it by the others. Well, now he finally knew where he stood. It looked like Palmer was right: his hold over the men had been severed. Or maybe it had never really been there in the first place

  “But what you’re doing will kill off the whole supply-line. What about the illegals? How the hell do you think Segassa’s boss will deal with you for people when you’ve screwed him over drugs? We’ll be lucky to leave Spain in one piece.” He stared at her, trying to figure out whether she had gone completely insane or if she knew something
he didn’t. Then it hit him. “You’ve come to a separate deal with Segassa.”

  “I can’t afford to lose another man, Mr Mitcheson.” Lottie didn’t bother denying it. “If McManus comes back, all well and good. Somehow I don’t think he will. And while the men are good at what they do, I need you to organise them.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Andre Segassa has been waiting to establish his own operation and will deal with his own contacts on the other side. I need to cover things here. I’ll double your contracted amount and pay another seventy-five thousand on completion.”

  As she was speaking, Gary entered the room and stood by the door. At the same time Howie drifted across the patio to stand directly outside the glass doors. Doug was nowhere to be seen, but Mitcheson knew he wouldn’t be far away. It was a clear and chilling indication of what would unfold if he told Grossman he didn’t want any part of her plan.

  They were preparing to ditch him.

  “All right.” He nodded and, because it was probably expected, added, “but make it a hundred thousand… There’s more risk involved.”

  Lottie Grossman smiled, her painted lips gathering into a small, obscene rosebud of victory. He was speaking a language she understood. “Agreed. Let’s have dinner and go over the plans, shall we?”

  While Palmer sat smoking by the window, Riley finished her next batch of notes and emailed them to Brask. The fat man had been effusive when Riley phoned him earlier, saying the first batch she sent had already aroused a lot of interest. The editor was pushing for more.

  Encouraged by Palmer to focus on work while she still could, Riley had sunk herself in the detailed task of collating the facts and adding her own commentary. It had turned out to be an excellent therapy, preventing her being overtaken by thoughts about the near miss with McManus at the building site.

  As the laptop beeped obediently, Riley looked at Palmer. “You think Mitcheson will come through?”