No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Read online

  Unable to lift his head, all Palmer could see was the floor of the van a few inches away and the wooden legs of the bench seat he was lying on. The floor was scuffed and bare and showed signs of rough use. Movement showed a man’s leg and foot, but there was no conversation to show how many people were in the vehicle with him.

  He tried to crane his head round to see more, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. His body wanted to lay down and go back to sleep, yet his instincts were screaming at him to get a grip and start running around before it was too late.

  A hand grasped his chin and forced him upright, and he found himself staring through the front window of the vehicle at a busy motorway. It looked familiar and was obviously England, but his brain couldn’t yet make the right connections to tell him where he might be.

  He was sitting behind the passenger seat and the driver was reaching back to examine him. Gary? Doug? Howie? It was Gary… he remembered the boyish face handing him a glass of orange to drink in the house. That was when he’d felt tired and fallen asleep. Spiked it, the bastard.

  The van turned several times, and Palmer opened his eyes. He was lying down once more, dribbling onto the seat. He must have fallen asleep again. He got a vague impression of houses and shops, and he reasoned sluggishly that they were no longer on the motorway. Then the vehicle slowed and went over a bump, and he felt a strong hand tighten on his arm to stop him toppling off the seat. It seemed to release a surge of clarity into his brain, and his thoughts swam and became momentarily more lucid. He’d been drugged. Like a lemon in some cheap Portsmouth boozer. He shook his head, trying to brush away the fog and find clear air on the other side. Riley was going to be so pissed off at him for getting caught like this.

  Then he remembered she’d been caught too, once. Only he and — what was that bloke’s name? — Mitcheson, had galloped to her rescue like knights in rusty armour-for-hire. But she hadn’t really needed rescuing, had she? She’d kicked seven kinds of piss out of that McManus bloke and would’ve chucked him down the hole if Mitcheson hadn’t got there and done it first. Or had he? Shite, he thought, I feel sick…

  He held his breath and concentrated, remembering an airport — somewhere hot this time. He’d been lolling about on legs like spaghetti, feeling unbearably heavy and unable to control his movements. Somewhere along the way he recalled being sick down his front. No one had bothered cleaning him up, and when he’d tried wiping the mess off his chest, his hands had been slapped away. After a while he’d almost got used to the smell.

  Along the way, under strong overhead lights, someone had asked if he was fit to travel. No, he’d wanted to shout out… I’m not fit. I’m sick and carrying more narcotics than a Boots delivery truck, for Christ’s sake..!

  But nobody had been listening. He’d been manhandled up a set of narrow steps and strapped into a seat. Alongside him was a long metal box fixed by brackets and straps to the floor. He wondered who’d got the cheap seat. Then someone fed him some liquid through a straw and he was sick again. Soiled and uncomfortable, and with a vague sense of shame settling on him, he’d gone back to sleep, feeling the floor lifting beneath him and the pressure building in his ears.

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and huddled in on himself, eyes tight shut. That was better; the nausea was receding. Still bloody hot, though. Couldn’t figure out why. He was surprised to find he was no longer trussed up like a Norfolk turkey. He sighed and flexed his fingers in his pockets, remembering some distant lesson in a tin hut somewhere about examining extremities to gain awareness in times of disorientation. Jesus, he was so fucking disorientated, he couldn’t even recall what his extremities were. But the movement made him remember something more recent. It tugged at his consciousness and slipped away, a ghostly thought, then came back through the fog, gaining clarity. That other bloke, Mitcheson, had been helping load him into the Land Cruiser at the villa, and had pressed something into his pocket, like he didn’t want anyone to know. A going away present.

  Palmer extended his fingers, feeling the cloth inside his pockets. He felt something hard and the memory came flooding back. It reminded him of the games he’d played with his sister a lifetime ago on cold, wet days when there was nothing else to do. They would take turns at putting their hands into a box and saying what was in there. Dead easy. Half the time he got it wrong — especially when she put in stupid girlish things like walnuts and hair-clips and pens. But not when it was his turn. Like tennis balls, a matchbox or the plastic frogmen he’d saved up and bought to play with in the bath.

  Or the pruning knife his dad had given him on his twelfth birthday. The one with the wooden handle and curved blade.

  His fingers slid along the familiar shape, and for a moment he wondered if his childhood memories were playing tricks. How could he have his old pruning knife in his pocket after all this time? He’d lost it years ago. Then the image burst through in another bubble of clarity, and he remembered. Good old Mitcheson. So you came through in the end? Only thing is, what the hell can I do with a pruning knife if I can’t stand up?

  Chapter 45

  Mitcheson swayed against the rolling of the taxi as it passed under the M4, watching Doug and Howie on the back seat. He guessed they were probably dreaming about how they were going to spend all the money Lottie Grossman had promised them. Whatever they were thinking, they seemed uneasy in his presence, like kids meeting up with a former teacher and not quite knowing whether to call him Sir or not.

  He glanced through the side window at the familiar landscape. They were passing the Holiday Inn, the road curving north through landscaped banks and artificially created gardens.

  They were nearly at their destination.

  He felt a thudding in his chest and came as close to praying as he had done in years. It wouldn’t have been a traditional prayer, but it would have amounted to the same thing. Save Palmer, save himself. Keep Riley safe. Amen.

  Not that Doug and Howie would give a toss about saving anyone. To them, wasting Palmer was just another job. He guessed Gary would do it. He didn’t turn a hair — never had done. Killing was what he did. No problems.

  He wondered if Palmer had discovered the knife yet.

  He glanced at his watch. By now Lottie Grossman would be on her way to Jordans, her husband’s body trundling somewhere else in the back of a funeral van. Unless everything had gone pear-shaped.

  He wondered if the drugs had got through. Unless the police were waiting it would take a brave official to question the arrival of a coffin and insist on a search. Lottie Grossman had detailed Gary to do that job and told Mitcheson and the others to get on with cleaning up the villa and making sure the Moroccans weren’t around. He stopped thinking about it when the taxi turned into a commercial estate. The place was nearly deserted at this time of day, with just a few cars parked in front of some units, lights burning against the falling gloom.

  They swung into a small cul-de-sac and Doug told the driver to stop in front of a row of three small workshops with oval glass panels set into roller doors. Two of the units had name-plates. The third, in the middle, was blank. Nearby stood a skip full of twisted car body parts and scrap metal.

  The workshops were dark. They waited for the taxi to turn the corner before unlocking the small personnel door in the middle unit.

  Riley hurried across to the taxi rank, scanning the area in case Mitcheson or the others should appear. She gave the driver the address of the unit Mitcheson had mentioned and sat back, heart pounding, willing the traffic to keep moving.

  As they emerged from the tunnel and split into the feeder lanes to the A4 and M4 link roads, Riley dialled Brask’s number again. “Any news?” she asked.

  “Psychic child,” he breathed down the line at her. “I’ve just had a call from a detective sergeant in the drugs squad. He was asked to have a look at the Cessna out at Rickmansworth, but it was too late. Everyone bar the pilot had gone.”

  “What?” Riley exploded, causing the taxi driver
to look anxiously in his mirror. “Of course they’ve left… how could they be so bloody incompetent?”

  “It happens,” he said calmly. “I hope you’re not going to do anything silly, sweetie. I’ve got other jobs lined up for you already. Leave the rest to the police.”

  “I can’t,” she retorted. “Anyway, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I owe Palmer for getting him into this in the first place. You’d better tell the editor what’s happening. This is going to explode tomorrow morning and I don’t want the editor thinking he’s been scooped out of a story. The details behind this aren’t going to be known by anyone else, so I don’t want him going into a panic.”

  “Will do, sweetie. Take care.”

  As she switched off her mobile, the cab pulled into the commercial estate and coasted past the rows of near-empty buildings. The driver slid the glass back.

  “I think number twenty-four’s down a side road somewhere. You sure you want dropping here — there’s not many people about.”

  Riley handed him a note with a fat tip. “Don’t worry,” she said, grateful for his concern. “There’ll be someone else along shortly.”

  When he’d gone, she walked along the road until she reached a turning into a small cul-de-sac. On her left a high brick wall bordered a van-hire depot. To her right stood an unkempt shrubbery, before the road opened out in front of three small workshop units with roller doors. There were no cars in sight but she could see a light in the middle unit. She slipped into the bushes, pushing through dense laurel until she arrived at the wall of the nearest workshop.

  The brickwork was cold and damp from a recent downpour. There was no sound from within. She slid along the wall to check for a back entrance, but found it blocked off by a high fence.

  Riley headed towards the front and poked her head round the corner. Whoever was in the middle building was being very quiet, and she doubted there was any work going on inside.

  Just across from the units was a rubbish skip. It was a perfect observation point but getting in there unseen might be a problem. She took a deep breath, ready to sprint across the road.

  The air inside the workshop was musty. A pile of junk mail lay scattered by the door. The floor was empty except for some tea-chests and a heavy bench set against one wall. On the top lay a jumble of hand-tools, a kettle and jars of coffee and sugar.

  Howie plugged in the kettle and spooned coffee and sugar into polystyrene cups. The drone of the water heating sounded loud in the empty space.

  Mitcheson cast an eye over the tools on the bench. Home handyman stuff mostly, with screwdrivers, pliers, hammer, a hand-drill, and a selection of screws and nails in plastic boxes.

  He pulled up a tea chest and sat down, watching Howie drum a spoon on the coffee jar while Doug stood by the roller door keeping watch through the viewing panel.

  Howie handed out the coffee and they stood sipping, glad of something to do. Now would have been the time to talk about future plans and hopes… what any group of men did when about to split up and pass on. But it wasn’t going to happen. Their positions had shifted over the last few days, and Mitcheson was aware that he’d been kidding himself about any kind of bond existing between them. There might have been once, when the bullets were flying and they were screaming down a narrow, mine-infested road near Bihac; or out by the airport at Sarajevo in a white APC, hoping there were no Serbs with rocket launchers trained on them. But not any longer. The promise of easy money had seen to that. And maybe a growing desperation to make something, anything, of their lives rather than face life as a security guard in a shopping centre, growing soft and fat and being the object of scorn from kids with nothing better to do.

  Twin lights blazed across the garden area as a van turned into the cul-de-sac and stopped outside the middle unit. The driver got out and looked around, then went to the passenger door and opened it. Riley heard him grunting as he helped someone out. As they stepped into the pool of light spilling from the observation panels, she recognised Frank Palmer. He looked pale and drawn. The man holding him was Gary.

  A single access door opened alongside the roller door, and a face showed briefly before retreating inside. As soon as the door slammed shut, Riley was on her feet and running over to the rubbish skip, where she took cover behind its comforting bulk. Her nose twitched involuntarily at the strong smell of paint, burned metal and petrol.

  She breathed deeply, recalling Mitcheson’s comment about how once they had no need for Palmer they would do away with him. She had to do something… But what? She had no weapons and if she waited for the police to come, Palmer would be beyond caring.

  She rubbed her nose as the sharp smell of petrol aggravated her nostrils.

  “Jesus!” Doug snorted, and stepped back at the sight of Palmer’s vomit-stained clothing as Gary pushed him inside. The investigator sank to the floor, his face slack and pale under the lights.

  “Think yourselves lucky,” Gary muttered. “I had to put up with the stink all the way from Malaga.” He glared at Palmer as if he had been ill deliberately, and dragged him to his feet again, grunting with the weight. Then he slapped him twice across the face; hard, solid blows which echoed in the empty space above their heads.

  Mitcheson recognised what Gary was doing. He wasn’t merely being brutal; he was psyching himself up to carry out the next task. Pump up enough hatred or disgust for the victim and it made the killing so much easier.

  Mitcheson slipped his hand in his pocket and felt for the screwdriver he’d taken off the bench. As a weapon it was about par with the plan he hadn’t got to get out of here with Palmer’s life intact. But it would have to do for now.

  With Palmer upright against the wall, Gary produced a knife and flicked it open. He turned to Doug with a cold smile. “I need a hand with this.”

  Chapter 46

  Riley pulled a bottle from the skip. It felt half full of liquid and she sniffed at the top, instantly pulling back and gagging on the eye-watering smell of paint-thinner. She placed it carefully on the ground and looked for something else. Her fingers settled on a half-inch thick metal rod. That would be heavy enough.

  She bent and peered carefully at the bottle. From a repeat-arson case she had researched the year before, she had learned some interesting facts. One was that some kids really did hate their schooldays and would get out of them almost any way they could. Another was that making a Molotov cocktail was surprisingly simple. It was also dangerous.

  She reached into the skip and searched around until she felt some cloth. Pulling it free she tore off enough to stuff into the neck of the bottle, then shook the contents around until the cloth was saturated with the paint-thinner.

  There was no one at the window. She picked up the metal rod and ran across to the unit and squatted against the wall. From inside she could hear the rumble of voices.

  She stood upright until she could see through the nearest window, keeping her face back from the glass in case one of the men looked her way. The one known as Howie was standing by a workbench, a cup in his hand. Behind him a kettle steamed in the cold atmosphere.

  Mitcheson was in the centre of the room facing the door, his expression blank and unemotional. She wondered what was going through his mind right now.

  Moving further she caught a glimpse of Gary and, behind him, a partial sight of Palmer. Doug was moving to join them and Palmer seemed to be leaning away as if he was drunk.

  In the distance she heard a faint wup-wup-wooo of a police siren. Coming here or somewhere else? Either way, it was going to be too bloody late. It was time to move.

  Holding the rod between her knees, she pulled Palmer’s lighter from her pocket and held the bottle with the rag trailing down. It was now or never.

  Palmer felt himself being dragged upright and shook his head. The nausea had gone but while he could hear and understand most of what was happening around him, he still lacked full control of his limbs, which seemed unbearably heavy.

  He felt somebody pullin
g at his jacket. Over their shoulder he glimpsed John Mitcheson a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Doug was coming towards him with Howie close behind. Palmer shook his head and tried to piece together Gary’s request for help and the other man moving in to assist him. Assist him with what?

  Then he caught a flash of light on shiny metal at the periphery of his vision and knew instinctively what it meant. He tensed himself for the blow he knew was coming, for the cold shock of steel cutting into his body.

  “Wait!” It sounded like Mitcheson, speaking in the background. “I can hear a siren.”

  “Won’t be for us, will it?” Gary muttered, his breath warm on Palmer’s cheek. “Nobody knows we’re here.”

  Instead of the pain of the blade, Palmer felt something move, and a great weight seemed to slip from his shoulders. Was this what it was like to be stabbed?

  Something was sliding down his legs. He looked down, vaguely expecting to see a part of his anatomy lying at his feet. Instead there on the floor was his soiled jacket, and on top was a pale yellow jerkin made of webbing. It reminded him of the hunting jackets worn by Olympic marksmen, with pockets and loops for all their equipment.

  This jerkin, however, contained hard, tightly-packed bundles sewn into the webbing, giving it the appearance of a bulky flack-jacket. One of the packages had sprung a leak and a thin dusting of white powder had spilled on the concrete floor of the workshop.

  No wonder I was so bloody hot, Palmer thought stupidly. I would have been the one to cop it if I’d been searched. All they had to say was I’d begged for a flight back rather than take a commercial one.

  The thought helped drive out the fogginess, replacing it with a surge of anger.

  Gary pushed him away until he bounced off the wall, and smiled with contempt. “Christ, to think I had to sit with you all that way,” he muttered coldly. He held out his knife hand and stepped forward in a fluid motion.