No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Page 6

  She picked it up again, this time by sliding her hand beneath it. There was a damp patch in the centre on the other side. The old man must have drooled on it. Or coughed. The thought made her nauseous.

  Mrs Marsh seemed unaware of anything, her eyes dull with shock. One thing Riley was sure of was that while the matron had followed instructions about restricting access to Page while he was alive, she had taken no part in his death.

  “You’re certain no one else has been in here?” she asked carefully. “In the last few hours, for example. When did you last see him alive — for certain?”

  Mrs Marsh hesitated momentarily before shaking her head. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “Probably last night, when I gave him his last dose. But those leaves you noticed downstairs? They were there when I woke up this morning… in the hallway. The back door must have been left open.” She looked away guiltily.

  Before Riley could say anything, a vehicle drew to a halt outside.

  Chapter 13

  “It’s the ambulance,” the matron explained. She glanced towards the door, stopping Riley before she could move. “The doors make a special sound… you get used to it in this job. You won’t say anything, will you — about being in here? I could lose my job. They’re clamping down on security now.” Her eyes looked imploringly at Riley, desperate for the whole thing to go away. Yet even she must have known it was not as simple as that.

  “I won’t say a word, Mrs Marsh,” Riley assured her. “But I think you’ll have to. They’re bound to do a post-mortem.”

  Riley suspected that while Mrs Marsh might have taken some financial favour here and there to give special consideration to a resident, going against the law by covering up what she suspected to be a death from unnatural causes was beyond her.

  She put a hand on the matron’s arm. “Mrs Marsh. Were you expecting him to die?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. He was weak, of course, but not terminally ill.” She looked beseechingly at Riley. “Who could have done such a thing?”

  Without waiting for a reply she left the room and went downstairs to admit the ambulance crew. The moment she was out of sight, Riley went through the bedside cabinet, but it was devoid of any papers save for some cheap books and magazines. Evidently anything of a personal nature had been cleared out. She checked the cabinet over the sink but that revealed no helpful clues, either. And no aftershave.

  There wasn’t time to get Palmer in here to take a look; he’d have to rely on her observations. She followed Mrs Marsh downstairs. A private ambulance stood near the front door and one of the crew was just entering. Mrs Marsh’s voice floated out from inside, giving directions, telling them to mind the furniture. She sounded more in control now she was on familiar ground.

  Palmer was leaning against the car smoking, with the cat they had seen earlier winding its way round his ankles. When he saw Riley he flicked the cigarette into the hedge and shooed the cat away before sliding into the rear seat. “Any luck?”

  Riley shook her head and tossed her shoulder bag into the back. “He’s dead. The matron’s terrified and thinks he was helped along. So do I.” She explained about the indentations in the pillow and the leaves lying around inside.

  “Convenient,” Palmer muttered bluntly. “Any chance she deliberately left the door unlocked?”

  Riley glanced in the mirror at him. “You’ve got a nasty mind, Frank Palmer. She may be open to the odd inducement, but our Mrs Marsh isn’t the conspiracy sort — certainly not to murder. And the only reason I noticed the leaves was because the place is spotless.”

  Palmer nodded. “Sounds like somebody’s doing a spot of clearing up of a different kind.”

  “Yes. I wonder if there are any more old associates like Page and Cook — ones I never found a mention of? If there are, they must be wondering who’s going to be next on the list.”

  “You said there was a third man at the top of the tree — someone who ran things with Cage and McKee.”

  “There was. But no one knows who he was — or even if he’s still alive. And Cage and McKee aren’t telling.”

  Riley started the car and drove away. As they passed the driveway, Mrs Marsh was standing by the open rear doors of the ambulance, staring off into space.

  Back at Palmer’s office, Riley checked her mobile for messages. There was one. It was a familiar voice: “Riley? John Mitcheson… Remember, we met on the plane? How about that dinner we talked about? Give me a call.” His voice was calm and steady, as confident as she remembered from their talk on the plane. There was no hesitation when he had finished speaking, no repeated goodbye. He simply left a number and rang off.

  “Will you go?” Palmer asked, when Riley explained about the message.

  “Probably. Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “You tell me.”

  Riley caught his eye and reflected that Palmer wasn’t as sleepy as he pretended. “I never gave him my mobile number.”

  “Well,” Palmer commented, plugging in the kettle and scratching for tea bags in a drawer, “that’s no big deal. If it was me that wanted to track down a hot babe I’d met on holiday, I’d drop a few Euros down the hotel manager’s shirtfront. Tea… coffee?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” Riley said, flushing at the thought that she had planned to do exactly what Palmer had just suggested. “But I didn’t give the hotel my number, either. I never give it to anyone — not even my mother. It’s strictly for outward use when I’m on the move. How could anyone trace it so quickly?”

  Frank contemplated the ceiling, then said: “Maybe he’s not just anyone.”

  Chapter 14

  The beaches between Malaga and Almeria were virtually deserted as a spiteful breeze stung flesh with sand and sent beach balls and towels tumbling out of reach. The open-air cafes, usually busy throughout the day, were temporarily shuttered, with customers huddled inside waiting for the inevitable up-turn in the weather, while staff hurried to rescue sunshades and plastic chairs sent skittering across the promenades. Only the hardiest of tourists braved the drop in temperature and ventured onto the beaches, determination driving them to endure the unenjoyable come what may.

  Even for these tough souls there was, initially, little to attract attention. A single boat moved on the water, approaching land from the south and sending up fans of spray as it bounced across the angry waves towards Torre del Mar. A boat like hundreds of others on this stretch of coastline, but at least it was moving and therefore watchable, unlike the dozens of others bouncing aimlessly at their moorings.

  From the direction of the air force base in Malaga barely ten miles away, an AS 532 Super Puma helicopter with Spanish navy markings clattered over the villas and hotels, out across the expanse of beach and the white froth of the waves breaking on the shore. At the same time a powerful-looking launch surged round the headland, its stern flag snapping in the wind and announcing its origins with the Spanish Coastguard. Both craft seemed to be converging towards the small boat out at sea.

  For several moments nothing changed, the three craft separate players in an unconnected drama on a blustery day. Then the incoming boat broke from its course, veering north and increasing speed to run parallel to the shore. The helicopter and launch adjusted their course to compensate. The incomer changed direction again, this time heading south, the creamy wake increasing at its stern as it put on speed. The other two craft did the same, giant sheepdogs herding their quarry toward the shore.

  The helicopter reached its target first. Bearing down on the incomer and beginning to lose height, it sank to a point fifty feet above the waves in front of the speeding boat, while the Coastguard launch curved round to take up station out at sea. The small boat tried one final evasive manoeuvre, dashing like a terrier for a non-existent gap, then the nose sank as the engine was cut.

  Lottie Grossman stared out over the rear garden where she had not long finished another bout of weeding, and heard the click of the disconnection from the phone in her hand.
She waited a few seconds before dialling an overseas number. After the news she had just heard, she was going to enjoy this, she decided. She was going to really enjoy it.

  When the response came it was in bad Spanish. Lottie recognised the voice. The man on the other end was a small-time, low-level crooked ex-car dealer named Jerry Bignell. He had scuttled off to Spain several years previously when things had got too warm at home. Unable to lead any other life, he had set up a small drugs channel from Morocco with the help of some former London contacts. It wasn’t a big operation, and hardly worth the Spanish anti-drug agencies or Customs wasting their time on. But the contacts across the Med were good and the product was high quality. In Lottie’s opinion, it was time to step up a gear or two and make some changes.

  “Your little boat has just been stopped by the Spanish Coastguard,” she informed the man on the other end. “The crew are under arrest. I hope you promised their families a pension.”

  “Who the fuck is this?” Bignell demanded. His voice was whiney and nasal with the harsh tones of south London. He sounded drunk, which didn’t surprise Lottie one bit. Bignell was addicted to lots of things.

  “As of now,” she continued, “your operation is dead in the water. You don’t have the money to buy a fresh load — and the last I heard your suppliers don’t accept Visa. You’re busted.”

  “Cow!” the man screamed down the phone. “I’ll have you for this, you bitch!”

  “No,” Lottie said calmly, her voice curling down the phone like a snake. “You won’t. You don’t have the reach or the manpower. If you try anything I’ll send someone round to see your daughter. Kensal Rise, she lives, doesn’t she? Nice place… bit open to knife crime, though. But then, so is everywhere these days.”

  Bignell said nothing, but she could hear his laboured breathing as he struggled to control his temper. He had to know without a shadow of doubt that she wasn’t bluffing. If he didn’t, she’d never get his co-operation.

  “That’s better. Now then, I’ll pay you ten thousand pounds to forge a new link between my people and your contacts in Spain and Morocco. We’ll call it an introduction and retirement fee.”

  “What?” Bignell spat incredulously. “Are you fucking mad? You don’t just buy into this like a fruit and veg stall down the Oval! They’re not going to let you take my spot just like that!”

  “Why should they care?” Lottie countered. “Money talks — especially if we offer to raise the stakes. Let’s call it a change of management.” She smiled down the phone and purred: “Let’s face it, what else have you got going for you, Jerry?”

  In the silence that followed, she knew she had him. Just as she’d predicted. It was like taking sweets off kids. “Good. We appear to have an understanding. I’ll send my men round later today with the money. Get stupid and they’ll be on the phone to London. After they’ve dealt with you, that is.”

  She dropped the phone and let out her breath in a rush. Her face felt flushed. It had been a long time since she had experienced the thrill of sex — not that she’d ever been that keen on all that undignified grappling, anyway. But she reckoned this buzz more than made up for it.

  She wondered where Mitcheson was. It was time he started earning his money. She hadn’t seen McManus for a couple of days, either. But that wasn’t surprising; his loyalties always had been divided.

  “Gary!” she called, and the young man appeared before her voice had ceased echoing round the hallway. He had the uncanny knack, she had found, of being always within reach when she needed him. “Find Mr Mitcheson and tell him we’re going to Spain.”

  “Yes, Mrs G,” Gary said respectfully. “You want him to follow or stay here?”

  “I want him out there, too. His flight’s tomorrow morning. Are the tickets ready?”

  “Yes, Mrs G.”

  “Good boy.” She patted his shoulder. “You’d better get down the travel agents and have a chat with your girlfriend, hadn’t you? Tell her it’s the last time. You’re moving on to newer and better things.”

  It was nearly eight before Riley arrived at Piccadilly Circus. Following John Mitcheson’s directions, she turned south down Regent Street, leaving the bulk of the crowds behind. She checked her watch. Right on time.

  The return conversation with Mitcheson had been brief and oddly formal, and she had forgotten to ask him how he had got her mobile number. She would do it as soon as she saw him. It might be easier face to face, anyway: no place for evasiveness.

  It set her thinking about Frank Palmer, who seemed suspicious of everyone’s motives. She felt no particular physical attraction for him, yet she’d found it comforting to have him around. And her instincts also told her Palmer was comfortable with the arrangement. They had gelled quickly after the initial coolness, and she hadn’t felt for a moment that there was anything getting in the way.

  She wondered where he was now. When they parted he had mentioned contacting one of his ex-army buddies for some information. Something to do with the two men who had destroyed his office.

  Riley skirted a group of drunken Scandinavians spread across the pavement and ducked down towards Jermyn Street. As she turned the corner, she nearly collided with a large man walking the opposite way. He stepped aside with a balletic shuffle, eyes burning into her as she hurried by.

  Unaccountably, she felt a chill settle across her back.

  Chapter 15

  Frank Palmer took a sip of his pint and stared at the man opposite. He was surprised by the change in his former army colleague. His skin had the sallow air of one trapped in an office job, and tired eyes from staring too long at a computer screen. He was peering down into his pint of bitter with a sour expression, shaking his head ruefully.

  They were in a smoky pub near Tottenham Court Road tube station.

  “It’s not like it used to be, Frank,” the man sighed. “Not when we were in the corps. These young fellas now, they’re clever; they use the army like a career college. They take what they can of the training and selling it to the highest bidder. Some of them are earning fortunes in the security game… a few are even working on the black for HM Government, would you believe?”

  Palmer looked mildly pained at his friend’s criticism. “Steady, Charlie. I’m in the security game, too.”

  Charlie grinned. “Yeah, true. But you’re not pulling down the sort of dough these fellas are. And as far as I know you never signed up for dodgy foreign governments who only need a bunch of men who can tell one end of an SA80 from another.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow and felt a shiver of anticipation. His friend worked in military records in Whitehall. Men, women, serving and reservists, discharged and dishonoured. All came under his eye at some time or another. If there was anyone who could give him the information he needed, it was Charlie.

  “You sound as though you’re talking specifics.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Could be. Might not be the ones you’re after though. I haven’t had time to do a complete search, so it could be a wet noodle.”

  “I’ll take that chance. What have you got?”

  His friend produced a folded sheet of paper. He passed it across to Palmer and stood up with his empty glass. “Another one while you’re reading?”

  “No, let me,” Palmer reached for some money, but Charlie waved a hand.

  “Forget it. This is the most excitement I’ve had in weeks.”

  Palmer smiled in gratitude, studying the sheet while Charlie went to the bar. It was a hand-written list containing the names of half a dozen men.

  Charles W Endby — Sgt. — 45 yrs — Royal Engineers — Discharged 1/97

  Malcolm Howard — Corporal — 35 yrs — Royal Marines — Discharged 12/96

  Mark J Appleton — Private — 22 yrs — Parachute Regiment — Discharged 8/96

  Alistair D G Duggan — Sgt — 36 yrs — Royal Marines — Discharged 12/96

  Gary Kepple — Corporal — 30 yrs — Royal Signals — Discharged 1/97

  John M Mitdas
son Captain — 35 yrs — Royal Green Jackets — Discharged 1/97

  Palmer hadn’t reached the end of the list before one of the names made an impact. Malcolm Howard. Was that ‘Howie’ — the one with the baseball bat? He was about the right age. If so, maybe his companion was on this list, too. It had to be someone accustomed to taking the lead; the man had possessed that air of easy authority.

  He discounted Endby, unless he looked much younger than his years, and Appleton who was too young. That left Duggan. And he had served in the same regiment as Howard. It was a tenuous link but, as Palmer was well aware, one not to be ignored.

  Charlie deposited two fresh pints on the small table. “Any good?”

  Palmer nodded. “Could be. What’s this list from?”

  Charlie smiled. “If I tell you that, I’ll have to kill you after. Actually, it comes from the RMP computer in Chichester. It’s a list of discharges for ‘unspecified offences not carried forward to Court Martial’. That’s modern army-speak for clearing out unwanted talent who were suspect but with insufficient evidence. In other words they didn’t want a scandal.”

  “Suspect in what sense?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Most of these chaps were doing jobs on the side. I can’t recall which, but two of them were suspected of running drugs out of Cyprus. I think it was Kepple and Appleton. The others were mostly doing private security stuff while serving in Germany… close protection work and that. The MPs reckon they were raking it in standing guard for pop stars and media toffs while off-duty or on the sick. There was even some talk about one of them — Endby, I think it was — doing CP for one of the Serb warlords in Bosnia. He was supposed to be on holiday in England at the time. He was lucky they got to him before the other side did. Oh, and a couple of them also got caught bringing in souvenir weapons from Bosnia — stupid stuff like that.”

  “What about the officer — Mitdasson? Stealing from mess funds?”