No Peace For The Wicked rgafp-1 Page 7

  Charlie frowned. “Mit-who?” He leaned across and took the list. '”Oh, sorry. That’s my writing. I had to do this on the wing while the others were at lunch. You’d be amazed how closely everybody’s watched these days. If I’d printed it all off on the inkjet, there’s what they call an audit trail showing who’s done what.” He took out a pen and amended the name in capitals. “That’s better.” He grinned and handed the list back.

  Palmer read the name and felt his gut tighten. “John Mitcheson?”

  “Yes. Interesting chap. Did a bit of secret squirrel work a few years ago in Northern Ireland. Then he was seconded to a unit on loan to the Colombian Government. No secret about what he’d have been doing over there.”

  Palmer nodded, wondering if it wasn’t a ghastly coincidence. Many members of HM forces had performed duties in Latin America over the years, mostly helping train the local police and army for operations against the drug cartels. Mitcheson must have been well thought of to have been selected for such a task. But that didn’t explain what he was doing on this list, nor that there was any connection with the men who had smashed his office.

  Charlie was still reciting from memory. “He came back in disgrace. He popped a local army corporal for shooting an unarmed civilian during a raid on a village. A young woman, apparently. Pregnant. She was trying to protect her home. There’s no proof, but rumour has it Mitcheson took the guy behind a rubbish dump and snuffed him. He was lucky they had a chopper doing an evac, otherwise he’d never have come back. They threw him on a plane out of the country the same day. He spent some time in Bosnia with the UN, then got caught up in arms smuggling by a bunch of British Army NCOs. It all went sour after that and they decided to get rid. Pity — he was a good one, if his record is anything to go by. I’m not sure the smuggling thing was all it was made out to be, though.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when you’ve worked around records long enough, you get a feel for reading between the lines. And I reckon there’s more to Mitcheson’s file than the records say. The other thing is — and I haven’t been able to dig into it yet — some of the info on the files doesn’t quite match… almost like it was written at two different times. You know what it’s like when you have a first-hand account of a punch-up in a boozer, then another one written the following morning, when everyone’s sober and feeling like shit? They don’t quite tally.”

  “What about the others on the list?”

  “Known associates. They all came together at one time, most of them in the glass-house at Colchester before their discharge. Someone lumped them together on a file and cross-indexed them so I thought it was worth copying them all off.”

  “So it’s likely Mitcheson knew Howard?”

  “According to the file, he must have. Is it any good?”

  Palmer nodded and drank some of his pint. “Could be. I owe you one for this.”

  Charlie waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. Like I said, it’s been a bit of excitement.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better be off. I’ll have another dig, and if I come across anything else, I’ll be in touch. See you around, Frank. Eat that list before you leave.”

  Palmer watched his friend disappear through the crowd and felt a tinge of satisfaction. Now he had some names he felt a lot better. Except for one. He reckoned Riley could look after herself, but seeing John Mitcheson on the same list as someone who might have trashed his office wasn’t good news. It meant Mitcheson, barring the most massive possible coincidence, had not contacted Riley Gavin by accident.

  A waitress escorted Riley towards the back of the long, narrow restaurant. Most of the diners were couples, with the relaxed air of regular customers. The waitress stopped at a corner table where John Mitcheson was already seated.

  He rose and smiled. “Riley. Good to see you again.” He held a chair out for her, eyes brushing over her with an appreciative expression. He looked tanned and fit, and Riley felt other eyes watching them.

  “You made it difficult to refuse,” she told him.

  They ordered drinks and exchanged pleasantries while studying the menu. The selection was limited but easy to choose from. Riley decided on soup and chicken, and Mitcheson went with her. When their drinks came, they toasted each other and exchanged looks over their glasses.

  “So, was it worth coming back for?” Mitcheson asked.

  For a moment Riley was lost. Then she remembered the call from Donald Brask that had broken into her holiday. “So far,” she replied cautiously. “More work, is what it was. But maybe I’ll get away somewhere later to make up for it.”

  He nodded. “Research, wasn’t that what you said? You never said what kind of research, though.”

  Riley had been deliberately vague out of habit, citing details about research for magazines, conducting interviews and building reports for organisations and individuals. It had been close enough to the truth to be sufficient at the time.

  “You never said how you managed to get my mobile number,” she countered, to put him off-track.

  He pulled a face, looking sheepish. “If I tell you I probably broke the law, will you have me arrested?”

  “I might. It depends which law.”

  “Well, you know I said I was a security consultant. That’s true. I have a few friends, also in the business, who have… access to various sources of information — phone records being one. I got your home address from the apartment manager in Spain and the rest was easy.” He held up both hands in surrender. “That was all, I promise. I didn't do a credit check or ask if you had a history of impulsive violence towards men.”

  “Maybe you should have,” she said. It sounded plausible enough and there plenty of people in her own profession with access to similar sources. It was what made the difference between rumour and hard news.

  “So, am I forgiven?” Mitcheson asked.

  She shrugged. “I think I can live with it.” It really wasn’t worth getting in a spin about. Anyway, was she really so annoyed, being here? “It’s probably something I’d do myself, if I had to.”

  He nodded. “Now that sounds like you might almost be in the same business as me. Or a journalist.” He said it with a smile but suddenly there was a crackle of tension in the air between them. Riley wondered if her response would decide the course of the evening.

  “Would that be so bad?” she said. She felt a pulse begin to tick in her throat. Some people immediately put the shutters up when she mentioned what she did, as though they might appear next day splashed in lurid print across the country’s tabloids. Mostly, it turned out, they had something to hide. She wondered if John Mitcheson had any such fears.

  He shrugged. “Not at all. Not as bad as if you were, say… something official.”

  “Police, you mean? God, give me a break — I haven’t worn black tights since I was at school.”

  “Actually, I was thinking Customs and Excise.” He put his glass down and sat back as their soup arrived. He said nothing while the waitress served them. When she walked away, he continued, “The way you handled that squaddie at Gibraltar airport was pretty efficient. Showed a lot of confidence.” He raised his glass and smiled with a show of sheepishness. “Proves how vivid my imagination can be, doesn’t it?”

  “Too right,” she replied lightly with a raised eyebrow. “But why would my being in Customs be such a bad thing? Unless you’re a secret drug-runner, of course?”

  Chapter 16

  For a split second Mitcheson’s smile faltered. He chuckled. “If I was, I’d be taking you to dinner somewhere a bit more exotic than this.”

  Riley stared back at him, not sure if the sudden tension in the air was her imagination or not. “I guess so. Why don’t you like Customs and Excise?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, nothing much. Call it professional wariness, if you like. They don’t like private sector security operators for some reason. Probably think we’re all VAT dodgers. So, where are you hoping to take your next holiday?”r />
  The change of subject was smoothly done but left Riley with a sense of unfinished business. “You’re not being evasive, are you?”

  He looked at her, spoon hovering above his soup bowl. “I don't think so. Sorry — I have a bit of a grasshopper mind. I’m just curious about you, that’s all. And I’d rather talk about you than me, any day.”

  Towards the end of the meal a phone buzzed and Mitcheson reached into an inside pocket and frowned.

  “I’m really sorry,” he muttered. “I thought I’d switched this thing off. Would you excuse me?”

  He left the table and walked towards the washrooms at the back of the restaurant. Riley felt an odd sense of disappointment, as though he had suddenly confessed to a wife and children somewhere, or had revealed a harmless but unpleasant character trait. She dismissed it. She was being unfair. He probably had meant to switch the phone off, but it had genuinely slipped his mind.

  When he returned moments later he was smiling. “I’m sorry about that. I hate it when people do that to me.”

  Riley shook her head. “That’s all right. Not bad news, I hope?”

  “No. Some business I have to attend to tomorrow.”

  Outside the restaurant a breeze skidded along the street, flicking litter against their legs. The sound of crowds and music from Piccadilly floated over the buildings, and one or two pedestrians hurried by, huddled against the chill. Riley shivered and Mitcheson put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

  They reached the corner of the street and were just about to turn up towards Piccadilly when a shadow appeared in front of them. Riley looked up. It was the large man she had nearly bumped into earlier. This time, he held his ground and waited for her and Mitcheson to navigate around him. His eyes swept over them, and she could hear his breath hissing nasally as she stepped past him.

  “Sorry,” Mitcheson muttered, and guided Riley with a firm hand, placing himself between her and the big man.

  As they left him behind, she commented: “Amazing how often that happens.”

  “Mm?” Mitcheson’s mind seemed far away as he glanced back towards the corner.

  “Seeing the same person twice on the same day.” She explained about seeing the big man on her way to the restaurant.

  When she glanced up she could see the muscles in Mitcheson’s jaw working. He spotted a taxi and whistled.

  “Sorry, Riley,” he said. “I have to go. Business calls. Can I ring you in a day or two?”

  “Yes, all right. But why don’t we share this taxi?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t, I’m afraid. It’ll be quicker for me to take the underground. You go ahead.”

  “All right. Thank you for this evening.”

  He smiled briefly and opened the cab door for her. She’d barely climbed in when he waved and turned away as though distracted. She looked back to see him striding back towards the corner of Jermyn Street. The underground was in the opposite direction.

  When Mitcheson reached the corner, he found the big man waiting for him. McManus seemed unaffected by the wind and was standing by the window of a travel agent, outlined by the neon tubing. There was nobody else about.

  “Well, soldier boy,” he sneered. “Getting some pussy lined up? You’re forgetting what you’re being paid — ”

  Mitcheson stepped in and hit him hard, putting his shoulder behind the blow. It was dirty and rough, and McManus dropped to the pavement, his breath leaving him in an explosive cough.

  Mitcheson didn’t wait for him to recover; once back on his feet, the big man was far too dangerous. He dropped a knee onto McManus’s chest and grasped the lapels of his jacket with his hands crossed. McManus’s breathing, already strained through his damaged nose, was now in danger of stopping altogether. In the dim light Mitcheson could see his face darkening due to the lack of oxygen.

  He eased off the pressure just sufficient to prevent the man dying on him, then bent and spoke into McManus’s ear. “Why are you following her?” he demanded. “I told you to leave her to me.”

  McManus’s eyes slowly lost their pained look and focused on Mitcheson’s face. It was like having a malevolent dog staring up at him. A dog that knew only one thing: how to kill.

  “I don’t take orders from you,” McManus croaked. “And I never will.”

  Mitcheson shook him for a moment, then let him go. He wasn’t going to get anything from this man; he was too hard a nut to crack. All McManus understood was how to do what Lottie Grossman told him.

  A noise made Mitcheson look along the street. A hundred yards away a pair of figures stepped out of a white van. There was mesh over the windows and the streetlights glinted off helmet badges. It was time to leave. He would have to deal with McManus another time.

  As Mitcheson walked away, McManus levered himself up on one elbow and coughed, rubbing his damaged throat.

  “I wasn’t following her, soldier boy,” he muttered. “I was following you.”

  Chapter 17

  Riley showered and ate breakfast in a mental fog, thinking about her dinner date with John Mitcheson. Sleep had not come easily when she got home, and she had repeatedly run over the bones of their conversation during the meal, trying to make some sense of how she felt. She’d found John Mitcheson engaging company, yet all the time she had been with him she had felt there was something in the atmosphere. It had been like sharing a cage with a tiger.

  She shook off the thoughts and dressed, then went through her notes to get back on track. Four deaths and no clue as to motive or who might be responsible. Yet what were the chances of this many old ex-gangsters dying within days of each other? Whatever was happening to them was focussed and calculated…and personal. She went back to the brief that Donald Brask had provided. It wasn’t likely to tell her much she hadn’t already been over before, but it might throw up a clue. Very often the information you needed was staring you in the face. All you had to do was recognise it.

  Donald had included some details from the police investigation into the two murders on the coast. There was a reference to Bertrand Cage’s chauffeur, Peter Willis. He had discovered his employer’s body when he had gone to collect him from the beach. According to their custom, Willis would drop Cage at the beach by car at about 08.30 in the morning, settle him in his deckchair, then return at 11.00 prior to driving him back to the house for lunch. Discounting illness, the routine never varied.

  Which must have made it easy for the killer. No doubt Cage must have felt secure in his old age. How wrong that had proved to be.

  Willis, the report went on to say, had been in Cage’s employ for fifteen years. There followed some brief comments about his background, but little else about the man was known. The original silent retainer.

  Riley dialled Willis’s number again. Still no answer. She replaced the phone with a feeling of apprehension. Willis had either gone to ground after all the fuss surrounding Cage’s death… or something much worse. She gathered her notes and mobile phone. A trip to Sussex, she thought. There was no way she was going to get any solid help from the police files, so she might as well drive down to see if she could trace Willis and have a quiet chat. Failing that, a talk with the neighbours was better than sitting here staring at the walls.

  As she drove she called Donald Brask. The fat man had more contacts who owed him favours than anyone else she knew. He was also rightly proud of his database and the sources of information at his disposal, including some friendly reporters and a handful of police officers. He answered on the second ring.

  “Donald,” she said. “I need a favour.”

  Frederick Hyatt looked more like an academic than the head of a news bureau. Dressed in tweeds and a bow tie, he shuffled out into the foyer of the Charlwood Lodge hotel near Gatwick, blinking in the light after the gloom of the conference hall, and looked around urgently. When he spotted Riley waiting by the front desk, he nodded and crossed to greet her.

  “You must be Miss Gavin. Donald
always had an accurate eye for description.”

  “Mr Hyatt.” Riley checked his name badge and shook his hand. “Thank you for sparing me the time”

  “No problem. He said it was urgent.” He indicated a quiet corner of the foyer and led the way over. “I can only give you a few minutes, I’m afraid. I’m on next. The local Chamber of Commerce seems to think I can enthuse its members on the subject of modern media awareness.” He smiled briefly. “As if they need it these days.”

  Riley took the hint and launched straight in. “Mr Hyatt, I believe you interviewed Peter Willis after Bertrand Cage’s murder, is that right?”

  “Yes. Only because he was fairly close by and I already knew about his job. We handled a profile about Cage a while back: local mystery man of substance and all that. It didn't go anywhere because Cage’s lawyer stamped all over it and the story died. What can I tell you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Willis, but I can’t raise him on the phone. I though you might know something before I go to his home.”

  Hyatt raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised he’s gone to ground. Peter Willis and his wife are hardly media-savvy. They’re an ordinary couple who’ve found themselves pitched into this thing without warning. I spoke to them before the main press arrived, just after the story broke. Unfortunately, they had a rough ride after that, especially when the television crews turned up. There’s a big difference between a man with a recorder and a van bristling with antennae. In the end they’d had enough. What do you want from them?”

  “I’m doing background on the two dead men,” explained Riley. “And I’d like to track down any known associates of Cage and McKee. One of the most recent seems to be Peter Willis. I’m hoping he can give me some colour about their former activities.”

  “Such as?” Hyatt sounded cautious, his head tilted to one side.

  “Such as what they did, who their friends were… their business partners. Why their past seems to have caught up with them the way it has.”