No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 11

Mitcheson parked his BMW near Covent Garden and walked down to the Embankment, skirting groups of tourists and office workers. In spite of the cool breeze blowing off the Thames, there was already a heavy tang of exhaust fumes in the air, and he wondered why he wasn’t somewhere far from here where the air was clean and pure.

He checked his back several times out of habit. By the time he was leaning on the embankment wall overlooking the grey waters, he was satisfied no one was following.

Moments later the man he knew as McManus approached and leaned on the wall alongside him, breathing noisily through his ex-boxer’s nose. Big-boned and florid, he looked like a farmer in town for the day. Mitcheson didn’t care for the man, but since he was Lottie Grossman’s pet thug, he had little choice but to endure his brooding presence. Fortunately, he was brighter than he looked. Just.

McManus slapped a business card on the wall and pinned it down with a large finger so Mitcheson could read it. “This is the skirt doing the investigating.”

Mitcheson read the name and felt as if someone had kicked him in the belly. Christ, it couldn’t be…

“Are you sure?” he asked, staring at McManus. The big man was watching a seagull strut along the wall in search of food and missed Mitcheson’s look of surprise.

“Certain. She left a card with Cook before he gave her the elbow. I went round to her place for a quick look-see as soon as I got the details. That’s where I got the name of the bloke named Palmer. She’s a freelance reporter but I don’t know what he does — it didn’t say. I was lucky to get out of her place; couple of minutes later and she would have caught me.” He grinned dirtily, displaying a mouth full of false teeth. “It could have been fun, though.”

Mitcheson rounded on him. “Knock it off. You didn’t leave any trace, did you?”

“Do me a favour, soldier boy,” McManus said softly, and stared back unflinchingly. “I’m a pro — I don’t leave traces. Talking of which, how did your two squaddies manage? I hope they didn’t leave any.”

Mitcheson ignored the jibe. “I’ll deal with the woman.”

“Yeah? Like I dealt with Cook?” His expression was full of contempt. “I don't reckon you’ve got the balls.”

Mitcheson felt a twist of distaste at the man’s coldness. He was no stranger to killing, but he’d had never killed helpless men who were too far gone mentally or physically to pose any kind of threat. Or women. He remembered Lottie Grossman’s instructions to deal with the two old gang members, and felt a momentary self-contempt for having sat and done nothing while those instructions were carried out.

“What about Page?’ he asked.

“Page isn’t your problem. Don’t overreach yourself, soldier boy.”

Mitcheson debated pushing it, but right here wasn’t the time or the place. He left the man standing by the embankment wall and returned to his car. He might have to deal with McManus before long, otherwise his own position was going to be threatened. He didn't relish the prospect.

Mrs Marsh replaced the phone and stood for a while, trying to overcome her sudden feeling of unease. Ever since Norman Page had arrived here, she had felt she was in some kind of limbo. She couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because most of her residents came from normal backgrounds, mundane and out of the ordinary, free of any mystery. But Page was different. He had arrived as arranged by his solicitor, and since then not a thing. No visitors, no calls, no history and only a couple of letters, since vanished. It was like he’d been put here in the shade to wither and die, unseen and unwanted.

She crossed the hallway towards the back stairs and frowned as her feet crackled through something on the carpet. For heaven’s sake, she thought. How did leaves get in here? And in the kitchen, too. Someone must have left the back door open again. One of the temps no doubt, who didn’t give a fig about health, safety or the heating bills. She bent and flicked the worst of them to one side where they wouldn’t get trampled in any further. She’d get Mrs Donachy to see to it later.

Walking up the stairs, she thought about the call from the young woman — what was the name — Gavin? After so long with no contact and no interest from anybody, why should this woman suddenly be asking questions about Page?

She crossed the landing and peered through the door of Page’s room. She didn’t go in; he was a light sleeper and woke at the slightest noise. One of his hands, she noticed, was clenched tight around the duvet, as if reacting to a sudden pain. A bad dream, perhaps.

She noticed the spare pillow had fallen onto the floor by the window. She could just see it beneath the bed. He obviously wasn’t missing it. She’d pick it up later when she gave him his medicine.