No Peace For The Wicked

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 Mitdasson 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?”

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?”