No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 20

A fly buzzed in Palmer’s office as Riley scanned the piece of paper he had given her. When she saw the last name on the list, she went pale.

“What the hell is this?” she asked softly. “Why is this name on here?”

“I asked Charlie to pull out any name approximating Howie. He came up with just the one — Howard — who seemed to fit the age range. The others are all listed as KAs — known associates. Mitcheson’s name came out with them. The connection was made by the database, not me.”

“How efficient.” Her voice was coldly matter-of-fact.

Palmer calmly returned her look. “I’m sorry, Riley.”

“Really, Frank? But something tells me you’re not surprised.” She was furious, but knew he had done the right thing. Not that it helped her presence of mind or the fact that she felt so foolish.

Palmer shrugged. “Surprised, no. He got hold of your phone number far too easily — whatever mates he might have. Hot dates don’t do that. Hot dates don’t have those kind of connections.”

“So you’re my moral guardian, now, are you?” her voice stopped short of anger, but the gap was slim. “What have you been doing — taking tips from my mother?” She threw the list on the desk. “You’ll be asking me if I’ve slept with him next!”

She paced up and down while her anger subsided. It didn’t take long; she was nothing if not pragmatic and knew that given similar circumstances she would have done the same. It was what investigation work was all about.

“Okay,” she said finally, putting both hands up. “So we have a number of men — all ex-military and all connected — who seem to be involved with whatever is going on here. But that doesn’t tell us what it is. Nor why all those old gangsters were killed off. It wasn’t because they forgot to pay their golf club fees.”

Palmer nodded. “If we accept for the moment that Howard and Duggan are the two baseball fans and they appear to know Mitcheson, who happens to have got your mobile number by foul means, it seems more than just coincidence.”

“We know how he got it.”

Palmer pulled a face. “I’ve been thinking about that. There is another, simpler way he could have got it: the same way the baseball fans got my name.”

Riley thought about it. There was only one answer. “From my flat.”

“I doubt it was him,” Palmer said. “Mitcheson was in Intelligence in Northern Ireland but it wouldn’t necessarily make him a candidate for cat-burglary. I suppose he could have got someone else to do it, though.”

They sat and contemplated what they knew so far. It wasn’t much but the path was extending all the time.

“What about Ray Grossman?” said Riley. “Can we track him down?”

Palmer ducked his hand in a drawer, pulling out a slip of paper. “I rang an old contact in the Met. He’s retired now, but he’s got the memory of an elephant. He remembered Grossman, but he thought he’d died last year. Cancer.”

“Did he have any form?”

“Not officially. He was reckoned to be a top dog but they could never prove it.”

“It must be worth checking, though. How about an address?”

Palmer grinned. “Done it. There’s only one Grossman that fits that age range. Wrong sex but it could be a lead. A woman living out in Buckinghamshire.” He handed her a piece of paper with an address on it. Pantiles, Jordans, Bucks.

Riley gave him a cool look tinged with a smile. “For a bodyguard you’re not a bad investigator. How about we check on her?”

“Suits me.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll buy you a cream tea if we can find somewhere on the way.”

“You’re on. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

Palmer hesitated. “There’s one other piece of information my friend came up with.”

“Go on.”

“I ran the McKee and Cage names past him.”

“And?”

“He thought they and Grossman were linked. They were into clubs in a quite a big way back in the fifties and sixties. Nothing really heavy, but their turnover was good. Drinking dens, a bit of gambling, some girls… Low overheads, high profits. Mostly in London but there were a couple down on the south coast, too. Rumour had it they sold out in the mid-sixties.”

Riley recalled what Hyatt had said about the two men. “But that’s not necessarily the case?”

Palmer shook his head. “No. Think about it; the sixties were all about expansion. Gaming. Money. Kids with cash looking for kicks… sex… drugs. Everything was on the up after years of austerity. The Met was cracking down on organised crime with some of the biggest names in the underworld either dead or banged up, and even the main bulk of the opposition was suddenly dropping out of the picture. For someone not under scrutiny it must have been like being handed a monopoly on a plate and being told you had a clear field to play in. Would you sell out when you were coming to the crest of a wave?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Riley said. “I’m not a gangster — and I don’t remember the sixties.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “But you’re right — it doesn’t sound likely.” She walked over to the window, looking out. “Based on what Willis told me, the arguments he heard sounded like on-going business differences. If so, they weren’t as inactive as everyone thinks.”

Palmer nodded. “Why let someone else have all the cream when you can continue pulling it in yourself?”

“But your man said Grossman died last year. That leaves us none the wiser.” Riley hesitated and turned towards him. “Unless he left an heir to the throne.”