No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 23

In the villa at Moharras, Mitcheson sat across the living room from Lottie Grossman. Alongside him sat Doug and Howie. Gary and McManus hadn’t yet returned from disposing of Bignell’s corpse.

Outside, the sun was sinking over the hills behind the villa, lending a soft, heavy appearance to the landscape. To the front, overlooking the sea a mile away, a fast boat carved a pale scar across the flat surface of the water, and closer inshore, two jet skis sent up fantails of spray. On the patio Ray Grossman sat in a new, motorised wheelchair, idly toying with the controls. An instruction manual lay on the ground.

Lottie glanced at her watch and put her cup down. “Well, I can’t wait all day for the others. As you know,” she said, looking at each of them in turn, “our first priority was to take over the controlling interest in three night-clubs — two in London and one in Brighton. This has been accomplished, and the managers are now happy to be reporting to a single owner rather than three. Business is good, but we’ll be making adjustments where necessary to reflect the change of… shall we say, emphasis.” The woman smiled coldly behind her glasses, oblivious to the lack of response from the three ex-soldiers. “We’re now moving into the next phase, which means improving turnover in this part of the world. And I’ve decided to make some changes.”

They all looked at her and she smiled with evident satisfaction. Mitcheson gritted his teeth at the false school teacher manner and wondered how he had ever managed to get embroiled with this madwoman.

“Shipping more drugs, you mean?” he said bluntly.

Lottie turned her eyes towards him. “I prefer to call it ‘the product’, Mr Mitcheson.”

“So where is this product going?”

“I think that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Through the clubs.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you approve?” She glanced at the others, who looked bored by the discussion. Then she sprang a surprise. “The drugs are just a side line. I’ve decided to move into a different product range altogether. We’re going into the people business.”

When nobody said anything, she continued: “I’ve been doing some research. There’s a high-value end of the people trade just like any other. Wealthy families prepared to pay extremely good money to get sons or daughters into any EU country — but especially Britain. They want them to have a new start in life and are ready to pay accordingly. In exchange for the fee, we get them into the UK and supplied with a full set of papers.”

“Illegal immigrants?” said Howie. “Bit risky, isn’t it, with all the fences and detection systems.”

“Not for the people we’re aiming at, Mr Howard. I’m not talking about shipping them inside the backs of lorries or packed in containers. We’ll take one in for the same price as half a dozen would normally pay to go through somewhere obvious like Calais. They can afford it, so why not? We’ll use top quality papers and take our time, and we’ll never use the same entry route twice. That way we avoid coming to the attention of the police or customs. If we do it right, word will start to spread. As it does, the price goes up.” She smiled. “Two or three a month maximum will bring in a great deal of money and with far less risk than drugs.”

Mitcheson was stunned. She had obviously thought this through, and it was daring enough to work, given the right handling. But he had severe misgivings. “You never said anything about illegal immigrants when you took us on.”

“Because there was nothing to say. Since then I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to set up the right people. People who can supply the documentation we’ll need.” She smiled archly. “You’d be surprised how many civil servants we get as regulars in our clubs. And debt is such a cruel burden, isn’t it?”

“So what now?”

“Now we need to make it happen, before we lose momentum. I want to move forward. The clubs were dying — and had been for years. McKee was getting old and comfortable, and Cage was senile. My husband has not enjoyed the best of health, and there was no one capable of taking over the running of the clubs the way I wanted.” She smiled grimly. “Basically, we needed a new product line under new management. It’s done every day in the City of London and nobody turns a hair.”

It was the first time Mitcheson had heard anyone admit that Ray Grossman was no longer in control. He wondered if her husband knew. After the way the old man had left the room just before Bignell was shot, he probably did but was powerless to stop her. Maybe this villa and the fancy new wheelchair was his payoff.

“Anyway,” Lottie waved a dismissive hand, “where I need your particular skills is making sure there are no problems with this end of the operation… in particular with our new friends across the water in Morocco, who will also source our new product. They’re bound to be suspicious at first, but I’m sure we’ll win them round as soon as turn-over increases substantially.”

“Won’t they kick up at Bignell being dumped?” Doug asked, finally taking an interest.

“They might,” Lottie replied coolly, “but I doubt it. Bignell was never going to amount to anything significant. He was a minnow who thought he was big-time.” She sniffed with contempt. “He was happy making peanuts. I’m after much bigger rewards. And anyone who works with me will share in those rewards.”

Mitcheson said nothing. He had no wish to be involved in drugs or illegal immigrants at any level, but you couldn’t always choose the path you trod. At least this way offered a chance of getting some money together until he decided what else he could turn his hand to. Unbidden, a vision of Riley crept into his head, sitting alongside the swimming pool. He shook his head to dismiss the image. That was over. For now, anyway. Maybe he could meet up with her sometime.

“All right,” he said. “So what’s the next move?”

Lottie Grossman smiled. “I’ve called a meeting,” she announced. “Here, tomorrow afternoon at four-thirty. The Moroccans are sending a representative over. His name’s Andre Segassa. I want absolute security in place.”

Mitcheson was surprised. “You want the meeting here? That’s risky.”

“Why?”

“Because once they clock the layout, you’re exposed; they might try something later.”

“What do you suggest?”

He shrugged. “I’d use a hotel — somewhere big and public with more than one way in and out. They wouldn’t want to try anything and you also don’t compromise your base.”

Lottie nodded. “Of course. You’re thinking like a soldier, aren’t you? Quite right. But I may decide to get rid of this place; it’s going to be too small for future needs. We may have occasional… guests to accommodate for a day or two. Besides,” she plucked a sugar lump from the tea tray beside her and popped it in her mouth. “I want them to see a show of strength. So it’s all hands on deck, please — and as much hardware as you can bring.”

Mitcheson nodded. “Fine. Anything else?”

“Yes. I want Gary to go back to check the house in Jordans for me.”

Mitcheson checked his watch. “I doubt we’ll get him on a plane in time this evening. Doing a round trip tomorrow is cutting it fine if there are any delays.”

Lottie stood up, signifying the meeting was over. “That’s not a problem — he can take the plane.”

They all looked at her. “Plane?”

She turned at the door. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve bought a plane. McManus and I flew over in it this morning from England. The previous owner went bust and needed a quick sale. The pilot’s on standby at Malaga. He can fly Gary over this evening and back tomorrow morning. See to it, would you?”

A battered builder’s van coughed to a stop outside the gates of a small villa on the outskirts of Malaga. The two men inside sat for a few moments, listening and watching while the engine ticked as it cooled down. Cicadas filled the air with their endless clicking as the evening closed in, and a moped buzzed frantically in an adjacent street. Further along the pavement was the building site for a medium-size hotel. A huge crane towered overhead and the dying sun outlined the skeletal structure of the scaffolding and framework for the concrete shell. Outside the wooden fence a bedraggled dog, tongue lolling in the heat, rolled over in the shade.

Gary climbed down from the driver’s seat and opened the gates of the villa, while McManus went to the front door and pressed the bell. Both men wore gardening gloves, with baseball caps pulled down over their eyes. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the villa, but it had the melancholy sound of an empty space.

They eyed the buildings nearby. Satisfied no one was watching, Gary went back to the van and drove it into the small courtyard, while McManus closed the gates behind him.

Using the van as cover, they took a heavy roll of carpet from the back of the van and carried it to a side door. McManus fished in his pockets and took out some keys and opened the door, which led into a kitchen and utility room.

Gary wrinkled his nose in disgust. Rubbish was piled high in a bin in one corner and overflowing onto the floor, a mix of empty wine bottles, cans and food-wrappers from take-way restaurants. The living area was a mess of crumpled UK newspapers — mostly national dailies — and soft-porn magazines.

The men wrestled the carpet upstairs and dropped it on the double bed in the main bedroom. McManus unravelled it. He peeled away the plastic bin-liners covering Jerry Bignell’s body and carefully rolled them up inside the carpet.

“Welcome home, Jerry,” he laughed softly. “Sleep well, you loser.”

Gary went through the drawers, taking anything of value and liberally spreading the contents on the floor. When someone did finally check on Bignell — if they ever did — it would be written up as a burglary gone wrong.

The two men did the same downstairs, emptying out the contents of a bureau and desk. Then they took the carpet out to the van and drove away.