No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 24

“I feel like a Goth at a white wedding, sitting out here,” Riley muttered darkly, sliding down further in her seat. She and Palmer were in a hired Peugeot 306 just along the road from the Villa Almedina. A large pine tree threw dappled shadow over the car, providing some relief from the hot sun. Palmer had assured her it would also provide camouflage should anyone exit or enter the gate to the villa and cast a glance their way. The nearest house was two hundred metres away, with all its windows shuttered, and traffic on this road was nearly non-existent. The only danger was that a member of the local police might take an interest, although Palmer thought that unlikely. Anyway, they were tourists, with a hotel booking just outside Malaga to prove it. Tourists did strange things like sitting in cars instead of on beaches. English tourists being the strangest of all.

“Cars in the shade are commonplace,” he told her confidently. “No one’s going to pay any attention.”

Riley glanced at her watch. It was just after mid-day. They had caught an early flight to Malaga and picked up the hire-car to drive the thirty-odd miles to Moharras. The road — like the airport — had been busy with tourist traffic, and they had been glad of the air-conditioning in the small car. On the way, Palmer had popped into a small supermarket, returning with a cold-box filled with drinks and sandwiches.

“An army marches on its stomach,” he’d announced. “I hope you like ham and cheese — it’s all they’d got.”

“Thanks, Palmer,” Riley said, peeling back one of the wrappings to reveal two slices of bread surrounding a thick slice of yellow cheese and a slab of palid meat. “I see you’ve obviously never heard of cholesterol and heart disease.” She dumped the sandwich back in the box and took a can of cola instead. It was already too hot for picnics, anyway.

Palmer swooped on the sandwich with a grin. “After some of the field rations I’ve had, this is luxury.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

She was halfway through the drink when a Land Cruiser nosed out from the entrance to the Villa Almedina. Sun flashed on the windscreen, obscuring the occupants, but Riley counted three men inside. The vehicle paused briefly before heading towards the coast, a swirl of dust in its wake.

Palmer let out a long sigh. “Didn’t get any detail. You?”

Riley shook her head. “No. But I had a feeling the people inside might have.”

He nodded. “Let’s hope they’re not observant.”

Riley got out of the car. “How about a stroll, Palmer? Fancy a bit of sun and fresh air?” She stepped out from the shade of the tree and the heat weighed down on her, drawing the air from her lungs. A thin taste of dust from the disappearing Land Cruiser touched her lips and she reached into the car for a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth.

“Where we going?” Palmer levered himself out of the car and stretched his back.

“Not far.” Riley settled her sunglasses in place, then set off along the road away from the entrance to the villa. With her tan shorts and T-shirt, and a pair of lightweight walking boots, she could have been from any one of several hotels and villas in the area.

Palmer followed, pausing to clap a Panama hat on his head. In the burst of direct heat, his chinos stuck to his legs and a thin ridge of hot skin began to itch around his neck. Uxbridge and its chilly pavements suddenly seemed a universe away.

If they were spotted by anyone from the villa, Palmer hoped they would pass as tourists who had fancied a stroll off the beaten track. Just as long as they didn’t meet the men he knew as Doug and Howie. The memory of the debris that had once been his office was still fresh in his mind.

They followed the curve of the narrow road past a thin belt of pine trees forming a natural boundary to the villa. Through the tangle of branches they caught glimpses of the single-storey building, and flashes of reflected sunlight from the windows. There was a faint sound of running water, with the occasional hiss of a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, and a dog barked twice with a short, flat coughing noise.

Riley veered off the road and angled towards the trees, with Palmer following and watching their backs. Soon they were out of sight of the road.

They stopped before a low, dry-stone wall overgrown with a covering of dry grass and old pine needles. Beyond the wall they had a fairly clear view of the back of the villa showing a length of patio and a splash of blue swimming pool. The sound of running water was louder now, augmented by the gentle buzz of a generator.

“Nice place,” said Riley.

“Apart from the dog,” said Palmer, his voice tight. A large Rottweiler was standing near the house looking towards them. As they watched, the dog bunched its powerful muscles and shot towards the trees. Just as Riley and Palmer were ready to turn and run, the dog skidded to a halt on the edge of the patio as a seagull launched into the air from the lawn where it had been toying with a stray flap of paper. The dog stared up in frustration before turning and trotting back to the house, where it flopped down in the shade of a table, oblivious to their presence.

Riley felt the tension flow out of her. “I never thought I’d be grateful for seagulls,” she whispered.

Palmer nodded. “As soon as we get back I’m joining the RSPB.”

The patio door opened and a woman emerged. Dressed in a sundress and high-heeled sandals she was large and pale-skinned, and from this distance they could see she wasn’t young. She called to the dog, slapping her hand against her ample hip. The Rottweiler lifted its head, then stood up and padded over to her. They couldn’t hear the words but the tone was sharp, biting. The dog obediently lowered its head and sank to the floor and the woman walked away, leaving it panting in the open heat of the sun.

“Lottie Grossman?” Palmer asked. He was counting on Riley recognising the woman from the photographs she’d seen in the house.

“That’s her,” Riley confirmed.

The patio door opened again and a figure in a wheelchair appeared, the buzz of an electric motor drifting across to them.

“Well, well,” Palmer murmured. “Look what we have here.”

They watched as the man drove the wheelchair in a jerky fashion across the tiled surface to within a few feet of the pool, where he sat staring into its depths. The woman watched his progress until he stopped, then began deadheading some flowers in tubs by the house.

“He was in the photos with the woman,” Riley said. “At least, I think it was him. He looks smaller and thinner now, though.”

“Ray Grossman,” Palmer guessed.

“But your friend in the Met-”

Palmer nodded. “I know. But he only thought he was dead. Could be Grossman simply dropped out of sight and rumour did the rest.”

The Rottweiler climbed to its feet and walked slowly back to the shelter of the table, its large head swinging towards Lottie Grossman. The manoeuvre failed. The woman turned her head and shouted at the animal, then she picked up a long-poled skim-net used for cleaning the swimming pool and, with a darting movement surprisingly quick for a woman of her size and age, was upon the dog. She beat it three times with the handle end of the net, each stroke on the Rottweiler’s flanks echoing across the garden. The dog cowered, trying to avoid the pole, then moved back to the centre of the patio, where it lay down again and licked its side.

The man in the wheelchair didn’t look round.

Riley and Palmer exchanged a glance.

“Bloody Nora,” Palmer breathed. “I wouldn’t want to change places with that dog.”

“If you do, take a suicide pill with you,” Riley replied. “Come on — I’ve seen enough.”

They walked back towards the car. As they approached the edge of the trees, Palmer held out a hand to stop Riley and motioned her to get down. Then he edged forward until he had a clearer view through the branches. He swore silently. The Land Cruiser was parked alongside the Peugeot and two men were peering into its windows. A third figure sat in the driver’s seat, watching.

Palmer felt a movement behind him as Riley squatted down and peered over his shoulder. He was about to suggest she go back when she glared at him. “Don’t even think it, Palmer,” she warned him. “I don’t do helpless female.”

He let it go and nodded towards the car. “Recognise anyone?”

“The driver, maybe… could be Mitcheson. But not the other two. How about you?”

Palmer nodded. “They’re the baseball fans who junked my office.”