No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 25

“What d’you reckon?” Doug was lounging against the Land Cruiser looking at Mitcheson. Howie was studying the contents of the Peugeot.

“Anything inside?”

“Picnic stuff. Sandwich wrappers… cold-box… couple of empty coke tins. A local map on the dash. Could be tourists.” He looked back towards where the road curved out of sight alongside the villa grounds. “Probably gone for walkies — or a bit of fun in the trees.” He grinned and looked as if he might take a walk along the road to find out, when a mobile phone buzzed in the Land Cruiser. Mitcheson picked it up and listened. Seconds later he dropped it and shook his head.

“Leave it,” he called. “Gary’s just called from the airport — he’s on his way in. Problems, apparently.” He started the engine.

“What about this?” Doug asked, jerking a thumb at the car.

“Leave it. If it’s still here in an hour, we’ll scout the perimeter and flush them out.”

He drove back down the drive to the villa and parked in the shade. Doug took a heavy canvas sports bag from the back and followed the other two to the front door. As he did so, the Rottweiler appeared at the corner of the building.

Howie threw it a nasty look. “I’m gonna slot that brute,” he said quietly. There was a look about the dog that didn’t seem right. They had all seen Lottie Grossman’s method of treatment, and were all convinced that one day the animal would lose it and turn on her… and on anyone else around at the time.

“Cool it,” Mitcheson warned him. “If he senses a threat, he’ll have you marked down first. Let’s keep him primed for real trouble — if it comes.”

Lottie Grossman met them in the cool of the hallway.

“Problems?” she asked.

Mitcheson inclined his head. “A car parked along the road. Could be tourists. Could be someone having a snoop. Segassa’s people, maybe.”

Lottie nodded and took a phone from the wall nearby. “I’ll call my friend the chief of police. Did you get the registration?”

Mitcheson gave it to her. She dialled a number and spoke briefly, then replaced the receiver. She watched as Doug placed the sports bag on the floor and opened the top. Inside, under a tracksuit and towel, were four handguns and boxes of ammunition, along with silencers and a nondescript cardboard box

“What’s that?” Lottie asked, pointing at the box.

“Image intensifier,” Doug replied. “Second-hand crap, but it was all we could get at short notice. Might be useful when it gets dark.”

She nodded and walked through to the living room, gesturing for the men to take chairs. She appeared cool and relaxed, but a faint bead of perspiration shone on her forehead, and her heavy make-up had smudged in the corner of one eye.

“Gary and McManus should be here soon,” she informed them. “They’ve just got back from Jordans.”

“They?” Mitcheson thought only Gary had gone back to check the house. He’d been wondering where Lottie’s tame gorilla was hiding. Now he knew. The news made him uneasy. McManus was a stray bullet looking for a target; having him wandering about uncontrolled gave him an itchy feeling in the middle of his back. “Why McManus?”

“He had a couple of things to take care of.” The words came out flat and final, and Mitcheson’s unease grew even more. What couple of things? Maybe he’d find out from Gary. “What did he say?”

“There have been visitors at the house. My cleaner was questioned by a man and a woman, supposedly estate agents. Stupid woman even let them look around the place. Not that there’s anything they could find. McManus says the description fits the woman making enquiries about Cook and Page.” She looked at Mitcheson, a pulse flickering at her temple. From outside they could hear the sound of the Rottweiler’s relentless pacing. “I thought you were dealing with her. Why is she still bothering us?”

Mitcheson felt the other two staring at him and returned the woman’s look as calmly as possible. He wondered how long it would be before Doug and Howie joined Gary in his gradual drift across the floor to the Grossman camp. If this continued, he was in danger of losing what control he had over them to a woman being carried away by a rush of power to the head.

He took a deep breath. He had no idea what McManus had told Lottie about his findings in Riley’s flat, but it was safe to assume he hadn’t left anything out — including their fight near Piccadilly. He spoke calmly. “She’s a freelance reporter named Riley Gavin. She doesn’t have an inside track on what’s going on, but by the sounds of it she’s managed to trace your address. But that’s all. She doesn’t know about the villa, and there’s no way she can find out — unless there were any clues at the house.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Mitcheson,” Lottie said softly, her hand beating double-time on her thigh. “Of course there are no clues — I spent weeks stripping the place of anything like that.”

Mitcheson shrugged. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” He returned her stare, irritated by her obsession with position. “The reason I didn’t take steps against her or-” he paused meaningfully, “let McManus anywhere near her, was because we can’t go round getting rid of everyone as casually as swatting flies. It attracts too much attention.”

The silence was broken by the sound of a car pulling up outside. The Rottweiler growled and trotted away to investigate.

Lottie said nothing. To Mitcheson, that was the most worrying of all.

From the hire car under the tree, Palmer and Riley watched as the dust settled from the cream Mercedes that had just passed through the gate. They had caught a brief glimpse of the driver and passenger, and Riley had felt a jolt at recognising the big man she had seen in Piccadilly.

“Seems like Grossman’s gathering his forces,” Palmer said.

“I wish we could get inside,” said Riley. “Perhaps we can come back later.”

“Maybe.” Palmer had his doubts; these people were trained soldiers. “Right now, though, I think we’d better move. Those latest two may have spotted us. If we hang about they could be swarming all over us.”

He started the engine and drove quietly away down the road towards the coast.

Ten minutes later, Doug and Howie stepped out from the trees not far from where the hire-car had been parked. They both carried handguns and had made their way silently all the way round the villa, checking bushes and undergrowth.

Howie spoke into his mobile: “The car’s gone. Could have been tourists.”

“Check the perimeter again, anyway,” Mitcheson’s voice came back. There was a click as he cut the connection.

“Can somebody stop that infernal noise?” A detective of the Malaga Criminal Investigation Unit spoke loudly enough to attract everyone’s attention while he stared at the body of Jerry Bignell. Downstairs a cleaning woman was wailing like an air-raid siren which she’d been doing since she first arrived and made her discovery. While a uniformed officer went down to attend to the woman, the detective sighed and wondered why these English criminals were littering his country with their rubbish. He’d long suspected what Bignell was up to, but hadn’t yet got round to reeling him in. Now there was no need. He couldn’t see the man’s death was any great loss.

He winced at the smell fouling the air, swatting at the flies buzzing around the body. If they left it much longer this place would be a serious health hazard. He went downstairs to call for assistance and see what the wailing woman had to say.