No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 32

Riley was angry with herself as she left Malaga behind and headed out north onto the coast road. She was trying to blot out what had happened in the room at the Hotel Palacio. Well, nearly happened. She was even angrier with Mitcheson. With herself for losing control and with him for being the person he was and doing the job he claimed not to be able to walk away from.

Now she needed to absorb herself in the assignment, partly as a salve against her damaged feelings, but partly, she realised, to bring it to an end. Quite how she was going to do that, she didn’t know. Maybe she would have to hand what she had to the local police, although if they were so easily swayed by the Grossmans, it might be tougher than it looked to get them on-side. There was, of course, the local anti-drugs squad — UDYCOS, as Benson had called them — but she knew even less about them or how to contact them. There was also the question of proof. All she had so far was a vague collection of allegations, which wouldn’t fly far. She needed more facts.

She turned onto the road that led past the villa and coasted to a stop just past the bend, near where the dog had attacked the gunman. She frowned. There was no sign of Palmer’s car.

She pulled a pair of Chinos and a T-shirt from a bag behind the seat and quickly squirmed out of her dress. If a local farmer happened to come by now, she reflected, he was going to get one hell of an eyeful. On the other hand, if it were a policeman, she’d end up back in a cell — and this time Palmer wouldn’t get her out again so easily.

She locked the car and slipped over the wall into the trees, creeping forward until she had a clear view of the rear of the villa. A cloth-covered table bore the remains of a buffet, and she recognised all but two of the people clustered around the patio. The two men Palmer had described as the baseball fans stood at either corner of the house, while a third patrolled the paved area between the house and the pool. He was shorter than his companions, with a neat, compact build, and looked very fit. Riley couldn’t see any guns, but she had no doubt they were there.

Another man sat in the shade with his back to the villa, and she thought she recognised him as one of the two men she had seen walking along the road near here yesterday, only minutes before his companion had appeared among the trees.

She concentrated on the two other people seated at a table with a large parasol fluttering above their heads. One was Lottie Grossman, while the other was a slim, swarthy man in a cream suit and gold-framed sunglasses. He didn’t appear to be saying much. He looked more at ease in this setting than the others, and Riley wondered if he was one of the late Jerry Bignell’s Moroccan contacts.

The woman’s voice suddenly echoed sharply across the lawn, and Riley realised she was using a mobile phone. She slammed the phone on the table and said something to the slim man opposite. He pushed back from the table and stood up, angrily flicking down the cuffs of his jacket. In an instant the man seated near the house was on his feet and the three bodyguards tensed.

Another short exchange and Lottie Grossman levered herself up from her seat and approached the slim man, her hand patting him on the arm in a placatory manner. He nodded twice and shrugged, then returned to the table and sat down. His companion did the same and calm was restored.

Minutes ticked by, during which the slim man made two calls on his mobile. During each one he paused briefly to confer with Lottie Grossman, his hand over the receiver. Riley guessed they were in the middle of negotiations, with the dark man acting as go-between. At the end of the call he sat back and Lottie Grossman did most of the talking.

A car approached with a crunch of tyres on the gravel drive at the front of the villa. One of the baseball fans disappeared to investigate, and returned moments later followed by John Mitcheson.

Riley felt a jolt at seeing him again, and remembered with uncomfortable clarity what had happened in the Palacio. She ducked further down into the cover of the trees, sliding into the undergrowth and glad she had thought to change her clothes.

From behind her came the noise of another engine and tyres on the road. She wriggled backwards, risking a quick peek. It was Palmer. He got out of the car and hopped over the wall to squat beside her.

“Where the hell have you been?” she grated. “I thought you’d already be here.”

“I fancied an ice-cream,” he murmured breezily. Then his expression became sombre. “Benson’s dead.” He explained what he had just seen.

Riley didn’t say anything for a while. Then she said: “I asked Mitcheson about him, but he didn't seem to know the name.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. He might not be as much inside as you think.”

She shook her head. “Christ, are you defending him?”

“He could be telling the truth,” Palmer suggested. “Left hand and right, I expect. What’s going on here?”

“Another meeting. Looks like some high-level horse-trading is going on with the man in the cream suit. I think that’s his minder against the house. Mitcheson said they’re trying to raise money from drugs to keep Grossman out here. My guess is, that’s where cream suit comes in.”

“Drugs.” Palmer wiped a bead of perspiration off his cheek. “Hell of a way to fund a retirement plan.”

“The cream suit and Lottie G had a set-to earlier on. He looked ready to walk but they seem to have patched it up. By the way the Black Widow smarmed all over him, she must have realised she’d come close to losing it.”

“Good. Shows they’re desperate.”

Whatever had been agreed or not, the talking seemed finally to have ended. The man in the cream suit stood up and shook hands with Lottie, nodded at Mitcheson, then beckoned to his bodyguard. With Lottie leading, the three disappeared through the house, while the baseball fans and the third man drifted out of sight towards the front.

Left by himself, Mitcheson stood by the edge of the pool staring out across the lawn. For a second Riley could have sworn their eyes met. She froze, her breathing suspended. Then his gaze moved on, inspecting the tree-line foot by foot, before turning and walking into the house.

“Jesus… ” Palmer breathed, and Riley realised he, too, thought they had been seen.

“Come on,” she said, moving backwards towards the wall. “I need to find out who these people are and where they’re based.”

Palmer followed, and before reaching their cars, they agreed to switch positions periodically, with Palmer going first to get ahead of the Moroccans’ vehicle. Riley waited until the Lexus nosed out of the gate, then set off in pursuit. As the Lexus drew up at the junction with the main coast road and signalled to turn right towards Malaga, Riley spotted Palmer’s car parked outside a shop near the corner. There was no sign of him and she wondered what he was playing at.

In a sudden change of manoeuvre, the Lexus turned left and surged into the traffic heading east towards Almeria. Riley, already indicating right, was caught out as a small delivery van rattled alongside on her left, blocking her path.

Just then Palmer stepped out of the shop doorway, eating an apple. He signalled with a flattened palm movement for Riley to hold it where she was and climbed unhurriedly into his own car. Then he set off after the Lexus.

Riley waited until both cars were out of sight. She wasn’t sure if the sudden change of direction by the Lexus was because she had been spotted or whether the Moroccans had genuinely decided to go elsewhere. She decided not to risk getting too close, and let three cars similar to her own go by before easing out and following Palmer.