No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 39

Riley opened her eyes and stared out at the passing scenery. She was in the back of Mitcheson’s car and they were driving past a row of shops and estate agents, with the tall shape of a holiday hotel in the background. The sky was deep blue without a cloud in sight, and the pavements were crowded with tanned bodies in shorts, T-shirts and sunglasses. She vaguely recognised the outskirts of Malaga on the way to their hotel and slumped back onto the seat, stunned with relief.

“Welcome back,” said Palmer, handing her a bottle of water. “You went out for a few minutes there.”

She took it gratefully and swallowed half the contents. It was warm and slightly metallic. “What happened?” she asked. Her throat was sore and her voice sounded as though she’d been smoking cigars all her life. She was surprised to find she had both shoes on. “You got my other shoe.” Her clothing was another matter; she felt grubby and soiled and covered in a gritty substance. Cement powder. Then she remembered.

“We cleaned up,” said Mitcheson, before she could ask. “No clues.”

“Except for McManus,” she said. She also remembered the cigarette lighter but decided the chance of the police latching onto it was too remote. “Will they notice him?”

Mitcheson shook his head. “I doubt it. That shaft looked deep. Unless he survived the fall and begins to shout, they won’t even look. We left the Mercedes where it was.”

Riley shivered, imagining the process when the men returned from their siesta and began pouring cement into the shaft. The gruesome thought was countered by remembering that it could so easily have been herself down there if things had gone differently. “He knew Ray Grossman was dead.”

They both looked at her. “He told you?” said Palmer. He looked at Mitcheson. “He must have rung the villa. That’s not good.”

Mitcheson said nothing.

“He was really angry,” Riley continued. “He was drinking heavily and saying he was being cheated.”

“I wonder if he told them where he was,” Palmer pondered, lighting a cigarette.

“If he did it won’t do them much good,” Mitcheson responded coldly. “Anyway, as far as they know, he’s taking care of Riley… and probably having some fun in the process.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Sorry.”

Riley preferred not to think about it. If she dwelled on what might have happened, she knew she’d be useless from here on. Right now she had to blot it out of her mind and concentrate on the next moves.

“Won’t they look for him?” she asked.

“I doubt it. Lottie’ll go berserk but that won’t last long. He was always more Ray’s man than hers. She’ll just convince herself he’s had enough being bossed around by a woman and scarpered. The worst he’s done is taken the Mercedes. She might put the police onto him for that, knowing her. She’s a vindictive woman.”

Riley tapped Mitcheson on the shoulder. “What about you?” she asked. “You’re not going back to the villa, are you?”

Mitcheson shrugged and pulled out to overtake a gaggle of cyclists. “I have to,” he said quietly. It sounded like the end of the matter, and Palmer glanced across at him, smoke dribbling from his lips. He returned her look and raised an eyebrow.

Riley sat forward on her seat. “Mitcheson, are you mad?” she asked bluntly. “They’re about to start running drugs and people into the UK and you think you can carry on working with them? Anyway, why do you have to? You talk as though you’ve signed a blood oath with them.”

They had reached the Ascona. Mitcheson pulled into the car park and cut the engine. He looked at them in turn.

“It was me who got the lads into this,” he explained. “I was offered the job through a contact providing I brought some men in with me. I knew they were having a hard time after leaving the army, so I recruited them.”

“And you feel responsible? They’re big boys, you know.”

Mitcheson nodded. “They served under me in Bosnia.” He glanced at Palmer. “Ask him — he knows what I mean.”

Palmer shrugged and got out of the car, followed by Riley. She leaned back in and stared at Mitcheson with a cool expression. “I’m grateful for what you did back there, John,” she said quietly, “but I’m not giving up on this one. That woman’s got to be stopped. The only way I know how is to gather all the information I can and let the police have it. I’ve already sent a report back to England. Brask will probably run it past the client editor to keep him sweet until I get back. But if he wants to break the story immediately, that’s his privilege. You could end up being scooped up with the rest of them.”

He returned her stare. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep it in mind.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.”

“Get out of it, John,” she insisted. “You’ve got a couple of days at most.” Then she turned and walked into the hotel.

Palmer watched her go. He knew she was suffering and would need some care after what she had been through. On the way to the car he’d asked her if McManus had done anything and she’d said no. He believed her but it still couldn’t have been pleasant. He leaned on the car roof and pulled a sheet of paper from an inside pocket. He unfolded it and scanned it quickly.

“Got an note from a friend in London this morning,” he said casually. “He works in military records in Whitehall.” Mitcheson looked up but said nothing. “Says here you got in a jam after a couple of tours in Bosnia. Some of your blokes were caught adding a few items to their baggage, apparently, when it was shipped to the UK. Pistols, mostly, some ammo, the odd bit of high-tech battlefield equipment — even an Uzi and a couple of stripped-down AK47s. War souvenirs, your boys claimed.”

“Is this leading somewhere?” Mitcheson asked coolly. “Only I ought to be going before they miss me.”

“Sorry,” Palmer remarked dryly. “I forgot you were so conscientious. Where it’s leading is, those items of hardware being shipped out of Bosnia by your mates weren’t war souvenirs, were they? And neither were they the only items in the bags going back.”

Mitcheson frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Is that really what your lads told you at the time? That they were a little something to show the grandkids in years to come? What grand-dad did in the war in Bosnia?” Palmer shook his head. “It’s about time you got wise.”

Mitcheson reached out and grabbed Palmer’s wrist. “What are you driving at? What else do you know — and why the sudden interest?”

Palmer glanced down at the hand gripping his. With little more than a casual flick, Mitcheson’s hand was bent painfully backwards.

“That,” Palmer said conversationally, “was one of the first tricks I learned in training. Useful for when drunken squaddies object to being arrested and try to grip you by the throat. I did my training at a depot near Chichester, in case you’re interested. It’s also how I got the information about you and the others.” He released Mitcheson and stepped back.

Mitcheson gave him a sour look, then smiled faintly, massaging his wrist. “Redcap, huh? I should have guessed.” He seemed to re-assess Palmer for a moment. “That bit about the bags from Bosnia. What did you mean?”

“Drugs. They were shipping drugs and using the weapons as a diversionary tactic. It worked well for a time, too. Stash a gun where it’ll be found and all hell breaks loose while everybody and their dog concentrates on place where weapons can be hidden. That leaves plenty of places where they can’t but where drugs can. And that’s where the real money is. As a bonus they even got to sell any weapons that got through. Until they got careless, anyway.”

“How come I never heard about this?”

“The army covered it up. They didn’t want it known that any of our UN chaps were shipping in drugs bought on the Serb black market. Bad publicity, you see. Especially involving men with good records. Unfortunately, you went into bat for them, didn’t you, without thinking about it? You were on a loser right from the start, with those guys As an officer that was enough to ruin your career.” His eyes bored into Mitcheson with growing amazement. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

Mitcheson shook his head. “No. I did wonder, but they denied it. Just souvenirs, they said. Seemed best to let it go after that, the way things turned out. As you say, it was enough to kill my career prospects.” He looked through the windscreen, his eyes suddenly cold. “I had no idea.”

“You were used,” Palmer said brutally. “You were used then just like you’re being used now. Pity your ‘lads’ don’t set as much store by loyalty as you do, isn’t it?”

He stepped back and watched Mitcheson drive away.