No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 4

Riley was disappointed when the plane finally touched down. The food had been avoidable, but easily traded in for the company of John Mitcheson to while away the journey. At least it had taken her mind off the aborted holiday and Donald Brask’s concerns. It turned out Mitcheson was a security consultant working between the UK and Spain, setting up systems for wealthy property owners with villas in the sun. He, too, had been on holiday and was now on his way back. Riley found him interesting, if physically unsettling company, and wondered if his claim to be unmarried was true. He certainly didn’t have the aura of a married man.

She had deliberately glossed over what she did for a living, dismissing it vaguely as “research”. Some men felt threatened when she told them she was an investigative reporter, as if she’d confessed to working for the Inland Revenue or the police. Maybe that said something about the sort of men she knew.

Mitcheson seemed satisfied by her description, and eventually switched topics, to Riley’s relief. The holiday was now in the background, and she was already beginning to focus on the priorities for the job ahead. First thing to do was get the file from Donald and brainstorm the details until they were firmly embedded in her mind. It was the least interesting part of an assignment, but fundamental to success. With much of her time spent on the move, carrying round a research library was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

They collected their bags from the carousel and walked through the crowded arrivals area, now simply two strangers who had come together for a short while. Riley wondered if there was a chance they might meet again.

As if sensing her thoughts, Mitcheson turned and placed a hand on her arm. “ I’m for the M25,” he said. “Can I give you a lift?”

Riley shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve got my car here.”

“Pity. Could we meet again…say, for dinner?”

She gave him a studied look. It never pays to be too eager with a man, her mother used to say. Take your time. Make him wait. “Sure. Why not?”

“Good. I’ll call in a day or two.”

It was only after he had gone that Riley realised he hadn’t asked for her telephone number. So, that was the end of that. On the other hand, nobody caught a prize by waiting. Perhaps she’d call the manager of the holiday flats in Sotogrande.

Twenty minutes later she was in her car on the way to Donald Brask’s Victorian pile in Finchley. Traffic was light and she made good time, calling him on the way to let him know she was coming. He was waiting for her at the front door and, with natural gallantry, lifted her hand briefly to his lips.

“My, you look delicious, sweetie,” he breathed, giving her a meaningless once-over. He was wearing a thin, light blue jacket and pale slacks, with a pink cotton shirt that didn’t quite match and a pair of trainers. The ensemble, Riley thought, looked as if he had dressed in the dark.

“Donald, you’re an old fake,” she said. “Why not tell me what’s cooking?”

He smiled and released her hand, then led her into his office. In a former life it had been the dining room, but was now lined with books wall-to-wall and contained two state-of-the-art computers linked to printers and scanners. A television sat in one corner, tuned permanently to CNN, with the latest in digital recording equipment wired in and ready to go at the press of a remote. She counted three phones but there were probably more beneath the swamp of newspapers and documents that seemed to float over every available surface. This was Brask’s nerve centre and she knew the disarray was misleading. He had a mind like one of his PCs and by the end of the day would have documented, copied, distributed or dumped every piece of information which had come into this house. Much of it arrived from contacts around the country, and what facts he couldn’t locate within this room he could source very quickly by fax, phone or online. As if on cue, one of the phones rang once before a machine took over, and an indistinct voice spoke briefly before hanging up.

“Don’t worry,” Donald waved a hand towards the unseen caller. “They’ll ring back.” He turned to the desk in the centre of the room and pushed aside that day’s newspapers to reveal a buff cardboard file. He flicked it with his fingers and handed it to her. “Everything we know is in there,” he murmured. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”

“Thanks, Donald,” said Riley. The file was light, she noticed — too light to contain anything of substance. Considering Donald’s considerable resources it wasn’t a good sign. She was going to have to do some serious digging. Still, that was her job. “What’s the deadline?”

Brask raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking national here, sweetie, and being chased by whoever else is feeling wide awake enough to pick this up — which they will. The deadline’s yesterday, as always.”

“Donald! I’ve just got back.”

He sighed and sat down heavily at his desk. “You’ve got a week, max. More than that and it’ll either go stone cold or totally ballistic. The police are currently trying to play it down as two separate incidents — one as a robbery gone wrong, the other as a revenge killing. That might keep some of the pack off the story for a bit, but it won’t stay that way for long; it’s very quiet news-wise right now, which means editors and reporters will be getting bored. Once they stop kicking the government or the furniture and begin linking the two murders, this thing will be knee-deep in hacks. You can funnel your reports through me.” He handed her a slip of paper with a name, phone number and address on it. “Remember what I said about help. I strongly suggest you call this man.”

Gary opened the front door as a dark BMW crunched into the drive and stopped with its nose pointing towards the gate. He watched with apparent disinterest as the driver climbed out. The same scene was being played on a television screen in the kitchen.

“She in?” John Mitcheson asked. If he thought it odd that Gary kept one hand in his jacket pocket he made no comment.

“No, boss. Went out an hour ago — to the garden centre. She’ll be back later.” Gary stepped aside, allowing Mitcheson to enter. “You heard the news about the two old duffers?”

Mitcheson nodded with a faint show of distaste, and shrugged off his jacket. “Where are the others?”

“Keeping their heads down near the airport.” Gary followed him across the hallway into the kitchen. “She said to stay away from the house for a bit. The neighbours have been talking.”

“Makes sense.” Mitcheson helped himself to coffee from a jug on the side. “How is she?”

Gary hesitated. He had known Mitcheson for some years, and possessed sufficient ingrained caution towards officers to not take anything for granted. They were a world apart in many ways, even though they were no longer part of the military. But this situation was different. And changing. “She’s cool,” he said eventually. “Seems to take everything in her stride, in fact.” He smiled as if proud of a growing child: “Like weeding the garden.”

“Are you okay?” Mitcheson’s eyes were on him over the rim of his coffee cup, flickering down to where Gary’s hand was still in his pocket.

“Sure. I’m good.”

Mitcheson shrugged and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. “I’m going to the gym, then I’ll get some kip. I’ll be back later for the briefing.”

Gary nodded and let Mitcheson out, and stood watching the driveway as the car purred out onto the road. Only then did he let go of the gun in his jacket pocket.