No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 47

Riley parked her Golf and walked into the main foyer of the Sheraton Heathrow. She took the lift to first floor and found the room number she wanted. She stood for a moment, indecision threatening to win over curiosity, then she took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open under her hand. Inside, she saw an open suitcase on the trestle, clothes packed neatly inside. The air was touched with a familiar aftershave.

A polished circular table near the window held a bottle in an ice bucket, the ceiling light glinting off two glasses. John Mitcheson was standing by the window. As she closed the door behind her, he turned to greet her, smiling hesitantly.

“I’m glad you could come,” he said with evident relief, and reached out to touch her shoulder.

Riley smiled back and indicated the bottle. “If I hadn’t, you’d have had to drink all that by yourself.”

“Yeah, well, to be honest, I ordered it but now I don’t feel thirsty.”

“That’s okay — I’ll drink, you watch.”

Mitcheson busied himself opening the champagne and filled two glasses. He handed her one and raised his own.

“I’m not sure what I should be toasting,” he said awkwardly. “It can hardly be to us, can it?”

Riley shook her head. She lifted her glass and sipped the cold wine, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue. “Where are you going?”

“The States, for a while. Seems best after all that’s happened. I can disappear.”

She nodded. After the violence at West Drayton, she’d only tried his mobile once, to let him know she’d managed to keep his name out of the story.

“Lottie Grossman’s already done a vanishing act,” she said, stirring her drink with her finger. “Did you know that?”

“I heard. I get nervous every time I see a blue rinse or a pair of gardening gloves.”

“It’s not funny,” Riley cautioned. “She’s probably got money stashed away… and that woman’s got a long memory.”

“I promise to watch my back. You should do the same.”

Howie and Gary had been arrested and were refusing to talk. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, in view of Gary’s reaction at the warehouse. In the meantime they were being encouraged to consider helping with drug squad enquiries in England and Spain. The length of their sentence, it was rumoured, would depend on how much help they gave.

“Will they implicate you?”

“Gary might,” Mitcheson said. “Howie I’m not sure about. That’s why I’m leaving for a while. I’ll see how things pan out.”

“Good idea. Frank told me what they’d done in Bosnia. They’re not nice people.”

“How is Frank?”

“Smoking too much. He’s off to Germany on a job. He said to say thanks for the pruning knife. What did he mean?”

Mitcheson shrugged. “It’s a guy thing. Anyway,” he added lightly, “if I remember, it was you fire-bombing the place and beating Gary to a pulp that saved us. Otherwise we might have been in real trouble.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Frank says this man needs a security consultant. It’s in San Francisco, if you’re interested.”

Mitcheson nodded and tucked the paper in his wallet. “Tell him I appreciate it.”

“He knows.”

They smiled, both aware that they were circling each other, awkward and tense and suddenly with little to say.

“You never did get that holiday,” Mitcheson began, looking into his glass. “I suppose you’ll be making up for it now this is over?”

Riley took off her earrings and dropped them on the side table. “I might be,” she replied. “The trouble is, since the Grossman business, I’ve got work coming from all directions.” She kicked her shoes off and sipped her wine. “But you know what they say: all work and no play.”

“I feel responsible for ruining the last one,” Mitcheson said, his voice uncertain.

Riley undid the top button of her dress, then sipped more wine, her eyes on his. “Don’t worry — I’m sure you’ll make up for it somehow.”

She undid more buttons, revealing a froth of pale blue lace, and swung her foot to and fro. Mitcheson stood very still, mesmerised.

Two more buttons popped and the dress whispered apart. She flicked the material aside, allowing Mitcheson to see her all the way down.

“Maybe,” Mitcheson’s voice was strained, “maybe you could make it to San Francisco.”

“Who knows?” Riley shrugged her shoulders and the dress slid to the floor. She stepped towards him and placed her glass on the table, then did the same with his. She took his fingers and held them against her. “I may be an independent sort of girl,” she breathed softly, releasing his hand. “But the last bit really is up to you.”

In the glove box of her Golf, Riley’s mobile was ringing. After six rings the answering service took over and recorded a message. It was from Donald Brask.

“Riley, sweetie,” he intoned heavily. “Get off the nest, there’s a good girl. I’ve got a job for you. Riley? You there?”