“What do you suggest?”
He shrugged. “I’d use a hotel — somewhere big and public with more than one way in and out. They wouldn’t want to try anything and you also don’t compromise your base.”
Lottie nodded. “Of course. You’re thinking like a soldier, aren’t you? Quite right. But I may decide to get rid of this place; it’s going to be too small for future needs. We may have occasional… guests to accommodate for a day or two. Besides,” she plucked a sugar lump from the tea tray beside her and popped it in her mouth. “I want them to see a show of strength. So it’s all hands on deck, please — and as much hardware as you can bring.”
Mitcheson nodded. “Fine. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want Gary to go back to check the house in Jordans for me.”
Mitcheson checked his watch. “I doubt we’ll get him on a plane in time this evening. Doing a round trip tomorrow is cutting it fine if there are any delays.”
Lottie stood up, signifying the meeting was over. “That’s not a problem — he can take the plane.”
They all looked at her. “Plane?”
She turned at the door. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve bought a plane. McManus and I flew over in it this morning from England. The previous owner went bust and needed a quick sale. The pilot’s on standby at Malaga. He can fly Gary over this evening and back tomorrow morning. See to it, would you?”
A battered builder’s van coughed to a stop outside the gates of a small villa on the outskirts of Malaga. The two men inside sat for a few moments, listening and watching while the engine ticked as it cooled down. Cicadas filled the air with their endless clicking as the evening closed in, and a moped buzzed frantically in an adjacent street. Further along the pavement was the building site for a medium-size hotel. A huge crane towered overhead and the dying sun outlined the skeletal structure of the scaffolding and framework for the concrete shell. Outside the wooden fence a bedraggled dog, tongue lolling in the heat, rolled over in the shade.
Gary climbed down from the driver’s seat and opened the gates of the villa, while McManus went to the front door and pressed the bell. Both men wore gardening gloves, with baseball caps pulled down over their eyes. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the villa, but it had the melancholy sound of an empty space.
They eyed the buildings nearby. Satisfied no one was watching, Gary went back to the van and drove it into the small courtyard, while McManus closed the gates behind him.
Using the van as cover, they took a heavy roll of carpet from the back of the van and carried it to a side door. McManus fished in his pockets and took out some keys and opened the door, which led into a kitchen and utility room.
Gary wrinkled his nose in disgust. Rubbish was piled high in a bin in one corner and overflowing onto the floor, a mix of empty wine bottles, cans and food-wrappers from take-way restaurants. The living area was a mess of crumpled UK newspapers — mostly national dailies — and soft-porn magazines.
The men wrestled the carpet upstairs and dropped it on the double bed in the main bedroom. McManus unravelled it. He peeled away the plastic bin-liners covering Jerry Bignell’s body and carefully rolled them up inside the carpet.
“Welcome home, Jerry,” he laughed softly. “Sleep well, you loser.”
Gary went through the drawers, taking anything of value and liberally spreading the contents on the floor. When someone did finally check on Bignell — if they ever did — it would be written up as a burglary gone wrong.
The two men did the same downstairs, emptying out the contents of a bureau and desk. Then they took the carpet out to the van and drove away.
Chapter 24
“I feel like a Goth at a white wedding, sitting out here,” Riley muttered darkly, sliding down further in her seat. She and Palmer were in a hired Peugeot 306 just along the road from the Villa Almedina. A large pine tree threw dappled shadow over the car, providing some relief from the hot sun. Palmer had assured her it would also provide camouflage should anyone exit or enter the gate to the villa and cast a glance their way. The nearest house was two hundred metres away, with all its windows shuttered, and traffic on this road was nearly non-existent. The only danger was that a member of the local police might take an interest, although Palmer thought that unlikely. Anyway, they were tourists, with a hotel booking just outside Malaga to prove it. Tourists did strange things like sitting in cars instead of on beaches. English tourists being the strangest of all.
“Cars in the shade are commonplace,” he told her confidently. “No one’s going to pay any attention.”
Riley glanced at her watch. It was just after mid-day. They had caught an early flight to Malaga and picked up the hire-car to drive the thirty-odd miles to Moharras. The road — like the airport — had been busy with tourist traffic, and they had been glad of the air-conditioning in the small car. On the way, Palmer had popped into a small supermarket, returning with a cold-box filled with drinks and sandwiches.
“An army marches on its stomach,” he’d announced. “I hope you like ham and cheese — it’s all they’d got.”
“Thanks, Palmer,” Riley said, peeling back one of the wrappings to reveal two slices of bread surrounding a thick slice of yellow cheese and a slab of palid meat. “I see you’ve obviously never heard of cholesterol and heart disease.” She dumped the sandwich back in the box and took a can of cola instead. It was already too hot for picnics, anyway.
Palmer swooped on the sandwich with a grin. “After some of the field rations I’ve had, this is luxury.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
She was halfway through the drink when a Land Cruiser nosed out from the entrance to the Villa Almedina. Sun flashed on the windscreen, obscuring the occupants, but Riley counted three men inside. The vehicle paused briefly before heading towards the coast, a swirl of dust in its wake.
Palmer let out a long sigh. “Didn’t get any detail. You?”
Riley shook her head. “No. But I had a feeling the people inside might have.”
He nodded. “Let’s hope they’re not observant.”
Riley got out of the car. “How about a stroll, Palmer? Fancy a bit of sun and fresh air?” She stepped out from the shade of the tree and the heat weighed down on her, drawing the air from her lungs. A thin taste of dust from the disappearing Land Cruiser touched her lips and she reached into the car for a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth.
“Where we going?” Palmer levered himself out of the car and stretched his back.
“Not far.” Riley settled her sunglasses in place, then set off along the road away from the entrance to the villa. With her tan shorts and T-shirt, and a pair of lightweight walking boots, she could have been from any one of several hotels and villas in the area.
Palmer followed, pausing to clap a Panama hat on his head. In the burst of direct heat, his chinos stuck to his legs and a thin ridge of hot skin began to itch around his neck. Uxbridge and its chilly pavements suddenly seemed a universe away.
If they were spotted by anyone from the villa, Palmer hoped they would pass as tourists who had fancied a stroll off the beaten track. Just as long as they didn’t meet the men he knew as Doug and Howie. The memory of the debris that had once been his office was still fresh in his mind.
They followed the curve of the narrow road past a thin belt of pine trees forming a natural boundary to the villa. Through the tangle of branches they caught glimpses of the single-storey building, and flashes of reflected sunlight from the windows. There was a faint sound of running water, with the occasional hiss of a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, and a dog barked twice with a short, flat coughing noise.
Riley veered off the road and angled towards the trees, with Palmer following and watching their backs. Soon they were out of sight of the road.