They stopped before a low, dry-stone wall overgrown with a covering of dry grass and old pine needles. Beyond the wall they had a fairly clear view of the back of the villa showing a length of patio and a splash of blue swimming pool. The sound of running water was louder now, augmented by the gentle buzz of a generator.
“Nice place,” said Riley.
“Apart from the dog,” said Palmer, his voice tight. A large Rottweiler was standing near the house looking towards them. As they watched, the dog bunched its powerful muscles and shot towards the trees. Just as Riley and Palmer were ready to turn and run, the dog skidded to a halt on the edge of the patio as a seagull launched into the air from the lawn where it had been toying with a stray flap of paper. The dog stared up in frustration before turning and trotting back to the house, where it flopped down in the shade of a table, oblivious to their presence.
Riley felt the tension flow out of her. “I never thought I’d be grateful for seagulls,” she whispered.
Palmer nodded. “As soon as we get back I’m joining the RSPB.”
The patio door opened and a woman emerged. Dressed in a sundress and high-heeled sandals she was large and pale-skinned, and from this distance they could see she wasn’t young. She called to the dog, slapping her hand against her ample hip. The Rottweiler lifted its head, then stood up and padded over to her. They couldn’t hear the words but the tone was sharp, biting. The dog obediently lowered its head and sank to the floor and the woman walked away, leaving it panting in the open heat of the sun.
“Lottie Grossman?” Palmer asked. He was counting on Riley recognising the woman from the photographs she’d seen in the house.
“That’s her,” Riley confirmed.
The patio door opened again and a figure in a wheelchair appeared, the buzz of an electric motor drifting across to them.
“Well, well,” Palmer murmured. “Look what we have here.”
They watched as the man drove the wheelchair in a jerky fashion across the tiled surface to within a few feet of the pool, where he sat staring into its depths. The woman watched his progress until he stopped, then began deadheading some flowers in tubs by the house.
“He was in the photos with the woman,” Riley said. “At least, I think it was him. He looks smaller and thinner now, though.”
“Ray Grossman,” Palmer guessed.
“But your friend in the Met-”
Palmer nodded. “I know. But he only thought he was dead. Could be Grossman simply dropped out of sight and rumour did the rest.”
The Rottweiler climbed to its feet and walked slowly back to the shelter of the table, its large head swinging towards Lottie Grossman. The manoeuvre failed. The woman turned her head and shouted at the animal, then she picked up a long-poled skim-net used for cleaning the swimming pool and, with a darting movement surprisingly quick for a woman of her size and age, was upon the dog. She beat it three times with the handle end of the net, each stroke on the Rottweiler’s flanks echoing across the garden. The dog cowered, trying to avoid the pole, then moved back to the centre of the patio, where it lay down again and licked its side.
The man in the wheelchair didn’t look round.
Riley and Palmer exchanged a glance.
“Bloody Nora,” Palmer breathed. “I wouldn’t want to change places with that dog.”
“If you do, take a suicide pill with you,” Riley replied. “Come on — I’ve seen enough.”
They walked back towards the car. As they approached the edge of the trees, Palmer held out a hand to stop Riley and motioned her to get down. Then he edged forward until he had a clearer view through the branches. He swore silently. The Land Cruiser was parked alongside the Peugeot and two men were peering into its windows. A third figure sat in the driver’s seat, watching.
Palmer felt a movement behind him as Riley squatted down and peered over his shoulder. He was about to suggest she go back when she glared at him. “Don’t even think it, Palmer,” she warned him. “I don’t do helpless female.”
He let it go and nodded towards the car. “Recognise anyone?”
“The driver, maybe… could be Mitcheson. But not the other two. How about you?”
Palmer nodded. “They’re the baseball fans who junked my office.”
Chapter 25
“What d’you reckon?” Doug was lounging against the Land Cruiser looking at Mitcheson. Howie was studying the contents of the Peugeot.
“Anything inside?”
“Picnic stuff. Sandwich wrappers… cold-box… couple of empty coke tins. A local map on the dash. Could be tourists.” He looked back towards where the road curved out of sight alongside the villa grounds. “Probably gone for walkies — or a bit of fun in the trees.” He grinned and looked as if he might take a walk along the road to find out, when a mobile phone buzzed in the Land Cruiser. Mitcheson picked it up and listened. Seconds later he dropped it and shook his head.
“Leave it,” he called. “Gary’s just called from the airport — he’s on his way in. Problems, apparently.” He started the engine.
“What about this?” Doug asked, jerking a thumb at the car.
“Leave it. If it’s still here in an hour, we’ll scout the perimeter and flush them out.”
He drove back down the drive to the villa and parked in the shade. Doug took a heavy canvas sports bag from the back and followed the other two to the front door. As he did so, the Rottweiler appeared at the corner of the building.
Howie threw it a nasty look. “I’m gonna slot that brute,” he said quietly. There was a look about the dog that didn’t seem right. They had all seen Lottie Grossman’s method of treatment, and were all convinced that one day the animal would lose it and turn on her… and on anyone else around at the time.
“Cool it,” Mitcheson warned him. “If he senses a threat, he’ll have you marked down first. Let’s keep him primed for real trouble — if it comes.”
Lottie Grossman met them in the cool of the hallway.
“Problems?” she asked.
Mitcheson inclined his head. “A car parked along the road. Could be tourists. Could be someone having a snoop. Segassa’s people, maybe.”
Lottie nodded and took a phone from the wall nearby. “I’ll call my friend the chief of police. Did you get the registration?”
Mitcheson gave it to her. She dialled a number and spoke briefly, then replaced the receiver. She watched as Doug placed the sports bag on the floor and opened the top. Inside, under a tracksuit and towel, were four handguns and boxes of ammunition, along with silencers and a nondescript cardboard box
“What’s that?” Lottie asked, pointing at the box.
“Image intensifier,” Doug replied. “Second-hand crap, but it was all we could get at short notice. Might be useful when it gets dark.”
She nodded and walked through to the living room, gesturing for the men to take chairs. She appeared cool and relaxed, but a faint bead of perspiration shone on her forehead, and her heavy make-up had smudged in the corner of one eye.
“Gary and McManus should be here soon,” she informed them. “They’ve just got back from Jordans.”
“They?” Mitcheson thought only Gary had gone back to check the house. He’d been wondering where Lottie’s tame gorilla was hiding. Now he knew. The news made him uneasy. McManus was a stray bullet looking for a target; having him wandering about uncontrolled gave him an itchy feeling in the middle of his back. “Why McManus?”
“He had a couple of things to take care of.” The words came out flat and final, and Mitcheson’s unease grew even more. What couple of things? Maybe he’d find out from Gary. “What did he say?”
“There have been visitors at the house. My cleaner was questioned by a man and a woman, supposedly estate agents. Stupid woman even let them look around the place. Not that there’s anything they could find. McManus says the description fits the woman making enquiries about Cook and Page.” She looked at Mitcheson, a pulse flickering at her temple. From outside they could hear the sound of the Rottweiler’s relentless pacing. “I thought you were dealing with her. Why is she still bothering us?”