“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Palmer dropped the newspaper he was carrying on the bed. It was an English-language edition for British residents. “While I was waiting to spring you from the nick, I heard a detective briefing a local reporter on a murder they discovered today in Malaga. An Englishman named Bignell was found shot dead in his house. They say it was probably drug-related, and that Bignell was a suspected local distributor. They’d been watching him for some time and were getting ready to make an arrest. Looks like someone beat them to it.”
“How does that involve us? There are loads of Brits living around here. Some of them are bound to be bent.”
Palmer nodded at the newspaper. It was folded back to a page with a thumbnail photo of the article’s author at the top. “This is the reporter I overheard being briefed at the station. His name’s Benson. I rang him just now and asked if he could give me the bare bones. At first he wouldn’t play — told me to buy tomorrow’s edition. When I pressed him, he said a kid saw two men delivering a carpet at Bignell’s house yesterday evening, and they didn’t look Spanish. Benson said Bignell was well known for making regular trips across to Morocco — and he wasn’t the type to go for the sand or scenery.”
“Does that mean there’s a connection with Grossman?”
“I didn’t ask,” Palmer said honestly. “I’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow morning. He wanted to know what was in it for him, so I said we’d see him right.”
“With my money? Thanks a lot.”
“Needs must. It could save us a lot of bother. Are we on?”
“Okay. But I’m still going to call John Mitcheson. Something tells me his reasons for wanting to talk aren’t merely social.”
Palmer stood up and walked to the door. “That’s what I was afraid of. Come on — I’ve booked us into another hotel along the coast. This place feels too exposed now you’ve gone and got yourself a criminal record.”
Breakfast next morning was on the patio behind their new hotel. The Ascona was a rambling three-storey complex of rooms and small apartments catering predominantly to English guests and a scattering of Germans and Scandinavians. While it wasn’t full, it provided sufficient noise and colour to give them a level of cover that would endure all but the most detailed examination.
Palmer tucked into the buffet bar with a healthy appetite, while Riley stirred her coffee absent-mindedly. The latest edition of the local English-language newspaper lay on the table between them. They had dissected the front page, which was splashed with headlines about the murder of the Englishman, Jerry Bignell, but the story contained little more than guesswork backed up with brief details about Bignell’s history in the Malaga area. The reporter had skirted carefully round making any direct accusation that Bignell was one of the local criminal imports, but the implications were clear for any readers wishing to indulge in a bit of speculation. A grainy head and shoulders photo showed a sour man in his late fifties, his blotchy face apparently suffering a bad case of sunburn.
“Not hungry?” Palmer asked her, pushing away his plate and lighting a cigarette.
“Not much,” she replied. “When are we meeting this reporter?”
Palmer looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes at a beachfront bar called the Oasis. Don’t come if you don’t feel up to it.” He regretted the words the moment he uttered them, then added: “He may know nothing… and he’s no oil painting.”
“Don’t relegate me to the position of wee girlie, Palmer,” Riley warned him. “I’m coming to see if this reporter actually knows anything or whether he’s just punting a line of guesswork to sell more papers. And what the hell do looks have to do with it?”
Palmer raised his hands in defence and smiled. “Hey — I was only thinking of you. This getting arrested lark can be quite draining on the emotions — or so I’m led to believe. You’re probably feeling quite traumatised and don’t realise it.”
Riley smiled in spite of herself. After a night of tossing and turning in the sticky atmosphere of her room, her head buzzing with images of the scene among the trees at the Villa Almedina, having to face a bright-eyed and cheerful Frank Palmer across the breakfast table did little to help her frame of mind. But he was right; she had better be alert if they were going to get anywhere with what information they had.
“I called Mitcheson last night,” she told him. “He wants to meet me at two this afternoon in Malaga. He suggested the Hotel Palacio in the centre.”
“So he knows you’re still here, then.”
She ignored the slight dig. “He sounded… I don’t know… uneasy.”
Palmer nodded and blew smoke towards the ceiling. “So would I if I had Lottie Grossman ready to bite me in the neck.” He looked her in the eye and continued: “Okay. But I’m coming with you.”
“Forget it.” Riley shot him a bleak look. “I only want you to watch my back, Palmer, not hold my hand. Anyway, one of us has to keep an eye on the villa, in case something blows up there.”
He held up a hand to signal defeat. “Okay. You’re the boss. But just so you know, I don’t trust this guy. If it looks dicey, get out of there.”
“Agreed. Now, are we going to see this reporter?”
They left the hotel thirty minutes later and Riley drove them along the coast road until they saw a large, garish sign pointing to the Oasis bar and restaurant. It was a low-slung building sandwiched between two gleaming white tourist palaces and facing out to sea. Extensive stretches of tinted glass bore brightly-coloured but unconvincing coconut palms, and unlit neon signs proclaimed nightly live music and Happy Hours. The main car park contained a single car — a sorry-looking Volkswagen Beetle — while a delivery lorry unloaded crates of beer through a set of double doors at the side. It was evidently too early for the morning trade to have begun in earnest.
“My, Palmer,” Riley remarked as they pushed through a double set of swing doors, to be greeted by a heady smell of stale beer, fried food and cigarette smoke. “I’m really glad you didn't choose somewhere down-market for this meeting.”
“Don’t knock it,” he replied cheerfully. “Most of my best work has been done in dives like this one.”
“Really? You should get out more.”
Chapter 29
There was a single customer inside. It was the man Palmer had seen in the police station. He was sitting near a window overlooking the beach, staring into a coffee cup. Behind the bar a young man in a white shirt and black waistcoat was polishing a stack of saucers, with a row of cups on the top waiting to be cleaned.
Palmer led Riley over to the table, signalling to the barman for two coffees on the way.
“Mr Benson?”
Benson looked up and tried to look surprised. He gave a faltering grin which didn't quite come off either, and waved a hand instead. “That’s me. Take a seat.”
He nodded slowly and watched as Riley slid into the bench seat across from him, then turned towards the bar and raised his hand again. “What can I get you?” he offered. His voice sounded shaky and Palmer and Riley exchanged a glance. If this man had slept indoors last night, it must have been in a cement warehouse, because his clothes were covered in fine grains of grey powder and his shirt collar was crumpled and grubby.
“I’ve ordered coffee,” Palmer told him. He looked across at the connecting table, where an empty glass stood in the middle with a wet smear track running from near Benson’s elbow. “Is that brandy?”
Riley turned to Palmer, her mouth dropping open. But he ignored her, staring at Benson without expression until the local reporter licked his lips and nodded.
“Thanks. That’d be good.” His voice broke and he tried another smile. “Whatever gets the day going, right?” He stared down at his hands, then seemed to notice his frayed cuffs and dropped them into his lap.
When the barman brought their coffees, Palmer said: “And a brandy, please.”