They were ten minutes along the road to Malaga when Palmer sat up in his seat and slapped his knee. “Christ — turn round!”
Riley looked startled. “Why? What’s up?”
“Those two men we passed on the way out. Did you see their car?”
Riley began to brake and look for a place to turn. “No. Yes… it was something big, wasn’t it? I didn’t really notice.” Then it hit her. “Oh, no.”
Palmer pointed. “Turn here. The car was too big and they didn’t look right. Foot down.” He drummed his hand on the side of the door, which was the most agitated Riley had ever seen him. She pulled the car round in a long turn and slammed her foot down, heading back towards the Oasis.
When they arrived, the car park still held the old VW Beetle, but no other vehicle. Palmer leapt from the car and ran inside, slamming through the sets of swing doors.
The bar was empty. On the table where they had left Benson stood a glass.
It was still half-full.
Chapter 30
They left the Oasis bar, with no sign of Benson anywhere, and headed back to their hotel. On the way, they changed their hire car, since the police, and by implication, Lottie Grossman’s men, now had its description. They chose a nondescript blue saloon and parked it along the street from the hotel in a public lot, then walked along to another agency and hired a second car in case they needed to switch vehicles or split up.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” said Riley, as Palmer pocketed the keys of the second vehicle. She needed to talk to keep her mind off thinking about may have happened to the reporter.
Palmer nodded. “Standard procedure in SIB operations. But we didn’t have to pay for the wheels.”
Back in her room Riley dialled the number Benson had given them. The only name she had was Warren. It was answered by a male voice with a throaty English accent. Riley beckoned Palmer across to listen in.
“Is Warren there?” Riley said.
“Who wants him?” The man sounded as though he was struggling to wake up.
“I’m calling about Jerry Bignell. He’s had an accident.”
There was a silence broken by the sound of heavy breathing on the other end. Then the voice said: “I’m Warren. Who’s this?” He sounded suddenly wide-awake and Riley thought she heard springs groaning as he swung out of bed. There was the rasp of a cigarette lighter and an intake of breath.
Without giving her name, Riley told the man she was a journalist working locally and had been put on the story after Bignell was discovered murdered in Malaga.
“Yeah? Why should that bother me?”
“Because Jerry gave me your name.”
“Okay.” There was a pause. “What’s the gossip?”
She told him the barest details as related by Benson. “Before he was killed,” she continued, “Jerry said you knew who was heading up the group who’d moved in from London and taken over your set-up. Is that right?”
“Jerry always did talk too bloody much.”
“But you do know?”
“Maybe.”
“I spoke to Jerry a couple of nights before he was killed. He said you knew these people from way back.” Riley glanced at Palmer, wondering if she had pushed it too far. “This won’t come back on you, I promise. I just need to know. Is it Ray Grossman?”
There was another intake of breath and a lengthy pause, then the man said: “Ray used to be big years ago, raking it in from some clubs he bought into back in the sixties with a couple of other guys. They recently fell out but still ran the business between ‘em. Then a few days ago both the other guys got topped and Grossman was left holding the reins. I still can’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t his style, that’s why. Ray was hard, but he never went in for this stuff — not unless he was forced.”
“He might have changed since then.”
“Yeah, right.’” Warren sounded sceptical. “What would be the point, in his condition?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Christ, you ain’t dug very far, have you? Ray’s dying of cancer, that’s why. He can hardly hold a spoon, they reckon. Such a shame.” Warren’s voice was coldly unsympathetic.
Riley exchanged a look with Palmer, who looked blank. “Why didn’t you hang around, then?”
“Because I didn’t want to die. Ray might not be up to much any longer, but his missus is something else. She’s real poison. Her and her thugs.”
“So you’re saying-”
“That’s all I’m saying,” the man said. “This number’s changing as of right now. Don’t call again.” The phone went dead.
Riley switched off the phone and looked at Palmer. “So the lady’s in charge.”
Palmer nodded. “There’s a turn-up. I wonder if Mitcheson knows that.”
“He must do. But there’s only one way to find out.” Riley stood up and collected her car keys. “I’ll see you at the villa.” She gave him a warning look. “I mean it, Frank: don’t play big brother. I can handle this.” She left before Palmer could argue.
At the Hotel Palacio she ordered an iced tea in the lounge. The air was cool and smelled of something floral, a proper oasis after the Oasis. She tried not to think about it, or of the possibility that Mitcheson may have ordered Benson to be snatched. Yet how could he have found out Benson was meeting them at the bar? Unless Benson himself had been careless.
“Miss Gavin?” It was the waiter. “A phone call for you.” He gestured towards the reception desk.
The receptionist indicated a courtesy phone lying on the end of the counter and Riley picked it up. It was John Mitcheson.
“If you look in the mirror behind the counter,” he said without greeting, “you’ll see a pale Merc parked in the street outside.”
Riley looked. By the kerb was a large cream Mercedes, and she could just make out a figure sitting at the wheel, one arm outside the car, fingers drumming on the door. With the press of passing pedestrians, she couldn’t make out if it was Mitcheson or whether he was looking her way.
“I see it,” she confirmed. “What’s the matter — are you frightened of being seen in hotels with strange women? I’ll come out to you.”
“Don’t do that.” Mitcheson’s voice was urgent. “The man in the car is called McManus. He’s the one you saw in Piccadilly the other night. Remember?”
Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She instinctively turned away, shielding her face. “What does he want?”
Mitcheson didn’t speak for a few seconds. When his voice came it was flat and unemotional.
“He has orders to kill you.”
Riley felt a chill touch her shoulders. She was shocked by the contrast between the tone and conversation of Mitcheson’s voice compared with the other night.
“Is that why you suggested meeting here?” she asked coldly. “To finger me?”
“Don’t be bloody silly. McManus doesn’t even know you’re here. If he did he’d already be all over you. He’s on his way back to London to look for you. I got caught into giving him a lift to the airport — he’s taking a private plane back to the UK.” He paused. “I checked you were here because I figured it would be safer than London.”
Riley took a deep breath. “Okay — I’m sorry. Can we meet?”
“Give me half an hour, then go to room 1221. I’ll be along as quick as I can. Stay off the street.” The line went dead.
Riley rang Palmer. There was no answer. She broke the connection and walked back to the bar, selecting a chair set back out of sight of the reception area. Thirty minutes was going to seem like a lifetime.
At the Villa Almedina, a large, black Lexus purred through the gates. The man in the back told the driver to park facing back down the drive. As he did so, the front door of the villa opened and a young man emerged. At the same time, two more men appeared at the corners of the house and stood watching as the vehicle crunch to a stop. Those in the car recognised the men for what they were.