Blood Storm tac-22 Read online

  'Out of the car. Now! Hands on your shoulders,' he ordered savagely.

  His hat was pulled well down over his face, but not low enough to conceal a hooked nose, a thin grim mouth, a V-shaped chin. His other hand was reaching inside the coat.

  'Don't do that,' Newman told him, his Smith amp; Wesson aimed point-blank at the thug.

  Newman ripped off the armlet. Evidence. He thrust the long barrel of the Smith amp; Wesson through the window and struck the thug hard across the side of the face, probably breaking a cheekbone. The thug screamed, moved back, tripped over the kerb. He fell backwards on to the pavement.

  Newman was already backing away from the dark car at speed. He switched to 'drive', rammed his foot down, shot forward. The ram on his vehicle was special steel. It hit the dark car, still stopped partly sideways. The collision was ferocious as the ram smashed into the other car's bonnet, destroying the engine. In his rear-view mirror Newman saw another dark car approaching from behind. He reversed at high speed.

  His rear ram, also reinforced steel, hit the new target when it was half-turning into Bexford Street out of a side street. He had more space to do the job this time, therefore more speed. The impact was so violent the second black car was spun round in a half-circle, clearing the entrance to the side street. Newman turned the wheel, sped off.

  'I have to get out of London before traffic builds,' he said to himself.

  He had already decided where he would head for.

  3

  The Cabal was assembled in an obscure building down a side street off Whitehall. It comprised three junior ministers with great influence higher up the power chain. The three men worked well together – most of the time. The fact that they were brothers, the offspring of the brilliant and notorious General Macomber, hero of the Gulf War, helped.

  'By now Tweed should be out of the picture, reputation smeared forever. It is a first major step in the merger,' remarked Nelson Macomber.

  'We should have a report on the operation,' reported Noel Macomber, known as the Planner. 'The scandal will destroy our major opponent.' His lean grim face expressed his satisfaction at the prospect.

  The three brothers were a contrast. Nelson was six feet five tall, heavily built, in his forties, his shoulders wide, his striking head large, clean shaven. His eyes were ice blue beneath thick black hair and thick brows. His strong nose was well shaped and below it his wide mouth and jaw suggested energy and determination.

  'We should damned well have had confirmation by now,' said Benton, his voice quiet, his thick fingers tapping the table.

  The third brother was also well built but shorter than Nelson. He spoke only occasionally, but his reserved manner appealed to women. He was the most cautious of the brothers, taking nothing for granted until it was achieved.

  The three men were seated in tapestry-covered chairs at the peculiar table. It was triangular, to stress that none of the three was in charge. The phone rang. Noel's slim-fingered hand grabbed it, listened.

  'Are you sure?' he demanded. 'A slip-up? You mean you botched the job. Get back here immediately, you clumsy fool.' He ended the call, gently replacing the phone.

  'You spoke too quickly, Nelson,' he said with malicious satisfaction on his spade-shaped face. There was a certain competitiveness between the three brothers. 'Whatever compromising item was delivered to Tweed has been snatched away from his house.'

  'Snatched away?' Nelson rumbled. 'Don't take all year to report what happened.'

  'Newman arrived and grabbed a briefcase from the Paula Grey woman.'

  'Newman again!' Nelson leaned forward. 'That man has become as dangerous as Tweed. What about the troops you sent in two cars?'

  'Newman was in a four-wheel-drive built like a tank. He smashed up both cars then took off…'

  'They should have pursued him,' Nelson rasped. 'That's what they have been trained for.'

  'How could they?' Noel asked with a sneering smile. 'Both cars were put out of action.'

  'The war has started, then,' Benton said calmly. 'So what is the next move?'

  'When the stick hasn't worked we try the carrot,' Nelson suggested, now as calm as Benton. 'I will visit Tweed and explain the position. I shall ask him to join us in the merger.'

  'He'll never agree,' snapped Noel.

  'It's all a question of persuasion. I'll explain to him the inevitable and offer him the post of deputy-in-chief. I shall make a point of going to see him this morning. So, you agree, gentlemen?'

  'It would be the best tactic at this stage,' Benton commented.

  'I do not like moves made on the spur of the moment,' said Noel, the Planner.

  'You're not observant either,' Nelson whispered.

  He put a finger to his lips, stood up without making a sound, padded towards the closed door leading to the inner offices. The door wasn't completely shut. Open a few inches. He knew he had closed the door before the meeting had started.

  Opening the door slowly, he slipped into the next room, a very large space without any of the comfort of the Cabal's HQ. A slim girl, at least five feet nine tall, was crouched over a computer, neatly dressed in black, as if in uniform. Nelson closed the door behind him silently, padded across to her. She spoke without turning round.

  'I don't like men who creep up on me. What's the beef?'

  'Did you open the door to our sanctum?'

  She straightened up, swivelled round, her brown eyes blazing. She had dark hair, well coiffeured, an attractive face with full lips. She was not smiling.

  'Are you accusing me of eavesdropping, you absent swine?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'When are you taking me out again, while we're on the subject?'

  Saying which, she flung her arms round his neck, pulled him close. They began kissing passionately until she pushed him away.

  'Well, answer the friggin' question. My patience is running out.'

  'Soon…'

  'Soon? It had better be…'

  'Miss Partridge,' a voice called from the open door to the room beyond. She called back that she was coming when she'd finished with the computer.

  Changing her mind, she closed down the machine. She strode off into the next room without giving Nelson another look. It was then he noticed a small girl seated in a corner looking over some files. Coral Flenton, also in the Civil Service and Partridge's assistant, a red-haired girl with hazel eyes and a nice smile. He decided he'd better have a word and walked over.

  'You didn't notice anything happening a moment ago, did you?'

  'Mr Macomber…' She swung round on her swivel seat. 'Nothing has happened here for hours. Except Freaky-Deaky has been throwing her weight around as usual.'

  Freaky-Deaky. Nelson knew that was one of the universal nicknames for Zena Partridge even in the sanctum. She was a control-freak, hence her nickname, and also known as the Parrot. He flapped his hands and smiled back.

  'She does come down a bit heavy at times. She does have a ton of responsibility. Especially to us. Keep your chin up…'

  Returning to his HQ, he closed the door carefully, sat down and stared round the table. Neither of his brothers said a word. They couldn't possibly have heard any of his conversation with Partridge. The slightly open door still bothered him.

  'We've heard a lot of confidential data while that door wasn't completely closed. Refresh my memory.'

  'Very confidential,' Noel agreed, his voice high-pitched. 'The water-cannon delivery at Harber's Yard near Tolhaven. The tough training by the team at Harber's Yard. We went into it in some detail. All the details, in fact. You came through that door last. You'll have to be a damn sight more careful in future, brother.'

  'Don't call me brother,' Nelson warned with menacing quietness.

  'Time to change the subject,' Benton said gently.

  'I have decided positively on my next move,' Nelson said firmly. 'In fact, within the hour.'

  'Which is?' asked Noel, his V-shaped features compressing into a frown.


  'To go over on to the attack,' Nelson said off-handedly, knowing his brother was desperate to keep his fingers on every development. 'You're not the only one who can plan, dear boy.'

  'Don't ever call me that again.' In his fury Noel leapt to his feet. 'Did you hear me?' he shouted as Nelson left the room by the outer door as though he hadn't heard.

  'No point in getting in a rage,' Benton said quietly. He spent half his time keeping the peace and he was getting tired of his role as peacemaker.

  'I'm checking next door,' Noel snapped.

  He opened the door which led into the civil servants' area. No sign of the Parrot. In her corner, diminutive Coral Flenton was bent over her word-processor. She could see who was coming in the mirror artfully placed on her desk. She made a point of pretending not to notice as Noel hurried over to her.

  'Flenton, how long have you been seated at your desk?'

  'Ever since I came in. Sir,' she added after a pause.

  'Are you sure about that statement?' he asked with a sneer. 'Not been to the loo or any of the other things women take it into their tiny heads to do?'

  'I have just answered your question. Sir.'

  'All right, then. Get up for a change and bring us some coffee and cakes. Two of us. Get cracking, girl.'

  He swung round and headed back for the sanctum. Since he hadn't eyes in the back of his head he missed the look of pure hatred on Coral's face as she left her desk.

  I'll go home and change first, Nelson said to himself. And I'll go to see Tweed afterwards in the Merc. Important to display a show of power to Tweed in his hideaway in Park Crescent.

  'Home first,' he ordered his chauffeur, Jeff, seated with the guard in the alcove close to the front door. When they arrived at his apartment in Mayfair he leapt out of the car almost before it had pulled up, a habit which always worried Jeff. Couldn't say a word to Nelson Macomber, who went his own way and ignored servants.

  Entering the apartment on the first floor after skipping up the stairs like a ten-year-old, Nelson was annoyed to find his wife, Loelia, daughter of an earl, dressed in her velvet suit on the verge of leaving.

  Loelia, forty years old and a glamorous brunette, was not pleased to see him. He could tell from the downward slant of her full lips. She spoke rapidly.

  'Don't close the door. You're home in the middle of your working day. You might have phoned me first.'

  'Why?' He was heading for the bedroom. 'On your way to see your close friend, Frederick?'

  'Everyone else calls him Freddie…'

  'To me the conceited playboy is Frederick.'

  'He's not conceited,' she snapped, the downward slant of her mouth becoming more pronounced. 'He's got far better manners than you. Who is the cheap floozie you're visiting today? Jeanette would be my guess.'

  'As usual you've guessed wrong. This is business. Where is my Armani suit?'

  'You're staring at it. Don't forget to fold it neatly before you hop into bed.'

  'Get the hell out of here,' he shouted.

  'F- you,' she screamed, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  Nelson dressed quickly. He did everything quickly unless he was playing a political game. Then he spoke slowly and not often. He must remember to adopt that pose when he confronted Tweed.

  4

  In the early hours of the morning, Newman made fast progress down the motorway towards the south-west. Normally smiling, his face was set in a grim expression. Who had attempted to frame Tweed? And why? He had examined the contents of the briefcase during a brief stop, wearing latex gloves. I don't like the look of this one little bit, he thought, echoing Paula's earlier reaction.

  Blazing lights came towards him in the murky dawn, the lights of heavy trucks. Newman had already decided which safe house he would use to hide the briefcase. During his stop he had also taken from his pocket the piece of folded paper handed to him by his informant before arriving at Tweed's house where the crisis had started.

  Harber's Yard, on the coast south of Tolhaven.

  He turned off the motorway to Tolhaven. Once, on a previous case with Tweed, he had visited Buckler's Hard near Beaulieu. Was this new location the same sort of secretive place? He would find out. His informant seldom made any mistakes.

  Reaching the hidden entrance to the safe house, close to the motorway, he parked the Range Rover in a field behind some trees. He was not confident that he had lost the sinister men in black uniforms.

  The sky was still heavily overcast as he made his way up the footpath, overgrown with weeds, to the safe house, an isolated single-storey thatched cottage. He approached cautiously, circling the cottage, pausing for long minutes to listen. No sign of anyone.

  He was now up above the motorway, and looking down he saw the chain of trucks' lights following each other to London. It was cold as he took out the key to open the shabby front door. It creaked resentfully as he pushed it open, went straight in, Smith amp; Wesson in his right hand. He had heard a faint sound of movement. There was no security in the cottage – it would have made the place look suspicious – and the sound he'd heard worried him.

  He waited just inside the door, half hidden behind it, took out a powerful torch, listened again. There was the furtive sound again. Revolver in one hand, torch in the other, he switched it on. Startled eyes stared back at him. The fox took off, leapt through a broken window, was gone. He let out the breath he'd been holding.

  He moved quickly. With the briefcase gripped under his strong arm, he hauled out the only solid chair from an old wooden table. Placing it in the middle of the room, he used the torch for illumination as he stood on the chair. Reaching up between the ancient cross-beams supporting the roof, he pushed at a panel in the wooden ceiling. He kept his eyes closed as dust floated down. Pushing the panel to one side, his hands were covered in spiders' webs. Feeling to his right, he lifted an ancient trunk containing old clothes, slid the briefcase under it, lowered the trunk, closed the panel, stepped down on to the floor. Before he opened his eyes he took out a handkerchief, wiped away a mess of dust and cobwebs.

  He carefully replaced the chair in exactly the same place. Opening the creaking door to the outside, he stood listening. It had started to drizzle. He swore to himself, shrugged, went out and locked the door with the rusty key.

  Fortunately he was wearing his rainproof jacket with a hood, which he pulled over his head. Tolhaven next – and the mystery of Harber's Yard.

  Inside Tweed's flat Paula had completed a second search for incriminating objects. Nothing. Meanwhile, Tweed had taken a long shower, dried and shaved, then dressed. He was beginning to feel more normal. He walked into the bedroom to find the light on and Paula peering down into the street.

  'Another visitor,' she informed him. 'In a limo. It's Professor Saafeld, of all people. I'll go down, let him in…'

  Tweed was walking up and down to check the stability of his movements when two pairs of feet clattered up the stairs. He was puzzled. Professor Saafeld, his friend, was the most eminent pathologist in Britain, called in by the police on major cases.

  With bushy white hair the gnome-like professor, his eyes so alert even at this early hour, smiled as he came in carrying a bag, followed by Paula.

  'On the bed,' he ordered Tweed. 'Stretch out.'

  'What the hell for?' demanded Tweed.

  'Do as you're told. Paula has given me a brief account of your adventures last night. You were drugged, I gather – in a margarita. Clever. That drink conceals most drugs. I'm giving you a blood test. Then I can analyse what was fed into you.'

  He was extracting a large hypodermic needle as he spoke. Paula grabbed a towel from the bathroom, spread it on the bed so Tweed needn't take off his shoes. His sleeve rolled up, with a sigh Tweed allowed himself to be subjected to what he regarded as an unnecessary bother. Saafeld extracted his blood sample in no time, applied a sticking plaster, placed the needle in a white metal sleeve.

  'Should be able to report to you what it was before the end of t
he day,' he explained in his rapid way of speaking. 'I'm on my way to a particularly hideous murder, called in by your friend Commander Roy Buchanan.'

  'Who was murdered?' asked Tweed.

  'A Miss Viola Vander-Browne, at her flat in Covent Garden. Sounds like a psycho. All her limbs have been chopped off, and her head. The truly hideous aspect is the killer finished up by arranging the severed limbs, and the head, in roughly the way she was when alive. On her bed. Must fly – before some clod of a policeman messes up a vital clue. You have a day in bed,' he called out from the door as he left.

  Paula followed him out to make sure the front door was secured behind him, then darted back upstairs, her expression serious.

  Tweed was standing perfectly erect in front of a mirror while he adjusted his tie. He swung round and smiled at her. Then he paced back and forth rapidly, smiled again, concealing his sense of shock.

  'You're feeling better?' Paula enquired anxiously.

  'Thought I'd just demonstrated that. So Saafeld is haring off to the murder scene. Roy called him,' – referring to his old friend Commander Roy Buchanan.

  'Was Viola Vander-Browne the woman you had dinner with at Mungano's last night?' she said nervously.

  'Don't look so worried. I didn't murder her… But I shall always curse myself for not seeing her safely to her apartment.'

  He opened the wardrobe, fished out from the top pocket of the coat he'd worn the previous evening the card Viola had tucked in. 'She lives – or lived – in Fox Street.'

  'I know it. I used it one evening this winter to visit a girl friend of mine in Covent Garden. It's a short cut to Covent Garden across King Street – this side of King Street. I didn't like it at night. Rather narrow, cobbled, and very lonely. A weird atmosphere. I hurried to get through it. I've something rather ugly to tell you.. .'