Cell Page 3

  He saw a well-built man in his forties, fair-haired, with a strong nose and jaw. His eyes were blue, his personality formidable. He had never yet been mugged. Even tough rubbish took one look at him and decided to go looking for easier pickings.

  'We have to go and see my informant, Eddie,' Marler told him.

  'You always see your informants on your own. So what is different now? I'm sure Eddie isn't his real name.'

  'It will do for now. First time Eddie has clammed up on me. Says he has news so dangerous he'll only talk direct to Tweed. Whom he's never met, of course. Fact that he knows Tweed's name shows he's the tops.'

  'Tweed is somewhere deep in Surrey with Paula. No idea when he'll get back.'

  'So our faithful guard on the front door, George, told me, so I'm not sure we can wait. I'm hoping he'll talk to you. Make with the feet.'

  Newman was wearing jeans, and a heavy zip-up jacket hung from the back of his chair. He sighed, stood up and put on the jacket. His bolstered .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was now perfectly concealed. He made a gesture of resignation to Monica and she saluted with a grin.

  'Just so I know,' Newman said as they walked down the stairs from the first floor office, 'where are we going?'

  'Deepest and darkest Soho.'

  'Great. Haven't been there for ages. Can't wait.'

  They parked Newman's car on the edge of Soho. Marler led the way and soon they were walking down a main street. Newman looked round in surprise.

  'They've smartened the place up. It almost looks inviting.'

  'Almost. It's all cosmetic.'

  The narrow street was well lit. Crowds of youngsters were drifting along, wondering what to do next to raise some hell. Ahead of them on the pavement a burly man with a cap leant against a wall as he carefully lit a cigar. He had first glanced their way. Newman grasped Marler's arm to slow him down. They were close to the man, who had just taken a deep puff on his cigar. Newman stopped a foot away from him as the burly character blew out a smokescreen of foul smoke intended to catch Newman in the face. As the smoke cleared Newman stopped opposite him.

  'Meant for me, mate?'

  'You bet, sonny.'

  Newman's clenched right fist slammed into his stomach. Cigar groaned horribly, bent forward, burning half of his cigar on the pavement. Newman pulled the cap down over his eyes and walked on.

  'Welcome to Soho,' Marler quipped.

  'Think he swallowed half of it. Hope he enjoyed the taste.'

  'We turn down here.'

  'Even more salubrious.'

  This street was even narrower. Newman saw a greasy-faced man handing a small packet to his customer. Cocaine. Ahead of them a slanting neon sign which had once been straight had a name. Belles. Two young scruffy-looking blondes were standing by the door, watching them coming.

  'Belles,' Marler said. 'He should be inside. We're punctual. Eddie doesn't like waiting.'

  'We're better than what you'll find inside,' one of the blondes said, leering.

  'So you say,' Newman snapped, following Marler inside.

  A barrage of noise assailed them. A mix of voices and the voice of a skimpily clad black girl perched on a platform as she 'sang' into a microphone. Marler pushed his way between crowded tables to the back where a staircase led upstairs.

  At a table tucked under the stairs sat a small shabbily dressed man with a broken nose, a scar on his left cheek. Marler grabbed the chair with its back to the wall, sat down as Newman moved one of the chairs so he faced the crowd.

  'Eddie,' Marler introduced, 'meet Tweed's right-hand man. Bob Newman.'

  'Why three bottles of beer?' Newman wanted to know.

  'To keep people away from this table,' Eddie explained. 'Where is Tweed?'

  'A hundred miles away. Newman will tell him what you have to pass on. You said it was urgent.'

  'New York had September 11.' Eddie kept his voice down. He paused, 'London is next. This month. February.'

  'Dates?'

  'Tweed gets those. No one else.' Eddie sipped his beer as Newman watched him. Shabby clothes. Nutcracker face, his cheeks sunk. Could be any age. 'So when do I meet him?' Eddie persisted.

  Newman turned away, studied the jostling crowd. A small man had entered, wearing a worn leather suit. What caught Newman's eye was the black turban he was wearing, the eyes scanning the place. Newman turned round.

  'That newcomer,' he said, addressing Eddie. 'With a turban. What the hell is he?'

  'Probably Taliban. Our stupid government has let a horde in through Dover. They don't wear the turban till they get up here.'

  'Not al-Qa'eda?'

  'Probably . . . He's come for the girl upstairs. Sorry for her. They don't know. Knew one who was maimed for life. Her attacker was only with her for five minutes.'

  'What's the name of the girl upstairs?'

  'Lily.'

  'Excuse me.'

  The man in the black turban was approaching the staircase. As Newman ran up it ahead of him Marler took one of the beer bottles, emptied the contents on to the floor, only adding to the rubbish.

  At the top of the stairs Newman ran along a narrow corridor. One door had a crudely painted sign hanging from the door knob. He hammered on the door. Nothing. He hammered again and a seductive voice answered.

  'Who the hell is it?'

  'Now listen good. I'm Robert Newman, newspaper reporter. You've got a brutal Afghan customer on the way up. He'll cut you to pieces. Afterwards. Just for the fun of it. So for God's sake don't open the door. Lock it, bolt it, put a handle under the knob - the handle of a chair. And I'm damned well not joking . . .'

  As he started back down the corridor he heard locks being turned. He began descending the stairs. The Afghan was on his way up. Seen close up, Newman was appalled by the savage face, the death-like eyes. Newman stopped him.

  'She's not for you. Get the hell out of here.'

  The Afghan scuttled downstairs, close behind Newman.

  Newman had sat down as Marler stood up. The Afghan was almost at their table. His right hand had slipped under his leather jacket. Newman had a glimpse of a vicious curved blade. Marler raised the heavy bottle with one hand, whipped off the turban with the other. The bottle hit the back of the Afghan's head with such force it broke in two. The Afghan sank to the floor, lay still.

  'Tweed will be back by eleven,' Marler whispered to Eddie. 'Midnight at the latest. He's not coming to this cesspit.'

  'You know Monk's Alley - off Covent Garden and King Street?'

  'Yes.'

  'Meet him inside the alley at midnight. You can come with him, but stay back.'

  'Time we all went,' Marler warned.

  'I'm gone,' said Eddie and he was out of Belles.

  3

  Tweed and Paula started out on their walk to Margesson's villa by keeping to the path. Since it was paved with pebbles their footsteps made a lot of noise. Hoping to catch their objective by surprise, Tweed moved to his •right, on to the grass, followed by Paula. It was not much of an improvement. The heavy frost was so hard their feet crunched the crystals.

  'It's like Siberia up here,' Paula complained. 'Who would want to live here?'

  'The people who do. What did you think of Mrs Gobble?'

  'Far more going on inside her head than Buchanan realized. My guess is she didn't like him so she acted the simpleton. Cunning too - with her concealed telescope. Probably she knows even more than she told us.'

  'Stop talking.'

  They were over halfway round the large lake, approaching Palfry's 'tub', as Mrs Gobble had nicknamed it. An apt word, Paula thought. She looked to her left. The surface of the lake was very still and black, as if filled with tar. The silence was getting on her nerves, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps.

  They came to a road and walked slowly past Palfry's house. No lights anywhere. Small windows on both floors and no sign of an entrance. The front door must be round the back. She looked at Margesson's dwelling and gasped as she saw it more clearl
y. All the brickwork and even the pillars flanking the front door were painted a light green.

  'That's ridiculous,' she protested. 'A Georgian house painted green.'

  'We'll find he's eccentric.' Tweed predicted, reaching for the bell-pull. 'And this thing is more suitable for an old cottage.'

  There was a whirring sound and the heavy wooden door swung inward. Electrically operated. A massive figure stood in the doorway. At least six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and large hands. His chin was concealed behind a long black beard, matching the colour of the thick thatch on his big head. His forehead was wide and narrow, his brown eyes half hidden under heavy lids above a Roman nose and thick sensuous lips.

  The strangest aspect was the long white robe he wore, which almost reached his ankles. The white collar stretched round his bull-like neck. His voice was soft, persuasive. Paula took an instant dislike to it.

  'How may I serve you?' the huge figure enquired.

  'I am Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS.' He held open his identity folder. 'This is my personal assistant, Paula Grey. We are here to investigate the disappearance of Mrs Warner. She has been gone three weeks.'

  'Please enter my humble home. I suggest we confer at the round table.'

  They walked into a vast sitting-room as the door automatically closed behind them. Paula was not expecting this. The room was two storeys high with an arched ceiling. It reminded her of houses in the States which had similar living quarters called a cathedral room. The walls were painted white and decorated with framed English landscapes.

  'Some wine?' Margesson suggested. 'A libation?'

  They both refused as they sat on hard cushionless chairs with high backs. Paula tried to wriggle herself into a better position as their host arranged his robe and sat facing her. His peculiar eyes gazed straight at her as he spoke.

  'There is no comfort in this dwelling. That is deliberate. We live in a world here where there is only softness, so we have a society which has collapsed. Into chaos.'

  'Chaos?' Tweed queried sharply.

  'There is no discipline, no morality, only the indulgence of pleasures, many of a dubious nature. Parents make no effort to control their offspring, so we breed a fresh generation which, if not controlled, will plunge us deeper into the pit of degradation.'

  'Assuming that what you say is correct,' Tweed said agreeably, 'then what - if anything - could be done to reverse the trend?'

  Paula, taken aback, glanced at him. Then she realized Tweed was subtly leading on their host. She assumed a solemn expression to match Tweed's.

  'The present society must be wrenched free from its moorings, shaken to the core by the introduction of the most severe measures. For example, adultery is now regarded almost as a normal behaviour. If a woman is taken in adultery she has to be subjected to the most draconian punishment.'

  'I should have asked earlier,' Tweed interjected. 'You are Mr Margesson?'

  'Olaf Margesson at your service, sir.'

  'Olaf ? That isn't very English.'

  'My ancestors long ago came from Finland.'

  'Really?' Tweed paused. 'Yet your skin, if I may remark on it, has a brownish tinge. Not a colour anyone would inherit from Finland.'

  Watching their host closely, Paula saw the eyes narrow even more, so they almost disappeared beneath the lids. She felt sure she had caught a flash -of fury in those disturbing eyes.

  'You mentioned a draconian punishment for women,' she challenged him. 'What about men caught in adultery?'

  'They would also receive a punishment to mark them out for the foul things they are. That is why I speak of discipline, of control. When a woman takes a man in marriage she must respect him in every way. As he must her. Can you argue against that?'

  'Theoretically, no,' Tweed replied. 'I agree with the general idea, but not everyone is strong enough to resist temptation when it offers itself. You must . . .'

  ' Temptation!' Margesson's voice became a roar of fury, he raised both arms high, hands open like huge claws. His loose sleeves slipped down, exposing massive muscular arms. 'That is what it is all about,' he thundered. 'The refusal to give in to the lusts of the flesh, discipline. Self-discipline is the foundation of a strong society which will endure. The present one will not. It will drown in its own sea of naked self-indulgence. Not all America's atom bombs and aircraft carriers will protect it - or the West.'

  'You express yourself with vigour,' remarked Tweed as he stood up to leave. 'I agree with a small amount of your view — but disagree with most of it. Now we must go.'

  'Think deeply of all I have said in the darkness of the night, I beg of you.'

  Margesson, standing, towered over Paula, who had also stood up. His whole personality had undergone a remarkable change. As he spoke these words to them both hands were stretched out, pleading.

  Tweed made no reply as he walked towards the door with Paula by his side. With giant strides Margesson preceded them, pressed a button in the wall and the door swung open. Icy air flooded in. Once outside on the step Tweed turned, his manner polite.

  'Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Margesson. Everyone has a right to his own views, providing they don't force others to adopt them.'

  Margesson bowed low, one hand plucking at his dark beard. It was a mannerism Paula had observed frequently while he was talking, as though he were plucking his thoughts from it.

  'We'll go back the short way, along this side of the lake. The road's reasonable.'

  'More than Margesson is.'

  They met no one and Tweed was relieved when he saw Buchanan, arms banging round his overcoat, waiting for them. A mist had crept out of the forest and was advancing towards Carp Lake. It was almost a fog, and coils of it slid out over Carpford. When they looked back all the strange dwellings had vanished.

  'Sorry to keep you so long, Roy,' Tweed apologized. 'We had two long interviews.'

  'Goes with the territory. You left just in time. Caught up in that fog you could find yourself in the lake, which is deep.'

  'How deep is it?'

  'Thirty feet at least. Who did you see?'

  'While you're both talking I must call Newman on my mobile,' Paula told them. 'He'll be worried by now.'

  Tweed climbed into the back of the car while Buchanan got behind the wheel. The engine had been left ticking over so the interior was pleasantly warm. Beyond the windscreen the fog was drifting down towards them.

  'Two interviews,' Tweed told Buchanan. 'Both weird, odd in different ways. One with Mrs Gobble, the other with Olaf Margesson . . .'

  Abbreviating, he related the gist of the conversations and their impressions. Buchanan listened without speaking until Tweed had completed his resume. Then he turned round.

  'I couldn't even get into Margesson's house. I suspect he was inside and just didn't open the door. I don't like the sound of him at all . . .'

  Paula heard his comment as she clambered in beside Tweed. She sighed ecstatically, taking off her gloves as she soaked up the heat.

  'Bless you, Roy, for keeping the car warm. I could kiss you. Now, Park Crescent. Newman wants us back by eleven-thirty to meet someone. Didn't say who but, like me, he doesn't trust the security of both our mobiles.' She peered ahead as Buchanan began driving down the road. 'The Porsche has gone. Where is it?'

  'Taken away on a transporter. And there's plenty of time for us to get back to town ages before eleven-thirty.'

  'My tummy's rumbling,' Paula told him. 'I had no lunch and I'm desperate for food.'

  'Then we'll turn off to Foxfold, a village down in the valley. There's a good hotel there, the Peacock. You can have a full meal and we'll still be back for Newman in good time.'

  'I do not like Margesson,' Paula said vehemently. 'He's like some kind of priest, a mad one. I'm going to call him the Priest in future. Most poisonous.'

  'Dangerous might be nearer the mark,' Tweed commented.

  They had dropped to a much lower level after Buchanan had swung along a narrow lane to his
left. As they entered Foxfold Paula realized it was a normal village, nestling in a deep gulch. There were street lights, and old brick-built houses and cottages stood well back from the road. High up on the gulch, overlooking the village, was a large house with a blaze of lights. Buchanan turned off the lane and climbed a steep drive leading to the perched house.