Cell tac-20 Read online

  '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 clearly. 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 th
ese 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.

  'That's the Peacock,' Buchanan said as he pulled up in front of a large window with leaded lights.

  'Well,' Paula began, her mind darting about, 'at least we know that mysterious man with the black overcoat exists. Mrs Gobble has seen him prowling about in the night.'

  'One thing I meant to ask you, Roy,' Tweed said as Buchanan switched off the engine, 'is do you know how it was possible for Victor Warner to buy land and build that monstrosity? Everyone else has to pay rent to that dubious London lawyer.'

  'He was smart. He had a surveyor check the area, found that the developer, the New Age outfit, had overlooked it. Jumped in and bought it, then had his house built by workers imported from Milan in Italy. He's very rich. You know why?'

  'No idea.'

  'He keeps this quiet. His father owned a company which manufactured – of all things – a laxative. Victor inherited a huge fortune when his father departed this world. He likes to keep the source of his wealth quiet.'

  'No wonder!' Paula chuckled. 'A laxative!'

  They were about to enter the hotel when a Maserati sped up the drive, parked behind Buchanan. The driver jumped out of the car. Tall and slim, agile, he wore a long dark overcoat. Paula whispered to Tweed.

  'It's him. The man you saw at the edge of the wood watching us in Carpford.'

  'I don't believe it,' Tweed replied with astonishment. 'Of all people. This is my old friend from Belgium, ex-chief of their anti-terrorist squad. Jules Beaurain.'

  As Tweed made introductions, Paula was struck by Beaurain's powerful personality, by his good looks, by his courtesy and command of English. He kissed her hand briefly and gave her a wonderful smile.

  Six feet tall, in his late thirties or early forties, his hair was black, neatly brushed, his blue eyes piercing without any hint of anything but friendship. His face was long and beneath his strong nose were firm lips and a fine jaw. All his movements were swift.

  'The brilliant Paula Grey,' he said, still smiling. 'When Tweed visited Brussels he praised your talents to the sky. So it gives me great pleasure to meet you. I had not expected someone quite so attractive. Don't know how you get any work done with this lady in your office.'

  'That's right, pile it on,' Tweed replied with a mock grumble. 'We are just going in for dinner. Paula is starved. Can you join us?'

  'I also have not eaten for years, so it seems. Certainly I should be honoured. And I trust the famous Superintendent Buchanan will be another guest.'

  'How do you know he's a Superintendent?' Tweed enquired. 'I remember he was a Chief Inspector when we last met in Brussels.'

  'I make it my business to know what is happening in so many different parts of the world. Does your friend realize my career, now ended, tallies not so far from his?'

  'I do,' Buchanan said emphatically. 'Notorious would describe how we regard him at the Yard. But after commanding the anti-terrorist squad you returned to the police in the role of Commissioner.'

  'This is fascinating,' Paula interjected, 'but I'm still in great need of food.'

  'My apologies.' Beaurain took her by the arm and led the way into the hotel and the restaurant. 'Let me choose the table where we can talk openly. I am staying here at the moment.'

  They sat down at a long table perched in a corner under the eaves of the ceiling. Before Tweed could open his mouth Beaurain, sitting next to Paula, was suggesting different wines from the list. He also recommended mushroom soup and lamb chops to follow.

  'I, unlike my countrymen, prefer them bien cuit.'

  'So do I,' said Paula. 'And the soup. My mouth's watering.'

  She also ordered Chardonnay to drink and Beaurain nodded his approval. Everyone followed his choice and Paula began attacking the freshly-baked rolls. There were only two other couples, seated at tables well away from them.

  'You will soon feel that life is worth living again after your grim experiences exploring Carpford. All the inhabitants are so peculiar. I doubt after leaving Mrs Gobble you enjoyed the encounter with Margesson. I doubt, also, that Mrs Gobble is all that she seems.'

  'You,' Tweed accused, 'are the man with the field-glasses who watched from the edge of Black Wood.'

  'The very same. I have been keeping an eye on what I suspect is a cleverly disguised base for some operation.'

  'Incidentally,' Buchanan observed, 'I never once spotted you following us in that Maserati.'

  'I should hope not. During my career I have had to follow
some very dangerous villains without their knowing. It is not so difficult once you get the hang of it.'

  'You just called Carpford a base,' Tweed observed quietly. 'A base for what? Run by whom?'

  'I simply have no idea. We could discuss the notion when we next meet.'

  'You remarked outside that your career has ended,' Tweed persisted. 'You have left Belgium for good?'

  'I have. When I became Commissioner I soon realized that politicians were trying to control me. Since there is so much corruption over there I resigned.' He turned to Paula. 'You see, my father was Belgian but my mother was English. Also my wife was murdered. Before I left I tracked the killer down. I shot him dead.' He looked at her. 'I hope I do not shock you.'

  'Not in the least. I'm sorry you had that experience.'

  Paula found she was liking Beaurain. Seated alongside her, he had not once touched her as certain Frenchmen would have done at every opportunity. Buchanan twiddled the stem of his glass as he looked at Beaurain.

  'What is your view on the disappearance of Mrs Warner?'

  'Paula, excuse me, but I must answer frankly. I think she has been murdered. I hope there is not an even grimmer option.'

  4

  They separated when they left the Peacock. Buchanan was anxious to get back to the Yard. He had arranged for the sturdy Sergeant Abbott to drive Tweed's car back to Foxfold and it was waiting for them when they emerged into the icy night. Beaurain had said he was staying to 'continue my holiday'. He had promised to keep in touch with everyone.

  'Funny sort of holiday,' Paula remarked as Tweed drove them down to the main road where they joined the route they had used coming down from London.

  'I've never known Jules take a holiday,' Tweed told her. 'I think he's determined to unearth the secret of Carpford.'

  'But is there a secret?'

  'He seems to think so. Never known him to be wrong yet.'

  The heavy meal, the warmth of the car, soon sent Paula to sleep. Her head sagged and she only woke as they were approaching Park Crescent. Tweed glanced at her.