Cell Page 4

  '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.

  'How did you know we'd arrived?'

  'I sensed you were suddenly driving slowly. And we have a reception committee waiting for us,' she commented as they entered the Crescent.

  Two cars were parked in front of the entrance to the SIS building. Newman was striding up and down, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Characteristically, the calmer Marler was seated behind the wheel of his car, smoking. Paula checked the time. 11.15 p.m.

  'We're in good time,' she remarked.

  'Doubt if Newman would agree with you.' Tweed replied as the rear door was flung open and Newman jumped inside. Paula told him to close the door since all the warmth was escaping.

  'Now listen closely both of you,' Newman began, his tone unusually grim. 'One of Marler's top informants, Eddie -I doubt that's his real name - insists he has important information. The trouble is he'll only talk to you, Tweed. And we had a bit of an evening of it . . .'

  He described tersely their experiences at Belles in Soho, including his confrontation with the Afghan. Paula was frowning as he came to the end of his story. She turned round in the car.

  'Taliban? I think your imagination is running away with you.'

  'You'd have said the same thing if I could have predicted the attack on the World Trade Center in New York.'

  'But you didn't predict it.'

  'When you two have finished arguing,' Tweed interjected, 'is there a deadline for this meeting with Eddie?'

  'Yes, midnight at the lat
est. Tweed, you can travel in my car. Marler will follow in his own transport. Paula, I suggest you wait upstairs with Monica until we get back. Monk's Alley off Covent Garden is a dangerous lonely place at this hour.'

  Tweed jumped out of his car, ran over to the front passenger seat in Newman's car. He waved to Marler. Before Newman could switch on the engine Paula had darted over and climbed in the rear seat behind Tweed. She didn't mince her words.

  'Bob Newman, I'm a big girl now. Dangerous? What do you think it was like in that underground mine when I found out who was the murderer who had killed five people? So, from now on . . .' she leaned forward and punched his shoulder '. . . no more lectures from you, thank you very much.'

  Newman, uncertain, glanced at Tweed, who smiled.

  'She's perfectly right. Let's get moving . . .'

  London on a bitter night in February was deserted. There was hardly any other traffic and no pedestrians had ventured out. As they approached the labyrinth of small streets near Covent Garden Paula was checking her .32 Browning by feel. Satisfied, she unbuttoned her overcoat so she could reach the weapon swiftly.

  Suddenly Marler overtook them, one hand waving Newman down through his open window. Engines were switched off and Marler jumped out and ran back to them. He spoke to Newman, who had lowered his window.

  'You wait here while I check the situation. Eddie might be alarmed if three of us appear. Back in a tick . . .'

  It was a long tick. Paula saw Marler move silently in his rubber-soled shoes, then disappear down to the right. Presumably he had reached Monk's Alley. She felt impatient but this was Marler's exercise.

  There were no street lights at this point. Both Marler and Newman had turned off their headlights. Paula kept looking back, gazing out of the side windows, unable to sit still. Tweed, though, was motionless, but she could tell from the angle of his head that he was keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror.

  'Maybe Eddie has changed his mind,' she remarked for something to say. She didn't like the heavy silence, the lack of anyone else about.

  'Relax,' was Tweed's only reply.

  'You're better at sitting still, waiting.'

  'You're just as good if you're on your own.'

  'I've got a funny feeling about this.'

  'The atmosphere round here encourages funny feelings,' Newman reassured her.

  'It's more than the atmosphere. Marler is taking too long coming back to us. Maybe we'd better explore.'

  'Stay exactly where you are,' Tweed ordered.

  'Well, here comes Marler, moving quickly,' Newman reported. 'Probably had to reassure Eddie that he really did have Tweed waiting here.'

  Marler opened the front passenger door, looked swiftly at Tweed and Newman, then glanced at Paula. He spoke quietly, without his usual jaunty drawl.

  'It's not good. In fact, it's pretty bad. Eddie is dead in the alley. Not a pretty sight. Paula, wait here, lock all the doors.'

  'Now you're starting it,' Paula fumed.

  She opened her door and was outside almost as quickly as Tweed and Newman. She was glad she was wearing sensible shoes - the street was cobbled, an ankle-breaker. She called out.

  'Isn't anyone going to lock the car doors?'

  'Sorry . . .'

  Newman and Marler used their remotes to lock the cars. With Marler leading, they hurried down the street until he stopped at the entrance to a cobbled opening only wide enough for one person to walk down. Paula noticed the ancient plaque. Monk's Alley. The figure of a monk was engraved below the name. Marler had switched on his powerful torch, beamed it just inside.

  Eddie's crumpled figure lay on the cobbles, his right arm outstretched, the fingers of the hand tightly clenched. Lying on his back, he was soaked with blood. Pools of blood were spreading over the cobbles. His eyes gazed up at the sky, lifeless. Paula thought she had never before seen so much blood.

  'I reckon he was stabbed more than twenty times,' Marler informed them. 'My guess is someone went on stabbing well after he was dead. An atrocious assault. Whoever did it searched his clothes. Everything has gone. No indication of his identity. And his wallet was taken. I've checked him thoroughly. He was stripped.'

  'You missed nothing?' Tweed queried.

  'Excuse me,' Marler said indignantly.

  'Mind if I just check? Hold your torch steady.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  Tweed crouched down. He looked for a long time, then he put latex gloves on his hands. Gently he prised open the fingers of the clenched hand. No sign of rigor mortis. This had happened fairly recently. Inside the palm was a screwed-up piece of paper. Paula was already holding a transparent evidence bag. Tweed dropped the screwed-up piece of paper inside. Then he carefully lifted the side of the body. A piece of dark cloth was protruding. He hauled out a long length of black cloth, crumpled as though it had at one time been folded.

  'Jesus!' exclaimed Newman. 'Taliban. A turban.'

  Paula had her mobile ready and Tweed agreed she should call Buchanan. He looked up quickly.

  'Don't let him see that bit of paper . . .'

  It was after one in the morning when they sat down in Tweed's office. Buchanan had arrived quickly with an ambulance. Marler gave him a brief resume of events leading up to the hideous killing. Buchanan said he'd take a full statement later in the day.

  Marler leant against a wall, lit a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was cold, as though suppressing strong emotion.

  'Eddie was my best informant. He had contacts everywhere — even in Italy. Milan, I think. The poor devil deserved a better fate.'

  'I think hell has come to London,' Tweed said quietly as Paula handed him the evidence bag.

  Wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, Tweed carefully began unrolling the tightly screwed piece of paper. Then he took a lot of trouble smoothing it out on his desk.

  'Doesn't mean a thing to me,' he commented.

  'It's drawn in charcoal,' Marler said, peering over Tweed's shoulder. 'Eddie used charcoal to write anything. Kept a stick of it in his top breast pocket. The killer took that too.'

  'Some kind of symbol,' Paula said, peering over the other shoulder. 'Could be anything.'

  'Yet Eddie,' Tweed pointed out, 'thought it was so important he screwed it up inside his hand even when he was being stabbed to death. And it tells us nothing.' He stared down at what Eddie had scrawled on the sheet of paper.

  5

  At 8 a.m. the next morning, bitterly cold with a bleak overcast, Tweed arrived at his office. He was surprised to see all his staff waiting. Newman, relaxing in an armchair; Marler in his usual stance, leaning against a wall; Paula seated at her corner desk; Pete Nield and Harry Butler.

  The last two were very tough and experienced legmen. They often worked together, a formidable team. The contrast between the two men could not be more marked. Nield, as usual, was smartly dressed, his grey business suit perfectly fitting his lean frame. In his thirties, his brown hair was well brushed, his small moustache neatly trimmed. He had come to Tweed from Oxford University and spoke well so was able to mix in any society. He was quiet, thoughtful.

  Harry Butler was clad in a worn pair of jeans, a creased shirt which had seen better days. More heavily built than Nield, he was a dangerous opponent in a street brawl, his happy hunting ground the East End. He merged into that type of area well. Muggers took one look at his wide shoulders, his ham-like fists, his dark glaring eyes, and kept well away.

  'Why is everyone so early?' Tweed enquired, removing his camel-hair coat and sitting behind the antique desk bought for him by his staff. He was becoming fond of it.

  'I phoned everyone when I got home,' Marler explained. 'To tell them about Eddie. They take a grim view.'

  'If I ever meet that Afghan killer,' Harry said forcefully, 'I'll kick him between the legs, then stamp on his face so his wretched mother wouldn't recognize him. That for starters. We're going to have to play this one very rough.'

  Unlike Nield, perched on an arm of Newman's chair, Harry
was sitting on the floor, stocky legs crossed. Tweed noticed he was wearing boots with metal rims. The phone rang, Monica answered, looked at Tweed.

  'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Says the Minister, Victor Warner, wants to see you in his office.'

  'Tell Palfry I'm very busy - and that if the Minister wants to see me will he do me the courtesy of calling himself.'