by Colin Forbes
Harry stood up. 'I've been thinking about who ordered Tweed to be killed. Newman told me where Tweed had been. Have you a file on Lord Barford?'
'Yes. In the safe. Combination is 87, 24, 95. Why?'
'Just curious.'
Harry walked over to the large safe recently installed in a corner of the room. His nimble fingers operated the combination, swung open the heavy door. A number of metal drawers were stacked with top secret files. He checked the A-to-Bs, found Barford's file, closed the safe and resumed his perch on the chair arm.
'Lord Barford is one of the most distinguished men in Britain,' Monica protested.
'So was Maxwell. For a time.'
Monica was intrigued. She knew Butler never trusted or was impressed by anyone. Not until their integrity had been proved up to the hilt. He skimmed the file rapidly.
'Monica, could you take down these extracts as I call them out? Right. Here goes.'
Brigadier Bernard Barford. Served Gulf War as Officer in charge Communications. Awarded MC. Rumoured to later act as liaison with obtaining lucrative armament contacts with Middle Eastern and Asiatic countries. Indonesia was mentioned in the rumours, a state to which Britain has supplied large quantities of military hardware. Nothing was ever confirmed concerning these rumours. Before the Gulf War Barford was a colonel in the Signals Corps. He commutes from his manor to London City Airport by Sikorsky helicopter.
'That's it,' said Butler. 'Just extracts I find interesting. And why did the government create a Ministry of Armaments — taking it away from the Ministry of Defence?'
'Politicians trying to be crafty. It deflects criticisms of the arms trade from the Foreign Office. And all of that stuff about Barford is rumour.'
'Except the bit about his helicopter.'
'Why is that significant?'
'Because a chopper followed us all the way from the Downs.'
'But,' Monica objected, 'Paula said this weird man, Rondel, also has a helipad and a chopper was sitting on it.'
'I was in the following car. I got the impression the chopper lifted off from somewhere near the Barford estate.
Can't be sure,' he emphasized. 'And where have Tweed, Newman and Paula buzzed off to?'
'It was Tweed's idea - to go and call on Jeremy's widow, Mrs Mordaunt. She lives in Eaton Square. He wouldn't let me phone her to say they were coming.'
CHAPTER 2
When Lisa saw Eyebrows and Skinny walking towards her inside Waterloo station she moved fast. Grabbing hold of her case, she waited a few seconds until a group of businessmen were passing her phone booth, then slipped out under the cover they provided. There was a large bookstall in the middle of the concourse. She hurried inside, wriggled her way past the crowd, emerged on the far side.
Pausing, she whipped a folded scarf out of her pocket, wrapped it round her head, concealing her red hair. Now she had to get rid of her blasted case, which was slowing her down. She handed in her case to an official. Now she could really move.
Her next stop was the Underground. She bought a ticket for the first place which came into her head after glancing at a route plan. Highgate. Glancing behind herself as she hurried towards the escalators she saw Eyebrows, pushing people out of his way, coming towards her.
'Oh, God!' she said under her breath. 'Will I never shake them off?'
She saw a uniformed station guard ahead. Running up to him, she spoke in a deliberately shaky voice.
'That dark-haired man just made an obscene proposition to me. I'm frightened.'
'I'll have a word . . .'
At the top of the escalator Lisa looked back. The guard was saying something to her pursuer. Eyebrows punched him viciously in the stomach. The guard doubled up as she ran on to the escalator and down it. At the bottom she checked the signs for the right line and kept running. She could move much faster without the case.
There was a crowded train arriving when she reached the platform. She looked back. Skinny was coming towards her, grinning, one hand inside his windcheater. Was he always wearing that hideous grin? Behind him Eyebrows followed.
As passengers left the train, others pushed aboard. A crowded carriage, people standing up. She had no option. She stepped into the train, kept saying 'Excuse me' as she worked her way deeper into the coach. The doors closed, the train started moving.
She was still working her way through the crowd, smiling as she apologized. The train rumbled on, swaying round a curve. She grabbed a rail above her head to keep her balance. She was now opposite carriage doors.
'Would you like a seat, madam?' a man suggested, starting to get up.
'Thank you, but I'm not travelling far.'
The train stopped three times. Lisa wondered whether to get off. No, she was safer in a crowd. Gazing back down the crammed coach she saw Skinny was having more trouble than she had experienced. Passengers were protesting, holding him up. The train was in motion when she saw a uniformed ticket inspector asking Eyebrows for his ticket. He hadn't got one. Earlier he'd leapt over the station barrier with Skinny.
'Sorry, Inspector,' Eyebrows started politely. 'Here's the money for two tickets. My little friend is on his way to hospital.'
'There's a ten-pound fine . . .'
Eyebrows produced a twenty-pound note, shoved it into the inspector's hand. Skinny was on the move again, closing on her. Lisa realized the train was a lethal trap. He only had to wait until it reached the next station before he slid his knife into her and left the carriage.
She tensed her right leg. The train was pulling into Tottenham Court Road. She knew the area well. Skinny reached her as the doors opened. She lifted her leg, ground her hard shoe down his shin. He yelped. She was leaving the train as Eyebrows grabbed hold of Skinny, who couldn't move.
'Make way,' he called out, holding Skinny under the armpits. 'My friend has a bad leg.'
He was heaving Skinny out of the train when Lisa vanished up a flight of steps. She got on an escalator and just before stepping off at the top glanced back. Eyebrows and Skinny were staring up at her from the bottom.
It was a relief for her to get out into the cold fresh air. She half-ran up Tottenham Court Road, then down a side street, then into Bedford Square. Slowing down, she took in deep breaths of air. The square, enclosed with fine old houses, was empty as she made her way round the miniature park in the centre.
'I've had about as much as I can take,' Lisa said to herself.
She looked back to check again. Between the trees she saw the two men entering the square. Skinny was walking normally, seemed to have recovered from his injured leg. She had to find somewhere to hide. Where on earth could she go? She was confident that so far the thugs hadn't seen her since she'd left the Underground.
Then she noticed what she should have remembered. Each of the terraced mansions had a basement area with steps leading down to it beyond open railed gates. She looked back once more, saw they were still coming, dived down the metal treads into an open basement area.
Only then did she realize it was occupied. An old tramp, holding a bottle of whisky, was seated in a corner. He tipped his cap to her.
'Like a nip of the good stuff, lady?' he suggested, lifting the bottle towards her.
His accent was Cockney. His face was lined with age but his eyes were bright with intelligence. She had to trust someone. She spoke slowly, making her voice tremble -not a difficult task.
'Two men are coming after me, trying to hurt me.'
She had avoided using the word 'kill' - too dramatic and she was desperate for him to believe her. He used the neck of the bottle to point to an alcove under the pavement.
'Get you under there, lady. They stores the rubbish bags there, but it's the only 'idin' place.'
Lisa crouched down, went under the pavement, sat with her back to a wall. There was a smell of decay that she was hardly aware of. She felt sure the two thugs would come this way.
'I do have my Beretta,' she said to herself. 'Don't show it. The tramp will be scared
out of his wits. Like me . . .'
The heavy clump of feet walking along the pavement above came closer. She froze when they stopped above her head. The tramp lifted the bottle, swallowed, pulled his cap lower as though going to sleep.
'You down there. Seen a girl with red 'air comin' along 'ere?'
The tramp opened his eyes, pushed up his cap. Then he did what she had feared he would do after the reference to red hair. He looked across at her. She knew a curl of her hair had slipped below the scarf. They'd come down the steps and she had no escape route.
Tweed, with Paula and Newman, had mounted the steps to the stately old house in Eaton Square, part of a terrace, when the front door opened. A man wearing a suit which would have been fashionable thirty years earlier emerged. Peering at Tweed, he descended the steps, swinging his silver-topped cane, and walked away. Tweed still held the door open while he read the names and numbers on a plate screwed to the side wall, then walked inside.
'I'll do the talking,' he told Newman.
'So I'll be the silent partner.'
The trees in the park outside beyond the road were black stark skeletons. A raw wind blew round the square. Once inside the hall Tweed found the right number, pressed the bell. They heard a lock turned, a chain removed. The door opened.
'Yes?'
'I'm Tweed. These are my assistants, Paula Grey and Robert Newman. Are you Mrs Mordaunt?'
'Yes.'
She was a brunette, attractive up to a point, her coiffeured hair trimmed short. Wearing a black dress with a white lace collar, she had a long sharp nose, a full mouth, pencilled eyebrows and cold dark eyes. Tweed cleared his throat.
'I'm very sorry to trouble you but I'm here regarding the investigation into the tragic business of your husband's death. My condolences, although words are meaningless.'
'You'd better come in.'
She ushered them into a large drawing room with tall windows, tasteful and comfortable furnishings - sofas and armchairs covered with chintz, matched by long curtains draped to the floor. Several Sheraton antiques, an unfinished piece of embroidery draped over the back of a sofa.
'Please sit down.'
'Thank you. We won't be long.'
'That's good. I have to go out soon. Would you like a glass of sherry?' she asked in her cultured voice when they were seated in armchairs.
'Only if you will join us.'
Tweed had expected her to ask for identification but she had omitted to make the request. In grief you are not the same person. He had noticed a large bottle of sherry, half empty, on a coffee table, an ashtray beside it full of used stubs. Almost as though she had been waiting for them. A water glass with a little sherry in it was also perched on the table. They all detested sherry but Tweed thought it might help to relax her.
'How unsightly,' she remarked and removed the water glass. 'I'll get the right glasses.'
She went over to a large cupboard, opened it and exposed shelves of leather-bound books. She swore, slammed the doors shut. 'Hardly know what I'm doing.' She walked to the only other large cupboard by the wall, a contrast in style to the cupboard she had first opened. Pulling back the doors, she revealed a collection of expensive glassware. Selecting four sherry glasses, she brought them to the table. Paula glanced at Tweed. He was watching her closely.
'I'm feeling better now,' she said as she poured from the bottle. 'Now, how can I help you?' she asked after sitting down, crossing her legs and sipping her sherry.
'Do you know whether your husband was under any kind of pressure recently?' Tweed enquired.
'Pressure isn't the word for it.' As she spoke she seemed to be looking at something beyond Tweed's left shoulder. 'I have been worried. Very. That beast Gavin Thunder is a slave-driver. Jeremy had very little sleep for weeks on end. And I never knew when he'd arrive home.'
'Mrs Mordaunt.' Paula had leant towards her. 'We understand you had a pet name for your husband. What was it?'
'I beg your pardon?'
Tweed, annoyed at the interruption, began cleaning his glasses with a clean handkerchief. During an interrogation a diversion could ruin the whole process. Paula persisted.
'A pet name - used between you and maybe at times when you had close friends with you. Not unusual with couples who are married.'
'I don't want to talk about that.'
'So,' Tweed intervened firmly, 'perhaps he was depressed?'
'Yes, he was,' she replied eagerly. 'Very depressed.'
'Did Gavin Thunder ever visit you here?'
'I've never met that man. Don't want to. I'm sure that his demanding personality didn't help the situation at all.'
'A delicate question,' Tweed said carefully. 'It would have been understandable in such a situation if Jeremy drank quite a lot..."
'Emptied whisky bottle after whisky bottle.' She had been answering questions more quickly after Paula's one query. She looked at her wristwatch, encrusted with diamonds. 'I hope you don't mind, but is there much more? I have a car calling for me and an urgent appointment to keep.'
Tweed stood up and Paula and Newman joined him. Paula stared round the room and then at their hostess who was reaching for a sable coat flung over the back of a couch. Tweed thanked her for her time as she led the way to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, producing a ring of keys. Attempting to insert a key she swore again.
'All these damned keys. I never remember which is which.' As she inserted another key she spoke over her shoulder. 'I will just say goodbye . . .' She had opened the door and a limo was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur was striding up and down the pavement. 'Joseph knows I am late . . .'
Her shoes click-clacked down the steps. She had left Tweed to close the front door. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car, closed it, hurried to get behind the wheel. Paula noted the limo's plate number.
Tweed held the front door open. A tall woman in a fur coat, beak-nosed, probably over seventy but with refined features, had begun to ascend the steps in a stately manner. Tweed opened-the door wider.
'We've just been to see Mrs Mordaunt,' he explained. 'The lady you passed as you arrived and got into the limo.'
'I beg your pardon, young man.' Her manner was imperious. 'That was not Mrs Jeremy Mordaunt. A complete stranger.'
'Excuse me, are you sure?'
'Am I sure?' Her manner was indignant. 'I have been living here for over ten years. Don't you think I should recognize my neighbours by now?'
Having said which, she sailed into the building like a galleon about to open fire on the enemy.
CHAPTER 3
'Tweed is dead.'
The man, known as Mr Blue to a very few top officers in certain security circles, relaxed while he spoke to the aggressive man at the other end of the line. He sat at the back of the Mayfair bar. It had a long counter running along the opposite side. He was the only customer and the notice displayed on his table bothered him not at all. Use of mobile phones is forbidden.
Arriving in the exclusive establishment, he had asked the barman for the most expensive brandy he could see. He had tipped the barman generously so he knew no complaint would be made.
Earlier, after placing his glass on the table, he had walked into the cloakroom at the rear. Alongside the entrance the words FIRE EXI'I were prominently attached to the wall. Walking to the fire door he lifted the steel bar, pushed the door open, peered out. He was looking into a deserted mews. A few yards to his right it led into a busy street.
Satisfied that he had an escape route - a precaution he never neglected - he returned to the table, drank some brandy and made his call. His voice was prudently low. The voice at the other end challenged his statement rudely.
'How can you be certain he is dead?'
Mr Blue paused, lit a menthol cigarette. He took his time answering. He had realized long ago that people swallowed everything he said if they had to extract information bit by bit.
'Two bullets hit the target, I was told. Tweed slumped down. The car appar
ently ran into a wall. No one left the car while it was visible to the two men who accomplished their task. If that isn't enough for you then there is nothing more to say.'
He rang off before the other man could react in his normal blustering manner.
Stop looking at me, for God's sake, Lisa said to herself, willing the tramp to transfer his gaze anywhere else.
It seemed to work. The tramp looked at his whisky bottle, capped it. He shifted his position so he was sitting more upright. He burped, then looked up at the railings along the pavement.
'Girl with red 'air?'
'That's what I said,' snarled Eyebrows. 'Stop repeating what I've just said and answer the question, you louse.'
'Girl with red 'air,' the tramp said again. 'I've three wimin down 'ere. Two brunettes and a blonde. Don't think you're going to share. Come down 'ere and I'll smash your face in with this.'
Demonstrating his threat, he took hold of the bottle by the neck. Grim-faced, he hoisted the bottle and waved it slowly backwards and forwards. He stood up, continuing to wave his weapon.
'I'll go down there and slice his gizzard, Barton,' a sinister voice said from above.
Tanko, you'll shut your cakehole. He's just an old drunk. We're wasting time. Get movin' now . . .'
With a sigh of relief, Lisa heard the clumping of feet walking away further along the pavement. And now she knew their names. Barton, Panko. The second name sounded Balkan. She had noticed his strange accent when he'd spoken. The tramp pointed a finger at her.
