As he did so Saxon closed the door with his foot, laid one outsize clammy hand on Paula's shoulder, touching her bare neck, which she disliked even more. 'This way, my dear,' he whispered, guiding her into a larger room, kicking its door shut.
She gathered she was in his consulting room. It was very different from Bella Ashton's. A large leather chair stood in the middle with spotlights beaming down when Saxon switched on illumination. Before she realized what was happening, he had lifted her, perched her on the chair. His movements were surprisingly swift for a large man. Automatically she had rested her arms along the arms of the chair.
'You've got this wrong,' she snapped.
Only then did she realize he had fastened handcuff-like straps over her wrists. She couldn't move. Taking a deep breath she yelled at him. 'Take these bloody things off my wrists. You're out of your mind.'
'Hysteria,' he whispered. He was by a sink, pouring liquid from a bottle into a plastic cup. 'This will quieten you down while I check your eyes—'
The door into the consulting room was flung open, banged back against the wall. Tweed stormed in. He ran forward, turned the leather straps round, found the chain lock, his fingers fiddling with each strap, and Paula was free. She jumped out of the chair, glared at Saxon.
'What is the matter with you, you fat pig?'
'I'll take that for analysis,' Tweed growled, grabbing the plastic cup out of Saxon's hand. 'This should do.' He took an empty beaker off a shelf, poured the cup's contents into it and snapped the beaker lid shut.
'I do not understand this commotion.' Saxon stood as though bewildered. 'That cup contained a mild dose of Valium to quieten her down.'
'I'm not the bloody patient,' Paula shouted at him.
'Then who is?'
'You have a patient here called Michael,' Tweed rasped at him. 'That is why we are here. Mrs Ashton passed him to you.'
'A thousand apologies.' Saxon spread his hands. 'Surely you understand . . .'
'Shut up!' snapped Tweed. As Saxon approached him he took hold of the psychiatrist, shoved him into the chair that Paula had occupied. 'Where is Michael?' he demanded.
'In his room. I have just returned from taking him for a walk. Such a patient needs exercise.'
'What is your diagnosis of him?' Tweed continued in the same demanding voice. 'You saw my SIS folder. You could help us.'
'Anything concerning one of my patients is confidential.'
'Then we'll call the Yard and you'll be charged with obstruction - for withholding vital information. Paula, you have the mobile?'
'Yes, you want Chief Superintendent Buchanan?'
'Please.' Saxon, on his feet now, was at his most oily, smirking as he gestured to the couch. 'Ask your questions,' he pressed, settling his huge bulk into a large leather chair, which groaned under the pressure. 'I really am at your service, sir.'
'I've already asked,' Tweed said coldly. 'Your diagnosis of Michael.'
'An exceptional case of extreme amnesia.' He clasped his hands and twiddled fat fingers. 'Michael doesn't know where he is, how he got into London, where he lives. He has a bump on the right side of the head, probably due to a blow from a heavy object. That, I believe, brought on the amnesia.'
'He has, perhaps, uttered a sentence or two?'
'Nothing, no things at all. No words. He can dress and get himself ready for bed.' He smirked at Paula. 'Excuse me, but he is also capable of using facilities and eating. That is it. You wish to see him?'
'Yes. Now.'
'Prepare yourselves . . .'
Paula glanced at Tweed. A similar warning to Bella's final remark when they'd left her. What horror was about to appear?
Saxon opened a door at the back, gestured to a tall slim figure, in his thirties, Paula guessed. What gave her a shock was the way he held his long head stiffly erect, even more the bloodless pallor of his face and the pale eyes which passed over her as though she didn't exist.
Michael wore an expensive grey suit jacket and well-ironed trousers. His shirt was pale grey with a matching tie. All grey, she thought. Like the man. She looked at his well-shaped hands - she always checked hands.
Michael's hair was dark, thick, neatly trimmed. Presumably Saxon brought in a hairdresser. Maybe he wasn't completely the ogre she had thought. The psychiatrist took Michael by the arm, guided him into the treatment chair, swivelled it round so it faced Tweed and Paula.
Michael had walked stiff-legged, almost martial. In the chair he sat erect, stared into the distance. This is eerie, Paula thought, like watching a robot. Saxon opened a hand and gestured.
'So now you have seen Michael.'
'A personal question,' Tweed said, waving Saxon well away from the chair. 'Money. He's been here nine weeks, so who pays his fee?'
'I do not know.' Saxon's lips tightened as he observed Tweed's expression. 'When he arrived from Mrs Ashton's someone phoned me, asked how much each week. I told them and they said the fee would be delivered by courier. It has arrived each week. The courier delivers a thick envelope. Inside, well wrapped in thick blank notepaper around a cellophane envelope, is the fee. In banknotes.'
'Which firm does the courier work for?'
'I have no idea. One of those motorcyclists. Different man each time.'
'Was the person making the calls a man or a woman?'
'I couldn't tell. Sounded as though they talk through the tissue paper.' He stared at Paula, who had joined them. 'No need to be secret. Michael does not understand anything he hears.'
'You're probably right,' Tweed agreed. 'But it is still an assumption. I don't take chances. We'll be going now, Dr Saxon.' He walked past the front of the treatment chair to fetch the overcoat, which he'd dropped on another chair. He began to put it on in full view of Saxon's patient. Michael climbed out of the chair, walked stiffly to his room, closing the door.
'He can at least move,' Paula commented.
Almost at once the door opened again and Michael walked out. He was wearing a grey overcoat with an astrakhan collar. He then headed towards the exit door leading to the outside world. Tweed looked quizzically at Paula.
'He wants to leave with us.'
'No!' thundered Saxon. 'He cannot do this. You cannot take him with you. You hear me?'
'I can hardly avoid doing that when you start bellowing like a bull elephant.'
Tweed was thinking rapidly. Saxon was advancing on him, shaking a clenched fist as he ranted on.
'It is illegal. I am responsible for him.'
'You have a letter from a close relative authorizing you? Plus a letter from a doctor?' Tweed enquired genially.
'I do not need such a thing.'
'Which means you haven't. Also, you know little about the law. He's here at his own wish. Now he's clearly sick to death of you and your clinic. He can do what he likes.'
Pushing past Saxon, he headed for the door, which Michael had already opened. 'Excuse me,' Paula said as she gave the psychiatrist her most wintry smile.
When Tweed got to the outer door he saw Michael standing on the pavement by the car. Tweed used his remote to unlock the doors. As soon as Michael saw the flash of the lights, indicating the car was unlocked, he pulled open the front passenger door, got inside and pulled the door shut.
'What's Michael up to?' Paula asked.
'We'll find out, won't we?' Tweed opened the rear door, Paula climbed inside, sat behind Michael. Tweed walked round the back, stared at the rear bumper. Only his sharp eyes would have detected the small silver disc attached to the end of the bumper. He had to pull hard because it was attached magnetically. He went back to Paula, who lowered her window. He showed her the disc.
'That's how we came to be followed. It's an electronic disc, which will show our location on a screen somewhere. Special Branch were stupid enough to use a design I recognize as one of theirs.'
He walked a few feet up the street, dropped the disc, used the heel of his boot to crush it, then swept the debris down a nearby drain.
He returned to the car, got behind the wheel, next to Michael. He switched on, turned up the heater. At the top of the steps Saxon was waving his arms, shouting. Paula lowered her window again.
'You've still got your hat on.'
Saxon raised a hand, felt the crumpled trilby, snatched it off. His greasy black hair was streaked down the sides of his head. Tweed completed a five-point turn and headed back towards Harley Street.
Neither Tweed nor Paula realized they were beginning quite the strangest drive either had ever experienced.
3
'Where is Tweed now?' the rough-voiced man growled.
Abel Gallagher was sitting in a hard-backed chair on the first floor of his office in an obscure street leading off Whitehall. The front door into the buildirig was made of reinforced steel, supposedly bombproof. This was the headquarters of Special Branch, the government organization concerned with security.
Gallagher was the newly appointed chief. A heavily built man with a brutal face, he was held in fear by his numerous staff. His cold blue eyes stared across the desk at Jed Harper, his subordinate, a cruel-faced man, nervous now as Gallagher waited for his reply and then lost patience.
'I presume you did attach the advanced location disc to the rear of Tweed's car parked outside his HQ?'
'Attached it myself, Abel,' Harper assured his chief.
'Then why the hell isn't it on the screen?'
On a side wall two electronically controlled maps were hanging. One of Britain and the other, in greater detail, of London. The electronic disc Gallagher had referred to should have shown up as a red dot, indicating exactly where Tweed's car was, whether stationary or in motion. Harper wet his lips, took a deep breath.
'You said it was on the screen when Tweed parked in Harley Street. In addition we followed him in the Volvo. When he stopped we cruised past—''Anyone except an idiot like yourself would have parked further up damned Harley Street.'
'That street is very quiet.'
'I know the street is quiet. Don't you realize Tweed is the one man in the SIS standing in the way of my increasing the influence of Special Branch? Well, you know now. You have to locate Tweed. Use the camera checkpoints on all the motorway exits from London. The camera will pick him up if he's left town. Jed, you didn't think of that, did you?'
'No
'And when you address me you will never again use the name Abel. "Sir" is how you address me. We may have to think of a way of stabilizing Tweed,' he remarked, lighting a cigar.
'Stabilizing? He's the Deputy Director of the SIS.' Harper sounded appalled.
'He's also on good terms with the Prime Minister, who may well consult him about the plan for closer cooperation between the Special Branch and the SIS. Tweed will persuade him to veto the idea. Can't have that, can we?' Gallagher's tone became amiable. He even smiled.
'I'd better call on the checkpoints.' Harper couldn't wait to get out of the room.
'When you locate him, drive like hell to the checkpoint in an unmarked car, then follow him wherever he's heading for. Don't fall down the stairs on your way out. Follow the bastard.'
The moment Harper had left the room Gallagher reached under his desk, operated a lever. A tread halfway down the wooden stairs would slide forward when Harper stepped on it. He waited, heard a yell, the sound of a body crashing down the staircase. He chuckled, got up, opened the door.
Harper was picking himself up painfully from the bottom of the stairs. His right shoulder was hurt. Gallagher stood at the head of the staircase, puffing his cigar. The tread that had swivelled through ninety degrees when Harper's foot pressed on it had automatically returned to its level position. A fat man in a boiler suit stood near Harper, grinning.
'Jed,' Gallagher bawled, 'you're wasting time.'
'Slipped on the staircase . . .'
'Warned you, didn't I? Get cracking, for God's sake.'
He waited until Harper, nursing his injured shoulder, had left the building. Then he called down to the man in the boiler suit.
'Carson, change the mechanism to three treads higher up.'
'A long way down then, sir. Harper could break his neck.'
'So we replace him.'
4
When Tweed drove the car to the end of Eadley Street and prepared to turn down Harley Street, Michael gestured vigorously with his right hand. Turn right. Which was what Tweed was going to do. Paula stared, then decided Dr Saxon probably had brought him this way for his exercise walk.
She was startled when they came to Oxford Street. Normally Tweed would turn left here to head back to Park Crescent. Michael gestured furiously. Turn right. Tweed changed his signal and swung right. Paula was really startled now — startled by their passenger's gesturing, by Tweed's obedient turn away from Park Crescent. What was going on?
They were on the M4, the M25, driving on and on. At junctions and roundabouts Michael would navigate with positive hand gestures. Paula shifted her position so she could catch Tweed's eyes in the rear-view mirror. What on earth are we doing? He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Let's see where this leads us.
Next on to the M3. Well out of London with snow-flecked fields on either side. Paula saw the enormous Gantia plant and Tweed had to pause. Police were directing traffic round a stranded juggernaut. The plant was almost beautiful, built in a circle, painted a pale shade of green. Columns of firs masked the building. There were even firs on the roof laid out like a garden. While the car was stationary she took out a camera, photographed the plant.
'Gantia is huge and so well designed,' she remarked.
'He has supermarkets all over the country,' Tweed replied.
'He?'
'Drago Volkanian, the owner. From Armenia originally, I've heard. A billionaire. He also produces armaments somewhere else. Location secret. The City would love him to go public so they could handle his shares, say they'd go up through the roof. Volkanian is having none of that. Keeps the huge company under his personal control. He's a very remarkable character.'
'You've met him, then?'
The police had waved Tweed on. He was speeding down the M3, just within the limit, making swift progress. Paula leaned forward, repeated her question.
'No, I haven't met him,' Tweed told her. 'But I've heard of him from people who have met him. An overwhelming personality.'
'Overwhelming? In what way?'
'Excuse me . . .'
They were close to Junction 8. Michael was gesturing madly for Tweed to turn off. At the junction he turned to the right on to the A303. They were now heading southwest for the distant West Country. Just before they turned off the' M3 Paula noticed a car parked with red triangles warning it was not moving. From now on there were plenty of dual carriageways and Tweed really moved. They bypassed Andover and kept moving.
Gallagher grabbed the phone as soon as it rang. It was Jed Harper.
'Chief, I found Tweed. Last camera on the M3 caught him. It was his number plate,' he said, pleased with himself.
'So you're following him?'
'Well. . . not any more. My car broke down in the middle of nowhere. So . . .'
'You tracked him, you idiot. Then you lost him. Repair the car quickly.'
'I'm no mechanic . . .'
'You're no nothing.' Gallagher roared. 'So you've no idea where he is now?'
'Yes, I can tell you that. I saw the car turn off on to the A303 . . .'
'A303! Christ! How many people in the car?'
'Couldn't tell. Went past in a blur and it turned off on to the A303
Gallagher slammed down the phone. The A303 led to the West Country. What could be going on in that part of the world?
Just before the little town of Wylye Michael had gestured again, directing Tweed at a roundabout to continue along the A303. Paula had shifted in her seat to catch sight of Michael's expression as he navigated. She saw the same strange white face, the blank eyes fixed immovably on the road ahead. A bloodless drawn face. More like a ghost. Inwardly she nicknamed him t
he Ghost.
Paula was normally calm and cool, especially in a crisis, when she went cold, intensely alert. She was fuming now. What on earth did Tweed think he was doing accepting instructions from a man who'd lost his memory completely? Driving on and on, into the wild blue yonder.
'That light aircraft is still following us,' she burst out eventually. 'I first saw it some distance beyond the Gantia plant. It's still with us - over to your right.'
No Mercy Page 2
