'Actually, I was thinking of that.'
He had just spoken when they saw ahead a juggernaut parked on their side of the road. A red triangle in the road warned that the vehicle was disabled. Tweed stopped, waiting to ease his way safely round the huge vehicle.
A sound of breaking glass. In the window alongside Tweed was a small hole.
'A bullet,' said Tweed quickly.
He eased his way round the stationary juggernaut, saw the road was clear, rammed his foot down. He kept up the speed for some distance, slowed, then pulled in close to the cover of a wayside cafe, sat back.
'You're all right?' he asked.
'Not a scratch. You OK, I hope.'
'Yes.'
'That same light aircraft which followed us down to Dartmoor reappeared before we bypassed Exeter.'
'I know. What makes you think it's the same aircraft?'
'It has a peculiar blue flash on its tail.'
'Then I agree. It was the same pilot. We were stationary when the bullet hit. I suspect the gunman aimed to miss, a warning shot. Someone doesn't want us investigating those two murders. The question is, who?'
10
Inside a little-used phone box down a side street in Hammersmith, London, Charmian checked the list of phone numbers he had been supplied with by his mysterious employer.
Charmian, French, was the top assassin in Europe. His unknown employer, M, had located him by making discreet enquiries on the exclusive grapevine in Soho. The first half of his large fee had been transmitted to his secret bank account in Zurich. He checked his watch. All calls to M were timed.
He put his pilot's helmet, concealed in a carrier bag, on the floor. He checked his watch again, dialled the number. At the other end, wherever that might be, the receiver was lifted immediately.
'Is that M?' he enquired in his near-perfect English.
'M for mosque.'
The -agreed code, which had been suggested to him, confirmed he was speaking to his unknown employer. He took a deep breath. The news he had to report was not good.
'Just got back,' he reported. 'Landed at City Airport.'
'Continue with your story.'
Charmian could never tell whether the strange voice was that of a man or a woman. Must be speaking through a handkerchief.
'I hijacked the juggernaut as planned. Flagged it down, then used chloroform as you suggested, concealed the driver inside a hedge by the side of A303. Took over vehicle, parked it at the selected point on the road. All right so far.'
'I do not like the sound of this.'
'Meantime,' Charmian continued in a rush, 'I returned to the plane, which I'd left on a nearby airfield. I spotted Tweed and his woman on their way back from Abbey Grange, close to the ambush point. Am I speaking clear?'
'Just go on,' M ordered.
'Tweed's car arrives at juggernaut roadblock. It stops, as we knew it would. I fired once. Missed target by millimetres. Tweed drives on very fast.'
'You botched the job.'
Botched? Charmian did not know the word. But he could guess its meaning. He decided it was best to say nothing.
'You will kill Tweed as quickly as possible. Only then,' warned M, 'will the balance of the fee be transmitted.'
The connection was broken. Charmian swore foully to himself in choice French. M had not sounded pleased. He had no way of knowing M was now worried. So early in the investigation Tweed was getting too warm. The reference to Abbey Grange proved that. Dangerously too close.
11
Tweed had decided it would be wise to linger at the wayside cafe. Inside, the well-furnished establishment was empty of other customers. He chose a table at the rear so they sat with their backs to the wall.
A spotlessly clad waitress took their order when Paula pointed to a confection oozing cream inside a refrigerated container on the counter. Not normally her choice, but she needed sugar. They both said they'd like black coffee.
'We'll wait here awhile,' Tweed explained after a few minutes. 'Just in case whoever is responsible organized a back-up ambush for us nearer London. They'll think we've turned off to Guildford or somewhere else.' He paused to taste the coffee. 'This is very good.'
'So is this,' said Paula, who had sampled her cake. 'The cream's very fresh. Where are we now with this horrific case? It's good to get away from Dartmoor. At Abbey Grange I wondered where Drago Volkanian was.'
'One of the things I hope to discover from Lucinda. You've had a rough ride, so take your time.'
Eventually they left the cafe and the sun came out, casting a cheerful light over fields where sheep grazed. Arriving at the giant Gantia food plant, they found that the high iron gates were closed. Tweed got out to use the intercom. When he came back he was smiling as the gates swung inward.
'Guess what,' he said as they drove inside. 'When I gave my name the guard said Miss Voles had warned him I might be coming.'
'Perceptive lady.'
Paula was gazing at the Hampton Court-like gardens in front of the artistically shaped building. Evergreen shrubs, some trimmed into birdshapes, others perfect spheres, lined the drive. Volkanian was obviously a perfectionist when it came to presentation.
After parking their car, they climbed white stone steps to the main entrance. The door opened before they reached it and a smart uniformed guard greeted them, after removing his peaked cap.
'Welcome to Gantia. Miss Voles is expected back any moment. Oh, here she comes.'
They heard the approaching roar of a high-powered car. At speed, a red Porsche appeared. Brakes were jammed on as the golden-headed driver swung her car round through the still-open gates. The guard, a man in his late fifties, chuckled.
'She does step on it. She seems to have an instinct for all the speed traps. She'll be here the moment she's parked in the garage.'
An automatic door had swung upwards, the Porsche slid inside, the door slowly closed down. Tweed decided there had to be another exit leading directly into the building. As the guard led them into a large hall decorated with expensive vases full of flowers, Lucinda appeared, smiling warmly, hugging Tweed, then Paula.
'I think you've broken a record, Miss Voles,' the guard said.
'Come a long way?' Paula asked.
'Never let on whom I've been to meet. Security,' Lucinda replied with another smile.
'I have to check you before you enter,' the guard said as he pressed a button.
'It's procedure,' Lucinda explained.
You look terrific, Paula was thinking. Lucinda was clad in a leather jacket, which was tight round her figure, and a pair of leather trousers. At her throat she wore a scarf Paula thought was Chanel. As the guard came to pat Tweed down he produced the Walther from his holster to hand over.
'Let him keep that, Ken,' Lucinda told him. 'This gentleman is higher security than I'll ever be.'
A uniformed woman guard appeared. In response to Ken's pressing the button, Paula assumed. She produced from her shoulder bag her Browning; again Lucinda said she could keep the weapon. The guards were backing away when Lucinda spoke abruptly, her tone hard, her expression grim.
'Ken! Haven't I told you before that everyone must be checked before they enter the building? Including myself. I could have gone mad and be smuggling in a bomb.'
The woman guard, looking appalled, went over to Lucinda and patted her down carefully. Ken looked equally appalled that he had fallen down on the job. Lucinda fired one more verbal shot before she led Tweed and Paula towards an elevator.
'Don't ever slip up again. Now, incident closed.'
Paula hesitated as Tweed followed Lucinda inside the elevator. Then she spoke.
'Miss Voles . . .'
'Lucinda, please.' She smiled.
'Is there somewhere I can wait down here? I think Mr Tweed wants to talk to you very confidentially.'
'All right. I wouldn't have minded but that's considerate of you. Ken can show you to our staff restaurant. Have a full meal by all means. It will be on the house.'
The elevator glided smoothly to the first floor. Lucinda stepped out briskly, escorted Tweed to her office. The room overlooking the front was tastefully furnished but still had the atmosphere of a working office. On the walls were colour prints of paintings by Gauguin, Matisse and other French artists. She gestured to a large couch, suggested coffee, which he refused.
'I'm a caffeine addict,' she remarked as she filled a cup from a pot, adding milk. The chinaware was Wedgwood. She settled down beside him, put the cup and saucer on a table, turned to him and smiled warmly.
'Fire away. I presume this is an interrogation.'
'I prefer the word "conversation". First, could you tell me the present location of Drago Volkanian? I had hoped to meet him at Abbey Grange.'
'New Orleans. At least he was. When he gets back he's going to want to see you. He pounces on any new development - if that isn't too callous considering someone's skeleton was found on the moor. Oh, I went up to see Michael in his room. A disturbing experience. He didn't recognize me. Also never said a word. His eyes look strange, so does his face. How long will this amnesia last?'
She spoke at speed, her mind embracing several topics. Her articulation was perfect and Tweed again liked her soft voice. She had turned on the couch so she faced him, her knee almost touching his thigh.
'As regards the amnesia, two psychiatrists have had him under their care. The first — and best - one is a Bella Ashton.' He reached into his top pocket, took out Ashton's card, gave it to her. 'You can mention my name. It might help.'
Lucinda reached for a notepad and Mont Blanc pen on the table. She wrote down the details swiftly in an elegant script, gave him back the card and thanked him.
'As regards how long his condition will last, Ashton will confirm it's impossible to say. Incidentally, under his hair on the right side of his head there's an old wound. It's been suggested he was either struck a heavy blow or even fell down in London. Which might just be the cause of his complete loss of memory.'
'A doctor.' she said briskly. 'Even a specialist. Should we contact one?'
'Up to you. I suspect it will be a waste of time. He was checked by a doctor in London. Time - duration unknown -will be the healer.'
'My uncle, Drago, will want to hear all this from you.'
'You could tell him what I've explained.'
'No way.' She tucked back a blonde curl from her face. 'Drago will want it straight from the horse's mouth.' She grinned. 'If you'll excuse the phrase. Drago won't accept second-hand data. Even from me.' She removed her scarf, revealing a string of coloured beads which she took off, dropped them on the table. 'My worry beads.'
'So you do worry? Even though you never show signs of it?'
'Only occasionally. When under very heavy pressure. You will find Drago,' she went on, 'a very formidable personality.' She laid a hand on his and squeezed it. 'But you'll cope.'
'Well, this is the food depot. Where is the armaments factory located?'
'Ah!' She smiled again. 'That's a secret I can't tell you. If I did I'd be sacked overnight by Drago. Really.'
'I gather it's Larry who runs this outfit.'
'Managing director. Since two years ago. It was a toss-up between him and Michael. But Michael said he didn't want the job. He likes being sales director, travelling abroad.'
'How long is he away on these sales trips?'
'Anything up to three months, even longer. Drago complains at times because Michael won't send any reports back. He waits until he has at least two big deals sewn up tightly. Often more. He insists that's the only way he can work.'
'So,' Tweed said slowly, 'when you didn't hear from him for just about three months you assumed he was abroad. Is that right?'
'Absolutely.' Her hand pressed his again. 'You know I'm getting the impression this is a subtle interrogation. You're very good at it, Mr Tweed. I hope we can meet for dinner in town.'
'What about Santorini's tomorrow night?' Tweed suggested. 'Say eight p.m.? Do you know the place?'
'It is a wonderful restaurant projecting out over the Thames. You are going to town on me. I'll be there. Eight p.m. will give me time to get myself togged up to be a credit to you.' Her tone was ironic.
'I'll look forward to your company in relaxed surroundings.' He paused. 'Just before I go, have you had any unusual visitors here during the past three or four months? A visitor you've never seen before or since?'
'Let me think, we get so many people calling. Oh, I meant to ask you earlier. A grisly subject. How is your investigation going into that skeleton you found on the moor? Who on earth was it?'
'Too early to say. May be a long time before I break it. If I do.'
'You will,' said Lucinda confidently. Tweed had stood up and she also did so. 'I have remembered an odd case of a one-time visitor. She called on the phone, turned up late one afternoon. She had a letter from Drago, signed by him personally. It gave her permission to examine the company accounts. Give her every cooperation, the letter demanded. "Every" was underlined heavily. So I did. Left her alone and thought I'd be here all night, but she was amazingly quick. She left at seven just after the plant closed.' Lucinda grabbed her notebook, went to her desk and whisked through a Rolodex. 'Here she is.' She scribbled data down. 'Funny thing was I had a phone call from her sister, Anne. I remember the name because it was the same as my late mother's. Anne wanted to know if her sister had been here, when she left. She'd expected her back and was getting worried. Gave me her address and phone number. I'm writing that down too.'
She gave him a folded sheet of paper and tucked her arm under his as she led him to the door and out to the elevator. She kissed him on the cheek and excused herself. Waiting for the elevator, Tweed glanced at the names on the sheet and stiffened.
The visitor was a Christine Barton. Her sister was Anne Barton. Both addresses in London.
The third name on the list found inside Michael's pocket?
He waited until he was settled behind the wheel of the car with Paula by his side before he told her. Paula studied the sheet of paper Lucinda had given to Tweed. He began driving through the gates that Ken, the guard, had opened for him, and then back along the motorway towards London.
'The trouble is,' Paula commented, 'Barton is a common name.'
'The intriguing fact is, according to her sister, Anne, the lady was never seen again.'
'Christine lives at Yelland Street. That's off the Fulham Road. Anne is in Champton Place. I'm sure that's near Victoria Station.'
'So we'll try Yelland Street first, then move on to Champton Place.'
'It's a long shot.'
'When I was at the Yard years ago it was the long shots that turned up trumps.'
12
They turned into Yelland Street off Fulham Road. It was an area of prosperous terrace houses, all well painted, and was probably built before the First World War. Unlike the traffic-choked streets they had passed through to get there, it was quiet. A Rolls-Royce was parked outside one house. No one seemed to be about until they reached No. 158, Christine Barton's dwelling. Just beyond the flight of steps leading up to the front door a blue Ford was parked, a man smoking behind the wheel.
Tweed pulled in to the kerb, got out with Paula. He had just mounted the steps when the man in the parked car got out and ran up to them as Paula followed Tweed. In his forties, he wore a dark suit, a rather grubby white shirt and a blazing yellow tie.
'Identification,' he shouted up.
Paula took an instant dislike to him. He had a bony face, a broken nose and aggressive lips, which matched the tone he'd used to shout up. Tweed descended swiftly to the pavement with Paula at his heels.
'Who the hell are you?' Tweed barked.
Paula was intrigued. Tweed's personality since his training trip down to the mansion in Surrey had become more ferocious. He glared at the intruder.
'You show some identification now without more jabbering.' the man demanded in a coarse voice.
'No, you show
me,' Tweed barked again.
Broken Nose produced a folder, shoved it in Tweed's face. Tweed grabbed it to check it more closely. The photo was poor but close enough to be Harper.
'And who,' sneered the man, 'is the bit with you? Charge a lot for her services, does she?'
Tweed's elbow jerked forward, hit Broken Nose in the ribs. Then he scraped his shoe down the shin bone. Broken Nose screamed, staggered back, almost fell over. Tweed went after him, shoved the identity folder inside his jacket. He pointed to the parked Ford.
No Mercy Page 7
