'Get into that and drive away. People high up are going to hear about how Gallagher's staff behave. Including how you accused a senior member of my staff of being a prostitute.'
'I'm reporting . . .' Harper began as he stumbled, bent over, back to the vehicle.
They waited until he managed to open the driver's door and ease himself inside. He sat very still. Tweed waved his hand, indicating he should leave immediately. The engine was started and the Ford moved slowly past them towards Fulham Road. Paula sighed.
'What trash Special Branch employs these days. I imagine that's the type Gallagher feels comfortable with.'
'Forget it.'
They mounted the steps again. A chromium plate on the wall carried the words christine barton, fca. Paula stared at it.
'Hmm. Fellow of Chartered Accountants,' mused Tweed. 'She was very well qualified for her work. So well paid. Hence living in this street.'
'You just used the past tense,' Paula said quietly. '"Was".'
'A slip. I hope. The plate's been polished quite recently. Let's see what happens.'
He pressed the bell. No reaction. When he pressed it again Paula bent down to peer through the letterbox. Her expression was serious as she stood up.
'You can hear the bell throughout the house, I'd have thought. And there are cobwebs in the hall. Don't like this too much.'
'Neither do I. We'll move on to Champton Place. I hope her sister Anne's at home.'
'Did you tell Lucinda about the truck left stationary on the road?' Paula asked as they threaded their way amid one traffic jam after another.
'No, I didn't. And she didn't say anything about a vehicle being missing.'
'That's odd. What about the strange statement Michael made only once — "I witnessed murder"?'
'I'm not mentioning that to anyone until Michael's amnesia clears up. If it ever does.'
Champton Place was well down the property ladder compared with Yelland Street: blocks of small four-storey terrace houses, the walls shabby, the curtains old, scraps of paper floating down the street in the breeze that had blown up.
'Here we are,' Tweed said, parking outside No. 187. The next curtains on the ground floor were clean; the few steps leading up to the front door had been washed; the metal bell push had been polished recently. Tweed looked up and down the street to make sure they had not been followed, then rang the bell. The freshly painted green door was opened swiftly. A pleasant-looking woman in her thirties with red hair neatly brushed peered out, keeping the door on a heavy chain.
Tweed introduced himself and Paula, held his folder close so the occupant could read it easily. The response was instantaneous: the door closed, they heard the chain being removed, the door reopened.
'You have news about Christine? I'm Anne, her sister. Do come in.'
All spoken in a rush. As they entered a narrow hall Paula noticed that the cheap wall-to-wall carpet had been hoovered recently. A mirror on the wall carried not a speck of dust. Anne Barton showed them into a small sitting room, invited them to sit down, then pulled a chair close to them and sat down. Her expression was hopeful, tinged with doubt.
'I'm sorry to say we have no positive news,' Tweed said quickly. 'We're endeavouring to find out where she might have disappeared to. And have you any idea when she was last seen - maybe by you?'
'Four months ago today. She worked from home in Yelland Street. She bought me that beautiful Swedish glass vase on the window ledge over there. Must have cost a packet but she was always so generous. I haven't seen her since.'
Anne Barton was about five foot eight tall, slimly built with grey eyes and a pleasant face with good features. She wore a print dress and smart high-heeled shoes. Paula suspected she had little money but splashed out on shoes. The room's furniture, tasteful but inexpensive, bore out her theory. Anne started talking.
'I'm so glad to see you, to know that someone is doing something. She was supposed to be back the same day after going to see an important client. . .'
'Excuse me,' Tweed intervened, 'do you know the name of the client?'
'No idea. Christine was always so discreet about her work. She told me a lot of it was confidential. She was always smarter than me. Not that this affected our close friendship. She was a forensic accountant. Top-of-the-tree stuff. A firm would be worried about the state of its accounts, had gone to one of the big outfits who said everything was OK. The firm wasn't satisfied so they'd call in Christine. If anything was cleverly hidden, she'd find it.'
'Did you report she was missing to anyone?'
'Yes, I did.' Anne sat up straight and Paula sensed indignation. 'I went to the police, was guided to a particular department and saw a real thick-headed chap. He opened a ledger, started asking questions. Had she a boyfriend? No, I said. What about her parents? Maybe she had run off to them. I told him our parents were dead. I could tell he wasn't interested. He gave me a lecture about the number of people who disappear for various reasons and are never seen again. He said he'd taken down the details and they'd go on file. I was furious. By the time I got back here I was in despair.'
'So what did you do next?' Tweed asked gently.
'You're very perceptive. I did what I should have done in the first place. Christine left me a key so when she had to go off on a trip I could keep an eye on her place. It looked OK when I walked in. I went straight to her wardrobe, checked her clothes. Nothing missing. Her two travelling cases were there. In the bathroom I found her toilet bag. If she'd gone for more than a day she'd never have left that. I wished I'd done this before I visited the police. Then I realized it wouldn't have made any difference to Thickhead.'
'We called at Yelland Street before we came here.' explained Tweed. 'The name plate on the wall has been polished.'
'That was me,' Anne replied. 'I couldn't stand it when it started to get mouldy.'
'You said you had a key to her place,' Tweed recalled. 'If you'd be willing to loan it to us we'll go back to search. We might just find something.'
'Oh, would you?' Relief flooded her pale face. Reaching into the handbag she had perched on the back of her chair, she produced a Chubb key, then a Banham, and handed them to him.
'When you've finished you can drop both keys back through my letterbox in this envelope. Save you time. If you could phone me briefly with news, I'd be so grateful.' She handed him a card. 'There's the phone number.'
'We'll phone,' Tweed promised. He gave her his own card. 'If something occurs to you, don't hesitate for a minute to call me at this number. However trivial. A stranger calling, say. Note his description.'
'I can't tell you both how grateful I am,' she repeated.
They had left Champton Place, were getting into their car, when the front door flew open and Anne came running down the steps, clutching a small frame. Paula was back again on the pavement when she arrived. She smiled as she caught her breath!
'Sorry to hold you up. Here's a photo of Christine. Should have thought of it while we were talking.'
'No,' Tweed called out, 'I should have thought to ask you -I must be losing my grip.'
'I doubt that very much, Mr Tweed,' Anne replied, giving him a glowing smile. 'I've got another. Keep it as long as you like.'
'Return it to you as soon as we can.'
Although both were experts at searching, after two hours checking the ground floor and the basement, which contained the sleeping area and a bathroom, they had found nothing. Tweed had used a pick-lock to open a batch of steel filing cabinets in a small room obviously used as a study.
It was crammed with files of papers, and each file had the name of a firm he'd never heard of. Taking out his notebook he wrote all the names down. He didn't feel they were going to lead him anywhere. Just evidence that Christine was a furious worker.
When they had arrived Paula had, for the third time, used her mobile to tell Monica at Park Crescent where they were. The team became nervous if either of them was away a long time without being in touch. She went to find T
weed.
'Any luck?'
'Zero.'
'Me too. Oh, the kitchen. I should have started there. It's the place where a woman might just hide something.'
Wearing latex gloves still, she tried to haul open the huge door of the massive American fridge. No good: it was stuck. The equipment was modern and expensive. She opened drawers, one jammed halfway. She started on the cupboards, then found a slim corner cupboard which had two Banham locks. There was evidence that someone had tried to force it open. She called out for Tweed to come, and showed him.
'They didn't try very hard,' he commented. 'It's a very thin cupboard so there can't be much inside. I'll call for Harry Butler to come over. He can open anything with the minimum of damage.'
He stopped speaking as Paula's mobile began buzzing. It was Monica. She listened, asked Monica to hold on and handed it to Tweed.
'Think you should hear this.'
'Tweed here.'
'It's Monica. I think you should know we've been invaded. By Abel Gallagher. He shoved George aside downstairs and went up to your office and barged in. He is now having the mother and father of arguments with Bob Newman.'
'I'm coming. Be there in fifteen minutes - or less.'
'This drawer just won't open,' Paula said aloud while Tweed was talking.
She tackled it once more. Again it stuck halfway. She pushed her fingers under it, pushed the drawer in a short distance. Her fingers touched a manilla envelope, which she eased out. The flap was not sealed. She pulled out a sheaf of papers, all neatly typed with a maze of figures. Several were circled in red ink. Including a figure '400 mil'.
'We've got to get back now,' Tweed said impatiently.
'Look at this. It was well hidden. Can't make head or tail of it. It's hieroglyphics to me. What do you make of it?'
He took the sheaf from her, just before he'd taken off his gloves. Frowning, he studied the mass of figures. They meant nothing to him. Paula took back the documents and slipped them back inside the envelope. She then turned over the envelope where Christine had started to write something and had then changed her mind: 'Dr'.
She waited until they were in the car and Tweed was driving back towards Park Crescent through the side streets.
When they were stopped by a light suddenly turning red, she showed him the front of the envelope.
'Could be Drago Volkanian she was going to write.' 'Could be anything. Abel Gallagher has barged into my office after shoving the guard aside. Newman is confronting him. I can't wait to confront him myself.'
While on their way back, Tweed asked Paula to phone Keith Kent, his friend and brilliant accountant, for an urgent favour. He was to come over to Park Crescent immediately, then wait in the downstairs visitors' room. He would be down to see him very quickly.
'He laughed,' she said after she'd made the call. 'Said if ever you didn't want something yesterday he'd know it wasn't important. He's coming straight over. Now I must call Anne Barton.'
At Champton Place the phone was picked up at once. I must be careful how I word this, Paula thought.
'Anne, Paula here. We've checked your sister's place. We did find a hidden document which might tell us something when we've had it checked by an expert. Sorry not to have more.'
'The main thing is I don't feel so alone any more. Thank you so much for calling. For all you've done so far.'
'We'll keep in touch,' Paula promised.
'Two things I think we need Harry Butler's help on,' she reminded Tweed. 'Couldn't open the fridge or the thin cupboard with two Banham locks.'
'Those giant fridges from the States,' Tweed grumbled. 'Do the Americans really eat more than we do? Here we are. There's Gallagher's big brown Volvo.'
Paula glanced at Tweed as he pulled in to the kerb. His lips were tight, his eyes seemed larger. He was livid. But when George opened the door Tweed's tone was quiet as he gazed at him.
'I'm really sorry about this, George. How are you?'
'I'll survive. Gallagher elbowed me in the ribs before he charged upstairs. I'm feeling much better.'
'Get a doctor to check you now. Call Westholme to come now. That's an order.'
He took the stairs two at a time. They could hear voices through the almost-closed door to his office on the first floor. Bob Newman's first, calm, controlled, deadly.
'I really am going to have to throw you out.'
'Like to try it?'
Gallagher's sneering tones. Tweed walked in slowly with Paula behind him. The whole team was in the office. Just inside the door to the left Monica sat at her desk, glaring. Marler was leaning against the far wall, smoking a cigarette, his expression amused. Harry Butler was close to Newman, his expression not amused. Their unwanted visitor, over six feet tall, broad shoulders straining under his dark suit, had his back to them, pointing at cool-tempered Pete Nield perched on Tweed's desk.
'Mr Gallagher,' Tweed said slowly, quietly, 'I want you to leave my office immediately, please.'
The Special Branch chief turned round. Paula had her first good look at his face. An ignorant vicious brute was her verdict. Untidy dark hair, eyes that radiated aggression, a boxer's nose and a hard jaw. He seemed taken aback by Tweed's tone, then recovered his voice, the tone lower.
'I'm here to find out what you're doing messing about down at Abbey Grange.'
Newman slipped past him, handed Tweed a copy of the day's Daily Nation. It was folded so the headline jumped up at him. two skeleton murders on dartmoor. Tweed handed the paper to Paula, addressed Gallagher again in the same quiet tone. 'I suggest when you've left, which I advise you do now, that you buy a copy of today's newspaper. You don't seem to keep up with the latest developments.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
'Another thing,' Tweed went on as he walked and sat behind his desk. Pete Nield immediately slid off it, stood very erect alongside Newman. 'I may feel obliged to report what happened to my guard to the Home Secretary. You could, of course, apologize to him on your way out. Bob, please open the door for Mr Gallagher.'
Gallagher, a man used to a verbal brawl, was stunned. While Newman held the door open he walked out quickly, hurried down the stairs. The phone rang. Monica answered and reported to Tweed that Keith Kent had just arrived.
'Splendid!' Tweed smiled. 'Ask him to come up at once.' He stood up to greet Kent and shake his hand. 'You must have come by Concorde. I appreciate it.'
'Buttering me up will get you nowhere,' Kent replied with a grin.
In his forties, Keith Kent wore a smart blue bird's-eye suit, his neat dark hair trim, his young-looking face exuding intelligence without vanity. He sat down in the chair Tweed indicated and looked around.
'Hello, all of you. Don't know how you have the energy to keep up with this chap - especially after his recent bout of training. So what is it this time?' He took the envelope Paula handed to him, glanced up at her. 'We must have dinner sometime. Just you and me.'
'Name the day.'
'Tonight. The Ivy. Seven p.m. any good?'
'Perfect.' She laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Make it tomorrow. Tweed will be having dinner with his blonde bombshell.'
'Don't think Lucinda would like that description,' protested Tweed, smiling.
'Well, she is blonde and has the energy of a bombshell.'
Kent had been examining the sheaf of papers covered with the maze of figures. He raised his dark eyebrows while he looked at Tweed.
'If you're expecting a report tomorrow, forget it. This is sophisticated accounting. Someone really good who has his own method of working. Or is it her?'
'Her.'
'Not a forensic accountant?'
'Yes, indeed.'
'Thought so. "400 mil". Four hundred million. This firm's turnover is much bigger than even that. More than that I can't tell you. I'd better get started.' He looked across at Paula, now seated at her far corner desk. 'Seven p.m., the Ivy?'
'Nothing wrong with my memory, Keith. I may be a bit late.'
&nbs
p; 'Women always are.' He grinned again. 'Clever women like yourself.'
When he had left, Harry Butler, short and burly, wearing, as always, an old windcheater and denims, darted across the office to near Paula's corner, picked up a Gladstone-like bag, which carried his tools.
'Paula whispered when she passed me that you have an urgent job for me. Have bag, ready to travel.'
'A monster American fridge we can't open. A thin cupboard with two Banhams. I'll drive you there. Bob,' Tweed said to Newman, 'take over while I'm gone.'
No Mercy Page 8
