'You might have shown me that before,' the girl griped after looking carefully at the folder.
'I've been holding it up for you to look at ever since we walked into this architectural monstrosity. I want my bag locked away in one of those steel cupboards behind you. I will also need a receipt.'
'Mr Greystoke is in Room 750. Seventh floor. Take that second elevator over there. Welcome to the Tower. It's had an architectural award.'
It took them only five minutes to wait for the elevator in the much-vaunted twenty-first-century Tower. Room 750 was opposite the doors when the elevator reached the seventh. Impatiently, Tweed pressed the bell. The door opened and a smartly dressed girl with a nice smile stood there.
'What can I do for you? My appointments book doesn't register visitors.' Another smile. 'Maybe my system is breaking down.'
'My name is Tweed.' He showed her the folder. 'Nothing's wrong with your system but I urgently need to see Mr Greystoke. We have met.'
'Oh, Lord,' she said, staring at his folder. 'Mr Greystoke has left the building ten minutes ago for a business dinner. I'll tell him you called.'
'I wouldn't bother,' Tweed replied, smiling. 'When I can I'll phone him. May not be for a while.'
As they drove back, creeping through the gridlock, Paula asked her question as they sat, going nowhere.
'What did you think of Larry?'
'Apart from Greystoke, I think I now have a picture of the Voles family.'
'And that's important?'
'I'm convinced that, eventually, we'll find the solution to these dreadful murders near Abbey Grange. Which is why every scrap of information I can obtain about them - and their relationships - is the key to the massacre.'
'Well, we do have the interview with Drago Volkanian. It should be interesting.'
'Except from all accounts he's a past master at revealing only what he wishes to. The vital question I'm going to ask is the location of his armaments works.'
'You think that's really important?'
'It is probably the real key to what's going on. We'd best spend the rest of the day preparing for the trip to Marseilles.' 'I can't wait.' 'You may well wish you had done when we get there.'
Marler was waiting for them when they arrived back at Park Crescent. So was everyone else. Marler lit a cigarette.
'I've been educating the team as to what faces us. And we must all go. We'll need every man, according to Marin.'
'What did he say?' Tweed asked calmly.
'I'll start again.' Marler said quietly. 'The freighter we want to check out - coming from Angora - arrives at the He des Oiseaux in two days' time.'
'Can't we fly there?' asked Paula.
'Do you mind?' Marler snapped. 'We don't fly because the French Secret Service is photographing all arrivals at both Charles de Gaulle and Orly airports. The top man would certainly spot Tweed when he checked the photos. So it has to be Eurostar. I need two hours in Paris to purchase weapons - for everyone. Then we board the TGV for Marseilles. I've booked rooms for us at a hotel overlooking the Vieux Port.'
'I stayed there once,' Tweed interjected. 'There used to be a good one along the promenade.'
'Marin told me the Vieux Port place,' Marler said firmly. 'That's where he hires a boat to take us out to the He. A boat with a powerful engine which can really move.'
'Sounds delightful,' said Tweed, who hated the sea.
'Marin says the He may be quiet, but he doubts it. We have to identify the freighter they're using, then race back to the Vieux Port and from there to the station. We catch the TGV back to Paris, then Eurostar to home.' He paused. 'It was emphasized by Marin that on the lie we may well run into the worst thugs in the world. Algerians and Moroccans. If so, we take no prisoners. They won't.'
'Just my cup of tea,' Harry said.
Tweed turned to Newman. 'Bob, you'll stay here to look after the shop. I need someone with strong character and authority. We may find Gallagher comes crashing in again. You've sorted him out before.' He saw Newman's expression. 'Bob, what I've just said is an order.'
'They said Gallagher was out when I called,' Marler remarked. He looked at Paula. Before he could open his mouth she jumped up, grasped him round the neck with both hands, her face close to his.
'Whatever you were going to say, don't. Unless you want me to throttle you. I'm going to Marseilles.'
17
The interview that afternoon with Drago Volkanian was one of the most unusual Tweed had ever experienced. With Paula he arrived at 490 Jermyn Street and rang the strange square-shaped bell.
'I've wanted to meet Volkanian ever since I heard he existed,' he told Paula as they waited. 'His invisible presence hangs over this case like a giant cloud.'
The door opened and Paula gazed at one of the most imposing men she had ever encountered. Over six feet tall, he had very broad shoulders, a large regal head and white hair. His face had a dominant cast, his nose long and beaked, the eyes above green, darting swiftly. Clean-shaven, he had a wide mouth, the jaw below expressing willpower.
'Welcome to both of you. Please do come inside. You are so punctual. I do, sir, approve of punctuality.' Volkanian held out an outsize hand. 'Miss Grey, so kind of you to come. Mr Tweed, sir, you are someone I have looked forward so much to meeting.' His hand clasp was a strong grip. 'We will repair to my study.' He had closed the door, turning two wall switches.
As they entered his study off the hall, its walls furnished with hanging Persian rugs, they were in a different world. The spacious study was furnished with English antiques, carefully placed against the walls. It was the finest collection Paula had ever seen.
'May I make a comment on security?' Tweed enquired as an attractive girl with Eastern features took their coats with a glowing smile.
'Of course you may, sir,' Volkanian rumbled in his deep voice. He chuckled. 'After all, you are the expert on such matters.'
'You kindly came to the door yourself. London is these days a dangerous place. I could have been anyone.'
'Aha!' Another chuckle. 'I appreciate your concern for my safety but you omitted to look up. There is a mirror above the front door with a hundred and eighty degree sweep. It allows me to see who is calling - and whether someone hostile lurks in the yicinity. Now, what can I provide you with in the way of a stimulant? I shall be sipping an excellent Scotch whisky. Or would you prefer coffee or something else? Sasha,' he said, gesturing towards the girl with the glowing smile, 'will bring you anything you fancy.'
'I think,' Tweed said to Paula's surprise, 'I could also do with a Scotch.'
'So will I,' Paula decided as their host turned to her with an open hand.
Volkanian escorted them to a circle of comfortable chairs, waited until they were seated, then lowered his bulk into a large chair he could just fit into. When the drinks arrived Volkanian raised his glass, smiling.
'Devastation to our enemies.'
'I'll drink to that,' said Tweed.
'Miss Grey, you live in a pleasant first-floor flat in a cul-de-sac off the Fulham Road,' Volkanian remarked. 'But maybe it would be safer to send it to Park Crescent? Yes, I think so.'
He seems to know everything about us, Paula thought.
Paula resisted the temptation to ask what 'it' might be. She was curious, but it would be bad manners to enquire. Tweed was speaking.
'Mr Volkanian . . .' he began.
'I would be honoured if you would both call me Drago. Miss Grey, may I be so bold as to call you Paula?'
'Please do.'
Paula was thrown off balance. She had never been in the presence of a man with such a powerful personality. His aura seemed to fill the room with warmth but without any hint of aggression. He wore a grey two-piece suit, the jacket unbuttoned over his ample stomach. A regimental tie splayed down over a crisp-collared blue shirt. She felt sure at some time he'd had an association with a regiment. He was not a man to wear such a tie unless entitled to do so.
'Drago,' Tweed had begun, 'it would be
helpful to me if I knew the location of your armaments plant.'
Drago roared with laughter, his whole body wobbling. He took out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. He chuckled again.
'You are a man after my own heart, sir. You go straight for the jugular. That is a secret I cannot reveal to you, sir. Only five people - apart from myself- know its location.'
'Michael, Larry and Lucinda,' Tweed said quickly. 'Also Aubrey Greystoke. The fifth I don't know. I'm guessing.'
Drago let out another burst of laughter, looked at Paula. 'Your chief is a very shrewd man.' His expression became serious. 'At the moment I understand we must forget Michael. His amnesia distresses me. I will tell you one thing about the armaments plant, Tweed. At one time it produced both missiles and shells for artillery pieces, for the MoD. The design was my own. I was once an engineer. So you simply turn a lever and the machinery switches from making artillery shells to missiles. Then I saw a film of the impact made by missiles. Supposedly totally accurate. They are not. In this film a missile aimed at a military HQ missed and hit a schoolhouse full of children instead. I banned the production of missiles immediately. At least artillery is aimed at the enemy's own guns. That I can live with. I assume everything at this so entertaining meeting is off the record.'
'Completely,' Tweed said emphatically. 'And you can trust Paula as much as you can trust me.'
'I know that.' Drago chuckled again, sipped his whisky. 'I would not have her here otherwise.'
'You seem to know a great deal,' Paula ventured.
'My dear.' He leaned towards her. 'Information is more valuable than gold.'
'Something I have always remembered.'
'Tweed,' Drago said suddenly, his eyes still. 'Have you yet a suspect for these four frightful murders?'
'Four?'
'Oh come, sir, do not underestimate me. I refer to the late Christine Barton, brilliant forensic accountant; poor Lee Greystoke, her skeleton found by yourself in the mine shaft on Dartmoor; John Jackson, the detective Christine's sister, Anne, employed. The fourth victim is the male skeleton on Dartmoor - so far as I know still to be identified.'
'If you find the suspect yourself you might let me know,' Tweed joked to lighten the atmosphere. 'And now I think the fifth person who knew the location of the armaments plant was Lee Greystoke.'
A rumbling burst of laughter, Drago's body shaking with amusement. 'Glory, sir, no wonder you have such a reputation as a detective. Yes, the fifth was Lee. I miss her dreadfully. So who is your suspect?'
'If I had one I'd tell you.' Tweed swallowed the rest of his drink. 'I feel we have taken up enough of your time. That time you've given us is appreciated.'
'Please wait a little longer. Give me your opinion of Larry.'
'Very competent, likable, excellent with staff.'
'And now Lucinda.' Drago was leaning forward again.
'Extremely competent. Just the person for her job. Tough with staff if someone doesn't do their job properly.'
'Michael?'
'He has never said a word. How can I tell?'
'I witnessed murder.' Why, Paula mused again, was Tweed keeping these three vital words to himself? He had quoted them to no one after hearing them from Buchanan. Tweed was walking towards the door into the hall when he asked Drago the question.
'It makes sense to me that the five people who know - or knew - the location of the armaments plant would have keys to enter the plant. Including Lee.'
'Your clever deduction is correct. There is one more element which might help you. They all have Armenian blood in their veins. Armenians have survived down the centuries by their instinctive deviousness. You cannot always trust someone who has Armenian blood to tell the truth.'
'With the exception of yourself,' Tweed said politely, 'I think everyone has been lying to me over one thing or another.'
'You are on your guard, then. You are a wise man, my friend. I am sure we will meet again.' Drago gave Tweed a card. 'If you wish to communicate with me call that number, give your name. There will be a delay, then you will be transferred to another line.'
They were in the hall. Paula noticed Sasha was near the front door. She slapped shut a lid against the wall. Drago took hold of Paula's arm. 'I saw you admiring the wall rugs. Which most caught your attention?'
'This one. The design is so brilliant. Quite unique.'
Sasha lifted the lid when they reached the closed front door. On a screen was a clear view of Jermyn Street, probably fifty yards in each direction. She turned to Drago.
'I have been watching Mr Tweed's car. No one has been anywhere near it. The car is safe.'
'That was very thoughtful of you,' Tweed told her. 'I'm most grateful.'
Drago operated the two switches to unlock the door, opened it, shook their hands and closed the door as they stepped into the street.
18
The following afternoon they were in France, aboard the TGV as it thundered south like a Concorde flying on land. Their first-class coach was empty except for the two of them - Tweed seated next to Paula.
It was now March and a brilliantly sunny day. Paula gazed out of the window at a distant straight line of poplar trees, like a cavalcade of giant bristle brooms. Too early for any leaves. She guessed they bordered an autoroute - she had caught an occasional glimpse of cars moving at breakneck speed. By her side Tweed sat very still, taking no notice of the view. Outside the entrance to their coach Marler stood on guard. At the far end Nield was performing the same duty, also out of sight.
'You're brooding,' Paula said to Tweed eventually.
'Churning over all we've seen, all the people we've met. I know I'm missing something. Had a weird dream. Church bells clanging in my head. The vicar, the Reverend Stenhouse Darkfield, was advancing on me, holding a large knife, sharp edge on one side of the blade, serrated edge on the other. Then I woke up, couldn't sleep again. One of those things.'
'Dreams can be significant — recalling something you didn't observe at the time. You think he's a suspect? There is the cult business.'
'Forget it. You think a cult would extend from Dartmoor to Champton Place?'
'That's where Anne Barton lives. You're thinking of Christine, her sister.'
'Of course. I must be tired. You think a cult would extend to Wensford, where Jackson, the detective, was cut to ribbons? Pretty unlikely.'
'We still haven't identified the skeleton we found on the moor - covered in snow. I think that's important.'
'I agree,' said Tweed. 'Could be the key we're looking for. Don't ask me how we're going to identify him. But it's a priority when we get back. And Keith Kent is taking a devil of a long time checking those sheets of figures you found Christine had hidden under that drawer. Her coding of the data must be complex. Understood only by whoever hired her.'
'Any idea who that could be?'
'None at all.' The racing express was now going so fast that the view from the window was a blur. It heeled to the right as it swayed round a long curve. 'This thing is going to end up off the line,' Tweed grumbled.
'Don't say things like that. Makes me nervous. You had a good lunch in the restaurant car. Try to get some sleep.'
She had just spoken when a uniformed official appeared. He had a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Dipping his hand inside the satchel he grunted the word.
'Billets . . .'
The hand came out of the satchel holding a large knife. He aimed it at Tweed's chest. A pistol butt descended with force on the man's head. The gun was held by Marler, who had arrived silently. The fake ticket collector began to sag. At the other end of the coach Nield appeared. Marler used his head to gesture for Nield to hurry. His two hands had grabbed the slumping body by the armpits.
Nield, wearing a latex glove, picked up the knife. Marler was hauling the body backwards towards the rear entrance. Nield shoved the knife inside his belt, crouched to lift up the legs. They disappeared rapidly.
Paula was in a state of shock. Her right
hand gripped the .32 Browning inside her shoulder bag. She released her grip, her hand shaking. She stiffened it. She felt she should have seen what was happening, should have protected Tweed.
'I really f— that up. I'm so sorry. It was so quick. No excuse for me. And I'm wide awake . . .'
Tweed realized she was in shock - she hardly ever used that expletive. He grasped her arm, squeezed it.
'Don't talk rubbish,' he reassured her. 'I was in the aisle seat, you were by the window. I should have seen him. You're too far back. So don't give me any more twaddle. Relax.'
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