'You are perceptive.'
'I'll navigate,' she said, an A to Z of London open on her lap. 'Haldon Street is a turning off Threadneedle Street.'
'Will they be open? It's very early,' Harry wondered.
'If they're not, we'll find a parking slot and wait.'
'It's that building on the right,' she warned as Tweed crawled down Haldon Street.
He'd have had to crawl in any case. Even at this early hour the traffic had become dense, moving at five miles per hour. Tweed stopped, signalled left as he saw a Buick backing out of a parking space. Behind him a driver who had decided it was his pressed his horn nonstop.
'Hysteria starts early,' Paula mused as Tweed slid inside the now vacant slot. The driver of the car behind shouted something foul and made a rude gesture with his finger as he drove past. Tweed ignored him as he alighted outside the building with double doors and a legend etched in a window: dorton, kenwood & smythe, stockbrokers. A light was on behind the glass. Was probably on all day - Haldon Street was narrow, hemmed in by tall blocks. The sun would never penetrate down inside this backstreet canyon.
'Be as quick as we can.' he informed Harry before closing the door.
Paula was already pressing a large ancient bell. She had to wait, Tweed alongside her, until the left-hand door was opened, the hinges creaking. A small man stared at them as though they were the last people on earth he wanted to call.
'You investors?' he demanded in an effort at politeness.
'We are investors in information,' Tweed said with a pleasant smile, holding up his identity folder.
'SIS? You've come to the wrong place.'
'No, we haven't. Could I have your name?' He pointed to the etched names in the glass. 'There are several of you.'
'I'm Smythe, the only one left. I guess you'd better come in. Ladies first. Take a pew - you'll have to shift papers off chairs.'
Tweed couldn't place his voice. It wasn't Cockney, but it did have undertones of the way Harry spoke. At the same time it was well educated. Smythe was not the public's idea of an occupant of the Surrey stockbroker belt. He wore a shirt open at the neck, hadn't shaved, his dark trousers had a sharp crease, his black shoes were polished. An odd mixture of apparel.
Paula was seated at the large ebony table, having carefully removed a pile of papers, stacking them neatly on a sideboard. She had prepared a chair for Tweed. As he sat down Smythe lifted another pile off a chair, dumped it on the floor. 'Junk,' he said. Turning the chair round, he sat leaning forward against its back, his shrewd eyes gazing at them.
'You're Smythe,' Tweed began. 'What happened to Dorton?'
'Retired with a pile at the height of the boom. Went off to the Bahamas with a playgirl. He was shrewd in some ways, stupid in others. The playgirl has probably eaten her way through half his fortune already.'
'And Mr Kenwood?'
'Disappeared overnight about three to four months ago. Just walked. Not like him. Never heard a word since.'
'Could you describe Mr Kenwood? Height, weight, age -that sort of description?'
He listened while Smythe gave surprisingly precise data. It fitted in every detail the professor's description of the first skeleton discovered on Dartmoor, just off the track. Tweed knew that at long last he had identified the fourth body.
'Could you give me some idea of his work and his clients?'
'Confidential.' Smythe grinned. 'Don't wave that folder at me. He dealt with some very big investors, was secretive about who they were. Which was proper. We all worked our own clientele.'
'When you say big, how big?'
'Well, he was the only one of us who plunged his clients into the dotcom debacle. I didn't phrase that well. He always warned them it could be another South Sea Bubble, but some of them insisted on diving in big.'
'Four hundred million pounds big?'
'My God!' Smythe threw up both hands. 'That really would be pushing it.' He lit a cigarette. 'There was one client who seemed to grow money who went into dotcom as though money grows on trees. Woody — that's what we called Kenwood - did let slip drinking with me in a pub that he hoped his biggest client didn't shoot himself.'
'So it was a man — not a woman?'
'Come to think of it, he said he hoped this client wouldn't put a gun to their head. So it could have been a woman. Yes,
242I suppose it could have been. Ken was a ladies' man. If a woman investor came to us I'd let him cope with her.'
'You must have a record of clients for the tax people,' Tweed suggested.
Smythe drank some more cold coffee from his still fairly full mug. After placing it on the edge of the table, he walked over near to Paula, pulled open a drawer, took out a small leather-bound book and waved it.
'Details are all in here. Highly confidential.'
'We need to borrow that, Mr Smythe. This is a murder investigation.'
'Got a search warrant?' Smythe asked with a smirk, confident he'd scored a point.
'No, I haven't,' Tweed admitted.
'Then you don't go nosing into our - now my - clients' lives.'
He dropped the book back into the drawer, closed it and came back towards where Tweed was standing. As he did so Tweed glanced at Paula. She nodded. Tweed's elbow shifted, knocked the almost full mug of cold coffee on to the floor. The mug broke into pieces, liquid pooled across the floor.
'I'm so sorry.' Tweed took a plate off the table, bent down, began picking up pieces of broken china, collecting them on the plate. Smythe crouched down and also began collecting wreckage as Tweed apologized again.
Paula opened the drawer very quietly, grabbed the leather-bound book, slipped it into her shoulder bag and closed the drawer carefully. It was a trick they had used before on rare occasions to obtain much-needed evidence. She was checking her watch as the two men stood up and Smythe looked across at her.
'Now I'll need a mop to clean up this mess of coffee,' he grumbled.
'I'm so sorry,' Tweed repeated. 'I think this would be a good time for us to leave.'
'So do I,' snapped Smythe.
'We may now have the final key,' Paula said, a rare note of excitement in her voice, as they approached their car.
'If that notebook tells us who invested four hundred million in a dotcom that crashed, you're right,' Tweed agreed as they arrived at their parked car. 'If it does,' he added.
23
Paula suggested taking over the wheel while Tweed looked at the record book. He agreed. As they settled themselves a voice from the back, Harry's, called out in a whisper.
'It's OK. No one came near the car.'
'You know where we are, Harry?' Tweed asked.
'Should do. One of my favourite pubs is at the end of this street. Why?'
'Because you're going to act as a courier to return this book to the place we've just visited. Just hand it in, answer no questions, get out of the area.'
Paula was driving west out of the City by a different route. By her side, Tweed had put on latex gloves before opening the book she'd dropped in his lap. No fingerprints. There was more traffic already, so there were plenty of stops, which gave Tweed the chance to examine the pages carefully.
The data was precise: client's name, date of purchase of shares, name of company invested in, price they were bought at, price when sold, profit - or loss - date of selling, the initials of which broker handled the transaction, commission earned by broker. He gave Paula some idea of its contents.
'It's a gold mine,' she exulted.
'Not yet. It's alphabetical under client's surname. I've tried V for Voles. Nothing. Now G for Greystoke. Nothing.' He riffled through all the pages, surprised at some well-known names who had used this broker. He started again at the beginning. By driving through the backstreets of Covent Garden she had made good progress when he grunted.
'Found something?' she asked eagerly.
He had reached X for client's name and there it was. An investment of £400 million, bought at £500 per share in a dotco
m he remembered reading about, splashed in the papers because it epitomized the scale of the dotcom crash.
'The client's name is X,' he told her.
'One hell of a lot of use,' she commented.
'Wait. The initials of the broker who handled it are AJK. That has to be Jacko Kenwood, now a corpse. Four hundred million was invested in Orlando Xanadu.'
'Doesn't mean a thing to me.'
'I remember reading it. Floated at three hundred pounds a share, X shovelled in four hundred million at five hundred pounds a share. Orlando soared to a max of eight thousand pounds per share. X, like so many other optimists, did not sell. Orlando then nose-dived vertically to nothing. A nominal price of two pence a share, but it ceased trading.'
'So X lost the lot. A mere four hundred million. I couldn't imagine how such a gigantic sum could have gone down the drain.'
'Neither could I. There's a bit more data. Before X there's an interesting reference. It reads AB200017 X.'
'That's the reference on the papers I found under a drawer in Christine's flat, and then later on the document photocopy I discovered behind Lee Greystoke's fridge at Ivy Cottage.'
'Exactly. So we have advanced. It ties the transaction to someone at Gantia. All this happened some time ago, but X would need time to find a way of recouping four hundred mil to put it back into the reserves.'
'Smythe must have other records of their transactions. I'm sure he must possess other documentation.'
'My thoughts too. Lend me your mobile.'
'You hate them but you're always borrowing mine.' She
246reached down in her shoulder bag while the traffic was stationary and gave it to him.
'Lucky I noticed his phone number on a letterhead.' He called the number. 'Mr Smythe? Tweed here. Sorry to bother you again but have you by chance had your premises ransacked at any time?'
'Yes, I bloody well have. Ages ago. Came in to find the place a complete wreck. Clients' files strewn all over the floor, cabinets jemmied open. Took me weeks to try and put everything together again. I didn't know enough about Kenwood's transactions to persist. Just jammed stuff back and left it at that.' His annoyed voice changed, became polite. 'Do you know something about this?'
'I'm afraid not. Thank you again for your cooperation.'
He disconnected while Smythe was still blathering and gave the phone back to Paula with a sigh. She looked at him.
'Well?'
'Like the other places we've visited, including Jackson's houseboat, Smythe's offices were ransacked. For X's documentation. And, thinking back, I fear the detective was tortured before he was killed.'
'Ugh!' Paula shuddered. 'So we still don't know who this monster X is.'
'But we do now know for certain it's all focused on Gantia, and Abbey Grange.'
Aboard the freighter, Abdul, who rarely slept, was on the bridge. His vessel was now well west of the island of Ushant. With triangular slim rods he was calculating distances. He also checked his watch. It was essential he reach his destination well after dark.
He began changing course. Soon the freighter was heading slowly northwest. Walking to the other end of the bridge, he looked down on the collection of Arabs who had no duties concerning the movement of the vessel. He shouted his instruction down in Arabic.
They had to lie down on their sleeping bags and get some rest. He wanted them fresh for the arduous task of loading up the freighter when it reached the destination known only to him.
Abdul checked his chart again. He checked the freighter's speed, estimated distances. The sea was rougher. He should get there well after dark, at about 2200 hours. The vessel was now on course, would soon pass distant Land's End, then proceed up the Bristol Channel off the northern coast of Devon.
24
'That tramp's still there,' Paula remarked as she swung into Park Crescent. 'I'd better take him some more food from the deli. And a container of hot tea.'
'No,' Tweed ordered. 'Get Monica to take him something. She's clever at moving around without anyone bothering to notice her.'
It had been raining heavily on their way back from the City but now it had diminished to a faint drizzle. The streets were clear of pedestrians. Tweed was out of the car the moment Paula switched off the engine, rushing up the steps, ringing the bell, dashing past George once the door was open, running up the stairs. Paula and Harry followed, marvelling at his new-found agility.
'I see everyone's here.' Tweed observed as he threw off his overcoat and sat behind his desk. 'None of you are to leave without my permission. Understood? Harry, Pete, I want our two Land Rovers checked to make sure they're in perfect working order - with full fuel tanks. Before the day's out they'll be driving over rough country.'
'They are,' Newman told him. 'I spent time today checking all transport. Why the Land Rovers?'
'I've told you that,' Tweed said abruptly. 'Because they're perfect vehicles for crossing difficult country.'
'Where?' Newman persisted.
'The West Country. Now leave me alone while I make a vital call. Two, in fact.'
Tweed was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Paula approaching Monica, who was still on the phone arguing with Chief Superintendent Buchanan. For the fifth time she patiently said, 'Tweed is not available. He's on the second phone. And, no, I have no information as to how the investigation is proceeding.'
Paula had left, after scribbling a brief note: 'Gone to deli to feed tramp.'
Tweed dialled the number he had automatically memorized when he'd seen it on a letterhead in Smythe's office.
'Not again,' Smythe rasped when Tweed had given his name. 'I'm in the middle of a delicate transaction. Call another day, if you must.'
'Smythe, your partner, Kenwood, who went missing, is dead.'
'What! Where? When? How did he—'
'Had he any kind of physical disability?'
'Well . . . Yes. Years ago he broke his ankle skiing in the Dolomites. A multiple fracture. It was a complicated op.'
'So how did he come out of it? Specifically. How did he walk?'
'He limped. Some of his so-called pals nicknamed him Limpy. But I want to know is—'
'Call you back. Other phone's ringing.'
He'd looked round for Paula, assumed she'd gone to the loo. He made his announcement to everyone with a certain self-satisfaction.
'We've finally identified positively the fourth corpse. The one Paula and I found on Dartmoor. A stockbroker called Kenwood. That is also the final link I was missing from the pattern of catastrophic events I've been building in my mind. Harry, we are all on the move before it gets dark. I foresee a savage battle with ruthless opponents. We need to travel heavily armed.'
'Enough said.' Harry was on his feet, heading for the door.
'Can I put the weapons aboard the Land Rovers, providing I stay with them on guard? It'll be an arsenal.'
'That's what we may need. Yes, stay on guard at the back.'
'It would help,' Marler drawled, 'if we had just a few more details.'
'Later. Another phone call to make now.' He used the second line - Monica was still arguing with Buchanan on her line. Again he dialled a number from memory, the number of Abbey Grange. Lucinda answered.
'Tweed here.'
'Surprise, surprise! Checking up on me?' Her tone was sarcastic.
'You sound tense.'
'Long drive. A ton of traffic all the way down. A macho fool cut me off. I had to do an emergency stop. With a cement mixer on my tail. Driver stopped just in time.' Her voice softened. 'How can I help?'
'First, I did want to make sure you'd arrived safely. And how is Michael?'
'Behaving strangely. Apart from meals, he's locked in his room. I banged on the door, he let me in. On one of those sloping drawing boards he was copying diagrams from Gray's Anatomy, if you please. Gruesome.'
'Any other developments? Oh, I assume Michael hasn't spoken?'
'Not one word. Developments? Larry's on his way down here, should arrive soon. A
nd, to top it all, Aubrey's coming by himself.'
'Greystoke? What on earth could he want down there? Is this usual?'
'Not really. He does come occasionally. I assumed they were holding a meeting. But Larry's secretary said she'd no news of any meeting when I spoke to her.'
'She called you - to say Larry was coming?'
A pause. 'No, she damned well didn't. I called her about an important delivery I'd forgotten to warn them about.
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