Blood Storm

by Colin Forbes

  'Well,' Noel interjected, 'let's leave that problem until later. There's no hurry on that front. Benton could be right.'

  Noel was playing a game he'd thought up in the past: act as reasonable peacemaker, then they'd leave him alone. He had been feeling under pressure.

  'When do we play the terrorist card?' boomed Nelson.

  There was dead silence. Nelson had decided the atmosphere must be tougher. There were rumours in Parliament that he might be nearer to full promotion - to become a member of the Cabinet as Minister of Internal Security. He waited for the outburst of disagreement. Benton was more subtle.

  'Noel,' he said casually, staring up at the ceiling, 'have you yet explored the dangers of playing the terrorist card, as Nelson suggested?'

  'No, not really,' Noel said, lying once again. 'I had the idea of getting someone to drive a truck with a modest amount of explosives into a side entrance to Richmond Park, an area which, at this time of the year, has no one about. I'm not at all sure it's a good idea.'

  'It isn't!' Benton thundered. 'Kill one civilian and we all end up in Belmarsh prison.'

  'I did say I felt it was a bad idea,' Noel assured him smoothly. He checked his watch. 'Isn't it time we ended this session? You all agree? Good.'

  He had an appointment to take Tina out that evening.

  Tweed parked his car, locked it, walked through the dark at Park Crescent, found his whole team assembled in his office. He greedily drank the coffee Monica supplied, then produced his sketch book. What he had drawn of the driver was a caricature.

  'I've been down to Mountain High,' he announced.

  'Switzerland?' Paula teased him from behind her desk. 'You were quick.'

  Tweed grinned, then turned round the sketch pad and asked if anyone recognized who it was. Newman loped over from beside Paula's desk, picked up the pad, stared at it for only a few moments.

  'God!' he exclaimed. 'That's Amos Fitch. He wasn't close to you, I hope?'

  Tweed leaned back in his chair, tersely gave them the details of his excursion. Harry, seated crosslegged on the floor, looked up sharply at the mention of high explosives. This was his speciality. He kept quiet as Tweed spoke.

  'Then I drove back here,' Tweed concluded. 'Now I want to hear what you, Bob, have been up to with Paula.'

  He listened without interrupting as Newman related the events of their day. When Newman described the details of the prison on Black Island, Tweed's expression changed, became grim.

  'I see,' he said as Newman sat down. 'Then that does it. We will use any unorthodox method to remove the Cabal from any contact with politics. Any method, however ruthless. The gloves are off. I'm glad you killed those State Security thugs. We may have to eliminate many more. From this moment on no one leaves this building without carrying weapons. And I want a guard to accompany Paula wherever she goes.' He held up a hand as she started to protest. 'I have a premonition you may be one of their main targets - from the way Partridge looked at you when she pretended to visit us on her own.'

  'You think the Cabal knew?' she asked.

  'I doubt if they knew everything she told us, but she's too smart to come here without their knowledge.'

  'May I report something?' Pete Nield requested. 'While you were away I had another long talk with my informant. She told me the Parrot is crazy over Nelson. At least she was. For some reason now she hates him.'

  'Paula,' Tweed asked, 'what emotion is most likely to cause a woman to turn into a murderous rage?'

  'Jealousy.'

  'It opens up a new possibility.'

  'Well,' Paula said, 'at Professor Saafeld's didn't I correct him when he kept saying "he" for the murderer? I suggested it could be a woman who was responsible for Vander-Browne's awful fate.'

  'We'll keep all our options open.'

  'You know,' remarked Newman to Tweed, 'you do have so much on your plate now. First this merger of the security services you're fighting. Second, the investigation into the Fox Street murder. Two separate problems. A bit much?'

  'Not necessarily. I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a link between the two.' Tweed produced a sketch from a locked drawer, invited his team to come and look at it.

  It was a retouched photo produced by Joel, the artist in the basement. They crowded behind Tweed and stared at the result. It showed an attractive woman's head and shoulders. Her dark hair was close to the side of her head, like a helmet.

  'Joel worked on one of those photos of the Parrot you took, Paula,' Tweed explained. 'I gave him a description of someone. You are now looking at the picture of the waitress, so-called, who laced my margarita with Percodin and brought it to the table. "With the compliments of Mr Mungano." On the way back from Peckham Mallet I called in at Mungano's, saw the proprietor. I knew he'd been adding to his staff of waiters by hiring a few suitable girls. I showed him this.'

  'Go on,' Paula urged, 'what did he say?'

  'That he'd never hired anyone who looked a bit like her.'

  'So that links her directly with the plot to frame you for the Fox Street murder,' Paula said, concealing her excitement. 'Now we can concentrate on the Parrot.'

  'She was never out of my calculations - among a range of suspects,' Tweed replied. 'What triggered me off was that contact lens you found on the floor. The fake waitress who drugged me had blue eyes. I'm going to see the Cabal soon. It will be interesting if Partridge appears so I can see the real colour of her eyes.'

  'May I corne with you when the time comes?' Paula asked.

  'I was going to take you with me in any case.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'Bob, I also want to go down with you and Paula to Black Island, urgently. I found out General Lucius Macomber lives there. Not far from the village of Lydford. I think it's important I have a long talk with him. He is the father of the three men composing the Cabal.'

  'What about those explosives in that furniture van? I'd like to go down and check out that black box, maybe muck it up,' said Harry.

  'Do that. But Peckham Mallet is the devil of a place to locate. Mainly because it doesn't really exist. I'll draw you a plan marking the lane to the General's cottage, the cottage itself and location of the barn. Both the van and the doors to the barn it's inside have very heavy padlocks.'

  'Piece of cake for me.' Harry bent down, lifted up the bag with his tools he carried almost everywhere. 'I've already located Peckham Mallet on the map.'

  'Then we don't waste time,' Tweed decided firmly. 'Tomorrow, Harry, you go check out that furniture van.'

  'Excuse me,' Monica broke in, 'I checked the name on the side of the van, as you asked me to. No firm with that name exists. I also checked the number plate. Stolen from a car in a police compound.'

  'Fitch has a nerve,' Newman commented grimly.

  As they were talking, Marler walked in.

  Marler was a key member of Tweed's team. He dressed at least as smartly as Pete Nield. This afternoon he was sporting a blue Aquascutum suit, a cream shirt and a blue tie decorated with herons in flight. His feet were clad in black handmade shoes with concealed razor-sharp blades in the tips.

  In his early forties, but looking like a man in his thirties, he was slim, and five feet nine tall. Women found him good-looking. His hair was fair, he was clean shaven with features which suggested he felt superior, although he had perfect manners and an upper-crust voice. He was also reputed to be the most deadly marksman in Europe. He walked across to his usual corner by Paula's desk, leaned against the wall, took out a cigarette and inserted it into a black holder before lighting it.

  'Thought I heard the name Fitch, my old sparring partner Amos. Weird that such a murderous villain has a biblical name. Last time I met him he tried to knife me. He ended up on the floor, cold to the world. I've often thought I should have killed him,' he remarked casually. 'World would have been a better place without him.'

  'It certainly would,' Paula said coldly.

  Tweed heard this uncharacteristic tone in her voice. Paula had become even tougher. He guess
ed it was since seeing Viola's shattered body. He stood up.

  'It's been a long day. Tomorrow will be another one. So I suggest you all go home and relax in whatever way you prefer.'

  'I'm taking my girlfriend, Roma, out to dinner,' Newman announced. 'She's very bright and entertaining. Two degrees from Cambridge. I have to be alert to keep up with her.'

  'Then make the most of it,' Paula teased him. 'It won't last long.'

  'You might be more polite. I'm escorting you home.' He saw her expression. 'No option, Tweed's orders. I'll call back later to make sure everything is secure.'

  'That will be about 4 a.m.,' she said wickedly. 'When you've torn yourself away from Roma. That's a curious name.'

  'She was born in Rome, daughter of the British Ambassador. She was born in the Embassy, so she's as British as you are. Ready to leave?'

  'Not for half an hour at least, maybe longer. I have a report to type. If that's going to mess up your date with Roma . . .'

  'It isn't. I'm not seeing her until eight o'clock.'

  'I'm off to prowl the East End,' Harry called out as he left.

  'I'm off too,' Marler said. 'To have a drink with some Members of Parliament. To see whether they've heard of State Security. If so, get their reaction. Toodle-oo . . .'

  Nield said he had a job to do. He left the building, climbed into his car. He was waiting for Tweed to leave so he could follow him home. No good telling him. He'd blow up.

  'I'm off too,' Tweed decided. 'Let's hope we have a quiet night.'

  It was a statement he later regretted.

  11

  That afternoon Fitch had used his mobile to contact his accomplice, Tony Canal. They had arranged to meet at 9.30 p.m. at the Pig's Nest in the East End but Fitch had used this tactic before. It was important to show who was boss, to throw his henchmen off balance. He called Canal again in an hour.

  'Meet me at the warehouse now!' he snarled.

  He switched off before Canal could reply. Fitch was inside the abandoned warehouse. The old wooden floor was still solid but the skylights were missing several panes of glass. The large room, once used by a shipping company for storage, had been rented by Fitch for a song. In a fictitious name.

  While he waited his booted feet clunked up and down the floorboards, pacing impatiently. He was smoking a cigar, a Havana. Only the best was good enough for Amos Fitch, and he had a nice balance in a small bank, the fruits of his criminal exploits.

  When Canal entered after climbing the rickety staircase Fitch blew smoke in his weird face. Tony Canal was an ex-prize-fighter in matches held in private houses where no holds were barred. A broken nose and a lopsided jaw were the earnings from his underworld life.

  'Show you something,' Fitch growled at him.

  Bending down, he lifted a handle set into the floor, raised a thick wooden lid about two feet in diameter. Canal heard the gurgle of rushing water a long way down. Roughly, Fitch grabbed his arm, used the other hand to point a torch.

  'Take a look, thickhead.'

  Canal peered down. The torch beam lit up a steel shaft with a large hook about a foot down. The beam was just strong enough to illuminate rushing black water at the very bottom. Canal didn't like it. He stepped back as Fitch replaced the lid, spoke.

  'That's where we'll put 'er when we've grabbed 'er.'

  'Put who, may I ask?' Canal enquired.

  'You may ask, dear boy,' Fitch told him, mimicking Canal's public-school accent. 'You just damned well did,' he rasped in normal coarse voice. 'Miss Paula Grey goes down the chute.'

  He picked up a coil of rope from the floor. One end was twisted into a loop, but without a slip knot. Fitch pointed this out to Canal, who was looking worried. 'With that round her neck,' he explained with a sadistic smile.

  'When we get 'er 'ere, we wrap a scarf round 'er neck, then we slip this rope loop over the scarf. With that round 'er neck we lower 'er into the chute, then fasten one end of the rope over the 'ook sticking out from the side of the tube.'

  'I don't understand, I'm afraid,' Canal protested.

  'No, you wouldn't. You've noticed the loop goin' round 'er neck is frayed, have you? Good. Miracles 'appen. She's suspended down in the tube. She'll try to remove the rope. When she keeps tryin' to do that the frayed part gives way. Down goes Tweed's pet into the water and gets carried into the river. End of the lady.'

  'Sounds horrible - and strangely complex.'

  'Heaven give us strength. Don't you see? The body will be carried down the river towards the barrage. At some point the body will be seen and dragged out - or she'll get washed up on the river edge. The police autopsy will check her. No sign of strangulation. The scarf has protected her neck against the grazin' of the rope. Rope and scarf will have got washed away. She'll have lungs full of water. Verdict? She drowned. No risk of it lookin' like murder. See?'

  'I think so. Do we have to do this?' 'Monkey, we're being paid good money to kidnap Miss Paula Grey. To hit Tweed hard. Imagine how much harder it'll hit him when she's dragged out dead. Get it?' 'I guess so. I'm not happy about her dying.' 'Who asked you to be 'appy? This is business. Now we've got to go out and grab 'er. You've nicked a car, fitted it with stolen plates?'

  'Of course I have. It's parked out of sight at the back of the warehouse here.'

  'Good. We'll grab 'er tonight. Bring 'er back 'ere.' 'You're not going to put her down that awful shaft?' 'Listen, mate,' Fitch snarled, 'your job is to do what I tell you to do. And yes, she'll be food for the fishes in the river before the night is out. I've done my 'omework. She often arrives back at 'er Fulham Road pad at about 9 p.m. So we get there early, park further down the Fulham Road, chew the fat until she arrives.'

  12

  Newman insisted on escorting Paula home despite her protests. She was not best pleased when Tweed ordered her to drive home while Newman followed her in his own car.

  'You've got your dinner with Roma,' she protested as they went down the stairs.

  'I've phoned her, made a later appointment.'

  'Great, she must have loved that.'

  'She knows I'm very busy and said she'd phone the restaurant to warn them to keep the table. She's very amenable.'

  'I still don't like it.'

  As she pulled up outside the entrance to the large yard where she'd park her car outside her apartment she didn't notice the battered Ford parked further behind her. Inside it Fitch grunted with satisfaction, lifted a tin off the floor, took out the airtight bag containing a cloth soaked in chloroform.

  'Got 'er,' he gloated.

  Then he stared as another car pulled up behind her Saab. A man jumped out, walked alongside the Saab as she drove it inside the yard. Fitch rammed the bag back inside the tin.

  'Friggin' 'ell,' he said to Canal beside him. 'That's Newman going in with 'er. He's a tough bastard.' He started his engine. 'We'll 'ave to come back about 4 a.m.

  What 'e's goin' to do with her could take a while,' he commented coarsely. 'We'd better make ourselves scarce.'

  He drove at moderate speed past Newman's car and continued along the Fulham Road.

  Newman searched her flat on the first floor thoroughly. Paula, feeling guilty, offered him a drink. He was in the main corridor, staring up at a flat panel let into the ceiling. He called out to Paula, who was hanging up her windcheater. He pointed.

  'What's up there?'

  'Just a loft. I never use it. Some people put all their junk up there. I don't. Now, have a nice evening with Roma. I'm sure you will.'

  He'd refused the drink. She kissed him on the cheek, then hugged him, smiling as she let him go. She'd seen no point in mentioning there was a large skylight in the loft.

  'I do appreciate your looking after me. Go wild tonight.'

  'It's early days with her.'

  He met Roma at Santorini's, a luxurious restaurant with a section projecting over the Thames. No one was using that area tonight - it was too cold.

  Roma was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with perf
ectly coiffeured black hair. She had large blue eyes, a well-shaped profile and a wicked sense of humour with a habit of laughing a lot, a low husky laugh.

  Her father was rich, owning a large chain of retail stores he'd inherited from his father. She'd been to private school at Benenden but had no airs and graces. He had no trouble talking to her.

  'You're in insurance, I gather,' she remarked later in the evening over coffee and the rest of the wine. 'A special sort, I've heard.'

  'The General & Cumbria Insurance,' Newman said, quoting the name on the plate outside SIS headquarters in Park Crescent. It was a cover for the real activities they engaged in. 'It is a bit special. We only insure wealthy men and their families against being kidnapped. The ransom demand.'