Blood Storm

by Colin Forbes

  'You just pay up, Bob? I can't quite imagine that's how you always operate.'

  'Shrewd lady.' He smiled again. 'We have been known to track down the kidnappers. It can get a bit hairy sometimes.'

  'You lead a dangerous life . . .'

  'I suppose I do, now and then.'

  Her remark made him check his watch under the tablecloth. It was 4 a.m. Roma had just suppressed a yawn.

  After escorting Roma to her apartment nearby Newman sat for a moment in the car. He remembered the battered old Citroen parked further along the Fulham Road when he'd arrived with Paula. Automatically he'd swung round, caught a glimpse of the driver. He'd seemed familiar. Alarm bells began ringing now inside his head.

  Fitch. He'd seen police photos of the brutal villain. He drove as fast as he dared back to the Fulham Road. A few yards beyond the entrance to Paula's place the same battered Ford was parked. One man inside, in the front passenger seat.

  Newman pulled up, switched off the engine, dived out on to the pavement. He then walked casually up to the Ford. The driver's window was lowered. Newman tested the door handle. It opened. He leaned inside.

  The passenger had slipped something into the side pocket of his jacket. He looked at Newman nervously. Didn't say anything. Which was odd.

  'Why are you parked here in the middle of the night?' Newman demanded in an unfriendly tone.

  'I've . . . had too much ... to drink. Waiting till it's safe ... to drive.'

  'Really?' Newman had leaned in closer. No smell of any liquor on his breath. 'Where's the driver?' he snapped.

  'He had to . . .'

  'You kidded me up you were the driver. What's going on?'

  'Nothing. I told you . . .'

  Newman jumped inside, sat in the driver's seat, grasped his captive round the neck. He pressed a thumb against the windpipe. Canal's eyes bulged, he began to choke.

  'Who is the driver?' Newman demanded in an unpleasant voice. 'And where is he now?'

  With the hands removed from his throat Canal started talking. Newman listened. Canal admitted that they were going to kidnap Paula. The moment he heard this Newman hit him on the jaw, hard enough to knock him out. He left Canal, who had given his name, slumped half on the floor.

  Newman ran back towards Paula's flat. No sign of Fitch. He walked quietly on his rubber-soled shoes over the cobbles, glanced at Paula's window. No light. He walked round the side. A strong-looking drainpipe was attached to the wall. Fitch was nearly at the top. Newman recalled that on his crime sheet among many other more villainous crimes Fitch had been a cat burglar.

  'Come on down, pal,' he called up loudly. He had his Smith & Wesson in his right hand. 'Unless you'd prefer a bullet up the rear end.'

  Fitch, startled, nearly lost his grip. He regained it as he glared viciously down at Newman, his eyes like those of a snake, then descended quickly when he saw the revolver. Newman had holstered his gun when Fitch landed expertly on the cobbles, bending his knees. He was swinging round when Newman grabbed both his shoulders, hauled him across the yard, slammed him forcefully into a wall. Fitch's head met the wall with a loud crunch. He was tough. He pretended to be winded, crouched down, grasped a knife from a sheath strapped to his leg.

  Newman raised his right foot, kicked Fitch hard between the legs. Fitch groaned, dropped his knife, used both hands to clutch the injury. Newman grasped his hair, hauled him out of the yard and along the deserted pavement to the car. Before opening the rear door he slammed Fitch's head hard against the car's roof. Fitch was unconscious as he heaved him on to the floor in the rear of the Ford.

  As Newman had hoped, Canal was sitting up, staring as though he couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. Newman climbed into the back of the car, placed his feet on Fitch's face.

  'Canal,' he said grimly, 'you can drive now, can't you?'

  'I guess so.'

  'Don't guess, just do it. Slide behind the wheel. Then you drive to that warehouse you told me about. . .'

  It was still dark. Canal made a better job of driving than Newman had expected. The East End was still quiet as they pulled up in front of the warehouse entrance. On Newman's ferocious order Canal got out, opened the padlock, went inside. Newman followed, Fitch's unconscious body looped over his shoulder. They entered the large bare room. Newman saw the handle to the round lid let into the dirty wooden floor. He dumped Fitch, then turned on Canal.

  'Listen, pie-face, where do you come from? You're not East End.'

  'Blackpool.'

  'Any contacts up there?'

  'My sister has a place I stay at.'

  'Then you catch the first train north and never come back. If you do I'll report you to Commander Buchanan at the Yard. Tell him you were involved in a kidnap attempt. Should get you five years inside. Maybe more. So better keep your stupid trap shut. Get moving.'

  'You'll tell Fitch where I've gone?'

  'I'll tell him you're hiding away locally. Can you imagine what he'll do to you if he ever catches up with you?'

  'I'm on my way.'

  Alone with Fitch, who was stirring feebly on the floor, Newman put on latex gloves. No fingerprints. He lifted the lid off, used a torch to stare down into the metal shell, saw the rushing water at the bottom heading for the river. He was in a fierce mood when he recalled Canal's babbling account of what had been planned for Paula.

  Picking up the large coil of rope from the floor, he checked it, saw the loop for Paula's neck, the frayed section which wouldn't have lasted long. Taking out a knife, he cut away that section, then re-formed the loop without a slip knot so it would hold.

  Using the woollen scarf he'd taken from the back seat of the car (Fitch was a well-organized piece of filth), he wrapped the scarf round Fitch's neck not too tightly, so he could breathe easily. Next he slipped the safe loop he had prepared round the scarf. Fitch suddenly came wide awake.

  'What the 'ell you doin' now? I'll get you for this, Newman.'

  'You think so?'

  Grabbing both Fitch's legs he hauled him to the chute, dropped them over. Fitch was now mixing the worst swear words with pleas for mercy. Newman looped the long length of rope over the hook a short distance down the chute, then lowered Fitch slowly down inside the metal tube. His head was now a short distance below the hook. His voice echoed weirdly inside the metal tube.

  'For Gawd's sake, Newman, don't do this to me. I've a pile of money. It's all yours . . .'

  The rest of his maundering plea was shut off as Newman replaced the lid. It was now up to fate. Newman couldn't bring himself to use the frayed loop. That would be coldblooded murder. Not his style.

  13

  It was still dark. Newman walked some distance before he hailed a cab driver, told him to drop him outside a block of flats in the Fulham Road. He didn't want any witnesses who could report where he had boarded the cab, where he had left it.

  A promising dawn was casting first light as he walked quickly to Paula's place. He'd intended to get into his car and drive quietly away. Paula, fully dressed, appeared at her bedroom window, called down to him.

  'Come on up. Here's the key to the front door . . .'

  He caught it, went inside and up to her flat. The ground-floor flat was occupied by a woman who spent little time there. Paula was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, took him by the arm, led him inside. She was clad in what she called her 'battledress' - smart blue slacks tucked into the tops of knee-length boots, a warm blue windcheater. Her hair was well brushed, as though she'd just been to the hairdresser's.

  'I was worried when I saw your car still parked out there . . .'

  'I've been up the last twenty-four hours.'

  'So you had a great night with Roma.' Paula smiled as she said it. 'I'm not asking for details.'

  'You can have them. I left Santorini's with Roma at 4 a.m., drove her home, then came straight on up here. Which may mean that's why you're still alive.'

  He'd decided to tell her part of his encounter with Fitch. She needed t
o grasp the danger of this mission. He cut off the story with shoving an unconscious Fitch in the rear of the Ford, ordering Canal to drive off and never to come back.

  'He was climbing up the drainpipe,' Paula said nervously.

  'What's in the loft? Another way in?'

  'There's a large skylight.'

  'Fitch must have done a recce earlier. That's where he planned to get in, to grab you. He had a bag containing cloth soaked with chloroform. You'd have ended up in the river.'

  'Are you trying to frighten me? If so, you're doing a good job. And you look fagged out. You need sleep - in my back bedroom. Now!'

  'Tweed wants us to go down to Black Island, to interview the General. Then there's his trip to confront the Cabal.'

  'Shut up! Sleep.'

  Newman stumbled, she grasped his arm, led him to the back bedroom. He found the sight of the made-up bed alluring; his head was throbbing. He was taking off his shoes when Paula reappeared with a glass and a large carafe of water. He swallowed the whole of the glass she poured for him, drank half the refill. Taking off his windcheater he stripped off his tie, loosened his collar.

  'I'll phone Tweed, explain the position,' Paula assured him.

  He flopped full-length on the bed. He was asleep when she tucked the pillow more comfortably under his head. Then she went into the kitchen, prepared two thermoses, one with coffee, the other with tea, a jug of milk, two cups and saucers, a plate of currant buns, carried everything on a tray, left it on the table by his bedside. Newman was motionless, breathing steadily, out of this world.

  *

  Paula drove to Park Crescent, was the first person in the office except for Monica. She had phoned Tweed at home from her flat. Everyone else arrived later, including Marler, who took up his favourite position, leaning against the wall, inserting a cigarette into his holder.

  When he'd settled behind his desk, Tweed's first question was addressed to Paula.

  'How is Bob?'

  'Sleeping like a babe. I think he'd had a tougher night than I relayed to you on the phone.'

  'I suspected that. Marler, you were going to contact some of your pals in Parliament, to check what they'd heard.'

  'Not my pals,' Marler drawled, 'my contacts. Fed them plenty of booze in the visitors' room or whatever they call it - and they talked their heads off. One of the brighter characters had heard the rumours about the formation of State Security. Didn't like it a bit. Said this land of freedom was going to be converted into a police state. A number of others agreed. A number of Cabinet Ministers are in favour, but not quite enough yet to agree to a bill being presented. It's on a knife-edge.'

  'So we can expect further incentives to scare everyone stiff. Hooligans smashing up inner cities. God knows what other villainy . . .'

  Tweed paused as Newman roared into the office. Paula checked the time. Newman couldn't have had more than four hours' sleep but his mood was tigerish.

  'I've been thinking,' he began. 'We're not moving quickly enough. Tweed has a horrific murder to solve, then we have the State Security lot to smash. Anyone with scruples about using unorthodox methods had better wake up. Now I'm ready to drive down with Tweed and Paula to Black Island as a starter.'

  Paula was marvelling at Newman's speedy recovery, his vitality. His appearance was intimidating. He was wearing a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. He had crammed a black beret over his tousled hair. Like a Commando, she thought. But at one time he had trained with the SAS to write an article on them. His experience had included joining potential recruits in a gruelling march over the Welsh mountains. To everyone's astonishment, including the SAS commander's, Newman had reached the far-away stop line as Number Two.

  'Pete,' Tweed interjected, wanting to give him a difficult task so he'd not feel put down by Newman, 'I need you to do a tricky thing while we're down south. I want you to take photos of the three members of the Cabal when they leave their HQ. They must not see what you are doing.'

  What a devil of a job, Paula thought.

  'One other point,' Newman roared on. 'Remembering our last experience down there with Paula, we need a strike force. So I'd like Harry and Marler to come with us. All heavily armed.'

  'You are starting a war,' Paula commented.

  'Only if the other side shoots first. Agreed, Tweed?'

  'Yes. And Paula comes too.'

  'So,' Newman decided, 'we'll travel in the ancient Bentley with the souped-up engine, courtesy of Harry.'

  'What are we waiting for, then?' Tweed demanded as he checked his Walther and slid it back into his shoulder holster.

  They parked the car in the area near the ferry where a striped pole was lifted. Tweed gave a local a generous tip to keep an eye on the Bentley.

  The drive down to Dorset had been a pleasure, with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. It was warmer as they neared the sea. This time Abe was no longer operating the barge. His replacement, a local man called Judd, explained Abe had gone on holiday. Newman smiled as they settled down, the only passengers aboard the barge.

  'Poor Abe has been scared off by that powerboat which blew up,' he remarked.

  The crossing to Black Island was like travelling over a lake. Paula revelled in the experience, sitting so she could see the approach to Lydford. They disembarked at the dock. The streets were deserted as they passed through the village and turned along the road to the left. It was very quiet. As Paula walked in front Harry was wary.

  'It's too quiet,' he remarked, bringing up the rear. Inside a long leather pouch he carried an automatic weapon. In the capacious pockets of his camouflage jacket was a collection of hand grenades. Tweed walked alongside Paula as they went down a wooded lane. Entrances to drives leading to large houses had names but there was no sign of Lockwood, the General's house. The previous evening a friend at the MoD had given Tweed the name. He stopped in front of wrought-iron gates which were closed. The name board merely gave the owner's name: 'Macomber'.

  There was no sign of life along the curving drive behind the gates, and no speakphone. Tweed shrugged.

  'He likes his privacy,' he observed. 'We'll walk a bit further. There must be someone about. . .'

  Paula clutched his sleeve. On either side of the tall gates was a massive stone pillar. She pointed to the top of the right-hand pillar, her voice expressing distaste.

  'Look at the top of that pillar. It's really rather awful.'

  Perched on top of the pillar was a stone sculpture of a cat. It was crouched down but its head was twisted round the wrong way, twisted through an angle of a hundred and eighty degrees. There was something horrible about the distortion.

  Turning a corner in the lane, Paula stopped. A freshly repainted sign board carried the legend 'Crooked Village'. What lay beyond was extraordinary. With little space between each very un-English one-storey cottage was a scene which reminded Tweed of Provence.

  The walls, and the steeply angled roofs above them, were painted with white paint, piled on thickly. Some had spike-like rafters protruding beyond the roof-line. Each cottage had only a few small windows and the doors were painted, again thickly, in blue.

  Tweed stared. The sunlight gave the brilliant colours a powerful blinding effect. A mass of cacti were placed close to the front walls. They turned a corner and now the steeply slanted roofs were painted red. It was not like England at all. They felt they had been transferred to another world.

  'Someone round here likes Van Gogh,' Tweed observed. 'This village is like one of his paintings.'

  'There's someone working inside this one,' Paula pointed out.

  'So we can ask about the General,' Tweed said and walked inside, followed by Paula.

  Another surprise. The large room was a potter's working area. The potter, working a wheel, was a small heavily built man with a crooked face, one side of his jaw lower than the other. He stopped working and gave Paula the pleasantest of smiles. His gnarled hands were enormous. He wore a white smock, woollen leggings and suede s
lippers smeared with white paint.

  'Welcome to France,' he greeted them. 'I am Francois. I hope you like our village. The General paid all the costs. General Lucius Macomber. He loves France.'

  He sat on a three-legged stool, indicated for them to sit in wicker chairs. Tweed lowered himself gingerly but the chair was solidly constructed. He introduced himself and jumped in with a reference to the General.