by Colin Forbes
'Sure I'll be ready for you then.' She giggled. 'In fact I'm ready for you now.'
Again, presumably, a response from the caller.
'No, I'm not. Don't be naughty . . .'
Another pause while the caller said something.
'Didn't say I loved you. Liked you a lot, I said.'
Another pause.
'That's all right. Get here when you can.' Another giggle. 'I'm not going anywhere. Bye.'
Paula, behind the coats, tensed. If she came into this closet . . . Unlikely with only three coats for outside wear, but still. . .
She remembered seeing a neatly folded pile of underwear on a chair in the bedroom. Also a dress had been folded carefully over the back of another chair.
The closet door looked heavy but the next thing she heard distinctly was the clink of a glass. Coral was not dressing for her visitor. Instead she was sitting down to drink champagne. Wearing nothing.
Paula wished she'd taken off her windcheater - it was warm inside the closet. She decided she dare not risk it. She might make a noise, hit one of the coats hanging from the brass rails.
She settled down to wait.
40
Seated in the passenger seat at the rear of the cab, Tweed was checking maps of the area round where the Parrot lived. He was busily changing several of the positions Newman had suggested for the watchers.
'Told 'im you'd muck about with the sentry posts. Guv,' Harry called back.
'How close are we now?' Tweed called back.
'Five minutes away at the most. Then we're outside the side street where the Parrot 'ibernates. We're in 'Ammersmith already.'
'I want you to cruise round very slowly so I can check up on the team.'
'Parrot's pad is in sight now.'
Tweed peered out. The Parrot's first-floor flat was on the corner of the main street and the side street. It had two windows on the main street side. They were a blaze of lights. He could also for a moment see the windows overlooking the side street. Again the lights behind them were on. The Parrot was at home.
He saw a decrepit-looking individual sweeping the pavement with a broom. The sweeper was tall, was wearing an Australian-style hat with the brim pulled well down. He suddenly realized it was Newman.
Harry crawled so slowly past the end of the side street he was almost stationary. Tweed spotted a down-and-out leaning against a wall opposite the entrance to the Parrot's flat. A beer bottle, held by the neck, was dangling from his left hand.
'That's Pete Nield,' Harry told him.
'And Marler?' Tweed queried.
'Never spot him. Why do you think we call him the Invisible Man?'
'I want to know now where Marler is,' Tweed demanded. 'That is an order, Harry.'
'OK. He's merged in the shadows of the house next door to the entrance to the Parrot's place. No one can enter that building without Marler being within feet of them. So how far do you think an intruder - or a visitor - can get?'
'Thank you, Harry. This means the Parrot's place is sealed off. Which is what I wanted. Now cruise slowly back and forth as though looking for a customer. I'm slumped down out of sight. I'll appear if someone tries to hire you.'
'They won't. I've got the light off, showing I'm busy. I suggest you relax and eat your meal.'
Tweed slowly ate his meal, drank from his water bottle as he kept an eye on the silent streets and thought.
He was going over in detail the reports the team had given him about their interviews. Somewhere there was a clue. No one under pressure of interrogation was able to avoid making a slip at some time.
Then he had an idea. He asked Harry to lend him his mobile, then to turn on the overhead light. From his top pocket Tweed extracted the card General Macomber had tucked into it. He rang the General's phone number. A woman, sounding like a housekeeper, answered quickly. 'General Macomber's residence. Who is this?' 'Tweed of the SIS. I'm sure the General has told you I met him this morning . . .'
'Yes, sir, he did. I know who you are.'
'Then could I please have a word with the General?'
'I'm afraid not. He left early this afternoon for London. He wasn't able to say when he would be back.'
'Thank you. I may call you tomorrow. Good night.'
Tweed was disturbed. What could the General be doing now, prowling round London? Where? Why? He had dismissed him from his mind after the explosions on Black Island which had destroyed the prisons. Had he misjudged the General?
Benton. He was a strange character. Difficult to understand. Apparently the peacemaker in the Cabal. Apparently? Yet he had revealed an evil temper when ending Nield's interview with him.
Noel. Violent in many ways. The Planner of the whole grim system. Was his mind unbalanced? If so, to what degree?
Nelson. To some extent appeared to have similar views to himself on the present state of Britain. He was controlled and clever. During his recent visit to Park Crescent had he been throwing a smokescreen in Tweed's eyes? To keep him quiet?
The Parrot. Harry was now taking the cab back to the area of her flat. All those lights in her windows began to bother Tweed. Had they been switched on automatically by timers? Was the Parrot actually inside her flat?
At the back of his mind he was being irritated by the playing of a pop song. Louis Armstrong. 'What A Wonderful World.' What a wonderful world . . .
There flashed back into his restless mind Paula's description of the scene in the room next to the Cabal's HQ. The newspaper folded to the glaring headline on Coral's desk. Her dancing, singing 'What a wonderful world'. The Parrot screaming at her to shut up ...
'Harry!' he called out. 'Give me back the mobile.'
He pressed the numbers which would put him through to Monica at Park Crescent.
'Put Paula on the line immediately.'
'She's not here.'
'What?' Tweed went cold.
'Quite a long time ago,' Monica explained, 'she left to join you and the team. But there was something odd about what she did . . .'
'For Heaven's sake, what was odd?'
'I watched her drive off from the window. I'd expected her to turn left towards Baker Street but instead she turned right to the east. I couldn't understand why she'd—'
'Thank you. I must go now.'
Inside the cab Tweed sat stunned, fearful. But only for a few seconds. From memory he pressed numbers as fast as he could, giving each member of his team the desperately urgent order.
'Emergency! Forget the present assignment. Head as fast as you can, full speed. Emergency! Head for Govern Garden.'
41
Inside the closet at Coral's flat Paula was feeling the strain of her vigil. Coral's visitor had still not made an appearance. Paula had remained standing up and still for ages.
She dared not check her watch in case any movement caught one of the coats and dragged it along the rail. She dared not sit down for the same reason, so she remained standing like a statue. Her legs were aching from staying in the same position for so long. At least she wore sensible shoes with rubber soles, so occasionally and with great care she eased her feet inside them.
In the bedroom Coral had not helped when she had put on a CD of Louis Armstrong's 'What A Wonderful World' on repeat. By now Paula was sick of the melody, sick of Louis Armstrong, whom at one time she had liked. There was the occasional clink of a glass and Paula assumed Coral was drinking more of her champagne. The sound made Paula feel thirstier and thirstier. It was getting intolerably warm inside the closet.
The one plus for Paula was she able to sip water from the bottle she had brought with her. By choosing the times when the CD was playing she hadn't the worry that her swallowing the water would be heard.
Another problem was she felt it vital to hold the butt of her Browning in her right hand. Her hand kept getting clammy and this problem had to be dealt with. Trying to aim and fire a handgun with a slippery palm was not a good idea. So, at increasing intervals, she tucked the gun inside her windcheat
er pocket and with her left hand used a handkerchief to dry the palm. Every time she took this essential precaution she was worried the automatic would slip out of the pocket and crash on the wooden floor.
The endless waiting was pure hell. Paula wished she had thought to balance her aching back against the rear wall. She dared not move now. Those bloody coats. Knowing the time would have helped psychologically, knowing how long she had been inside her self-imposed cell. She had lost all track of time. She could have been in the closet for two hours, an hour, even for only half an hour. She just had no idea.
To counter the heat, to keep her mind alert, she dug her nails into the palm of her left hand. She was beginning to hate the lights which had come on, stayed on, when she had first entered the closet. Would it have been more comfortable to stand in the dark? She couldn't make up her mind. She knew now how punishing it must be in prison when inmates were thrown into solitary with lights on to keep them awake.
She had just once more wiped the palm of her right hand dry, then carefully grasped the Browning, when she heard a muffled voice in the hall.
She couldn't hear what it said, whether it was a man's or a woman's. But she heard clearly Coral's response when she stopped the CD.
'Welcome. I know it's been raining. Take off your wet stuff. Hang it on the hooks in the wall down there. No hurry. You'll find a towel on one hook so you can dry yourself.'
She could hear Coral moving about. The click-clack of spiked heels on the floor. She might have nothing else on but she was wearing shoes. Very sexy, Paula thought savagely.
Very slowly and cautiously she moved closer to the shut door of the closet. She was convinced there might not be much time to save Coral if the murderer had arrived. She might have very little time to react. On the other hand she must not appear too quickly. If she did so whoever would be coming up the stairs might, unseen, have time to dart down into the hall, through the open door, vanish in the streets. She remembered that both Viola's and Marina's front doors had been found left open.
There was the sound of heavy feet padding up the stairs. Saafeld had said something about the murderer wearing canvas shoes, large size, probably padded inside with cloth to give the impression of a killer with large feet, in case the feet stepped in blood, left marks . . .
'Like to start with a drink?'
Paula had heard Coral filling glasses with champagne. She would be waiting with a glass in each hand . . .
'Oh, my God! No! No! No!'
Coral shrieking as the padding steps reached the bedroom.
Shrieking with pure terror.
Paula pushed at the closet door. Oh, God, it was sticking. The click-clack of Coral's shoes rushing to the far side of the low bed. Paula used her shoulder, the full power of her body against the door. It flew outwards. She nearly lost her balance, recovered. She heard the thud of Coral being pushed over backwards, sprawling, the back of her head striking the wooden floor.
Paula nearly went into shock when she saw the white apparition. A long surgeon's gown, surgeon's cap over the whole head, surgeon's mask from the bridge of the nose downwards, enormous goggles, dead eyes staring through them at her, in the right hand a large meat cleaver. Lord, it had been quick. Over Coral's mouth a scarf tied as a gag. Coral's eyes open.
The white apparition saw Paula, darted quickly round the bed towards her, meat cleaver raised high to strike, to slice down the middle of her skull. She held her ground, Browning held steady, both hands gripping it. She fired once, twice. It was still coming. Maybe had body armour. She elevated the angle of the muzzle, fired three times at the head. It stopped, stood still for seconds, fell towards her, cleaver still in its hand as the body crashed to the floor.
The cleaver blade thudded an inch into the floor. People rushed into the room. Tweed first, then Buchanan and the team, headed by Newman.
Paula was still standing, the muzzle of her Browning now shuddering. Gently, Tweed removed the weapon from her and dropped it into an evidence bag.
Stooping down, he used a latex-gloved hand to wrench off the mask and the goggles in one careful movement. The head and face of Nelson Macomber stared up, lifeless, its complexion red as the setting sun after a summer's day.
Paula ran to the far side of the bed where Coral was stirring. She grabbed a dressing-gown off a chair, helped Coral to her feet, helped her to don the dressing-gown, removed the gag. Despite protests she guided her out of the bedroom, into the living room and closed the door. She handed Coral some underwear, then outer clothes. She stopped Coral reaching for a full glass of champagne.
'Plenty of water first. Then coffee . . .'
Epilogue
Four weeks later
Tweed was in his office with Paula and Bob Newman. A general election had taken place. There was an air of relief at Park Crescent. The government had fallen, the opposition had taken over power.
'What was the main reason for their defeat?' Paula wondered.
'This.'
Tweed held up a month-old copy of the Daily Nation. The headline above the first of many stories by Drew Franklin was enormous.
NEWLY APPOINTED CABINE'I MINISTER MASS MURDERER
Below it the text described vividly the scene in Coral Flenton's flat when Paula had shot Nelson Macomber dead as he was about to carve Coral up. This attempt was linked with the horrific killings of Viola and Marina Vander-Browne. A police report from Commander Buchanan left little doubt Nelson Macomber was the murderer of both women.
'And this,' said Tweed, holding up another copy of the paper printed two days later.
NELSON MACOMBER'S 'CABAL' PLANNED PRISON STATE, GB
The text described in detail the prisons built on Black Island with photos of the torture chamber. The smuggling in of the Tatra mountains Slovaks was also described, illustrated with a photograph of their brutal chief, Radek.
A few days later the same paper, with Drew Franklin's by-line, printed the devastating report Tweed's Director, Howard, had handed to the now resigned Prime Minister. Also there was a copy of the draft bill proposing the creation of State Security. A draft which had been destroyed.
'I do wonder,' Newman said with a cynical smile, 'how Drew obtained all this information, including photos Paula took.'
'I really have no idea,' said Tweed as he gazed at the ceiling.
'You know,' Newman went on, 'when you're telling a whopping great lie you always gaze up at the ceiling.'
'I was watching a spider.' Tweed looked at Paula. 'How is Coral now?'
After the shooting of Nelson, Paula had taken Coral back to her flat. There she had called Professor Saafeld who, after examining the body of Nelson Macomber, had rushed to the flat.
After checking Coral carefully he had suggested moving her to a private clinic where she could stay until she had recovered.
'Bloody hell! No clinic, thank you,' Coral had burst out.
'She could stay here with me,' Paula suggested firmly. 'I can watch over her.'
'Might be a much better idea,' Saafeld had agreed. 'She is only in a mild state of shock. The young can recover quickly from almost anything. I leave her in your safe
hands, Paula.'
*
As if on cue, as Paula recalled this scene, Coral walked into the office with a springy step. She wore a new close-fitting white jumper and a white skirt. The outfit emphasized her blaze of red hair. She was smiling nervously as she looked at Tweed.
'Is it all right if I go on a short holiday with Pete Nield? He's such a nice man and wants to take me to a fabulous hotel by the sea in Dorset.'
'He's practically been living at my flat,' Paula said drily.
'He can take a fortnight off,' Tweed told her.
Coral rushed across the room, talking as she moved, threw her arms round Paula. 'You've been a real brick, looking after me. I do want us to keep in touch.'
'A long dinner, then, when you get back. My bet is Pete is waiting downstairs for you in the visitors' room.'
'Yes,
he is. But before I do . . .'
She rushed at Tweed, hugged him so hard he was almost out of breath. She then administered the same treatment to Newman, waved a hand and was gone.
'I did work it out eventually,' Tweed said to Paula, linking his hands behind his neck. 'The newspaper on Coral's desk announcing Nelson's promotion, Coral dancing with delight. That killer had charm and she'd fallen for him, so she was the next victim, not the Parrot.'
