by Colin Forbes
'I can only give you a few minutes . . -.'
'You'll give us as long as it takes.'
Tweed was inside the poorly furnished office with Paula at his heels. The apparition closed and locked the door. Shuffling, he led them into another office which startled Paula. The furniture was expensive antiques with a large Regency desk. Unlike the outer office the room had been dusted, she noted. The solicitor sat down behind the desk in an antique high-backed chair. Paula caught a whiff of whisky.
'You are Mr Peck Sniff?' Tweed began.
'Pecksniff, if you please,' their host snapped.
'The New Age Development Company which built Carpford high up in the North Downs,' Tweed plunged on. 'You act for them.'
'Never heard of them.' Pecksniff's false teeth rattled.
'You handle collection of their rents - and other monies. The inhabitants have told us this. Stop lying.'
'I beg your pardon.'
Pecksniff straightened up, glared at Tweed. A picture of indignation and innocence. He clasped his bony fingers on his desk. The teeth rattled again.
'I must ask you both to leave.'
'You deny that you're connected with New Age?'
'Never heard of them.'
'Maybe,' Paula suggested nastily, 'another drop of Scotch would refresh your memory. We can always come back with a warrant and rip this dump to pieces.'
'I shall call a judge for an injunction.'
'Don't be silly,' Tweed told him mildly. 'You're probably in serious trouble.'
'The door is there.' Pecksniff had stood up. He pointed a quavering finger. 'This interview is concluded.'
'We tried to do it the easy way.' Tweed sighed as he stood up. 'We can find our own way out.'
They left the building. Harry unlocked the doors, slipped the Mace canister under his seat. Seated behind the driving seat, he turned round.
'Any luck? You've been very quick.'
'He won't talk.'
'Paula,' Harry suggested. 'While I'm away lock the doors. Get into this seat. I may be a while.'
Stepping out, he waited until Paula was behind the wheel, closed the door. Standing in front of the solicitor's door he stretched, widening his hefty shoulders. His thick thumb pressed the bell, held it pressed. He had his folder in his hand as the door opened. Swiftly he thrust it into Pecksniff's face, giving him little chance to examine it.
'Special Branch. I'm coming in . . .'
Harry pushed past Pecksniff, grabbed him by the arm, kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, hauled his captive into the inner office, used his foot again to kick the inner door shut, then pushed the solicitor towards the chair behind his desk.
'That looks like where you hold court.'
'I'm a solicitor . . .'
'Sit down.'
Harry pushed one of the hard chairs closer to the desk, sat. Pecksniff, looking dazed, resumed his normal seat on his throne. He was looking more normal. Which would never do. Harry leaned both meaty forearms on the desk.
'That filing cabinet over there will have the papers. Get them out.'
'What papers?' A vague hint of indignation.
'The New Age development gang!'
'I have already told the man who came in before you . . .'
Harry half stood up. His right hand whipped out, grabbed Pecksniff by the wing collar, tightened it. He hauled him out of his tall chair so he was stretched halfway across the desk, his own face close to the solicitor's. His voice was quiet and, like his expression, menacing.
'Now listen to me, Peckysniff. I have a short fuse. This ain't just about a property development. We'll have you for obstruction for starters. But there's more. You could go down as accomplice in two murders. So open the cabinet before I loses my temper.'
'Two murders . . .'
Pecksniff's voice was garbled, half-choking on Butler's grip. Butler sniffed again. Thought he'd caught the fumes of whisky when he'd entered. He relaxed his hold, jumped up, brought back a smeared glass from a side table, planted it in front of Pecksniff.
'Where's the bottle? Have a tot. Settle your nerves.'
Pecksniff, ashen-faced, tried to adjust his collar, then opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk, brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He removed the top and was on the verge of drinking from the bottle when Harry stopped him.
'Don't do it like that. You'll choke. Pour it into the glass first. That's what the damned thing's for.'
A lot of rattling. Harry, arms crossed, watched as Pecksniff poured a strong tot into the glass, held the shaking glass, looked at his visitor. Harry shook his head. Earlier he had used a handkerchief to pick up the glass. No fingerprints.
Pecksniff drank the whisky in two swallows. He sighed. Pale colour was coming back into his face. He put the glass down next to the bottle where he could reach it. His voice was hoarse.
'Two murders?'
'Yes. Mrs Gobble at the shop in Carpford. The other one will make you think. Mrs Warner. Linda Warner. Wife of the Minister for Home Security. You could be in line for both - unless we get cooperation.'
Pecksniff sighed again. Standing up, staggering a little, he took a ring of keys from his pocket, made his way to the cabinet. Unlocking it, he stooped, hauled out a fat green folder, placed it on the desk.
'It's all in there. Records of money transmissions, monies concerning Carpford.'
'There are some very large amounts here,' Harry said after riffling through the sheets. 'One for £200,000. Another, quite recently, for £400,000. All this for rents? Come on.'
'He said they were for renovations at Carpford.'
'Who said that?'
'Gerald Hanover. The man who organized the creation of New Age, who supervised the building of the village. He also checked the credentials of the tenants. Except for one. He wanted an unmarried woman - or a widow - to take charge of the shop. She was to keep an eye on the other tenants. A simple soul, he said. I interviewed those who answered an ad in The Times. I thought Mrs Gobble fitted the bill. A simple soul. It did strike me as odd, but Hanover paid me generous fees.'
'What does this Hanover look like?'
'I have no idea. Always gave instructions on the phone.'
'What did he sound like?'
'Very odd. The voice was so distorted I couldn't decide whether it was a man or a woman. Victor Warner infuriated Hanover when he slipped in and bought a large piece of land they'd overlooked. I didn't handle that transaction. I suppose Warner has some big solicitor in the City.'
The dam had broken. It had all come tumbling out because he was frightened. The whisky had probably helped.
'Ever try to trace Hanover?' Harry asked casually.
'Well . . . once. I used the four numbers which provide the number that calls you. Turned out it was a call-box in Berkeley Square. I rang a long time and a passer-by eventually answered, told me the number and where this phone-box was.'
'Nothing but the best for Mr Hanover. Berkeley Square. How was the money delivered to you?'
'By one of those big international transport firms who want a signature. That really is all I know about New Age.' He paused, his voice shook. 'I won't hear any more about those two murders, will I? I cooperated.'
'I can't promise, but I very much doubt it. Providing you never tell Mr Hanover about my visit. If you do we shall know.'
20
Tweed and Paula stepped inside the luxurious lift with its gilded mirrors and red leather seats. Tweed had decided Victor Warner must be working away from the Ministry and inside his flat in Belgravia. As the elevator ascended, Paula glanced round.
'Some people live in style.'
'He has money,' Tweed told her.
'I know. From some brand of laxative.'
Mrs Carson, the forbidding grey-haired housekeeper, opened the apartment door. She was polite but distant.
'Good afternoon, Mr Tweed. I didn't know you were expected.'
'I'm not. This is an emergency . . .'
The Minister
looked up from a desk in the palatial living-room, hastily scooped up a pile of papers, put them inside a Cabinet red box, closed it. He stood up, tall, agile and bad-tempered. His hawk-like face was grim, his eyes glittered behind the pince-nez, his voice was crisply upper crust.
'People call for an appointment, they don't come barging in without notice.'
'Yes, I know. I recall your summons via him.'
He pointed to Palfry, seated on a sofa when they arrived. He had now stood up with an unctuous smile. The small neat man tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.
'Either of you . . .' he gave Paula a beaming smile 'could have contacted me but I sense an urgency about you. Is there a problem?'
'Of course there is. I imagine you both know a very major attack is expected on London soon. Or doesn't that bother you?' he suggested, staring straight at the Minister.
'Please do sit down, make yourselves comfortable.' Palfry said quickly, ushering them to a sofa facing Warner's chair sideways on. 'We are all on the same side.'
'Most reassuring,' Tweed responded in an unconvinced tone.
As they sat on the sofa Warner was still standing, glaring. With obvious reluctance he swung his chair round to face them, slowly sat down. Even seated he appeared tall, lean.
'Have you ever heard of Gerald Hanover?' Tweed snapped.
'Who?' Warner polished his pince-nez, perched them back on the bridge of his prominent nose.
'Gerald Hanover,' Tweed repeated.
'Can't say that I have. Who is he?'
'Oh, probably the key piece in this deadly game of chess we are playing with the invisible enemy ... So far that's all we know.' He paused. 'Could be a man or a woman . . .'
The door opened and Eva Brand walked in, carrying a tray with tea for three. Paula stared as Eva placed the tray where they could reach it. She blew a kiss at Paula. Again Palfry spoke up quickly, smiling amiably.
'This is Eva Brand. I think you know her, Miss Grey. Eva, her companion is Tweed of the SIS.'
'Happy to meet you,' Eva said, as though she had never met Tweed in his office. 'How do you like your tea? It's Earl Grey. I hope that is acceptable.'
'It is most acceptable and very kind of you,' said Paula, who had taken over Palfry's role of covering for her host. Tweed was sitting in grim silence.
'Eva,' Palfry went on explaining, 'is a close friend of mine. An exceptionally intelligent lady.'
'Does a bit of work for us,' growled Warner, annoyed at others taking over the conversation. 'Nothing secret, of course.'
'Then that may make some of what I have to say awkward,' Tweed snapped.
'Don't worry, my dear chap,' Warner said, smiling acidly. 'Miss Brand was with Medfords Security. She is the epitome of discretion.'
'I suppose you've heard,' Tweed plunged forward, 'that the head of Special Branch, Jasper Buller, has disappeared. In very similar circumstances to those of your wife - and Mrs Gobble.'
'It's distressing, disturbing.' Warner gazed at the ceiling.
'It's more than that. It could be mass murder,' Tweed went on brutally. 'And it centres on that weird village, Carpford. We need to tear the place to pieces.'
'Already happening,' Warner said harshly. 'I've been to Carpford -I have a home there - and Buchanan has dragged Carp Lake. His team worked with searchlights through the night . . .'
'And found what?'
'No need to be so aggressive, Tweed. We have to keep our heads. He discovered nothing - except tadpoles. And that with a very large team of divers. I told Buchanan he had to clear the place up before they left. . .'
'And how did he respond to that?'
'Said he had already ordered his men to do just that. So, a complete waste of time.'
'News is beginning to get into the papers,' Tweed stormed, 'that there is a major threat to London. And Buller's disappearance, linked to the other two, will appear in the Daily Nation tomorrow. Newman has written a large article on these sinister events.'
'We could put a D notice on that,' warned the Minister.
'What on earth for? The public must be warned. It's not a state secret.'
'I just hope . . .' Warner paused to clean his pince-nez, a trick Paula suspected he used to emphasize what was coming next. He replaced the pince-nez, smiled unpleasantly.
'. . . As I was saying, I hope Newman hasn't gone wild and produced something that will panic London!'
'He hasn't mentioned where the danger is coming from. If that is what is unnerving you.'
'Nothing wrong with my nerves.' Again the twisted smile. 'I do know we have to be on our guard against the Real IRA.'
'We're going.' Tweed stood up with a face like thunder. 'I don't think we have anything more to say to each other.' He paused near the door, Paula by his side, his tone gentle. 'I just hope you will soon hear better news about your wife.'
'Thank you. Most kind of you.'
Eva had joined them. 'I'll see them out,' she called back.
She closed the door and Mrs Carson, tight-lipped, appeared. Eva smiled at her. 'I'm showing our visitors out. I know you have so much to do.'
Mrs Carson glared, not pleased at what she considered was her position being usurped. Without a word she walked away, slammed a door behind her.
'She's a bit touchy,' Eva said with a smile. 'Since Victor isn't often here she feels she has control here.' They had stepped into the lift. Eva spoke rapidly as it descended. 'Mr Tweed, could I come to see you again at Park Crescent? I'd phone first, of course.'
'Come at any time, please do.' Tweed was now his amiable self. 'We can have lunch or dinner, if you like.'
'I would like.' She gave him a flashing smile.
'You were pretty tough,' Paula observed as Tweed got behind the wheel of the car and Paula sat beside him.
'He gives a good impression that he hasn't a clue. What did you think?' he asked as he manoeuvred into heavy traffic.
'Totally clueless.'
* * *
Rush hour. The traffic was dense. At times they were crawling, at others stationary for minutes, then there was movement. At Hyde Park Corner it became gridlock. It was dark now and cars' headlights glared everywhere. They were stationary.
'London is packed solid with people,' Paula commented.
'What did you say?'
'That London is packed solid with people. Ah, we're moving again.'
They were halfway round the Duke of Wellington's statue and then stopped once more. A car was drawn up alongside Paula. She glanced at the driver alone behind the wheel, a brown-faced man, youngish with short hair. He caught her glance, leaned out of his window and tapped on hers with his left hand. She lowered her window, her Browning already in her hand. As the traffic started moving his right hand appeared. The Glock pistol it held was aimed point blank at Tweed. She fired once. Her bullet hit his right hand. Blood appeared, he dropped the Glock.
'Move!' Paula shouted.
Traffic behind the gunman's car was honking as it stayed where it was. Tweed swung his wheel, saw a gap, raced down Grosvenor Place. Paula looked back. The gunman's car was still stationary. The honking of cars behind him rose to a crescendo, then faded as Tweed continued driving fast.
'He was going to kill you,' Paula gasped.
'Saw it all out of the corner of my eye. You were so very quick. A significant event. Someone with a mobile must have been watching Warner's house, reported we were leaving.'
'Or someone inside the house. He looked Egyptian.'
21
Everyone was assembled in the first-floor office when Tweed and Paula walked in. Newman was seated in an armchair while Pete Nield perched on one of the arms. Harry Butler sat cross-legged on the floor while Marler leaned against a wall. Beaurain relaxed in the other armchair, waved to Paula who walked over to her desk, puzzled as to why the team was all present. Tweed seemed to read her mind as, after hanging up his raincoat, he sat behind his desk, his expression grim as he leaned forward.
'You were all asked to be here so
we can see where we are. The key element is we now know the enemy is al-Qa'eda. We have three confirmations of this dangerous development. Marler's top informant, Carla, told him this. In Milan, Jasper Buller's link with the ex-carabinieri officer told him the same thing. In Verona, Philip, a man I know to be totally reliable, now masquerading as Petacci, told Jules the same thing. Three entirely different sources.' He slapped his hand hard on the desk. 'I now feel there is no doubt any more. The powerful cell which was located in Milan is now on our doorstep. Why? Obviously to launch a September 11 attack on London . . .'
