by Colin Forbes
'Yes, Miss Grey. What is it? Oh, come on in. You look as though you might be entertaining.'
She stepped into a living-room tastefully furnished with antiques. Franklin wore a white polo-necked sweater which matched his white slacks. His neatly brushed hair was brown and intelligent eyes swept over her. His jaw was firm but not aggressive, his mouth smiling. Closing the door, he waved towards a large sofa near a desk with a word-processor.
'I'll take your windcheater. You'll need it whenever you happen to leave.'
She decided to go over on the attack. She'd heard stories about his many conquests with women, some married. Taking off the windcheater, she folded it over her left arm, leaving her right hand free.
'Thank you, but I shan't be here long. And I'm not here to entertain, whatever that implied.'
'Tough lady. I've heard that too.'
'How did you know who I was?' she asked.
'It's my job to know all the key people in our crumbling society. Do sit down.'
'I prefer to stand. I've been sitting too long.'
'Please yourself,' he replied amiably, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. 'What do you want to know?'
He was attractive, she was thinking. She'd been wise to be on her guard. Get to the point, she thought. He was a man who disliked small talk.
'Did you know the missing Mrs Warner?' 'Come straight out with it, don't you? Yes, I knew her slightly. She didn't like me, but I liked her. She has been gone for three weeks. I find that ominous. I have decided to provoke her fool of a husband. You might like to read the bit in my article for tomorrow's Daily Nation.'
He walked over to his desk, took out a red pen, ringed round one short para. She went over to read it. Above and below the para were snippets which were not complimentary about well-known people on the society circuit.
Have the police considered Linda Warner may have gone off with a friend? Just one of other more draconian possibilities. The Minister seems concerned about St Paul's Cathedral. Does he really think September 11 could be repeated here? A quite different form of attack seems more likely. Al-Qa'eda are a very cunning organization.
'Isn't the first sentence libellous?' she wondered.
'Just checked it with our lawyer. He says it's all right.'
'Warner will go potty when he reads the reference to al-Qa'eda. He's trying to keep any reference to them in the press under wraps.'
'May wake up the PM at the eleventh hour. I am a responsible journalist, Miss Grey.'
'You don't think Warner can handle the crisis then?'
'I don't think Warner is handling the situation. That para will hit the Cabinet like a bombshell. Which is my motive.'
'You'll drive back to London with this copy in time to get it into tomorrow's edition?'
'You think I'm clueless, Miss Grey?' he said sarcastically. 'I shall transmit it to the editor over the phone tonight. Never missed a deadline yet. Is Tweed beginning to get a grip on his widespread investigation? The energy of your chief.'
'He's pursuing all leads,' she said cautiously.
'Oh, come on, Miss Grey! That's the kind of nonsense statement the police issue when they don't know what they're doing.'
His tone dripped sarcasm. He folded his arms, walked away and sat on the sofa. At no time since she had arrived had he stood close to her, let alone touched her. He crossed his legs.
'Do give me credit for knowing what's going on, Miss Grey. Instead of wasting time in London, examining the mutilated body of an informant called Eddie in Covent Garden, he'd do better to come up here, grill everyone of the sinister lot who live here. Tweed should be here,' he snapped. 'At least you have come. Seen anyone else?'
'Yes, I have. Peregrine Palfry, then Margesson, who slammed the door in my face. After that Billy Hogarth, who happened to have his brother, Martin, with him.'
'Martin? You're on the right track. You've done well so far. Can't remember when I said that to anyone else.'
'I'd better go now.' She was putting on her windcheater. 'I would like to thank you for giving me so much time. You'll want to transmit your latest commentary.'
'Yes, true.' He stood up, a lean athletic figure. 'How are you going to get back to London? It's late.'
'I have my car parked safely away.'
He had accompanied her to the door which he opened. He was close to her as he whispered in her ear.
'There's no safety up here . . .'
She started walking back to the shed where her car was parked. Drew Franklin had a powerful personality. She was almost sorry to leave him. If anything the fog seemed denser, an opaque cloud which swirled slowly round her. Made her feel nervous. She was still close to Drew Franklin's house when she sensed someone was behind her. She was turning her head when she was struck with a ferocious blow. She fell forward, diving into an endless abyss of darkness.
24
She woke slowly, had trouble thinking, felt as though she had been drugged. Her eyes were closed. She kept them closed, hoping her head would clear, her brain would start functioning.
Gradually she realized she was stretched out on her back and lying on a bed of hard boards. Feeling was returning. She listened for a long time, eyes still closed. Her arms were stretched out, lying on her body. Something was pinioning her wrists together. She was listening to check whether a guard was with her. She heard nothing. A tomb-like silence.
It was cold. Gently she twiddled her toes. She was still wearing her boots. Where the hell was she? She risked opening her eyes quickly. What she saw was not reassuring. The room was square, the floor paved with stone slabs, no windows. Over to her right a heavy wooden door, a barred window in its upper half, a cover over the window on the other side. She eased herself up, felt terribly stiff. How long had she been lying here?
Her left arm ached, the sleeves of the windcheater had been pulled up. In her forearm where it hurt a plaster had been attached. She was drugged. She raised her aching arms, saw the rope binding her wrists together, with about a foot of slack between the rope round her wrists. They had also roped her ankles round the boots. Her legs had swollen. Maybe they'd had trouble trying to take off the boots, had given up trying.
With a great effort, she sat up, twisted her head to see behind her. A stone wall with a peculiar plaque, a large circle set into the wall. The plaque carried a symbol she didn't recognize. She made no attempt to read the brief Arabic wording.
She realized they had left her watch on her wrist. She checked the time. Eight o'clock. In the night or in the morning? She had no idea. She lay back in her original position, exhausted. She was hungry. A wave of her helplessness swept over her. No good. She bit her tongue carefully. The pain brought about sudden recovery. She began to think.
She realized for the first time her prison was illuminated by a light in the ceiling, a light protected by a glass box with thin wire bars. Presumably so it wouldn't be smashed by the prisoner. She heard the cover over the window in the door opening, closed her eyes, sagged back. Someone was coming to see her.
Another sound. The turning of a rusty key in a lock. As the door swung inwards she peered quickly through almost closed eyes. The man who entered was hampered, carrying a large-plastic container, a glass protected with clingfilm or something similar.
She saw a tall slim man in his late twenties, his face and arms brown, hair cut short. She closed her eyes as he re-locked the door, leaving the key on the inside of the lock. The ceiling light went out. Most reassuring. She heard him approaching the wide bed, putting what he'd been carrying on the stone floor. He was close to her now. He slapped the side of her face, spoke in English.
'Wake up! It must have worn off now.'
Another slap to the other side of her face. She opened her eyes. He held a large flashlight beamed on her head. She groaned, said something deliberately unintelligible. Her next words were clear but hoarse.
'Put on the friggin' light . . . Dopey . . .'
To her surprise he went back to the door, pr
essed a switch. The ceiling light came on. Returning, he switched off the flashlight, laid it on the floor. She heard it rolling away under the bed. He rasped out his annoyance in a language she didn't understand. She made a great effort to divert his attention.
'You'll ... go to prison . . . for this. For a long time.'
'You are the one in prison. Whether you ever leave it is dependent on yourself.'
She was staring at him now. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of blue slacks. The forearms exposed by the half-sleeved T-shirt exposed more brown skin. His young face was smooth-skinned, the eyes dark, soulless. He stared at her without expression. Egyptian was her best guess about his nationality. His arms looked strong, wiry. Difficult to tackle. She deliberately exaggerated the hoarseness of her voice.
'I'm thirsty . . . Water ... I need . . . water.'
He nodded. Took the glass out of its protective covering, poured liquid which looked like water from the canister. He handed her the glass. She snarled at him.
'I've . . . been drugged . . . you drink first.'
'But of course.' He lifted the large container, drank from it. She still held on to the glass without drinking. 'You see,' he continued, 'just water. Nothing in it.'
Her throat was crying out with thirst. She forced herself to drink slowly. When the glass was empty, she shoved it at him. Her movements were difficult with her hands tied together.
'More . . . more,' she croaked.
He refilled the glass, seated on the edge of the bed. She took it from him. Again she compelled herself to drink slowly. She was feeling half-alive now. Her brain ticked over. How to handle him. Every time he spoke his face had the awful blank expression. No emotion whatsoever.
'Now you answer questions,' he told her. 'Information is what I need. What does Tweed know? How far has he got with his ridiculous investigation?'
She stopped herself protesting at 'ridiculous'. Instead she sagged back. She moved slowly, as though completely worn out. She shook her head, slowly. She pretended to try and speak several times before the words came out.
'Can't think . . . feel drugged . . . Mind not working. Sleep . . . must sleep.'
'Then I come back later. Then you answer questions - if you want to leave your prison alive. Answer questions and you are released . . .'
She was staring straight at him as he spoke, at his eyes, so blank of feeling. She knew he was lying. If she had given him information - which she had no intention of doing - she would then be killed. Would disappear like the others.
'Later,' she said, 'I tell you . . . anything I can. Information.'
Her unexpected agreement to cooperate diverted him, as was her intention. He stood up, a lithe athletic young man in the prime of condition. He took the glass from her, picked up the canister, headed towards the door. He was so smooth, his voice and his physical movements. It was frightening. He unlocked the door, took out the key, went out, closed and locked it behind him.
She sagged further back, eyes closed - in case he took a second look through the window in the door. He didn't. She felt she had won a small victory. The flashlight which had rolled under the bed was still there. It might be so useful to her later. She wasn't sure how.
She sat up again. Leaning forward, ignoring her aching body, she held her hands together, used one to feel down inside her boot. The sheathed knife was still there. She eased it out, pushed sheath and knife under her waist band. The Beretta was still inside the other boot, but firing that could be heard by Lord knew what other vicious thugs were inside this place.
Where was she? She had asked herself a dozen times. Now her memory was clearing. The last person she had called on was Drew Franklin. It was shortly after she had left his house that she had been clubbed on the back of the head. Those concrete cubes could hide heaven knew what below the ground. But it could have been someone else.
She began exercising. Drawing her knees up into a pyramid, forcing herself to do that twenty times. The exercise was seeming easier. Now for her hands. She clenched and unclenched her fingers thirty times. She worked her arms, drawing them up, pressing them down another thirty times. She thought of using the knife to weaken the ropes tying her hands, rejected the idea. He hadn't tested the rope yet, but he might do when he returned.
She had worked out two options for dealing with him, according to the circumstances. One essential was to make him lose his temper, that cold-blooded control she'd seen in those eyes. What had worked wonders for her were the two glasses of water, removing the dehydration. Earlier, for a short time, she had experienced a sensation of overwhelming despair. Now she was feeling a sense of cold fury, an urge to kill if necessary. That was what they had planned for her.
Then an alarming thought occurred. Supposing he came back with someone else? She could never tackle two of them. Maybe she did need the Beretta. No, she couldn't risk the noise of two shots. She relaxed as she heard the rusty key turning in the door. A matter of life or death.
He came back alone, repeated the same drill, locking the door on the inside, leaving the key in the lock. No more water this time. As he came over to the bed she blinked, hoping to hide her drastic change of mood. He sat down again.
'I am Mohammed. So you know who you are talking to. Best to be polite, friendly. What does Tweed know about us?'
He'd thrown the question at her without warning. This was going to be different. She looked puzzled. His right hand reached forward, stroked her face, then suddenly slapped her with such force her head jerked sideways. Her controlled cold fury was not disturbed.
'Who is us?' she asked quietly.
'Who is he investigating?'
'How would I know?'
'I'll cut your face to ribbons. No man will ever want to look at you again.'
The same smooth voice. No emotion. In his right hand he held a large curved knife. He raised it, the tip close to her face.
She broke down. Her expression betrayed hideous fear. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. She swallowed. She opened her mouth again and this time she spoke in a shaky voice.
'I will tell you everything I know. Give you all the information I have. But please . . . please . . . put that knife away. My brain is locked. Put the knife away.'
He lifted the back of his T-shirt, slipped the weapon back inside the hidden scabbard. She sat up straight. Mohammed leaned closer to her, his eyes staring into hers. Now was the moment. As she'd sat up her right hand had slipped underneath her thigh, had grasped the stiletto-like knife. She leaned closer, rammed the knife into him, between his ribs, with all her force.
For a moment he couldn't believe it. He glanced down at the handle protruding from his body, then he let out an agonized groan as blood spurted, poured down over his T-shirt. It was a large bed and she had been dumped on the side nearest the door, leaving half the bed unoccupied. She heaved her whole body upwards, lifting him, then swung sideways. They ended up with his body on the unoccupied area with her on top of him, her knee pressing the knife in deeper. Both her hands, close together, grasped him round the throat, pulled him towards her then shoved him backwards. One side of his head struck the plaque, the other side crashed into the stone wall. She heard an unpleasant sound - bone breaking against the stone. He lay motionless.
Still kneeling on him, she used her knife, jerked savagely from his body, to sever the rope round her wrists, then the rope pinioning her boots. She was free. She was about to jump off the bed when she stared. Where one side of his head had struck the plaque there was a large hole, maybe three feet wide. The plaque had disappeared. She realized it was hinged, opened inwards.
She wiped her knife clean on the coarse duvet she had lain on, climbed off, slithered under the bed, found the flashlight which had clicked off. She turned it on, stood on her side of the bed and peered down into a tunnel.
She was startled by what she saw in the light's beam. A few feet below her was a stationary flatbed trolley on wheels. It was perched on a narrow rail line. She aimed the lig
ht down the tunnel, which was oval, built out of stone, sloping downwards until it reached a point where the angle of the rails became steeper. She switched off the flashlight and closed her eyes to accustom them to the dark. In the distance she saw a blurred glow, circular in shape, the end closed off with a wire screen. Presumably for ventilation.
She had a brief thought that the escape route was via the heavy door Mohammed had entered by. The key was still on the inside of the lock. She rejected the thought. Attempting that route, she would probably run into a gang of armed thugs. She dropped through the three-foot wide opening on to the trolley. It remained stable as she landed, bending her knees, relieved to find them working normally.
