Cell

by Colin Forbes

  Afterwards he could not remember stepping into the elevator or riding down in it. He stood by himself, his face fixed as though in stone. Could it be possible? Later he couldn't even remember stepping out of the elevator.

  Could it be possible?

  32

  Arriving back at Park Crescent in drizzling rain, they were surprised to see Buchanan's unmarked police car parked near their entrance. Tweed hurried up to his office, followed by Paula, Beaurain and Newman. Buchanan stood up, smiling.

  'Well, how did the great war conference go?'

  'Waste of time,' Beaurain told him. 'If Warner is typical of your ministers, they're almost as bad as those in Brussels.'

  'Don't agree with you, Jules,' Tweed said. 'I found it most illuminating. Provided more links in the chain I'm building up. Trouble is vital links are missing. Do sit everyone.'

  Paula realized he wasn't going to enlighten them. Not to be cryptic but because he hadn't decided whether he was right yet.

  'What brings you here, Roy?' Tweed asked.

  'We have a witness. You remember calling me about those five missing milk tankers? I did take notice. A few days ago I told Warden to call all the radio stations in the Midlands to ask them if anyone who had information would get in touch - information about the missing tankers. One alert lady phoned one station and they informed the locals who, in turn called me. A Mrs Sharp had phoned. I got her number, called her and asked her if she'd come to London to the Yard. Expenses would be paid. Hearing from the Yard excited her and she arrived this morning. After listening to her I brought her over here. She's waiting in that room facing your guard.'

  'Monica, ask her to come up,' Tweed ordered.

  'Here we go,' said Marler, standing near Paula's desk.

  The door was opened by George, the guard, who stood aside and ushered in Mrs Sharp. In her sixties, tall, slim and smartly dressed, her white hair was elegantly coiffeured. Tweed went to meet her, extending his hand.

  'We do appreciate your making this journey. Have you come a long way?'

  'I live in the village of Gifford, near Milton Keynes, but in the country.'

  She saw Buchanan, also standing, walk over to a wall map of England. She joined him. Her firm index finger pointed to Gifford. Buchanan circled it with a red pen.

  'Oldhurst Farm,' she went on, 'is here. It's been abandoned for years. The farmer went bankrupt. It has two huge barns, a smaller one, near the farmhouse, and is approached down a neglected lane.'

  Buchanan made another red circle. Tweed then asked her to sit in one of the armchairs facing his desk.

  'I think Mrs Sharp should tell you her story as she told it to me,' Buchanan suggested.

  'Then we'll get it right,' she said with a wicked smile at Buchanan.

  She struck Tweed as very well educated, her voice decisive and crisp. A woman of considerable intelligence. He gave her his full attention.

  'It would be three nights ago,' she began. 'I hope I have got that right. I've been so busy. At three in the morning I was driving back home down the road past Oldhurst Farm. I had been to see my sister who was unwell. Now recovered. As I reached the corner just before the entrance to the farm - I was driving slowly - I was startled to see a large milk tanker turn down that lane . . .'

  'Any name on it?' asked Tweed.

  'If there was I didn't see it. You see I was just in time to see it turning in. I was worried. I immediately thought of the remote farm used years ago by the Great Train robbers. So I waited, kept my engine ticking over. Then a few minutes later a small white van drove out. I did see the wording on its side. Florist.'

  'An old van?'

  'No, brand new. Luckily it turned in the opposite direction from where I waited . . .'

  'Direction south-east, towards London,' Buchanan interjected. 'And the Ml is not so far away. Would take the van into the heart of London. Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Sharp.'

  'That's all right. I'm getting the impression this could be important. On the way down in the train I read Drew Franklin's gossip column. Always do. He's malicious about people, I know, but so entertaining. Now, I think I've told you all I can, so . . .'

  'So,' said Tweed, standing up, 'have you ever had tea at Brown's Hotel? It is an experience you won't find elsewhere.'

  'No, I haven't. Oh, one more thing. I mentioned the three, no, the two large barns at Oldhurst Farm. There is a third, smaller barn behind them. Think I mentioned it.'

  'Marler,' said Tweed, 'would you be good enough to escort Mrs Sharp for tea at Brown's?' He glanced at his watch, was appalled to see it was afternoon. 'They'll have started serving by the time you get there.'

  'I'm going to enjoy this,' said Marler with one of his rare warming smiles. 'Afterwards I can drive you to the station to take you back. No, it's no trouble at all.'

  'No trouble indeed,' agreed Tweed. 'Mrs Sharp, have you told anyone else about this except Superintendent Buchanan?'

  'Absolutely no one. When I was asked to phone the Yard I knew it could be serious. You can rely on me to keep quiet. I'll even resist the temptation to tell my sister . . .'

  Tweed thanked her again, escorted her to the door, followed by Marler. Before descending the stairs she turned, smiled at Tweed.

  'What a nice lady,' Paula commented.

  'Shrewd too. What was that reference to Drew Franklin's column about?'

  Newman handed over the copy of the Daily Nation he had been skip-reading after she'd made her remark. He had ringed a paragraph.

  Tweed began reading it, frowning as he read it once more.

  A large force of al-Qa'eda have come to town. Their purpose? To launch a devastating attack on the capital, an attack which will make September 11 look like a skirmish. As usual Our security chums are in a panic. Just possible the SIS will save the day ~~ and London. They are near professionals.

  'Typically,' Tweed commented, 'dear Drew compliments us, then takes a swipe at us. Near professionals.' He looked round the room. 'But this is going to drive Victor Warner mad. He can't retaliate - the Ministry of Security is not specifically mentioned.'

  He passed the paper to Paula, who had left her desk and was itching to read the paragraph. Tweed handed the paper to her, then looked at Buchanan.

  'Mrs Sharp. Perfect name for the lady. Are you acting on what she told us?'

  'Excuse me!' Buchanan was indignant. 'Before I left the Yard I instructed Warden to check out Oldhurst Farm immediately. He's got a marked map like the one I used here. He's taking three patrol cars full of armed men. Strict instructions from me not to use sirens or lights when they're near the place.'

  'They'll find the place empty,' Tweed predicted, 'but they may find clues.'

  'Manchester,' Newman said suddenly. 'Had a quiet word with Marler while you were talking to Mrs Sharp. As you know, he had been out trawling every informant he could find. When he asked the top-flight ones they told him the word on the grapevine was that al-Qa'eda is gearing itself up for some tremendous operation on London. Only two second-raters said the target was Manchester - both suspects I'm sure are fed by Special Branch. Manchester!'

  'Decoy,' said Beaurain.

  'Smokescreen,' agreed Tweed. 'It's getting dark already. I think now Jules, Paula and Bob should come with me on a tour of London. As with Mrs Sharp, we got lucky. Now we need one more piece of luck.' He took out an evidence envelope from his pocket. It contained the simple drawing the poor mutilated Eddie had clutched in his dead hand in Monk's Alley. He called out to Paula, who was reading Franklin's column for the third time.

  'Come and look at this again.'

  Without taking it out of the protective envelope, he smoothed out the drawing. He shrugged in frustration.

  'What does this remind you of?'

  'A canoe.'

  'I see. And their weapons will be paddles.'

  'You did ask me,' she snapped.

  The phone rang. Monica answered, nodded to the phone on Tweed's desk. 'It's Harry calling on his mobile.'

 
; 'Another emergency? Tweed here, Harry.'

  'Just to report all's well so far with my patient. He stays in all the time, eats at the place. I got him a batch of paperback thrillers. He never stops reading them.'

  'Thanks for calling . . .' Tweed turned to the others.

  'That was Harry reporting that everything is quiet where Billy is cloistered in his new hotel.'

  'I have an idea,' Buchanan said. 'From what you've told me about Billy Hogarth he's trustworthy; I'll send Jean to question him, see if he has seen anything unusual up at the village.'

  'Jean?' Newman queried.

  'A clever and attractive policewoman. He might feel more comfortable with her.' He took the card Tweed gave him with the hotel's address.

  'Just so long as he doesn't get too comfortable with her,' Newman remarked with a straight face.

  'Time we prowled London after dark, looking for canoes,' Tweed decided.

  He ignored the dirty look Paula gave him.

  Beaurain, who had earlier been studying a detailed map of Central London, drove them. Alongside him sat Paula, while Tweed and Newman occupied the rear seats. He had his headlights on full beam. Paula soon realized he was heading south-west.

  They eventually emerged on to a main road and he turned east. The traffic was heavy. Beaurain was leaning forward over the wheel, his gaze turned to his right. Signalling, he suddenly swung right off the main thoroughfare on to a wide, badly made track.

  They quickly left the main capital behind, bumping over potholes as they were driven slowly through a wilderness. An area which had never been developed, with scrubby fields on either side. No buildings, and the fields were littered with rubbish a short distance back from the track - abandoned and rusty wrecks of cars, old metal buckets, a mix of rubbish which showed up in their headlights as Beaurain turned the car round corners.

  'Why on earth are we going down here?' grumbled Newman.

  'Leave him alone.' chided Paula.

  She had sensed that Beaurain had an instinct for exploring the most unlikely locations. He was driving very slowly now, his eyes scanning left and right. He crawled round another corner, the track straigtened. He stopped. Ahead a woman was walking her poodle on the scrubby grass.

  'We're still well upriver from the Albert Bridge,' Tweed complained.

  'Do keep quiet,' Paula snapped. 'Please,' she added.

  Beaurain switched off the engine, climbed out, walked towards the woman. She was well-dressed, in an expensive raincoat and leather boots. Still holding the white poodle on its leash, she turned as Beaurain approached her. Tweed had also got out, following Paula who was near the Belgian. With a snort Newman left the car.

  'Excuse me,' Beaurain said as he bent down and stroked the small dog, 'we are searching for some rather dangerous men. Have you seen anything odd going on round here?'

  Tweed backed up Beaurain by shining his flashlight on his identity folder which he held open for her to see.

  'SIS,' she exclaimed. 'I read about you in Drew Franklin's column this morning. He's witty, but sometimes he goes too far. No need for that last remark.' She turned back to Beaurain. 'Excuse me, I must answer your question. I come here because it's quiet to walk the dog. Earlier, when it was dusk. Down there . . .' she pointed further down the track '. . . peculiar-looking workmen were carrying something heavy and cumbersome out of a white van. The men have gone but it's still there. You can see now the moon's come out.'

  They all stared down the track. Perched broadside on was a small white van. Across its side one word was inscribed. Florist.

  'My God!' Newman whispered under his breath.

  'Can you describe this heavy and cumbersome object?' Beaurain asked.

  'Do my best. It was shaped like a fat shell, much wider in diameter than an ordinary shell. My departed husband was an officer in the Artillery, so I've seen real shells. In other ways it looked like a vertical torpedo, hunched down in the metal platform which supported it. It took six men to carry it to a large motorized trolley, then they secured it. Afterwards it was driven off further down the track. I was scared stiff they'd see me. I knew something was wrong. I froze still, worried that any movement would catch their attention. I had Pooh on a tight leash, so he kept quiet then.'

  'Then?' queried Beaurain.

  'All the workmen had disappeared with the trolley except one large man. He turned round and saw me, began to walk towards me. Pooh started growling and snarling. He can make a lot of noise for a little fellow. The large man stopped, obviously changed his mind, went behind that van and must have got on his motor-cycle. He reappeared and it roared off with him over that field to our left. Funny that they left the van.'

  'This would be about an hour ago - when you first walked down here?'

  'Yes, it would be. You don't know who I am. Mrs Wharton. My address is ... About an hour's walk from here.'

  'Jules Beaurain. One more question. What is there further down this track?'

  'Eventually you come to the Thames. That new building you can see in the distance is a powerhouse they finished several months ago. Coal-fired to save money. It's on the other side of the river. It serves a plant which makes some kind of advanced equipment. Something we could do without, I'm sure.'

  'Mrs Wharton, I cannot thank you enough for the information you have given us,' said Beaurain. 'Could I ask you on no account to mention this to anyone else in the world?'

  'Top secret. I know. I promise you I won't tell a soul. My husband's work was classified and I've learnt to keep my mouth shut. Now, if that's all, I think I should go home.'

  'We could squeeze you into our car and drive you there.'

  'Thank you, but I like walking. So does Pooh. He can walk miles and miles. I wish you luck with your project.'

  'We may just have had the luck we needed from you,' Tweed assured her, holding out his hand and smiling.

  Tweed borrowed Newman's mobile and called Buchanan, who had left Park Crescent when they did. He phrased what he said carefully. Buchanan said he was coming out with a special team immediately. Beaurain waved to say something.

  'Tell him I'll park your blue Audi at the entrance to this track, otherwise he'll miss it. . .'

  They drove back the way they had come in silence for a short while. Then Paula couldn't resist turning round to speak to Newman.

  'Well, Bob, in future maybe you'll have more faith in Jules's instincts.'

  'Yes. Jules, how the devil did you decide to come down this way?'

  'Observation. Before we reached the entrance I'd noticed on the main road a series of oil leaks. They were particularly noticeable at the entrance to this track. Beyond it on the main road they ceased.'

  'I'll eat my hat,' Newman responded.

  'Since you don't wear one,' Paula told him, 'I'll be sure to buy you one tomorrow.'

  They had parked at the entrance to the track for only a few minutes when a patrol car came racing down the main road, siren screaming, lights flashing. It stopped. Behind it came a car with Buchanan at the wheel and behind him a large truck carrying specialized equipment.

  Beaurain backed, swung his car on to the scrubby field, the convoy drove in and passed down the track. They got a brief wave from Buchanan.

  'Now proceed to the right,' Tweed ordered. 'I want to check whether Warner has Special Branch patrols along the Embankment as I suggested . . .'

  Again it was a crawl in dense traffic. They passed the Albert Bridge and Beaurain gazed fixedly at it while waiting for a chance to drive on. Paula noticed the intensity of his gaze.

  'What is it?' she asked.

  'Always like this?' he asked.

  'Always,' Tweed called out. 'Rush hour. Not a thing moving on the bridge. Bumper to bumper. It's 5.30 p.m . . .'

  They drove on, past Chelsea Bridge, Vauxhall Bridge, Lambeth Bridge and reached Westminster Bridge. All of them were packed solid with motionless traffic. And each time Beaurain gazed at the crush with his fixed stare.

  'Now,' said Tweed, sitting u
p right, 'keep your eyes open for men strolling along in camel-hair overcoats.'

  'The Special Branch patrol,' Paula commented.

  They reached Blackfriars Bridge and hadn't seen one man in a camel-hair coat. Once again they were stationary, locked in the floodtide of traffic. Paula twisted round to look at Tweed. His expression was grim. ' 'You're not pleased,' she said.

  'Not a single Special Branch man patrolling the Embankment. Warner has deliberately ignored one of my key requests. I know why. He'll have a number outside Buckingham Palace. Now we'll check St Paul's. My guess is there'll be a flock of them there.'