by Colin Forbes
Marler slipped gloves on to his hands after sliding the Walther back inside his hip holster. While Hogarth sank on the steps, Marler opened the cab's front door. His single bullet had struck the hitman in the chest and blood covered his jacket.
Avoiding any contact with the blood of the dead man, Marler searched his pockets. Nothing to identify him. Figured - with a professional. He left the killer's automatic on the floor, used a folded coat by the side of the seat to cover the blood-soaked corpse's front, climbed out, shut the door. Then he grabbed Martin by the arm.
'Now we're walking back down the way you came. We get out of here fast. On your feet!'
He hustled Martin back towards the Embankment. With his hand gripping Hogarth's arm, he was half-carrying him. As they walked he gave his captive instructions.
'Did you drive in from Carpford? You did. So where is your car parked?'
'In a multi-storey near Baker Street. . .'
'I'm taking you there. You will then drive straight back to Carpford and sit tight inside your bungalow. Have you any weapons in the place?'
'A shotgun. Use it to shoot rabbits . . .'
'Keep it by your bed when you go to sleep. Make sure everything is locked up. If there's an alarm, call Tweed at the number for General & Cumbria Assurance. Do not return to London.'
'Where is Billy?'
'In a safe place, I have been told. Two hitmen attempted to kill him but they were thwarted. Billy is all right. . .'
They had reached the Embankment. Marler flagged down a cab. As they climbed inside he whispered his last instruction.
'Give the cabbie the address of that multi-storey car park.'
At Park Crescent Tweed was making notes, writing down a list of suspects. He was trying to link them up. Newman looked up from reading the Daily Nation.
'This is the weirdest obituary I've ever read. A Captain Charles Hobart. The weird thing is he died - was killed -almost two years ago. The MoD must have put a D notice on it. First time in history.'
He handed the paper to Tweed. Sighing, Tweed pushed his note book aside, spread the page out, read it carefully.
Captain Charles Hobart served with a well-known regiment. He soon developed the reputation of being a maverick, a quality overlooked by his superiors since he always proved to be right in his unorthodox views and behaviour. It is rumoured he worked closely with an Intelligence officer. Popular with his men - unusual for a maverick - he trapped large numbers of enemy troops. Serving in Yemen, nearly two years ago, he left his headquarters to locate another body of the enemy. He walked into an ambush and was killed instantly. There were rumours that he had been betrayed - vehemently denied by the MoD. There are still soldiers who insist he must have been betrayed by someone holding authority.
Tweed studied the photograph of Hobart in uniform, A handsome-looking man with shrewd eyes, he wore an Arab head-dress.
'Sounds like a minor Lawrence of Arabia,' he commented. 'It also sounds as though the MoD really clamped down on this one. I've always regarded them as a bunch of crooks, their first priority being to cover themselves . . .'
He looked up as Marler entered the office. Wiping his hands, as though rid of something unpleasant, he leant against a wall.
'That's got rid of Martin Hogarth . . .'
He gave them a terse account of the incident, as he called it, near the Embankment. Tweed listened until he had completed his account, then jumped in.
'That Walther used to kill the hitman. Are you still carrying it?'
'Of course not. The police have a very good Ballistics Department. So I went into the basement before I came up here. Gave them the Walther, watched while they crushed it with their machine into nothing. The remnants are now on their way to our training mansion in Surrey for total disposal. I also collected this from their weapons store.' He produced a Walther.
'Not brand new?' Tweed checked.
'Does it look it? They worked on it while I watched. Looks just like the one I carried for months.'
'The police will find the body,' Tweed explained. 'So just in case someone saw you on the Embankment - a patrol car with an officer who knows you - what were you doing down there?'
'What you asked me to. Checking for Special Branch men. Not a single one.'
'You said the hitman cab driver was originally parked near the end of the Crescent here. Wake up, Newman. Those two new men who may join us - Wilson and Walker, the twins. They are still along the road at our Communications Branch learning discreet ways of communicating?'
'They are,' Newman agreed.
'Get along there now. Instruct them to patrol the area outside, looking for anyone watching this building. I wonder what on earth has happened to Paula and Jules?'
'Charming district,' Beaurain commented. 'Streets hardly wider than alleys, not a coat of paint for years on these shabby buildings. And women clearing stuff off stalls, then folding the stalls up. At this hour, in this cold. Who on earth would be out buying in this cold?'
'This is Wapping,' Paula told him, amused. 'Deep in the East End, which is what you wanted. As to the stalls, men who work the river get back late and buy on their way home. I thought this is what you wanted.'
'It is. And there's a pub. The Pig's Snout. So tasteful, but it's the sort of place I want to go into. I can't leave you in the car, but taking you in there . . .'
She punched him on the shoulder. 'Stop being so protective. I've been in worse places than that.'
'Where do I park? Safely?'
He was looking at a gang of boys, ages from ten to sixteen, Paula estimated. They were quite well-dressed but they were watching him as he parked, his front tyres squelching over discarded fish. He turned away from them, took out his wallet, extracted three five pound notes, shoved the wallet back, carefully buttoned up the pocket.
'You know what you're doing,' Paula said, surprised.
'Certain areas of Brussels, all Liege and Antwerp. I can sense where I am. Why that ten-pound note tucked in your glove? I'll be paying.'
'Jules, leave this to me.'
She got out, followed by Jules, who had run round the car to join her. The tallest, tough-looking lad, stood in her way, his bare hands on his hips. She showed him the ten-pound note which he reached out to grab. She snatched it out of reach.
'What's your name?'
'Jem. What's yours?'
'I'm giving you this ten-pound note to make sure no one gets near this car. I've got one more tenner, then I'm out of cash. You get that if the car is untouched when we come out.'
'You're on, lady. Toffs come down 'ere to see 'ow the other 'alf lives. They leave without their wallets. Watch it in there. A redhair called Sammy.'
'It should be OK,' Beaurain said as they approached the pub.
'Any of them approach the car and Jem will smash them to pulp.'
It was crowded inside, a babble of voices, the air filled with smoke. Beaurain noted a number of the men wore oilskin coats. Seamen. This was the right place. His arm round Paula, he shoved his way to the bar. He was so tall, his face so weathered, people let him through. He hoisted Paula on to a stool, sat on the one beside her. On his right sat a man wearing an oilskin. He studied the bottles behind the bar.
'What's yours, mate?' a burly man asked.
'Have you any wine?' Paula asked.
'You look like Chardonnay. French. The good stuff.'
'My favourite drink.'
'Had it before?' the barman asked Paula, looking Beaurain up and down.
'I like to experiment.'
'Then you'll end up on the floor . . .'
The barman brought the drinks, took the notes Beaurain produced from his trouser pocket, slapped down the change, headed for another customer.
A red-haired lad pushed his way between Beaurain and the seaman. He had a cunning smile as he slapped down an envelope, grubby all over.
'Interesting photos. Girls doing different things. You'd never believe it.'
'Shove off.'
&nbs
p; Beaurain swept the envelope off the bar on to the floor. It burst open, spilling lewd photos. Redhair swore, using filthy language.
'Shouldna 'ave done that.'
His hand reached inside his soiled windcheater, came out with a knife. Beaurain grabbed his wrist, twisted. Redhair let out a scream. Beaurain released his grip and the hand was limp, the wrist at an unnatural angle. Broken. The barman appeared, holding a large leather-covered sap. He leaned over the counter.
'Get out of 'ere, scumbag, before I break the other wrist.'
Redhair used his shoulder to push his way through the crowd, out of the pub. The seaman got off his stool, picked up the photos, crammed them inside the envelope, pushed it over the counter to the barman.
'Dustbin.' He turned to Beaurain. 'You 'andled that well. He's dangerous.' He grinned. 'Was.'
'You're off the river?' Beaurain asked with a smile.
'That's right. I've worked freighters, ferries, barges, the lot.'
'I'm thinking of buying a barge for my business,' Beaurain continued. 'Saw what I need going upriver laden with coal dust.'
'They'd be goin' to the new powerhouse, other side of the river. Built by Dixon, Harrington and Mosley. We calls it the Dick powerhouse. Got a plant next to it for makin' machine tools. New design. And new design of barges. Made to order.'
'Could you do me a rough drawing of the design? Then I can get one for myself?'
Paula, who had sipped cautiously at her wine, surprised to find how good it was, pushed a fresh notebook along the counter to Beaurain. The seaman reached for it, took out a small stub of pencil, began drawing, talking as he worked.
'There's a sort of lid made of metal you can unroll to cover your cargo. From bow to stern. In the middle, 'ere, is a very big hatch you can open so a crane can lower bales into the 'old. A smaller hatch near both bow and stern. Like this. Control bridge is perched up at stern, of course. The skipper then 'as a good view of where 'e's goin', which is rather important.' He chuckled.
'Does the Dick director use the roll-over metal cover?'
'No. They needs as much coal as they can pile in.'
'Have I got this right?' Beaurain queried. 'Dick had both the powerhouse and the barges built?'
'Yes, 'e did. To keep down cost 'e gets a firm in Austria to build the barges. You could find out the name easy - name of the firm.'
'Austria makes sense. They have a lot of barge traffic on the Danube.'
'You're right there. I've taken barges all the way to the Black Sea.' He pushed the notebook with the barge plan over to Beaurain. 'Makes sense?' Beaurain nodded. 'I think the lady is interested,' the seaman said, pushing it further along the counter.
'Thank you,' said Paula. 'I'm Paula.'
'Never gave you my moniker. Sharkey.' He grinned, showing neat white teeth. 'Nothing personal. They call me Shark. On the river we've all got funny names. Got what you want? I'm not a dab hand at drawing.'
'The details you've given me are crystal clear. I see you like Black Jack.'
He ordered another one for Sharkey, his way of saying thanks. They touched tankards and Beaurain swallowed the little left in his glass.
'I was fortunate to sit next to you,' he remarked. 'Seeing as you've had all that experience with barges.'
'Not really. See that fat chap at that table by the wall with his mates? He's a bargee too. Good luck . . .'
As they walked outside Paula had a ten-pound note folded inside her fist. The gang of lads were still outside. One of them sat on the pavement, nursing a bloody nose. Jem appeared, his hand held out. She gave him the tenner.
'Thanks for looking after the car.'
'Good thing you hired me, 'e was goin' to use a coin to scratch your door.' He pointed towards the lad using a blood-stained handkerchief. 'Door's OK.'
'Oh dear,' said Paula.
'That's what you paid me for. Safe trip back to the smoke.'
Beaurain had to manoeuvre a three-point turn to go back the way they had come. He drove more quickly now the market stalls had been removed.
'What I'd like to have done now,' he said, 'was to visit Mrs Wharton, the lady who told us about those men carrying some kind of machine away on a motorized trolley. Down that track to nowhere. But we've no idea of her address.'
'Yes, we have.' Paula smiled, opened her shoulder-bag and extracted a small gilt-edged card from a side pocket. 'She gave me that on the quiet just before we left. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane. I could guide you there.'
'Do it. I want to persuade her to provide a drawing of that machine they put on the trolley. I'm a man for detail.'
'Where are we going with this?' she asked.
Looking at Beaurain, she saw his eyes were gleaming. He was excited about something.
'We're going to 50 Upper Cheyne Lane,' he replied, grinning at her. 'Calling at Park Crescent en route.'
She punched him gently on the arm. He was as bad as Tweed - wouldn't reveal what he was thinking until he knew he was right.
34
'All here
'Abdullah. Zero hour is close.'
'I know. We're on the site of the merger. We should be ready for the demonstration to our client.'
'The equipment is in position then?'
'We're at phase two. By tomorrow morning we'll be at phase three. Gives us a margin on timing of the demonstration.'
'The guard worries me. He knows his job?'
'He's ours. We know his wife too. A man followed the guard home yesterday. So Vince Proctor . . .'
'No names! So he is happy, knowing his wife has someone with her until he gets off his long spell of duty.'
'He is happy. His wife is happy. We are all happy.'
Abdullah once more slammed down the phone. Ali shrugged. He was getting used to it. He left the public phone-box and stepped into the heavy mist. He walked slowly back to the 'site'.
Inside a small terrace house in a side street in Balham, Mrs Proctor sat on a heavy chair in the kitchen. The chair had been brought from the parlour by the man who had earlier rung the bell, then forced his way in, holding a gun in one hand, the index finger of his other hand pressed to his lips.
She now sat with her wrists roped together, another rope imprisoning her ankles. A third rope was tied round her waist and to the back of the chair. A pleasant red-faced woman in her fifties, she was terrified.
When her captor had arrived he'd worn a waterproof slouch hat, concealing his face, and a long raincoat. Since then, after tying up Mrs Proctor, he had removed the hat and the raincoat. He was now clad in a camouflage suit and she could see his complexion was brown, his hair trimmed short. He was an Egyptian and his name was Haydar. Information he had not provided Mrs Proctor with.
'We have Peter,' he'd said when she was tied to the chair. 'As long as you do nothing silly he will not come to any harm. Do something silly, like trying to warn a neighbour, and he will be shot.'
Saying which, he produced a photo of her husband seated in a chair. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap and his expression was tense. A hand, holding a gun to his head, also appeared in the photo.
'Oh, no,' Mrs Proctor had gasped. She swallowed. 'Where is he? At the power station? Who are you?'
'Questions,' Haydar explained quietly, 'come under the heading of being silly. I shall feed you, give you something to drink. Sit quiet and all will be well when we have moved the drugs hidden on one of the barges. You will then be free, your husband will be freed and will come home unharmed. He is in a safe place. Does anyone come here at night?'
'Sometimes Mrs Wilkinson from next door visits for a chat. Not every night.'
'What will Mrs Wilkinson do if you don't answer the door?'
'She'll think I'm having a nap and go away.'
'Then we have nothing to worry about,' Haydar went on lying.
The truth was Mrs Proctor would never leave the house alive. Once the operation was completed he would shoot her in the back of the head with his silenced gun. The same fate awaited her husband,
trapped inside Dick's power station.
Haydar would know when the operation was completed. He had turned on the small TV set screwed to the wall with the sound turned down but still showing a programme.
He had been told that when the operation had taken place all normal programmes would cease. Breaking News would start. As it had done in New York on September 11.
