by Colin Forbes
'Excuse me,' Tweed suggested, 'but was there a light on in the room when you arrived?'
'Yes, left on after the killer left, so when the police arrived before me the blood-covered window was very prominent. Now, I said earlier the body was found laid out on the bed. There were blade notches deep into the floor, which is how I know for certain that's where she was killed. He – or she -afterwards lifted the several pieces of the body on to the bed, created an arrangement as I have done on the table.'
'That's horrible,' Paula said after clearing her throat.
'One of the worst cases in my experience – and I've just about seen everything, or so I thought. I think now we ought to adjourn to the drawing room. My wife will provide refreshment. We can discuss the case in more pleasant surroundings.'
He turned to a youngish man who was washing his hands at a deep sink.
'John, I know you've taken X-rays and photos of the lady on my table. I'd like you to take more photos, concentrating on every angle. Thank you…'
In the small room they had passed through earlier he relieved them of their white clothes. As he closed the cupboard doors he turned to Tweed.
'I'm very fussy. Those clothes will be burned, in case you picked up something undesirable while in the mortuary. Now for that tea.'
They mounted the steps into the hall. Saafeld closed the heavy door and did not bother to use his key card. Paula guessed it locked again automatically.
They were seated in armchairs in the luxurious comfortable drawing room when a tall grey-haired lady, in her late fifties Paula guessed, came in carrying a large silver tray laden with plates of cakes, Wedgwood china, a teapot and another pot containing coffee.
Saafeld started to get up. 'I'll take that…' 'No, you won't, Willy,' she said firmly. 'I can still cope with this.' She laid the tray on a table between the chairs.
'Hello, Paula. So nice to see you again. And you, Mr Tweed.'
'You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble,' Paula said, returning her warm smile.
'You'll have to excuse me,' Mrs Saafeld went on. 'We have people coming to dinner so my place is in the kitchen.'
'We have…?' Saafeld began, then stopped as she gave him a certain look, then left the room. She knows what we've seen, Paula thought, so she's tactfully leaving us alone.
Paula accepted tea with a little milk but no sugar when their host also offered her both plates of cakes. She forced herself to smile when she refused. She had arrived hungry but her appetite had deserted her. Tweed accepted coffee but he also declined anything to eat.
'We had lunch before we came to you,' fibbed Paula.
'Can you tell us anything about the killer?' Tweed asked.
Saafeld settled back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling as though choosing his words carefully.
'The killer is exceptionally strong,' he began. 'That's proved by the fact that each time he wielded the cleaver – if that's what it was, but I think so – it not only sliced through bone, muscle and flesh in one blow but ended up leaving a deep gash in the oak floor. It must have taken more strength to ease the weapon free for the next strike.'
'Surely he must have had blood all over his clothes?' Tweed suggested.
'Not if he was clad as you two were in the mortuary, plus the kind of face mask used by surgeons. Afterwards he'd have taken all his whites off and stuffed them inside some container he took away with him.'
'Any sign of forced entry at Fox Street?'
'None at all. Which suggested Vander-Browne knew whoever killed her. Very premeditated murder,' Saafeld went on. 'The way he – or she -' he glanced over at Paula -'arrived with all his equipment – weapon, the whites. I suspect he arrived in normal dress. I say this because in the bathroom was cotton wool, traces of powder. Vander-Browne's visitor may have arrived early. He puts on his whites while she is in the bathroom. I think that's about all I can tell you.'
'Is it?' Tweed pressed.
'Well, I'm not a psychiatrist. We may be dealing with a psycho, but that's a vague word. What happens to some people who are strong-blooded and evil is that the pressure starts to build up inside them. The process probably accelerates over a period of days, maybe even a few weeks. They reach the stage when they are ready to murder – and revel in what they are doing.'
'Difficult to detect,' Tweed muttered half to himself.
'I call it blood storm,' Saafeld concluded.
6
As Tweed drove them back towards Park Crescent, Paula glanced several times at him, pretending she was looking at traffic. His expression was unusual – grave, despondent. And he had not said a word since they entered the car.
'Please pull in,' she asked.
He signalled, turned the vehicle to the side of the road, looked at her. She told him to turn off the engine. He did so, then slumped in his seat. She took hold of his arm.
'What is it?' she enquired gently.
'Nothing. I'm OK.'
'You're not – by a long chalk. Tell me. Talking it out always helps.'
He drank half the water from the slim flask she had taken from the pocket in her door. He sipped first as she'd suggested, then drank large quantities. He handed back the flask.
'Thanks. I'm all right now.'
'You're not,' she repeated firmly. 'Tell me. This is Paula.'
'When we were in the mortuary I was thinking of how Viola had looked when we had dinner at Mungano's. Ravishing and young. I liked her. I think she liked me. If only I'd escorted her home – instead of slinking back into that alley and falling asleep. She'd be alive now. I'll never forgive myself…'
He paused as Paula's mobile buzzed. She answered, listened, asked very few questions, then slipped the mobile back into her pocket.
'That was Professor Saafeld,' she said quietly. 'He sends you his apology but he forgot to tell you the results of the blood test. He said your margarita was laced with Percodin.' She spelt it. 'Not Percodan, an American drug, but quite different. Percodin dulls the nervous system, neutralizes it. Puts you completely out of action. You told him you'd only drunk about a fifth of the margarita. It creeps up on you, then suddenly you get the full effect. He also said if you'd drunk the lot your mind would have been destabilized for twenty-four hours. So how the hell could you have escorted Viola home? You couldn't have done. Feel a bit better about things now?'
'What I want to do is to find out who fed me that bloody drink.' Tweed had straightened up; his expression was grim, determined, even ferocious. 'I can remember the waitress who served the thing to me. Mungano should be able to identify her. We'd better get moving…'
Tweed was still silent when they reached Park Crescent. Thank God Saafeld phoned me, Paula said to herself.
Entering the office they found that Nield had returned, looking rather pleased. Monica relieved Tweed of his coat.
'Your friend Chief Inspector Hammer called,' she said, 'wanted to come and see you, said it was urgent.'
'Urgent to him,' Tweed commented sarcastically as he settled behind his desk.
'I told him you'd left the office and I had an idea you had gone abroad. No, I had no idea where or when you'd be back.'
'One in the eye for him,' Paula commented from behind her desk. 'Where is Harry?'
'He went out, dressed even more like a tramp, if that's possible. Said he had some pals in the East End he wanted to question.'
'Good for Harry. How have you got on, Pete? You're back quickly.'
'You know me,' Nield said, perching on the front edge of Tweed's desk, arms folded. 'I don't waste time. So far I've found out Benton Macomber is married to a woman called Georgina. Has a successful fashion-design business. Is reputed to be very clever and popular. Benton has a house in Hampstead. I've got the address and phone number. Noel, the youngster, is a different proposition. Likes women, plenty of them. He has girlfriends, drops them when he spots something he fancies more. Just dumps them when he wants variety. A real lady-killer. Has charm which he can turn on and off like an electric light. Very brai
ny. All three brothers were at Oxford together, Noel had junior status because of his age, still came down with three double firsts, which is rare. He has a pad in a street off Pall Mall. It's all in here, addresses and phone numbers – except for Noel, who is ex-directory and keeps his number quiet.'
'You've done amazingly well,' Tweed said, looking at the notebook Nield had dropped on his desk.
'There's a bit more,' Nield went on in his well-educated voice. 'Nelson, Benton and Noel are looked after by a senior civil servant called Zena Partridge, known behind her back as the Parrot or Freaky-Deaky. A control-freak, my informant told me. The father, General Lucius Macomber, has a cottage on a large plot of land down at a tiny hamlet on the Surrey-Sussex border, Peckham Mallet. That's in the notebook. End of the story.'
'This informant is a gold mine,' Tweed remarked. 'Who is she?'
'I don't recall saying it was a woman. And don't ask for a name. You know the rule. None of us reveal anything about an informant. That's it. I'll be going out again in five sees.'
'Good hunting and many thanks,' Tweed said as Nield went out of the office.
'I don't think either you or Paula have eaten,' Monica said firmly, standing up. 'Just before you came in I prepared hot food for you both in the upstairs kitchen. Be back in no time…'
'I'm hungry,' Tweed mused.
'So am I now,' Paula exclaimed. 'I'm dropping through my pockets, as they say up north.'
They both cleaned their plates of shepherd's pie, carrots and spinach, followed by hot apple pie and tea and coffee. Paula stood up to collect the plates. Monica took them off her, placed them in a dumb waiter in her corner, pressed the bell informing the kitchen upstairs there was work on the way.
Still on her feet, Paula stared down out of the window into the Crescent leading off the main road. She frowned, turned round as she spoke.
'I think we have yet another visitor. An odd-looking person.'
Monica joined her to peer out from behind the heavy net curtains. A tall slim figure wearing dark trousers, a dark blue coat, a trilby hat pulled well down over the face was striding stiffly but briskly to the entrance. Paula had just caught sight of large horn-rimmed spectacles when the figure climbed their steps.
'He's coming here, whoever he is,' Monica said and sat down to wait for the phone to ring from the guard downstairs. It rang. Monica looked up.
'A Zena Partridge wants to see you. Now!'
'I thought you said it was a man,' Tweed remarked.
'Looked like one.'
'Nield reported on his findings just in time. Send this odd-looking person, as you described her, up. Why on earth would she be calling on me?'
'We'll find out, won't we?' Paula chaffed him.
Heavy heels clacked on the stairs, the door was opened without anyone knocking, and the visitor entered.
Paula stared at the apparition without appearing to do so. Whipping off the man's hat the visitor revealed a thick mop of brown hair which now fell to her shoulders.
She wore the thickest horn-rims Paula had ever seen, with lenses of thick glass. Behind them greenish-yellow eyes surveyed the room quickly. Her mouth was plastered with bright red lipstick and she peered rather than looked when she had checked the room. She took off her coat, ignored Monica's offer to take it, hung it over the back of the chair in front of Tweed's desk. She was wearing a loose white blouse covered with roses.
Tweed had stood up and opened his mouth to suggest she sat down but the visitor plonked her slim backside in the chair without being asked. Tweed sat down, having said nothing.
'You're Tweed,' she began. 'Over there that must be Paula Grey,' she said with a brief glance at Paula. 'I am Zena Partridge,' she continued, 'senior civil servant. My main role is to attend to the three junior ministers, Nelson, Noel and Benton Macomber. I have other responsibilities so it is a back-breaking routine but that doesn't worry me because I have a strong back. I am here to get your advice about hiring protection.'
Lord, another frightened woman, Tweed thought. Partridge ploughed on, speaking in a commanding voice as though addressing the troops.
'The reason for my request is I am being stalked and I want a stop put to it.' She glared at Tweed through the thick lenses. 'But the protection must be invisible. On absolutely no account must the people I work for know what is happening. I can give you no reason why this should be happening but it has to be stopped. I have no enemies or people who would want to harm me. My life is work, work, work…'
'Could you describe-' Tweed began.
'He is a short fat creature about fifty years old and he always wears a dark-blue business suit, a red tie and a white shirt. His feet are clad in blue trainers and he smokes a cheap cigar constantly. I have a specimen.' She dived inside the large leather handbag she had slung over her shoulder, produced a transparent envelope containing a half-smoked cigar, dropped it on Tweed's desk.
Tweed glanced at it briefly but made no attempt to examine it. Partridge was talking again.
'Maybe it's a clue – DNA from the saliva and all that – I wouldn't know. I'll pay a reasonable fee for your time and here is my mobile phone number.' As she spoke she dropped on his desk a card which she'd extracted at the same time as the cigar. 'That's all it has on the card. I have no intention of letting anyone know where I live. What alerted me to the need to take action was the description in the newspaper about that brutal murder of the Vander-Browne woman. There's a lunatic on the loose. I have no intention of risking being his next victim.
She was still talking at top speed. She opened her mouth again but Tweed hammered his clenched fist on the desk and she stared with indignation at him.
'Where did you get the cigar from,' he asked her, 'and how long has this persecution been going on?'
'I picked up the cigar in Whitehall,' Partridge rattled on. 'Turning round, I began to walk back to challenge him just as a police car came slowly cruising up the street. The fat man threw his cigar into a side street and disappeared after it. He only reappeared when the police car had passed. He hailed a cab when he saw me coming towards him. After he'd gone I used my gloved hand to pick up the cigar and dropped it inside that evidence envelope. I carry them so I can stuff used handkerchiefs inside one. Germs are everywhere. I have been stalked for two days and every time I leave the building. While I think of it, Paula Grey over there is in great danger. Don't ask me how I know that because I won't tell you. Highly confidential.'
'Medfords Security Agency,' Tweed said suddenly. 'I can give you the address and the name of the man to see. We do not handle work or problems like yours. I am sorry.'
'So am I!' she snapped, jumping up, slipping on her coat. 'And I do know where Medfords are. I've wasted my time coming here. I'm going now. No, keep the cigar.'
When Partridge had gone Monica stood up and let out a long sigh.
'Phew! She never stopped talking for over five minutes. No wonder back at the civil service they call her the Parrot. To say nothing of Freaky-Deaky. Pete knew what he was talking about. As to enemies, she must have a horde of them with all those subordinate to her.'
'Did you believe what she said?' Tweed asked Paula.
'Not one single word.'
'The only thing she said which worries me is her warning that you are in danger. Could be the reason she came here. I'm thinking the Cabal are launching a campaign against us to persuade me to withdraw opposition to their crazy plan for a merger.'
'Don't think so,' Paula said as her mobile phone began to buzz. She answered it. 'Hello.'
'Recognize my voice?' a man asked. Newman's.
'Yes, I do.'
'I need your help urgently. I'm at the Monk's Head Hotel in Tolhaven, west Dorset. Can you get down here?'
'I'm practically on my way.'
'Bring a camera. Something very weird. Come armed…'
The line went dead. Paula had scribbled the address on a pad. She opened a locked drawer, took out her Browning, checked the mechanism, inserted a magazine, tuc
ked it inside her shoulder holster. Next she took out a small 6.35mm Beretta, checked it, and slid the automatic inside another neat holster strapped to her leg. She took the pad with the address over to Tweed, told him what Newman had said.
'Things are warming up,' she remarked. 'About time.'
'I'd come with you,' Tweed said. 'But the situation here…'
'Bob didn't ask for you,' she said with a cheeky smile. 'I will keep you informed as far as I can. Borrow a mobile off Pete Nield. See you.'
'Don't take your Saab to drive down there,' Tweed warned. 'You are known to have that car and the enemy has done his homework. Take my old battered Ford with the souped-up engine. That might confuse them.'
'Will do.'
She was almost at the door when she stooped to pick something up off the carpet. It was a contact lens with a greenish-yellow tint. She took it back and laid it on Tweed's desk.
'The Parrot must have dropped this as she left in a fury.'
'I wonder,' said Tweed very thoughtfully, looking at the lens.
'And here,' Paula said, handing him a camera, 'inside is the film. I took two shots of our visitor.'
Tweed called over to Monica. He gave her the camera.
'Take this down to the basement. Tell them to print what's inside. Then they should give the prints to that clever artist, Joel, and ask him to come up. I have experienced his talented hand at creating people's images.'
7
Paula was racing down the motorway, the same one Newman had driven along earlier. Before leaving Park Crescent she had used a map to check the location of Tolhaven, a place she'd never heard of. A souped-up engine, Tweed had said. She was having to concentrate to stop the car carrying her away, and so hard she passed the exit leading to the safe house Newman had used without giving it a thought. Shortly afterwards she turned off the motorway down a road leading more to the south.
The end of March. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon and cold. She had her window open a few inches to keep herself alert. She frequently checked her rear-view mirror but there was no sign of black cars. She had eluded State Security – no, Special Branch as they still were, despite their black uniforms, the long overcoats, the peaked caps.
