by Colin Forbes
'How did you know we'd arrived?'
'I sensed you were suddenly driving slowly. And we have a reception committee waiting for us,' she commented as they entered the Crescent.
Two cars were parked in front of the entrance to the SIS building. Newman was striding up and down, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Characteristically, the calmer Marler was seated behind the wheel of his car, smoking. Paula checked the time. 11.15 p.m.
'We're in good time,' she remarked.
'Doubt if Newman would agree with you.' Tweed replied as the rear door was flung open and Newman jumped inside. Paula told him to close the door since all the warmth was escaping.
'Now listen closely both of you,' Newman began, his tone unusually grim. 'One of Marler's top informants, Eddie -I doubt that's his real name – insists he has important information. The trouble is he'll only talk to you, Tweed. And we had a bit of an evening of it…'
He described tersely their experiences at Belles in Soho, including his confrontation with the Afghan. Paula was frowning as he came to the end of his story. She turned round in the car.
'Taliban? I think your imagination is running away with you.'
'You'd have said the same thing if I could have predicted the attack on the World Trade Center in New York.'
'But you didn't predict it.'
'When you two have finished arguing,' Tweed interjected, 'is there a deadline for this meeting with Eddie?'
'Yes, midnight at the latest. Tweed, you can travel in my car. Marler will follow in his own transport. Paula, I suggest you wait upstairs with Monica until we get back. Monk's Alley off Covent Garden is a dangerous lonely place at this hour.'
Tweed jumped out of his car, ran over to the front passenger seat in Newman's car. He waved to Marler. Before Newman could switch on the engine Paula had darted over and climbed in the rear seat behind Tweed. She didn't mince her words.
'Bob Newman, I'm a big girl now. Dangerous? What do you think it was like in that underground mine when I found out who was the murderer who had killed five people? So, from now on…' she leaned forward and punched his shoulder '… no more lectures from you, thank you very much.'
Newman, uncertain, glanced at Tweed, who smiled.
'She's perfectly right. Let's get moving…'
London on a bitter night in February was deserted. There was hardly any other traffic and no pedestrians had ventured out. As they approached the labyrinth of small streets near Covent Garden Paula was checking her. 32 Browning by feel. Satisfied, she unbuttoned her overcoat so she could reach the weapon swiftly.
Suddenly Marler overtook them, one hand waving Newman down through his open window. Engines were switched off and Marler jumped out and ran back to them. He spoke to Newman, who had lowered his window.
'You wait here while I check the situation. Eddie might be alarmed if three of us appear. Back in a tick…'
It was a long tick. Paula saw Marler move silently in his rubber-soled shoes, then disappear down to the right. Presumably he had reached Monk's Alley. She felt impatient but this was Marler's exercise.
There were no street lights at this point. Both Marler and Newman had turned off their headlights. Paula kept looking back, gazing out of the side windows, unable to sit still. Tweed, though, was motionless, but she could tell from the angle of his head that he was keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror.
'Maybe Eddie has changed his mind,' she remarked for something to say. She didn't like the heavy silence, the lack of anyone else about.
'Relax,' was Tweed's only reply.
'You're better at sitting still, waiting.'
'You're just as good if you're on your own.'
'I've got a funny feeling about this.'
'The atmosphere round here encourages funny feelings,' Newman reassured her.
'It's more than the atmosphere. Marler is taking too long coming back to us. Maybe we'd better explore.'
'Stay exactly where you are,' Tweed ordered.
'Well, here comes Marler, moving quickly,' Newman reported. 'Probably had to reassure Eddie that he really did have Tweed waiting here.'
Marler opened the front passenger door, looked swiftly at Tweed and Newman, then glanced at Paula. He spoke quietly, without his usual jaunty drawl.
'It's not good. In fact, it's pretty bad. Eddie is dead in the alley. Not a pretty sight. Paula, wait here, lock all the doors.'
'Now you're starting it,' Paula fumed.
She opened her door and was outside almost as quickly as Tweed and Newman. She was glad she was wearing sensible shoes – the street was cobbled, an ankle-breaker. She called out.
'Isn't anyone going to lock the car doors?'
'Sorry…'
Newman and Marler used their remotes to lock the cars. With Marler leading, they hurried down the street until he stopped at the entrance to a cobbled opening only wide enough for one person to walk down. Paula noticed the ancient plaque. Monk's Alley. The figure of a monk was engraved below the name. Marler had switched on his powerful torch, beamed it just inside.
Eddie's crumpled figure lay on the cobbles, his right arm outstretched, the fingers of the hand tightly clenched. Lying on his back, he was soaked with blood. Pools of blood were spreading over the cobbles. His eyes gazed up at the sky, lifeless. Paula thought she had never before seen so much blood.
'I reckon he was stabbed more than twenty times,' Marler informed them. 'My guess is someone went on stabbing well after he was dead. An atrocious assault. Whoever did it searched his clothes. Everything has gone. No indication of his identity. And his wallet was taken. I've checked him thoroughly. He was stripped.'
'You missed nothing?' Tweed queried.
'Excuse me,' Marler said indignantly.
'Mind if I just check? Hold your torch steady.'
'Suit yourself.'
Tweed crouched down. He looked for a long time, then he put latex gloves on his hands. Gently he prised open the fingers of the clenched hand. No sign of rigor mortis. This had happened fairly recently. Inside the palm was a screwed-up piece of paper. Paula was already holding a transparent evidence bag. Tweed dropped the screwed-up piece of paper inside. Then he carefully lifted the side of the body. A piece of dark cloth was protruding. He hauled out a long length of black cloth, crumpled as though it had at one time been folded.
'Jesus!' exclaimed Newman. 'Taliban. A turban.'
Paula had her mobile ready and Tweed agreed she should call Buchanan. He looked up quickly.
'Don't let him see that bit of paper…'
It was after one in the morning when they sat down in Tweed's office. Buchanan had arrived quickly with an ambulance. Marler gave him a brief resume of events leading up to the hideous killing. Buchanan said he'd take a full statement later in the day.
Marler leant against a wall, lit a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was cold, as though suppressing strong emotion.
'Eddie was my best informant. He had contacts everywhere – even in Italy. Milan, I think. The poor devil deserved a better fate.'
'I think hell has come to London,' Tweed said quietly as Paula handed him the evidence bag.
Wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, Tweed carefully began unrolling the tightly screwed piece of paper. Then he took a lot of trouble smoothing it out on his desk.
'Doesn't mean a thing to me,' he commented.
'It's drawn in charcoal,' Marler said, peering over Tweed's shoulder. 'Eddie used charcoal to write anything. Kept a stick of it in his top breast pocket. The killer took that too.'
'Some kind of symbol,' Paula said, peering over the other shoulder. 'Could be anything.'
'Yet Eddie,' Tweed pointed out, 'thought it was so important he screwed it up inside his hand even when he was being stabbed to death. And it tells us nothing.' He stared down at what Eddie had scrawled on the sheet of paper.
5
At 8 a.m. the next morning, bitterly cold with a bleak overcast, Tweed arrived at his office. He was surprised to see all hi
s staff waiting. Newman, relaxing in an armchair; Marler in his usual stance, leaning against a wall; Paula seated at her corner desk; Pete Nield and Harry Butler.
The last two were very tough and experienced legmen. They often worked together, a formidable team. The contrast between the two men could not be more marked. Nield, as usual, was smartly dressed, his grey business suit perfectly fitting his lean frame. In his thirties, his brown hair was well brushed, his small moustache neatly trimmed. He had come to Tweed from Oxford University and spoke well so was able to mix in any society. He was quiet, thoughtful.
Harry Butler was clad in a worn pair of jeans, a creased shirt which had seen better days. More heavily built than Nield, he was a dangerous opponent in a street brawl, his happy hunting ground the East End. He merged into that type of area well. Muggers took one look at his wide shoulders, his ham-like fists, his dark glaring eyes, and kept well away.
'Why is everyone so early?' Tweed enquired, removing his camel-hair coat and sitting behind the antique desk bought for him by his staff. He was becoming fond of it.
'I phoned everyone when I got home,' Marler explained. 'To tell them about Eddie. They take a grim view.'
'If I ever meet that Afghan killer,' Harry said forcefully, 'I'll kick him between the legs, then stamp on his face so his wretched mother wouldn't recognize him. That for starters. We're going to have to play this one very rough.'
Unlike Nield, perched on an arm of Newman's chair, Harry was sitting on the floor, stocky legs crossed. Tweed noticed he was wearing boots with metal rims. The phone rang, Monica answered, looked at Tweed.
'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Says the Minister, Victor Warner, wants to see you in his office.'
'Tell Palfry I'm very busy – and that if the Minister wants to see me will he do me the courtesy of calling himself.'
Monica kept repeating the same message, then broke the connection. She sighed.
'I think he's one of those,' she remarked. 'He's up in the clouds and tried to treat me like a serf. I think I got under his skin when I kept repeating exactly the same words.'
Paula was smiling at Tweed. 'The Minister of Security is going to love you.'
'It's a tactic,' Tweed told her. 'If he really does have a reason for seeing me he'll swallow his pride, call me back.'
'You really are a devil,' she said.
Within five minutes the phone was ringing again. Monica listened, clamped a hand over the speaker. She was grinning.
'It's him, his lordship. He sounded very upper-crust but he was polite to me…'
'Tweed here. Is there a problem?'
'My dear Tweed, I really would appreciate it if you could pop over here. Can't explain why over the phone. I also appreciate a man in your position must be overwhelmed at times, but this is rather urgent. What time would suit you?'
'Now? I can be there in thirty minutes.'
'Splendid! I really would be most grateful for your cooperation. I look forward very much to seeing you…'
'Smooth as silk,' Tweed told them as he put on his coat. 'Paula, I'd like you to come with me. Don't expect to like him. Very upper-crust, I've heard. A cog from the old boys' network.'
'Can't wait,' she told him.
'Wearing that coat you look like a member of Special Branch,' Paula teased Tweed as they arrived at the tall doors closed at the entrance to the Ministry of Security. 'Nowadays a camel-hair coat is their uniform.'
'I like the coat,' Tweed replied as he pressed the bell.
One massive door was opened almost at once and Peregrine Palfry stood there to greet them with a smile. He shook hands with both of them as he ushered them into a vast hall.
'It's very good of you to traipse all this way to see the Minister. Strictly between us I think he might have asked to visit you.'
Tweed was surprised at the firmness of his hand clasp. Paula was surprised by his warm welcome. His face was pale, his hair jet black. Clean-shaven, he would be in his thirties and he struck her as athletic. Not at all what she had expected.
Walking swiftly, he led them up a wide flight of stairs, along a hallway, and paused before a door. He pulled a face, as much as to say, 'Here we go!' He had knocked once when a voice beyond the door called out loudly.
'Enter!'
The office beyond was spacious and the Minister stood up from behind a long imposing antique desk. He strode round to greet them. Very tall and thin, he carried himself very erect and the thinness extended to his long face. On the bridge of a strong nose were perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his cold blue eyes scanned his visitors swiftly. His mouth was wide and again thin, his chin suggested a touch of aggression.
He was dressed in country clothes, a smart hunter's jacket and polo trousers tucked inside gleaming knee-length boots. Smiling, he ushered them to an enormously wide couch and sat next to Paula with Tweed beyond her.
'I am so sorry to drag you down here but I do have a Cabinet meeting soon. Pure waste of time. Bores me stiff listening to gabble-gabble. Now, what would you like to quench your thirst? Tea, coffee – maybe something a little stronger?'
Tweed refused anything and Paula followed suit. Warner looked over at the open door where Palfry stood waiting to bring refreshment, shook his head. Palfry dipped his head, withdrew, closing the door.
'Good chap, Perry,' Warner remarked. 'Member of MENSA – not that it impresses me. But he's so reliable and has the memory of an elephant.' He was addressing his remarks to Paula. 'I have heard of the legendary Paula Grey. Makes me wonder whether I should talk to her rather than you, Tweed.' He said it with a smile.
'If I am regarded anywhere as legendary it is exaggerated wildly,' she told him. 'Mr Tweed is the power.'
'Then I will talk to both of you.' He looked across at Tweed. 'I hope you will not take what I say as personal.'
'Depends what you say, Minister.'
Paula was startled. Minister? Then she realized Tweed was using softening up tactics, something he rarely did.
'It has come to my shell-like ear,' Warner began gravely, 'that you two have been poking about up at Carpford. I regard that as my private sanctuary.'
'Surely you are worried about the mysterious disappearance of your wife,' Tweed replied bluntly.
'I am worried sick. It is so unlike Linda to take off into the wild blue yonder. And the police are hopeless. That chap Buchanan simply says he has no news yet. After three weeks. I ask you.'
'Superintendent Buchanan is the cleverest and most determined policeman in this country. The car your wife was driving, which was found abandoned, has been subjected to the most thorough lab search. No clues at all found inside it. Have you yet had any kind of message demanding a ransom? If you have you must tell me – even if the caller told you that was the last thing you must do.'
'No one has called.' Warner's voice had changed, was rasping. He was leaning against Paula to speak to Tweed and she caught a whiff of after-shave lotion. She knew he was quite unaware he was pressing against her as he continued vehemently. 'I have received no ransom demand. Dammit, man, if I had I would have told Buchanan. And, once again, why were you poking about down at Carpford?'
'Because, at Buchanan's urgent request, I've reverted for the moment to my old role of detective. You should be grateful.'
'Oh, I see.' He sat back. 'Someone told me you were once the star turn at the old Scotland Yard. Find anything? See any of the people up there?'
'Olaf Margesson for one. He's a fanatic on religion. Do you know him?'
'He's invited me over for the occasional glass of sherry. Don't understand your reference to religion. We talked mostly about cricket. Anyone else?'
'Mrs Gobble.'
'She's potty. Quite harmless though. So you got nowhere?'
'I didn't say that. There are rumours that al-Qa'eda has arrived over here…"
The effect of Tweed's words was electric. Warner jumped up from the couch, marched back to his desk, sat in the high chair behind it. Paula was as
tonished at the change in his personality. He looked choleric, his voice grim.
'Now listen to me, Tweed. I know you have in your outfit that foreign correspondent reporter, Robert Newman. If he tries to write about those rumours we'll put out a D notice, stop him in his tracks. It's an absurd idea. I will tell you some criminal organization from abroad may be trying to establish some system in Britain with the drug cartel in Colombia. That's absolutely off the record. Muzzle that wild dog, Newman. Do you understand me?'
The couch they sat on faced the elevated desk. Paula was staring at Victor Warner's expression, hardly able to credit a man's face could undergo such a change. The long bony face was a picture of violent rage, mouth open, exposing teeth like those of a small shark.
'I gather,' Tweed said slowly, calmly, 'that you don't want Newman reporting the possible arrival of a drug cartel operating out of Colombia. Like me, I'm sure he hasn't heard a whiff of such an event. So he's hardly likely to write about it.'
'I was talking about this al-Qa'eda nonsense. For God's sake don't you realize the panic such an idiotic rumour would cause in London? After the World Trade Center atrocity in New York. Panic, panic, PANIC!'
'So there's not an atom of truth in those rumours?'
Warner threw both arms in the air. He looked up at the ceiling as though seeking salvation.
'Haven't you yet grasped it's all rubbish? Do I have to say all over again what I have already explained to you so absolutely clearly? Don't you think we would know if there was even the merest hint of truth in such a crazy idea? You really are sorely trying my patience.'
'And,' Tweed said, standing up, 'you are absolutely sure you have received no word from anyone since your wife vanished into thin air? Even a few words from the lady herself?'
'Nothing, as I have already told you once. Tweed, you really are an extraordinary fellow – you need everything repeated to you twice. I'm even beginning to doubt that you should hold the position you do.'
'But that decision…' Tweed smiled '… doesn't come within your province, does it? I hope you soon receive better news about Linda.'
