by Colin Forbes
'The pleasure has been all mine.'
He disappeared to fetch her windcheater. She was standing up by the chair she'd occupied when she heard the sound of a motor-cycle engine clearly. It had gone when her host returned.
'Do come again,' he urged, helping her on with the windcheater. 'You have livened up what would have been a boring evening for me.. .'
He was smiling as he opened the door. A wave of icy fog drifted in. Palfry closed the door quickly. Frowning, Paula turned to her right, walking slowly towards the next house occupied by Margesson. She was recalling her conversation with Palfry. Something wasn't right.
Her visit to Margesson's Georgian mansion, which was a blaze of lights, was very different. It was also much shorter.
The bearded giant, who, more than ever, reminded her of an Old Testament prophet, made his point without any attempt to soften his words, to be polite. She was holding up her SIS folder, open so he could see it.
'I'm Paula Grey, assistant to Mr Tweed, whom you've met
'The Lord warns us against temptation,' he thundered. 'I would never have a woman in my house after dark. Take your wiles and yourself elsewhere.'
The door slammed shut in her face with a heavy thud. Paula shrugged, put away her folder. A religious fanatic. A man it would be a waste of time to attempt to talk to. Especially after dark! She smiled to herself.
She walked slowly along the road to Billy Hogarth's bungalow. The team which had dragged the lake had cleaned up with care. Mud still clung to the grass verge at the edge of the lake but they had done everything they could to leave Carp Lake as they had found it.
Lights were on in the bungalow behind closed shutters. She took a deep breath, hoping Billy was sober, pressed the bell. She was taken aback when the door opened.
Silhouetted in lights behind him stood a tall handsome man. Clean-shaven, tall, in his forties, he was smartly dressed in country garb.
'I know it's late,' she began, 'but I was hoping to have a word with Mr Billy Hogarth.'
'Better come in. It's beastly out there. I'm Martin, Billy's brother. He's had a few drinks. You are?'
'Sorry. Paula Grey…'
'Tweed's legendary assistant. No need to show me your ID. Care for a drink? What's your tipple?'
She was inside a narrow hall and Martin had closed the door quickly. He gave her a charming smile, a shade too charming. She mistrusted men with that kind of smile. He took her arm, led her into a large comfortable living-room. A heavily built man with a white moustache and fringe beard stood up out of an armchair. His hair was thick and white, his movements agile as he came forward, hand extended.
'You're an improvement on my boring brother.' The hand he extended was large, like the rest of Billy. She braced herself for a crushing grip. Instead, he pressed her hand gently as Martin called over his shoulder.
'To drink?'
'Just coffee, if it isn't a nuisance.'
'It's a pleasure,' Martin assured her with a smile before disappearing into another room.'
'I'm Paula Grey of the SIS,' she told the brother.
Close up to him she could smell beer. Could see his face was dripping with moisture about to fall on his shirt. Taking out a handkerchief she said, 'Excuse me,' and wiped his face. Not a gesture she would normally have dreamt of performing but she had taken an instant liking to this powerfully built man. He grinned, thanked her, said something about the heating being too high, ushered her to an armchair. Behind his back as he returned to his own chair she sniffed at the handkerchief. Beer fumes. Billy had rubbed beer on his face, pretending to be drunk. Why?
With his strong frame and his appearance she could imagine that, born in the right time, he'd have made an impressive pirate. He lifted his glass off a table, sipped a small quantity of beer, then held the glass in his hand.
'How can I help you, Miss Grey? I'm Billy, to people I like.'
'I was hoping you could tell me something about Mrs Warner. It's over three weeks since she disappeared. There are rumours that she's gone off with another man. I don't believe them.'
'You never know,' interjected Martin who had returned with a Meissen cup of coffee, a jug of milk, sugar. 'Shall I pour? How do you like it?'
'Black, please.'
'And ignore that foul implication Martin has just made,' Billy growled. 'Linda Warner is a lady, something Martin wouldn't recognize. I helped her out with one or two problems. One evening her key wouldn't work in the front door. She came over and I went back with her. Tried kicking the brute of a door and the key worked fine.'
'Before I came here,' Paula went on as Martin dragged a chair next to hers, 'I called on Margesson. Wouldn't let me in – raved on about not having a woman in after dark, slammed the door in my face.'
'He's potty,' Billy said and laughed. 'You wouldn't think he was once a housemaster at Eton. Heaven help his pupils. He wasn't a religious maniac when he arrived here. All this ranting on about Allah
…'
'About God,' Martin corrected.
'All right, about the Messiah. He's just repeating what someone has brainwashed him with. Thinks it makes him seem important. A real gasbag.'
'Billy,' Martin interjected again, 'I don't think Miss Grey wants to hear about the parochial goings-on in Carpford.'
'I noticed you used the present tense when referring to Mrs Warner. You said Linda Warner is a lady. So you feel she is still alive?'
'Jolly well hope so. Not so many like her about these days. Incidentally, Martin, that darned motor-cyclist must still be about. Heard his machine but haven't heard it shove off.' He looked at Paula. 'They park their machines between our bungalows. Never been able to get hold of one of them to tell him to stop it.'
'They?' Paula queried.
'Yes. Recently instead of one of them we get two during the evening, coming up separately. Don't know where they go to.'
'Probably just delivering pizzas,' Martin suggested.
'What, in a large white slim envelope?' Billy protested. 'I don't think you'd get a pizza as thin as that. I know you wouldn't.'
'Billy isn't much of a detective,' Martin sneered unpleasantly.
'I think,' Paula said emphatically, 'he'd make rather a good one.'
She had her left hand perched on the arm of her chair. Martin had placed his hand over hers. She slipped her hand free, careful not to look at him. He seemed to treat it as a challenge.
'Not much fun here,' he started, smiling invitingly. 'Come and have a drink at my place. It's just next door.'
'I wouldn't if I were you,' Billy warned.
'I'd better go now,' Paula remarked after openly checking her watch.
Martin was on his feet in a flash. He disappeared in the direction where he had taken her windcheater. Paula leaned forward, lowered her voice.
'Did you know Mrs Gobble, who has also disappeared? Her telescope, a big job, has gone. I found out the police didn't take it after they'd searched her place.'
'A nice old lady. Very independent. I worry about her.
She was not the type to push off without saying something to me. She was lonely. The telescope was her friend…'
He stopped talking as Martin appeared with the windcheater. She tried to slip it on quickly but he made a ceremony of it, his hands clutching her arms. She pulled herself away, thanked him formally, then turned to Billy who had stood up.
'I want to thank you for a most enjoyable evening. You are the perfect host.'
'I'm not a bad cook either. What's your favourite dish?'
'Shepherd's pie.'
'Next time you come up here call me first.' He handed her a card. 'Shepherd's pie is my speciality.'
Martin accompanied her out into the long hall. They were standing by the door and he was making a performance of opening it when he spoke to her with a sneering smile.
'My boozy brother.'
'I heard that!' shouted Billy. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him standing in the hall outside the entrance to the living-room. 'W
hat Martin won't tell you is that the only reason he can afford the rent for his bungalow and a load of expensive clothes is he was left a legacy by his uncle. I worked for my nest-egg. You'd better go now, Miss Grey. He has crawly hands.'
'Goodnight to both of you.'
Paula stepped out into the fog and the door closed behind her. Boozy brother? She'd noticed that as Martin brought in the coffee Billy took another sip of his beer and banged the glass down on the table. It was his defence mechanism against his brother. Why was it necessary?
Several yards away from both bungalows, she paused. The mist swirled round her. As she had passed the gap between them she had glanced up the opening. A large motor-cycle was leaning against a wall. A Harley-Davidson she thought. So the mysterious messenger was still here.
'I learned a lot from Billy,' she said to herself. 'So what do I do now?'
She decided to walk round the end of Carp Lake to call on Drew Franklin. Since lights were on in the house of concrete cubes it might be a unique chance to talk to him. She again had trouble finding the front door. It was set into the concrete under an overhanging cube. She pressed the square bell, heard nothing inside. She was just about to walk away when the door opened swiftly. A slim man of medium height with a good-looking but cynical face stared at her.
'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 rec
overy. 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, pressed 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.
