Cell tac-20

by Colin Forbes

  'Tweed phoned Buchanan while I waited. Roy is rushing ambulances up here to collect the bodies. He also wants to know who up here has reacted – which is something Roy and I have decided to check.'

  'We'd better get outside now then…'

  The mist was thinning when they all left the bungalow.

  The lights were on in every house. Martin was already outside, using a flashlight to examine the killer Newman had shot down. He looked up.

  'What the devil happened? Who is this guy? He looks dead.'

  'He is,' Newman told him. 'We had a gang of burglars who came armed.'

  'How long have you been out here?' Beaurain asked. 'And I see you're fully dressed at 3 a.m.'

  'How observant of you,' Martin sneered as he stood up. 'I don't think we've met before.' He looked back at Paula. 'And what are you doing inside Billy's bungalow? Where is Billy?'

  'He decided to take a holiday,' Paula said, smiling acidly. 'Loaned us his place – I don't think he wanted to leave it empty.'

  'Didn't say a word to me.'

  'Maybe he doesn't always tell you about his plans,' Paula suggested sweetly.

  'The police will have to be informed,' Martin snapped. 'I'll call them

  'Don't bother,' the Belgian told him. 'We have already done that. And I'm Commissioner Beaurain.'

  'I see. And I dress quickly. Heard the gunshots.'

  'Very quickly,' Beaurain commented. 'Down to inserting a clip in your tie.'

  Tin going back to bed,' Martin snapped and walked back to his bungalow. He slammed the door shut once he was inside.

  A tall figure came striding round the end of the lake. His eyes glared from behind his pince-nez. The Minister wore a heavy overcoat with an astrakhan collar and a silk scarf round his long bony neck. He stopped close to them, as tall as Beaurain. His hands were inside his coat pockets and his manner was regal.

  'Will someone be so kind as to inform me what has happened? I heard gunfire. I also saw you come out of Billy Hogath's bungalow. So what is going on?'

  'The police are on the way,' Newman told him. 'Al-Qa'eda sent four killers to attack us. They are all dead.'

  'So,' Paula said pointedly, 'al-Qa'eda have arrived in Britain.. .'

  'What proof have you that the men belong to that Organization? You'd better be careful before you spread that sort of speculation.'

  'They have brown skins and were wearing black turbans,' Newman snapped. 'Didn't you know that is their favoured uniform?'

  'Must have slipped through our net at Dover,' Warner asserted. 'I repeat, this must be kept very quiet. We don't want to start a panic in London. Incidentally, I have arranged a full security meeting for the morning. Ten o'clock at my place.'

  'Penthouse or Whitehall guardhouse?' enquired Newman.

  'I find your sense of humour rather crude.' He turned to Paula. 'As Tweed is coming I suppose you'll be there too,' he went on in a tone lacking enthusiasm. 'Then you can tell me what you were doing in Billy Hogarth's bungalow. I shall require a complete explanation of your presence here.'

  He turned his back on them and strode off to Garda before anyone could reply. Newman looked furious, while Beaurain was smiling as though amused.

  'I presume that is your Minister of Security. Not in the best of tempers.'

  'Well, I really am not all that surprised,' a smarmy voice said behind Beaurain.

  'Jules,' Paula said quickly, 'this is Peregrine Palfry, the Minister's personal assistant.'

  'I was going on to say,' Palfry continued, annoyed at her intervention, 'that the Minister works all hours and gets very little sleep. On my way here I passed a nasty body. I was also woken by gunfire. What on earth has been going on?'

  'Armed robbers, dear boy,' said Beaurain, who had taken an instant dislike to Palfry. 'It doesn't just happen in London. And before you ask, the police are on their way.'

  'But what exactly happened?' Palfry insisted. 'You have told me nothing.'

  'That burglar tried to shoot me. I shot him first,' Beaurain said in a bored tone.

  'How absolutely frightful. How extremely mind-boggling. We thought we were safe here. The people who live in this village, I mean.'

  Palfry was dressed as though he'd just got up. Below his overcoat, buttoned to the neck, protruded a pair of pink striped pyjamas. But Paula noticed that below them were were the cuffs of a dark suit. Did he really sleep in his suit under pyjamas? Palfry was lying.

  'The gunfire woke you then?' she enquired.

  'I'll say it did. Pretty awful way to start the day if you ask me.' He turned to Paula. 'I heard the Minister inviting you to come with Tweed to the meeting tomorrow morning at his Belgravia apartment. You'll be hungry when it's all over. Maybe you would join me for a little lunch afterwards?'

  'Kind of you. Let's see how it goes.'

  Palfry walked back towards his 'tub' house. Paula noticed he took a route which kept him well clear of the body lying outside the bungalow.

  'I wonder whether he will come over to see us?' Beaurain said.

  He pointed across the lake to the cube house. A red MG was emerging from a garage under one of the cubes. In the moonlight she could see the distinctive figure of Drew Franklin behind the wheel. The car sped round the end of the lake and drove at speed towards them. Drew braked feet before he reached them. As he alighted from the car he took off his hat and bowed to Paula.

  'So, gentlemen, the war has started.'

  'We shot a burglar…' Newman began.

  'Burglar my foot.' His headlights were beamed on the body. 'Native clothes and a black turban? That's al-Qa'eda come to town. The lot of you could have been murdered.'

  'Yes, we were lucky,' Beaurain said with a smile.

  'That will light a fire under Victor Warner. I've called my editor, told him to delay my column twenty-four hours. The headline? Al-Qa'eda Strike in North Downs. How many of 'em?'

  'You only see one body,' Beaurain pointed out.

  'How many?' Drew demanded again. 'All that gunfire.'

  'Four bodies – like that one,' Newman admitted.

  'Bigger headline. Massacre of al-Qa'eda near London. The Minister will love that. None of you were hit?'

  'We hit them,' Paula said.

  'Good for you.' He put his arm round her. 'And I'll bet this lady scored a bull.'

  'It was a bull – in every sense of the word,' Beaurain replied.

  'I'm off. To rewrite my article. Might just bully the editor into reworking the paper so it will hit today's edition.'

  He leapt back behind the wheel of his MG. The car roared off towards London and was gone. Beaurain looked thoughtful.

  'That Drew Franklin could be the brightest brain up here. I think someone should interrogate him for a long time.'

  'I could do that,' Newman said. 'We're both reporters…'

  Paula packed quickly, remade the bed in her room, checked the interior of the bungalow to make sure it looked neat. Swift as she was, two ambulances arrived before dawn. Buchanan jumped out, listened while Beaurain and Newman gave him a quick description of what had happened, where the bodies were. Within twenty minutes, under Buchanan's urging, both ambulances were occupied with their cargo.

  'I want to get these bodies out of this village, heading back to London before the inhabitants appear. I know they've been up once but from what you've told me they don't know all that much.'

  'Except Drew Franklin,' Beaurain reminded him.

  'That's great,' Buchanan said, smiling. 'He'll splash what has happened up here. Finally wake up people to the grim threat al-Qa'eda poses to London.'

  'Tweed will be rubbing his hands,' Paula commented.

  'And that idiot, Victor Warner, will be wringing his. You will all be leaving, I hope,' Buchanan went on, turning to get aboard one of the ambulances. 'You've done the trick. Rattled al-Qa'eda's cage – and that of the master planner…'

  They were leaving. Beaurain locked the front door of Billy's bungalow. He paused, his satchel and 'violin' case looped
over his shoulder, his case in his other hand.

  'You going back to the Peacock?' Newman asked.

  'No, I want to get to London. Paula's car is inside Mrs Goggle's shed. What about you?'

  'I left my car at the triangle at the other end of what Paula calls the rabbit warren.'

  'Then we'll all drive there in my car so you can pick up your car,' Paula decided. 'I wonder how Billy is getting on in some hotel in town?'

  30

  Pete Nield shifted his position behind the wheel of his parked car. He was stiff. In the Bloomsbury district of London it was still dark. No streaks of another cold dawn appeared in the heavy sky.

  For hours he had waited opposite the front entrance to the Pink Hat, a small hotel in a side street. Its frontage was narrow, four storeys high with steps leading up to the entrance, which had a light glowing over it. In front of grubby net curtains a notice hung hopefully. Vacancies.

  The Pink Hat? Silly name for a building which had stood there since Victorian days. It was the obscure hotel Nield had, in the evening, escorted Billy Hogarth to. On arrival Pete had accompanied Billy to check his bedroom. On the second floor it had only one window which overlooked the street where Pete had parked. No fire escape. Pete had checked that. So the only way anyone could get into the place was up the front steps. Pete was a stickler for details.

  He checked his Walther for the sixth time, slid the magazine back into the butt. Something to do, to keep him awake. He didn't expect any trouble but on their way there he thought he'd been followed down from Carpford. Nerves. He slumped down further so any passer-by would assume the vehicle was empty.

  The two men appeared out of nowhere. Incredibly silent in their movements. A tall thin man in a grey overcoat, his companion short and tubby, wearing a shabby raincoat. They were too quiet. Reaching the foot of the steps to the Pink Hat, they turned suddenly, went up the steps, vanished inside like ghosts. Pete slipped out of the car, closed the door quietly, crept up the steps in time to hear what they said to the night clerk, a plump dopey-looking woman.

  'Our brother, Billy Hogarth, is staying here. We bring bad news. His mother has just died.'

  'How awful,' the woman said, not really interested.

  'We want to go and wake him gently.' It was Tall Thin talking.

  'It will be a shock, so we won't tell him until he's really woken up. Which room is he in?'

  'Number 16…'

  'Then if you loan us your master key we can be sure not to startle him too much. See what I mean.' Now it was Short Tubby speaking. 'He was very fond of his mother.'

  'Not nice,' the dopey receptionist mumbled, reaching for the key, handing it to him. 'Up those stairs, to the second landing, then turn right.'

  'We appreciate this,' Short Tubby said in his hoarse voice. He picked up the key.

  'Gentlemen, I suggest we discuss this in the parlour -that door over there,' Pete said quietly. His Walther was pressed into the back of Tall Thin. 'This gun holds eight rounds – it will blow your pal's spine into two pieces.'

  Tall Thin had frozen. Short Tubby slipped his hand inside his jacket. Pete shook his head at him, his eyes cold as ice.

  'You have one second to show me that hand – without anything in it. I'm going to pull the trigger.'

  Short Tubby's hand whipped out, empty, even faster than he had inserted it. The night clerk was staring, her mouth open, standing still as a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's.

  'Now,' Pete continued in his deadly quiet tone, 'we'll all go into that parlour, sit down and discuss the situation. You go first, Fatty. Walk very slowly.'

  'Call the Yard,' Pete said over his shoulder to the woman. 'Ask for Chief Superintendent Buchanan. Tell him where this place is, tell him to send armed men. Now,-gentlemen,' he went on, talking to the two men, 'do walk slowly, I beg you, if you want to see the dawn…'

  Short Tubby kept both of his hands by his sides, palms outwards as he took slow steps into the parlour. Pete prodded the Walther harder into Tall Thin, who followed his partner.

  Inside the small parlour, decorated with a palm plant in a pot, badly in need of water, and a few wicker chairs, Pete kicked the door shut behind him.

  'No! Don't sit down,' he ordered in the same Siberian voice, as Short Tubby was about to occupy a chair. 'Walk slowly to that wall. Now press your face against it, then lift the hands high above your head, press them against the wall. If you look round I'll be the last person you ever see. You stand very still,' he ordered Tall Thin, his Walther still pressed into the thug's spine.

  From behind he used his left hand to pat and feel over his body. Under his left armpit he found the gun, withdrew it from the shoulder holster. A Webley-Fosbery, fully loaded. He continued to search, felt something round and hard in his overcoat pocket. A silencer, ready to be screwed on to the weapon before it was used to kill the sleeping Billy.

  Pete's expression became even grimmer. He slipped Tall Thin's gun and silencer into his pocket. Reversing his Walther, holding it by the barrel, he brought the weapon down with savage force on the back of his captive's head. Tall Thin fell forward, unconscious, landed in one of the wicker chairs.

  'Don't look round!' he hissed at Short Tubby.

  Approaching him quietly, he rammed the Walther into Short Tubby's spine. He proceeded swiftly to search him.

  Another shoulder holster from which he extracted a Colt. 455, also fully loaded. Slipped that into his other pocket and continued searching. Nothing else, no silencer, but he hadn't expected one considering the weapon. He also now had two wallets shoved inside his pocket. They could be examined later. He also had the master key, which Short Tubby had put in his trouser pocket.

  'Stay where you are. Quite still. I'm going to sit down and then we can…'

  He was still speaking when he smashed his gun down on the fat man's head. He jumped back as Short Tubby slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He checked both men's carotid arteries, found them ticking over. He reckoned it would be an hour before they regained consciousness.

  Leaving the parlour, he closed the door. The night clerk woman was sitting behind her counter, absorbed in looking at one of the cheaper women's magazines. She looked up, went back to her magazine.

  'Did you call Superintendent Buchanan at the Yard?' Pete asked.

  'Don't know the number.'

  Pete raised his eyes towards the ceiling. She was no longer looking at him. He took a deep breath. There was 999.

  'Give me a piece of paper.'

  She scrabbled below the counter. Eventually she found a notebook with creased pages. He wrote down the number, Buchanan's name and rank, then his own name.

  'This is serious,' he snapped. 'Here is the number, the name of the man you need to speak to, and my name, which he will want. Tell him to send two patrol, cars with armed men. Tell him I said it was urgent.' He added that word to the notepad, underlined it. 'Give him the name of this hotel, the address. The two men who came in are waiting in the parlour, don't wish to be disturbed. Do it now.' He took out a five-pound note, gave it to her. She woke up, grabbed the note. 'They will give you more money when they arrive,' he fibbed.

  He ran upstairs, followed the instructions she had given the two killers. Billy Hogarth woke quickly, did not seem worried when Pete said he was moving him to another hotel. He dressed quickly, picked up the case he hadn't unpacked, fetched his shaving-kit bag from the bathroom, tucked it under his arm and they went downstairs.

  Dopey Woman was talking on the phone. Pete listened. She'd garbled his instructions but given enough for Buchanan to react. Pete paid the bill with cash, hustled Billy down the steps and into his car. It was very cold and the first streaks of dawn, promising another unpleasant day, were now visible.

  'What's up?' Billy asked, suppressing a yawn.

  'I think we were followed here by some undesirable characters. I'm taking you to another hotel in a different area. You'll be safe… more comfortable there.'

  'Lots more goin' on up at
Carpford than round 'ere.'

  'What do you mean?'

  No reply. He glanced at Billy. His passenger had fallen asleep, his head drooped on his chest. Pete checked the rear-view mirror. No traffic at all. No one was following them this time. But what had Billy seen up at Carpford?

  31

  Beaurain., with Paula by his side, was driving down the narrow, steep curving lane, descending from the Downs to the main road. Paula had gratefully accepted his offer to drive – she was feeling shaky, a reaction to the violent events at Carpford. They had dropped Newman where he had left his car. Beaurain had let Newman, anxious to get back to Park Crescent, go ahead of him.

  It was daylight, of a sort. Murky grey clouds drifted above them and the wind was cold. Beaurain was driving well within the speed limit, cautious as to what might lie round the next corner – in this section there was only room for one car.

  A violent honking started behind them, continued non-stop. Paula looked back. She recognized the aggressive driver in his Alfa-Romeo. Martin Hogarth, wearing a baseball cap. The honking of the horn went on, sending the message: Get out of my way.

  'This is ridiculous,' Paula protested. 'It's Martin, Billy's brother. How can he possibly hope to pass here?'

  'He wants me to speed up,' Beaurain said with a smile. 'How old is he?'

  'At least forty and he's wearing one of those stupid baseball caps.'

  They turned yet another corner and the road widened. As the honking was maintained, Beaurain steered into the middle of the road, making it impossible for their harasser to pass. Beaurain waved a hand out of his window, indicating he was slowing down, which he did, then stopped.

  'Won't take a minute,' he said, still smiling.

  Martin slammed on his brakes, left his engine running as he dived out to confront the Belgian. Beaurain stood with his arms folded, smiling. Martin came up close to him, his tone sneering.

  'Think you own the bloody road? Time you read the Highway Code. Of course, you're a foreigner.'

  Paula had left her car. She stood beside it, watching.

  'Actually,' Beaurain said mildly, 'I have read the Highway Code from cover to cover.'