No Mercy

by Forbes, Colin

  'You're sure?' Tweed persisted.

  'Of course I am. I also know the gun maker in Paris. He was drunk when I last called on him, let slip Charmian's name when he swept some of these cartridges into a drawer. This is off the record. If Charmian finds out, the gun maker is dead.'

  'So where did you find it?'

  'Inside that fir tree on the isolated hill from where he aimed at you. It's all getting very French.' He went over to the wall, leaned against it, lit a cigarette.

  'You are going to tell me what that means?'

  'Why not? On my way down there I kept a meeting with Marin, my best informant in Europe.'

  'That's his name?' asked Tweed.

  'Such naivete,' Marler mocked good-humouredly. 'Of course not. That's his code name. You know how carefully I protect my informants.'

  'I suppose we're going to hear what he told you before we get to midnight,' Tweed rapped back.

  'He says a ship's picking up crew from the He des Oiseaux close to the famous Chateau d'If island off Marseilles. Then it's on its way to collect long-range missiles from somewhere in Europe. Angora is becoming very aggressive. It has long-range rockets obtained from North Korea. Kim, the mad dictator of North Korea, was cunning. Too cunning. So the rockets travelled to Angora some time ago. Then Kim sent the missiles later on a different ship - which collides with an American destroyer in the Sea of Japan. Ship with the load of missiles sinks to bottom of the sea. Kim demanded Angora paid for the lost missiles and the ship. Angora has refused and has found another source.'

  'Where?' asked Tweed grimly.

  'Source unknown. Marin's sending me a coded signal when you should visit the island. Heavily guarded.'

  'I once visited Marseilles a long time ago.' Tweed stood up, wandered over to the windows, hands inside his trouser pockets. Paula knew the stance. Tweed was concentrating furiously. He stopped, looked down at Newman.

  'You see. My instinct was right. This murder case is the tip of a huge iceberg, a major conspiracy, I sense. I have a lot of loose links I have to join up to form a chain. I want to locate Gantia's armaments factory.'

  'Ask Lucinda over dinner tomorrow night,' Paula suggested. 'Late in the meal. And Keith Kent has again confirmed my dinner with him tomorrow night. He's wrestling with that sheaf of accounts I found in Christine's flat.'

  'I'm going home,' Tweed decided. 'I want to think hard.'

  'I'll drive you to your flat,' Newman said firmly. 'No walk for you tonight. Not after Charmian's bullet missed by inches.'

  'I love babysitters,' Tweed grumbled. 'You have no option.' Newman told him.

  Tweed, unusually, arrived at his office the following day in the early evening. He had spent the late afternoon with Anne in Champton Place. She had seemed more settled, greeting him with a smile.'

  'I do appreciate your sending two of your team,' she began. 'Pete - that is, Mr Nield — is clearing up in the kitchen after cooking me a meal. And Harry Butler's turned this place into a fortress, which makes me feel much safer.'

  They were seated in her living room as she spoke rapidly, her manner almost relaxed. Tweed avoided any reference to her visit to Saafeld's morgue to identify Christine. Nield appeared with a tray of tea, then left them alone.

  'I feel rather a fool,' Anne went on. 'There's something I should have told you about earlier. It completely slipped my mind because of... yesterday.'

  'Better late than never,' Tweed assured her cheerfully. 'I'm all ears.'

  'This goes back over three months ago, when I started to worry about Christine's absence. I called an ex-boyfriend who was a policeman and asked him if he could recommend a good private investigator. He immediately gave me details of a John Jackson. Said he'd been an inspector, a clever one. Jackson had resigned because he couldn't stand the politics, then established his own agency.'

  'You did say John Jackson?' Tweed queried.

  John was the fourth name on the typed list found inside Michael's pocket.

  'Yes, that's right. He gave me his address and phone number. His office is in Parson Street, Shadwell. Down in the docks area, I gathered. I called him, told him what it was about. I suppose my voice was a bit shaky. When he arrived here he brought me a small bunch of lovely flowers. I was quite touched. I answered all his questions, gave him fifty pounds as a deposit. He gave me a receipt. His details are on this card.'

  Tweed took the card, a modest affair but well printed.

  John Jackson Agency, Private Investigator. 159 Parson Street, Shadwell, East London. Marital problems not accepted.

  'May I keep this?' Tweed asked.

  'By all means. He sent me a brief confirmation that he was acting on my behalf. That's the last I ever heard from him. He struck me as very intelligent and honest. I don't think he'd pocket my fifty pounds and then disappear. I hope he hasn't had an accident.'

  'Did you phone his office to try and contact him?'

  'Twice. Both times I got an answerphone. I hate those things. I didn't say a word each time. Then I gave up.' Anne smiled wanly. 'Sometimes I think I give up too easily.'

  'You did try twice. So Nield is looking after you?'

  'Oh, yes. He's so helpful. I'll miss him, but I do understand you need him.'

  'He can stay for a day or two longer, unless I run into an emergency. I'll just have a word with him before I go.'

  'Oh, how much do I owe you for all of Mr Butler's work? I'll give you a cheque now.'

  'No you won't.' Tweed stood up. 'We have a large fund at my disposal for just such situations,' he lied. 'Don't hesitate to call me if something develops - or worries you in any way.'

  When Tweed arrived back at Park Crescent, wearing his grey suit, most of his team were there as he took off his overcoat. It was 6 p.m. Paula eyed him up and down. 'Lucinda will swoon when she sees you.'

  'That I doubt very much.' He looked at Paula closely. She was wearing an electric-blue two-piece with a striking petal-shaped jewelled brooch - a birthday present he'd given her. 'It's Keith Kent who won't be able to take his eyes off you.'

  'When you two have finished admiring each other.' Marler began in a lordly tone, 'maybe I could report on developments.'

  'Fire away.' said Tweed from behind his desk.

  'Marin, my informant, has now left for the Continent.'

  'Nice and vague.' Tweed commented.

  'I hadn't finished. His guess is he'll want you to travel to Marseilles in about a week to ten days from now. We go by train. Marin insists on that. The French Secret Service are photographing all passengers alighting from aircraft - and they'd recognize you. Might even follow us.'

  'Not exactly a holiday.' Tweed checked his watch. 'I'm off to Santorini's in a minute. Traffic's terrible and I want to be there on time.'

  'Mustn't keep the luscious Lucinda waiting.' Paula chaffed him. 'That's rather a good description. Luscious Lucinda.'

  'I'm getting out of here.' responded Tweed, putting on his camel-hair overcoat.

  'Hang on a sec.' said Newman, who had been quiet as he sat in his armchair. 'I've been busy today. Went down to the East End to meet a chap who runs a chain of barges - and is a race-goer during the season. He knows everything that's going on. I asked him about Abel Gallagher. He threw his hands into the air, said there was a mate in deep water. Gallagher haunts the races during the season. Did last year. My informant knows his bookie. Gallagher's twenty thousand quid in debt to him. Always picks losers. Bookie's getting restless.'

  'His name?'

  'Torture wouldn't make him reveal that. Gallagher? Chief of Special Branch. He could set up anyone who talks for a drug bust.'

  'I'm going down to have a word with George.' Tweed had the door half open. 'I'll be back.'

  'Good,' said Newman. 'Because I'm driving you to the restaurant. You don't have to be on the A303 to get a bullet through your window.'

  Paula drifted over to the window. Mist was invading London's streets. She was still able to see below her. She waited, then turned to Newman.
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  'You won't be driving Tweed. He's just disappeared in his car.'

  Tweed arrived at Santorini's five minutes early. A doorman came out to park his car. The head waiter greeted him effusively.

  'I have your table waiting, the best in the house.'

  'I'm expecting a lady guest. Blonde hair.'

  'You'll find her in the bar, sir.'

  Held up several times in the traffic on his way, Tweed had pondered what he'd been told. Marseilles. Did that link up with anywhere - or anyone - he'd seen or met? He felt he was missing something. Then there was Abel Gallagher. Twenty thousand in debt to a bookie. What bookie would let anyone pile up such a huge sum? The answer was clear. The bookie knew he might need Gallagher's protection one day if he found himself in a dangerous situation.

  'We're looking for someone in need of substantial funds,' Paula had said. Something like that.

  In the bar, almost empty at that early hour, Tweed found Lucinda perched on a stool, drinking champagne. She looked stunning. She wore a green dress, slashed up the side of her right leg, and the colour was just right for her long blonde hair. On the counter was a second glass of champagne, untouched.

  She had seen him come in from his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He headed for the stool to her left. She swung round to face him.

  'Tweed, you're late. I've been here ages. Cheers!'

  She pushed the full glass towards him. He picked it up after perching on the stool. They clinked glasses. She swallowed half the contents of her drink, which the barman had filled up. Tweed sipped.

  'I'm not late,' he told her. 'I'm exactly on time. So what are we drinking to?'

  'To us! May our relationship be long and fruitful.'

  'I'll drink to that.'

  Tweed drank only occasionally and then moderately. But he had the capacity to drink a lot - and still remain alert and sober. He turned to face her, smiled.

  'May I say you are looking terrific?'

  'Thank you.' Her left hand reached out, plucked gently at the sleeve of his suit. 'This suit is having an effect on me. So smart.'

  'The waiter said our table's waiting. We could take our drinks with us.'

  As they walked into the spacious and tastefully decorated restaurant, the barman followed, carrying a silver tray with a bottle of Krug. The wine waiter appeared as they settled themselves at a corner table, placed two new champagne glasses on the table, uncorked the Krug, poured a little into one glass. Tweed sampled it, gave a nod of approval. Menus were presented, they studied them, then ordered. Lucinda leaned forward, her voice low, although there was only one other couple in the room so far.

  'The morning you came to see me at the plant one of our trucks was hijacked early in the morning. The driver was waved down, a masked man chloroformed him and shoved him into a hedge. Truck was found on the M3. The police soon lost interest. The driver recovered quickly. No aftereffects. Strange.'

  'Mysterious,' said Tweed.

  They had finished their starters and main courses when they decided they needed a pause. Lucinda lit a cigarette. The Krug bottle was now half empty, the greater part of its contents swallowed by Lucinda.

  'Tell me about Larry,' Tweed suggested. 'What sort of chap is he?'

  'Brilliant. A quick brain. Decisive. Won't suffer fools gladly. Can be tough. Loves travelling abroad. Is often away for longish periods, meeting big customers. Half the time we don't know where he is. Very independent.'

  'What was Michael like before amnesia hit him?'

  'Here we go!' She shook her cigarette holder at him. 'I just knew you'd veer into an interrogation.'

  'I'm interested in people.'

  'OK,' she sighed and grinned at him. 'Michael is even cleverer than Larry. A superb sales director. We have two more and they're keeping things afloat. They lack Michael's initiative. We survive, Mr Detective. Now, have you identified those two poor skeletons on Dartmoor?'

  Tweed took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket. He gave her the ring found inside the mining shaft. Told her to read the inscription inside: 'From Lee to Lucinda'. Her reaction was electric.

  'Oh, my God! Lee tried to give this to me. See the size of the rock? I declined it. It was too much. So she wears it herself. Where did you find it?'

  'Who is Lee? What's her surname?'

  'Never stop, do you? Interrogating. She calls herself by her maiden name, Lee Charlton. She's married to one of our directors, Aubrey Greystoke.'

  'What kind of director is he?'

  'God!' She drank more champagne. 'He's the finance director. Their marriage is breaking up. Which doesn't surprise me . . .' She paused, staring at the entrance to the restaurant. 'Talk of the devil, Greystoke's coming in here with his latest girlfriend.'

  Tweed turned in his chair. Greystoke was a tall, well-built man wearing a black tie. In his early fifties, he exuded self-satisfaction, scanning the restaurant with an imperious expression. His thick brown hair was carefully coiffeured, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on his Roman nose, his lips were sensuous, his chin pointed. Lucinda had lowered her eyes .but he 'had spotted her, began to walk over.

  On his arm was a short slim girl with jet-black hair falling to her shoulders. Not yet thirty, Tweed judged. Greystoke's voice was lofty.

  'Well, well, gathering of the clans, Lucinda. This is Martina Martello.'

  'Any news of Lee?' asked Lucinda with deliberate lack of tact, her expression cold.

  'Not a dickey-bird. Didn't expect any. You know how she is, my dear.'

  'No. How is she?' Lucinda shot back.

  'Chasing her chances somewhere in the world, I expect.'

  'I'm still here in case anyone's not noticed,' Martina snapped.

  Tweed stood up, introduced himself, shook her hand. She gave him a thankful smile. Greystoke stiffened. . 'Tweed? The gentleman who's investigating the unfortunate occurrences down at Dartmoor?'

  'Yes.' Tweed's tone was grim. 'If you can call two exceptionally brutal murders unfortunate occurrences.'

  'Nice to meet you both.' Greystoke waved a well-manicured hand. 'Martina, time we grabbed our table before someone poaches it."

  They were an odd couple. As they strolled to a table at the far side of the room Tweed noticed Greystoke's large wiry hands, the careful and slow way he walked.

  'When did Lee dump him?' he asked.

  'Must be over three months ago. Left him a note. "To hell with you, Aubrey".'

  'Handwritten?'

  'No. On his computer.'

  'And Lee hasn't been seen since? Why did she try to give the ring to you? Must have cost a packet.'

  'If you must know, I was in a bad temper - Aubrey was late in giving me some accounts. Lee was in the waiting room. She'd been there an hour. Her husband was taking her to lunch. I said maybe he was calling one of his dolly birds. Which was a bad mistake on my part. Lee, who was a close friend of mine, pinned me to the wall, demanded details. I gave them to her. I felt it was time Aubrey was pulled up sharp.'

  'How did Lee react?'

  'Surprisingly calmly. Thanked me, said she was going to the loo. If Aubrey came down would I tell him she'd left. Which I did a minute later.'

  'So how did he react to that?'

  'You'd get information out of a mute. Oh Lord! I'd forgotten about Michael. That was tactless. Aubrey said, "Good. Saves me the most boring lunch." I was going to give him hell but he walked out. End of story. Maybe we could have a fun conversation now. Just for a change, Tweed.'

  'Bear with me. Just two more items. How do I contact Larry here in town? I need to have a chat with him.'

  'A bloody interrogation, you mean.' She smiled, spread a spare paper napkin on the table, took out a pen, wrote swiftly in capital letters, folded the napkin and handed it to him. 'That gives the address of the London offices in the Tower and his private phone number.' She leaned towards him. 'Now, Mr Detective, what was the other thing?'

  'I need to talk to Drago Volkanian very urgently. How do I reach him?'
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  'You don't. I'm not sure which country he's in.' She, paused. 'But I can tell you he wants to contact you.'

  'He knows about Michael and the amnesia?'

  'No idea. Tweed, thank you for a marvellous dinner. I stay up late. Come back to my place and we'll have a nightcap.'

  'Let me think about it, please.'

  He paid the bill. As they walked towards the exit he glanced over towards Greystoke's table. His girlfriend, Martina, was stroking his cheek. Greystoke looked at Tweed, looked away without any sign of recognition. The head waiter brought their coats.