'Your car will be waiting outside, sir, in just a minute,' he told Tweed. 'Your Porsche,' he informed Lucinda, 'is parked on the other side of the road. A waiter's kept an eye on it. He's been feeding the meter.'
'Thank you,' she replied with a smile, handing him a large tip.
They walked out into a bitterly cold night. Tweed's car had not yet arrived. Lucinda told Tweed to follow her and skipped across the wide street. A large BMW with tinted windows pulled up in front of her. It all happened so quickly. The driver's door was thrown open and a big man dressed for dinner jumped out and accosted her.
'Hello, dearie. Just what I need. On my way to Scargo's, a super nightclub. Hop in.'
'Get lost!'she snapped.
He grabbed hold of her arm to drag her into the BMW.
'Come on,' he demanded. 'You all play hard to get.'
Tweed was halfway across the road, his right hand clenched in a fist, when he witnessed an extraordinary spectacle. Lucinda's movement was too swift for him to see exactly what she did. She had hold of the big man, spun him round, shoved him backwards. His head hit the top of the open car doorway and he sagged. She lifted him bodily, pushed him face down inside, checked his pulse as he lay inert, reached in, pulled out the ignition key and threw it along the gutter. It dropped down a drain.
'He'll live,' she told Tweed calmly. 'Pulse ticking over nicely. Now, are you seeing me safely home?'
'Of course I am.'
He had been going to tell her he had to get back to Park Crescent. Now he had no option. He got behind the wheel of his car, now waiting outside Santorini's. He heard the purr of Lucinda's engine starting, was driving behind her when she got moving. No police about, he hoped.
Along the empty streets they soon moved up Park Lane and turned off into Mayfair. Lucinda turned down a side street, used her remote to open the door into an underground garage and waved for him to hurry up before the door closed. She swung into an empty space, and Tweed pulled up alongside her.
'You handled that big ape brilliantly,' he said when he joined her.
'Jujitsu.' She grinned. 'No problem handling the ape.'
He followed her across to a bank of elevators. She summoned the lift and the doors opened, she jumped inside, pressed the 'hold' button and stood inside, facing him, her arms folded.
'I'm gasping for that nightcap. Come on. Move your feet.'
Tweed was tempted. Every limb in his body urged him to get into the elevator. He took a deep breath.
'I'd love to,' he said. 'I'd really love to. You're a truly magnetic woman. But I have to get back to Park Crescent. I'm expecting vital information about my murder case.'
'You and your bloody murder case.'
She ran out of the elevator, threw her arms round him, kissed him, lingering. He responded, clasping his hands round her waist, and edged her gently back inside the elevator. As he did so she produced a card from somewhere and tucked it inside his coat pocket.
'Now you'll know where to find me. Thanks for a terrific evening.'
He was about to take a step forward when she pressed two buttons. As the doors closed she threw him a kiss with her hand. He walked swiftly back to his car, wishing he had joined her. But among other things she was a suspect in a hideous murder case. He couldn't get out of his mind the efficient and speedy way she'd handled the ape.
15
Tweed had found his office empty when he returned -except for Monica, who never seemed to leave the place. She had been producing the long report Tweed had dictated to her for Buchanan. It was an account of everything that had happened so far, starting with his first visit to Arabella Ashton, his first encounter with Michael. It concluded with the finding of the ghastly contents of the monster fridge at Christine Barton's flat. Certain events he conveniently omitted. Monica showed him the note left for him by Paula.
Hope you had a wonderful evening. I had a good time with Keith at the Ivy. Left at 10 p.m. Keith is still struggling to unlock the key to Christine Barton's sheet of figures. Love, Paula.
He checked his watch: 1 a.m. Time to go home. Monica warned him to take a taxi, said she was phoning for one. Walking the four miles to his flat was not a good idea. He agreed.
The taxi took him to Drayford Street, well beyond Holland Park. He forced himself to take a shower, which woke him up. He didn't sleep well. He kept seeing people he'd met at distant Abbey Grange, then at Santorini's. Lucinda's face kept coming back to him. He again wondered whether he'd made a mistake not stepping into the elevator with her in the underground garage. She was a fascinating woman. Should he . . .? He then fell into a deep sleep.
'Have you eaten?' Paula asked the moment Tweed walked in the following morning.
'Well, no . . .'
She walked out, came back half an hour later from the nearby deli. Removing the metal cover, she revealed a dish of fried bacon and two eggs with grilled tomatoes.
His team watched him as he devoured the meal and drank the coffee Monica had made. He felt a new man as he wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. He looked round the room.
Newman was seated while he absorbed the morning's Daily Nation. Marler was standing against a wall while he smoked. Next to him Paula was compiling a list, lost in her concentration. Harry Butler was checking the mechanism of a Walther automatic. Pete Nield was reading sheets as Paula handed them to him.
Tweed stood up, put on his overcoat.
'Going somewhere?' asked Paula.
'You and I are doing just that. You remember a private detective, John Jackson, whom Anne Barton hired? We're going to pay his office a visit. One five nine Parson Street, Shadwell.'
'Shadwell?' Butler slid the automatic into a hip holster. 'In that case a lot of us are coming with you. You travel with Paula in your car. We follow close behind - Pete, myself and Bob Newman.'
'Is that really necessary?'
'It's Shadwell. It's ruddy well vital.'
They left Marler with Monica to look after the office. It was still February, dark clouds shrouding the sky, and there was a miserable drizzle. As they drove off with Tweed behind the wheel, Paula checked her .32 Browning, made sure she could haul it out of the pocket in her shoulder bag.
'I think Harry's overdoing it,' Tweed grumbled.
'I don't. Harry knows the area.'
They soon passed out of the West End and the atmosphere changed. There were blocks of grimy terrace houses with, here and there, a modern office building. They edged their way through a street market, stalls covered with canvas to protect the varied goods for sale. Paula's mobile buzzed. She listened.
'That was Harry. This is Shadwell. He says watch our backs.'
'They're still close behind us. Newman's car, Bob at the wheel, Harry beside him and Nield in the back. Makes us look like a convoy of gangsters heading in to take out a rival gang.' Tweed spoke with a note of amusement.
'Harry usually knows what he's doing,' Paula rebuked him. 'Slow down, turn left in a sec, I can see the entrance to Parson Street.'
'Miserable-looking place,' Tweed remarked as he swung the wheel round. 'Still, running a small detective agency, I imagine John Jackson had to watch his overheads.',
He parked in the narrow street by a crumbling kerb. One hundred and fifty-nine was a shabby terrace building. A plate screwed to the wall announced john jackson agency, private investigations. The stained glass in the upper half of the front door was surprisingly clean. As Tweed alighted with Paula the door opened. Tweed glanced back down the street, was relieved to see no sign of his escort.
A tall burly individual wearing an ancient overcoat, cap pulled well down, appeared at Tweed's side. His rough voice was a snarl.
'Mister, there's a fifty-pound charge for coming in this street. Protection is what they call—'
He stopped speaking as the metal muzzle of Harry's Walther pressed into the back of his thick neck. He dropped the knife from his right hand.
'Mate!' Harry's voice growled. 'Wrong place, wrong street. Scarper back
to the river. Now!'
The burly man began running fast to the end of the street, vanished round a corner. Harry kicked the knife off the kerb into a drain and slid his automatic back into his hip holster.
Tweed turned to the door, which was now closed. He pressed the bell, pressed it again when no one appeared. The door was opened less than a foot on a heavy chain. Behind it a frizzy-haired girl with intelligent eyes peered out. She looked frightened.
'Saw a man with a knife . . .' she stuttered.
'He's gone,' Paula told her firmly. 'Mr Tweed has a bodyguard.'
'Mr Tweed?'
'That's me.' Tweed was holding up his folder. 'We need to have a word with Mr Jackson, please.'
'You're police?'
'Something like that. If you were leaving for lunch it will only take a few minutes.'
'I'm leavin' for good. I suppose you'd better come in. Both of you,' she said, looking at Paula.
They entered a narrow hall with a desk in one corner on which sat an old typewriter. The girl, in her twenties, took them into another larger office. Paula shivered. The place was freezing.
'I need to see Mr Jackson,' Tweed repeated.
'He's gone. For good is my guess. I've stayed on since he paid me a month's salary. Electricity's been turned off, so has water. Unpaid bills are stacked in the clip. He was a nice man, Mr Jackson. Didn't want to let 'im down, so I stayed longer than he'd paid me for. Can't understand it. He's just gone.'
'Disappeared, you mean?' Tweed said quietly. 'How long ago since he was here?'
'Over twelve weeks ago. I stayed as long as I could but I've run out of money. I managed to get another post yesterday. I've left a note for him, giving details of the two clients who wanted him.' She pointed to an envelope on the desk. 'He's a nice man,' she repeated. 'Worked for 'im for a year.'
'Could I look at that message to see the names of the clients?' Tweed suggested.
'They'll have gone off elsewhere now.'
She handed him the unsealed envelope. He read the typed note full of errors. The names meant nothing to him. He showed the sheet to Paula.
'Dead end,' she whispered.
'Is this the only place Mr Jackson has?' Tweed asked.
'No. He 'as the 'ouseboat down at Wensford. Often went down there for a day or two studying details of a case.'
'Where is Wensford?'
'Somewhere down the M3. The 'ouseboat's on the River Ley, he told me. Joins the Wey River . . .'
'Excuse me,' Paula said. 'Back in a minute.' She darted off after taking Tweed's key. She was back quickly after shuffling through her collection of Ordnance Survey maps. Selecting the map for Surrey and Sussex, she spread it out on the desk.
'Any idea where Wensford is?' she asked the girl. 'I don't know your name,' she said with a smile.
'Jenny Oxton.' She bent over the map. 'John once showed me where he went. It's down the M3, then you turns off 'ere to Wensford. The 'ouseboat is near a bridge over the Ley River.'
'Are there any records here of Mr Jackson's dealings with clients?' Tweed asked.
'Always took them with 'im in 'is briefcase. Nothing else 'ere. Could I leave with you?'
'Certainly. We can drop you wherever you live.'
'Would 'elp. My boyfriend, Jeff, will be waiting for me at the caff on the corner at the end of Parson Street.'
Tweed had given her envelope back to her. Opening a drawer, she took out another envelope, then picked up a well-worn briefcase. She looked at Paula.
'My stuff. On our way out I'll lock the door, put the key inside this envelope, push it through the letterbox in the door. Best I can do. I 'ope John's all right.'
Outside they saw Harry leaning against the opposite wall, pretending to read a newspaper. Newman appeared, driving his car down from the other end of the street with Nield next to him. Harry dived into the back. Tweed drove to the end of Parson Street, dropped Jenny Oxton off at the door to the cafe. He had given her a ten-pound note just before she alighted, and had brushed aside her astonished thanks. She rushed into the cafe, sat at a table by the window opposite a rough-looking young man. She was leaning over to kiss him when they left.
'Some people have a tough life,' Paula remarked.
'She'll survive. I like the Cockneys. Worth a hundred of the Aubrey Greystokes. Now we've got to find Wensford and the houseboat.'
Pausing outside Park Crescent Tweed had a fierce argument with Newman and told him not to follow them down to Wensford. He had to issue a direct order that under no circumstances was anyone to follow him and Paula.
It was lunchtime when Tweed drove at top speed down the M3 with Paula by his side. They reached the turn-off very quickly, driving along a country lane. Earlier Paula had insisted he stop briefly outside the Gantia plant. She quickly took several photos. For the first time since he had reached his office earlier, Tweed found himself thinking again of Lucinda, recalling the scene in the underground garage when she had tried to coax him into the elevator. He should have joined her, he told himself wistfully. No, he'd made the right decision. Or had he?
'A penny for those deep thoughts,' Paula suggested as she put the camera back inside her bag.
'I was just thinking I should have warned Jenny Oxton not ever to go back to Jackson's place.'
'How can she? She dropped the key through the letterbox.'
'Of course she did. I'd forgotten that.'
'Really?'
She gave him an old-fashioned look.
A short distance along the lane they drove slowly through Wensford, a village with council houses lining both sides. No shops. Tweed slowed to a crawl as they approached an old hump-backed bridge. Inscribed in a brick pillar were the words ley bridge. He parked outside a dreary inn on the other side.
'I think we get out here and stroll around,' he said.
They crossed the empty road, clambered down to the towpath. Berthed to the bank was a brightly painted houseboat, a rope from its deck attached to a heavy rock on the bank. Mary Lou, its name, was painted on the bows. A wide heavy plank led from the bank to the deck. It was very quiet, no sound of traffic, only the desolate caw of rooks perched in a nearby tree. Paula didn't like the sound.
'I'll go and check the boat out,' said Tweed. 'You stay on guard here.'
'Excuse me,' Paula rapped, hands on her hips, her tone angry. 'I was under the illusion I was a member of the team. If you fall off the bloody plank I won't be rescuing you, Mr Tweed.'
'All right. We'll go aboard together,' he said after seeing her expression.
He crossed the plank and it hardly wobbled. Paula followed. He stood on the deck, studying it for footprints.
He had put on his latex gloves and when Paula joined him he saw she already had hers on.
'I suppose we get inside through that door,' she said.
He walked up to the closed door at the front of the interior. When he pulled at the handle he couldn't shift it. Looking down he saw a thick wooden wedge jammed underneath it. He looked round the deck, saw a sturdy marlinspike shoved down inside a leather holder attached to the port side. Clasping it, he withdrew it, noticed immediately brownish stains. He said nothing as he carried it over to the wedge. It took five hard blows to dislodge the wedge.
'I'd like you to stay on deck,' he told Paula.
'Don't start that again,' she snapped.
Gritting his teeth, he hauled on the door handle. It came open easily. Immediately a noxious aroma he knew meant only one thing seeped out. He took out a handkerchief, wrapped it round his nose, pulled the rest of it lower. When he looked at Paula she had already masked her face. She was holding her powerful torch, extracted from her shoulder bag.
It was dark inside but he had the impression he was entering the main cabin. The smell was overpowering. Paula's torch illuminated an empty old leather couch located against the starboard side. She held the torch tightly, swivelled the beam to the other side. Another leather couch, this one occupied. A skeletal figure was stretched out, and on t
he deck beside it were small transparent bags containing discoloured blobs. Flesh. Scraped from the skeleton. Tweed was nearly choking with the odour. Paula pulled at his arm.
'Let's get out of here,' she said, voice muffled behind the handkerchief.
The cabin had been ransacked. Drawers had been pulled out, their contents scattered on the deck. Tweed swayed. Paula hauled at his arm. They headed for the outside deck.
On deck, Tweed slammed the door shut. He took a deep breath. Paula was walking quickly to the starboard side. He felt sure she was going to throw up. Then she stiffened, took off her gloves, threw them on the deck, grabbed a bottle of mineral water from her bag, tore off the cap and drank deeply. Then she handed the bottle to Tweed, who was beginning to feel queasy. He swallowed several large gulps and felt his stomach settling.
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