Blood Storm

by Colin Forbes

  Paula stared at the apparition without appearing to do so. Whipping off the man's hat the visitor revealed a thick mop of brown hair which now fell to her shoulders.

  She wore the thickest horn-rims Paula had ever seen, with lenses of thick glass. Behind them greenish-yellow eyes surveyed the room quickly. Her mouth was plastered with bright red lipstick and she peered rather than looked when she had checked the room. She took off her coat, ignored Monica's offer to take it, hung it over the back of the chair in front of Tweed's desk. She was wearing a loose white blouse covered with roses.

  Tweed had stood up and opened his mouth to suggest she sat down but the visitor plonked her slim backside in the chair without being asked. Tweed sat down, having said nothing.

  'You're Tweed,' she began. 'Over there that must be Paula Grey,' she said with a brief glance at Paula. 'I am Zena Partridge,' she continued, 'senior civil servant. My main role is to attend to the three junior ministers, Nelson, Noel and Benton Macomber. I have other responsibilities so it is a back-breaking routine but that doesn't worry me because I have a strong back. I am here to get your advice about hiring protection.'

  Lord, another frightened woman, Tweed thought. Partridge ploughed on, speaking in a commanding voice as though addressing the troops.

  'The reason for my request is I am being stalked and I want a stop put to it.' She glared at Tweed through the thick lenses. 'But the protection must be invisible. On absolutely no account must the people I work for know what is happening. I can give you no reason why this should be happening but it has to be stopped. I have no enemies or people who would want to harm me. My life is work, work, work . . .'

  'Could you describe—' Tweed began.

  'He is a short fat creature about fifty years old and he always wears a dark-blue business suit, a red tie and a white shirt. His feet are clad in blue trainers and he smokes a cheap cigar constantly. I have a specimen.' She dived inside the large leather handbag she had slung over her shoulder, produced a transparent envelope containing a half-smoked cigar, dropped it on Tweed's desk.

  Tweed glanced at it briefly but made no attempt to examine it. Partridge was talking again.

  'Maybe it's a clue - DNA from the saliva and all that - I wouldn't know. I'll pay a reasonable fee for your time and here is my mobile phone number.' As she spoke she dropped on his desk a card which she'd extracted at the same time as the cigar. 'That's all it has on the card. I have no intention of letting anyone know where I live. What alerted me to the need to take action was the description in the newspaper about that brutal murder of the Vander-Browne woman. There's a lunatic on the loose. I have no intention of risking being his next victim.

  She was still talking at top speed. She opened her mouth again but Tweed hammered his clenched fist on the desk and she stared with indignation at him.

  'Where did you get the cigar from,' he asked her, 'and how long has this persecution been going on?'

  'I picked up the cigar in Whitehall,' Partridge rattled on. 'Turning round, I began to walk back to challenge him just as a police car came slowly cruising up the street. The fat man threw his cigar into a side street and disappeared after it. He only reappeared when the police car had passed. He hailed a cab when he saw me coming towards him. After he'd gone I used my gloved hand to pick up the cigar and dropped it inside that evidence envelope. I carry them so I can stuff used handkerchiefs inside one. Germs are everywhere. I have been stalked for two days and every time I leave the building. While I think of it, Paula Grey over there is in great danger. Don't ask me how I know that because I won't tell you. Highly confidential.'

  'Medfords Security Agency,' Tweed said suddenly. 'I can give you the address and the name of the man to see. We do not handle work or problems like yours. I am sorry.'

  'So am I!' she snapped, jumping up, slipping on her coat. 'And I do know where Medfords are. I've wasted my time coming here. I'm going now. No, keep the cigar.'

  When Partridge had gone Monica stood up and let out a long sigh.

  'Phew! She never stopped talking for over five minutes. No wonder back at the civil service they call her the Parrot. To say nothing of Freaky-Deaky. Pete knew what he was talking about. As to enemies, she must have a horde of them with all those subordinate to her.'

  'Did you believe what she said?' Tweed asked Paula.

  'Not one single word.'

  'The only thing she said which worries me is her warning that you are in danger. Could be the reason she came here. I'm thinking the Cabal are launching a campaign against us to persuade me to withdraw opposition to their crazy plan for a merger.'

  'Don't think so,' Paula said as her mobile phone began to buzz. She answered it. 'Hello.'

  'Recognize my voice?' a man asked. Newman's.

  'Yes, I do.'

  'I need your help urgently. I'm at the Monk's Head Hotel in Tolhaven, west Dorset. Can you get down here?'

  'I'm practically on my way.'

  'Bring a camera. Something very weird. Come armed . . .'

  The line went dead. Paula had scribbled the address on a pad. She opened a locked drawer, took out her Browning, checked the mechanism, inserted a magazine, tucked it inside her shoulder holster. Next she took out a small 6.35mm Beretta, checked it, and slid the automatic inside another neat holster strapped to her leg. She took the pad with the address over to Tweed, told him what Newman had said.

  'Things are warming up,' she remarked. 'About time.'

  'I'd come with you,' Tweed said. 'But the situation here . . .'

  'Bob didn't ask for you,' she said with a cheeky smile. 'I will keep you informed as far as I can. Borrow a mobile off Pete Nield. See you.'

  'Don't take your Saab to drive down there,' Tweed warned. 'You are known to have that car and the enemy has done his homework. Take my old battered Ford with the souped-up engine. That might confuse them.'

  'Will do.'

  She was almost at the door when she stooped to pick something up off the carpet. It was a contact lens with a greenish-yellow tint. She took it back and laid it on Tweed's desk.

  'The Parrot must have dropped this as she left in a fury.'

  'I wonder,' said Tweed very thoughtfully, looking at the lens.

  'And here,' Paula said, handing him a camera, 'inside is the film. I took two shots of our visitor.'

  Tweed called over to Monica. He gave her the camera.

  'Take this down to the basement. Tell them to print what's inside. Then they should give the prints to that clever artist, Joel, and ask him to come up. I have experienced his talented hand at creating people's images.'

  7

  Paula was racing down the motorway, the same one Newman had driven along earlier. Before leaving Park Crescent she had used a map to check the location of Tolhaven, a place she'd never heard of. A souped-up engine, Tweed had said. She was having to concentrate to stop the car carrying her away, and so hard she passed the exit leading to the safe house Newman had used without giving it a thought. Shortly afterwards she turned off the motorway down a road leading more to the south.

  The end of March. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon and cold. She had her window open a few inches to keep herself alert. She frequently checked her rear-view mirror but there was no sign of black cars. She had eluded State Security - no, Special Branch as they still were, despite their black uniforms, the long overcoats, the peaked caps.

  She was driving through open country with rolling hills on either side. Here and there a field had crusted brown sods of soil. Ploughing was well under way. She sighed with pleasure. Such a relief to be in the country and away from the crammed streets and buildings of London.

  The road was straight for long stretches and she risked increasing her speed. Eventually she crossed the Dorset Downs and a panoramic view opened up. The road descended, hedge-lined on both sides, but ahead in the distance the sun glowed off a vast stretch of blue sea. The English Channel. She crawled through the first village she had encountered for ages, saw a signpost bearing
the legend Tolhaven.

  No traffic. She was thinking of the contact lens she had given Tweed, along with the camera she'd used to photograph the Parrot. She had a twin camera in her pocket. 'I wonder,' Tweed had said and asked Monica to give it to the basement boffins, develop the film, then send it to Joel, the artist. Why? What had occurred to him in his agile brain?

  Tolhaven was a dull place, small and with stone buildings, most of which had small shops at ground level. She saw the Monk's Head, turned into a parking area under an arch. Newman's Range Rover was parked in a corner.

  In reception a woman in late middle-age, wearing a crumpled grey dress, told her Mr Newman had said he was expecting a lady guest. His room was 25, hers was 24, both on the first floor.

  'You made good time,' Newman greeted her when Paula had tapped on his door, and entered his large bedroom, its windows overlooking the main street. 'Are you armed?'

  'Yes. Sounds as though you expect trouble.'

  'I do. Thanks for coming. I need someone sensitive to weird atmospheres. We ought to get moving. On foot. It will be dark soon.'

  'Mind if I dump my emergency bag in my room and change into walking boots? You can come with me . . .'

  She had noticed Newman was exuding energy, but that his expression was grim after his welcoming smile. He was clad in a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked into boots. She worked quickly in her room while Newman peered out of a window looking down on the car park.

  'Don't miss a trick, do you?' he said sharply. 'Parked your car like mine facing out for a quick getaway.'

  'That's on the cards?'

  'I've paid in advance for both rooms for two nights. If we have to we can take off in an emergency.'

  'You expect one?'

  'State Security have been here for hours in full battledress. I've done a recce, so I can show you.' He looked towards the bathroom. 'We may not be back for a while.'

  'I'm OK. What are we waiting for?'

  'Have you eaten?' Newman paused on the pavement outside the hotel. 'I should have asked earlier.'

  'Yes. Shouldn't we keep moving?'

  He led them down a side street near the hotel and over to the far side of the High Street. They emerged into the open and the small town was gone. The road climbed to an ancient bridge. Paula peered over a crumbling stone wall. Below a fast-flowing river headed seaward. On one bank an old wooden dock was gradually collapsing into the water.

  'Ages ago, before the Channel decided to recede,' Newman explained briskly, 'Tolhaven was on the edge of the sea. The town has a history of smugglers and savage fights with the equivalent of the coastguard.'

  'It's eerily quiet, apart from the water lapping,' she remarked as they walked quickly beyond the bridge.

  'It's a riot here compared with where we're going.'

  'Can't wait

  The road became a lane with forests of fir trees hemming it in on both sides. To their right, in a break in the trees, a path curved away marked with a sign: Ferry.

  'Where does that go to, then?' she asked.

  'To Black Island,' Newman replied, 'not far off the coast. I've been there for a quick shufti. . .'

  'What was that? Think I've heard it before.'

  'Arabic for look-see. Philip Cardon used the word when we had fun down in Marseilles.'

  'Fun? We nearly got killed.'

  'That was a honeymoon compared with what this could be. I want you to keep quiet, crouch down after me.'

  Newman's whole attitude, his remarks, made Paula check the Browning in the shoulder holster. They had turned off into another gap in the forest. The grass and dead bracken were squashed down with what looked to Paula like wheel-tracks. He held up a hand to halt her as they arrived at an opening. Three large cars were parked facing the track. Newman checked each one with small powerful field glasses. He had laid the golfer's bag which he'd carried casually slung over his shoulder down on the grass. He completed his survey, tucked away the glasses.

  'Empty,' he announced in a whisper.

  'What's in the golf bag? Not irons, I suspect.'

  'A powerful automatic weapon with plenty of ammo,' he told her casually. 'I think we'll risk crossing over to Black Island by ferry. The thugs had overhead lights fixed up where they were working, so maybe they carry on at night.'

  'What work?'

  'That's what I want you to see. If I tell you to do something like "drop flat" you do it damned fast.'

  They had returned along the track to the road, went back to where the signpost pointed to the ferry.

  'I thought I always did when you said something. I was with you down at the training mansion in Surrey. I seem to recall I scored more bulls than you on the firing range.'

  'You did,' Newman agreed. 'I said that because my impression is the thugs in State Security gear are also well trained. And they're armed . . .'

  Walking along the other path Newman stopped frequently to listen, then resumed his long strides. She had to hurry to keep up with his pace. The forest ended, they were in the open, the smell of the sea even stronger. The ferry was like a large barge with a small ladder at its stern, a short distance from a large engine. One weather-beaten rustic wearing oilskins stood on the shore, smoking a curved pipe.

  'Going across?' he called out in a West Country accent.

  'It's calm today so don't bother with oilskins. I'm Abe,' he introduced himself as Newman handed him the fare for two people.

  'Had any other passengers?' Newman enquired with a smile.

  'Only six of those bastards .. . excuse me, miss ... in their black fancy-dress uniform. Came over early this morning, asked if the old tub, as they called my ferry, crossed at night. I told them the last crossing is at 8.30 p.m. I bring her back through the channel marked with lights. You mention us to anyone and you're in hospital one of'em said. So I won't be sayin' another word to people like that. . .'

  They climbed the small ladder and Paula saw there were long continuous seats on either side of the barge. Newman led her to the front and as they settled themselves Abe started the engine. The barge slid out along a channel between long reeds, then they were in open sea.

  'Black Island is shaped like a triangle,' Newman explained, 'with the apex pointing south into the Channel. We land at a small village called Lydford. Has a pub and not much else.'

  'No holidaymakers?'

  'A lot at the eastern end, which has small hotels and good beaches. There's another ferry - one that takes cars. At this end there are locals in places like Lydford. That's it. Nothing on the western side, where the fancy-dress lot are building like mad. It's sinister. Which is why I want photos.'

  He stopped talking as Abe fixed the tiller, walked down to them. There was hardly any motion as Lydford's church spire hove into clear view.

  'Don't know what they can be buildin' over on the west side,' Abe began, talking with his pipe in his mouth. 'I've seen cargo ships comin' in, unloadin' steel bars and Gawd knows 'ow many breezeblocks.'

  'Probably another holiday centre,' Newman suggested.

  'Don't look like it. We'll be landin' soon. I comes over to collect any passengers on the hour. You'll be comin' back?'

  'I hope so,' Paula said under her breath.

  There was a bump as the barge gently hit the wooden dock. Slinging his golf bag over his shoulder, Newman helped Paula up on to the dock. He grinned as he tapped the bag with one hand while they walked off the dock into the tiny village.

  'Good job there are golf courses on the eastern cost. So this won't look odd.'

  'No one about to notice,' Paula observed.

  The village was very small. On either side of the road were old one-storey thatched cottages. The postage-stamp-size garden in front of each was neatly tended. The church was also small and constructed years before of black stone.

  'Not very welcoming,' Paula commented as they walked down the street. 'Black stone. Why?'

  'Because this island has the only granite quarries I know of in the south. Black granit
e, hence its name.'

  'There are some nice expensive-looking houses over there,' Paula commented. 'You can just see them in gaps between the fir trees. Some oaks too.'

  'We turn down this lane,' Newman said, not interested in her observations as he kept turning his head to scan for any sign of life. 'This is where it could get hairy . . .'

  They walked some distance west along the curving lane. Fir trees arched above their heads, as if they were walking inside a tunnel. Rounding a corner they saw a track leading away to their left, its broken surface carrying the wheel marks of wide heavy trucks. A sentry was posted there, wearing a long black coat, peaked cap, an armlet with the legend State Security, an automatic weapon slung over his left shoulder.