by Colin Forbes
'I'd have thought so too,' Tweed replied as he rapidly read the lurid article. 'He does everything except print my name.'
'I'm going to see Drew as soon as I can. He'll talk, if I have to put my hands round his throat,' said Newman.
Paula, seated beside him, glanced at his expression. It confirmed her earlier opinion that Newman was in the most ferocious and determined mood she had ever seen.
Arriving back in the office they found only two occupants: Monica, as ever, behind her machine, and Pete Nield pacing up and down with a worried expression.
'Something wrong?' Tweed asked him.
'Just turning things over in my mind.'
As soon as Tweed had settled behind the desk, Monica jumped up, a large white envelope in her hand. She wore gloves as she placed the envelope on his desk.
'That was pushed through our letterbox at lunchtime.'
'By whom?'
'We don't know. I was out collecting my lunch from the deli. I was only away about twenty minutes. I think someone chose their time carefully.'
'What about George?' Tweed asked, referring to the ex-army GSM who was their guard behind a desk near the front door. It would take someone very strong and agile to mix it with George.
'He was in the loo for about five minutes. Came back and this was on the floor below the letterbox. George opened the door and couldn't see anyone in particular among the lunchtime pedestrians on the main road. He handled it with gloves.'
'So will I.'
Tweed put on latex gloves, weighed the envelope in his hand. Not much inside. A good-class envelope which could be purchased at any decent stationer's. The flap was tucked inside the envelope, in spite of the fact that it had glue which most people would lick. So no saliva, no DNA. He carefully pulled out the flap, then what was inside.
A large colour photograph, taken at night, showing a man from the rear, wearing a coat with the collar turned up, which concealed whether the neck was thick or slim. No more than a silhouette of a heavily built figure in a narrow cobbled street, a first-floor window on the left covered with bright red. An ancient street lamp attached on an arm protruding from a wall gave some illumination.
Tweed looked at Paula.
'What is it?' she called out as she hurried across to him, holding a magnifying glass she had been using to check a map of Black Island. He looked up at her as she stooped over his shoulder.
'You tell me.'
'I'm sure that's Fox Street,' she said. 'Oh, my God, that looks like blood spread all over the first-floor frosted-glass window.'
She used her magnifying glass to examine the window. She looked at Tweed with a grim expression. 'It's recent blood, hasn't had time to turn brown. Didn't Saafeld say when the killer of Viola chopped off her head he severed the main arteries, which would have sent a powerful jet of blood across the room? It hit the window and covered it with solid streaks. This must be where Viola lived. In Fox Street.'
'Turn it over,' he said.
She did so. In crude block lettering were the words Portrait of a Murderer. Tweed showed her the envelope, addressed to Mista Tweed, again in crude block letters.
'Can't spell,' she said without thinking.
'You think not? I'd say whoever wrote the wording and delivered it here is well educated. The spelling and the crude lettering is to cover up that fact.'
'It was a big man, difficult to tell his height.'
'Not necessarily big, not necessarily a man, as you keep reminding me. Someone wearing three raincoats and then an overcoat could bulk out their figure. It could be a man or a woman. The key question is who took the photo - and how did they come to be there at just the right moment?'
'The killer was followed earlier.'
'And the motive?'
'I take your point,' she admitted. 'Jealousy?'
'So all we have to do is to identify the photographer,' he said ironically.
'The Parrot would be my best guess,' she told him.
'During an investigation we don't rely on guesses. And I was under the impression the Parrot was at the head of your list of murder suspects.'
'It's confusing . . .'
'So take this photo down to the basement when you can. I want three copies and the original.'
During this conversation Newman had marched up to Pete Nield. He jerked his head towards the door.
'A quiet word in your shell-like ear. Visitors' room downstairs would be best.'
Paula had the unusual ability to carry on a conversation and at the same time overhear someone else's. She dashed down to the basement ahead of Newman and Nield.
Inside the visitors' room, a spartanly furnished room opposite George's post, Newman sat Nield down, then sat down himself, facing him across the table. His tone was grim.
'I need to speak to your informant urgently, which means as quickly as possible. Not tonight - now!'
'I don't like it,' Nield protested strongly. 'It's an iron rule that none of us ever reveal to any of the team—'
'In the diabolical situation Tweed finds himself in - and so do the rest of us - the rules go out of the window.' His tone became sarcastic, which was out of character. 'Unless you look forward to wearing a long black coat and cap, with an armlet carrying the legend State Security. Secret police would be a better description. Knocking on people's doors in the middle of the night, then dragging them away for brutal interrogation. What's the informant's name?'
'Coral Flenton,' Nield said quietly.
'That's better. Don't make me drag every detail out of you. Who is she? Where does she work - if she does work?'
'She's a civil servant. Assistant to the Parrot, who treats her abominably. Very dominating, the Parrot, always hoping she can catch Coral out in a mistake. And, Newman . . .' Nield had raised his voice, 'she's sensitive so I won't have you upsetting her. You've become a bit of a bastard on occasions recently.'
'I have,' Newman agreed, lighting one of his rare cigarettes. 'But when you're dealing with characters like Fitch, who was on the verge of kidnapping Paula from her home, the Marquess of Queensberry rules are pretty useless.'
'You could meet her in about half an hour's time,' Nield said after checking his watch. 'I've agreed to meet her at a cafe in Covent Garden - Popsies. I'll introduce you then make myself scarce.'
'I would appreciate that,' Newman replied, standing up.
What Newman didn't know was that Paula had guessed what he was up to. And it bothered her. After leaving the photo with a boffin she darted out of the front door. She chose Harry's Fiat, locating the spare ignition key under the cheap floor covering. Typical of Harry that he hadn't had the covering replaced.
She pushed the seat back, kept an eye on the door to Park Crescent, bobbed her head out of sight when Newman emerged with Pete.
15
Paula carefully followed Newman's car. He was good at spotting tails, but Paula was expert at not being seen. Newman was clever in the route he took to Covent Garden, using the back streets from Leicester Square favoured by experienced cabbies. Once there, he drove very slowly, glancing out of his window at a cafe. Paula had trouble reading the elaborate script but then made out the name. Popsies.
Most people were going home so Newman soon found an empty parking spot. Paula drove straight past him, found another empty spot. She put coins in the meter as Newman and Nield entered the cafe.
If Nield's informant was a man she wouldn't worry. If it was a woman she'd fume. Newman was in no mood to be subtle. Paula understood why and he had saved her life on Black Island. She jumped inside a shop entrance when Nield reappeared and went off towards the market.
Paula took her sunshade out of the car where she'd thrown it after collecting it from the office. Tweed, thank Heaven, had been absorbed on the phone. He'd have had a fit if he'd known she was out on her own.
She strolled along slowly under her sunshade even though it was by now dusk. As she passed the entrance to Popsies she saw Newman's back seated stiffly and a good view of a
small attractive girl. She took out her camera, took two quick shots, walked on.
'So you're some sort of friend of Pete's,' Coral Flenton said with an edge to her tone.
'That's right. We work closely together . . .'
'On special insurance. You take premiums from rich men frightened of being kidnapped.'
She had made it sound like a racket. Her large hazel eyes never left Newman's. He knew she was suspicious, hostile. Pity, because he liked her.
'That's right,' he answered. 'But we've been landed with a grim murder investigation. May I ask what you do in the way of work?'
'I'm a civil servant. I think you knew that.'
Newman sipped the coffee he'd ordered. It was very good. He could bring Roma here one evening before taking her on to dinner.
'I believe you work for the Parrot,' he struggled on.
'You mean Miss Partridge.'
Her expression was blank and those penetrating eyes never left his. He was beginning to lose the plot. He really liked her but was getting nowhere.
'Do you have anything to do with Nelson, Benton and Noel Macomber?' he asked with another forced smile.
'No, they're in another room.'
'So who does look after them?'
'Miss Partridge.'
'Ever heard of State Security?' he asked, moving in deeper.
'What?'
'State Security.'
'That's a new one on me.'
Newman forced himself to relax in the comfortable chair. He kept smiling and she kept the blank expression. Newman did not give up easily.
'Another life may be at stake after one horrific murder and that's why I'm asking these questions.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'I'm referring to the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. It's in the papers today.'
'Now you're putting me off my dinner this evening. I read about it.'
'May I ask you out to dinner? I promise not to ask you any more questions.'
'Certainly not. I already have a date, Mr Newman.'
'I think I'd better go now.' Newman stood up and called the waitress for the bill.
'Don't pay for me,' she said through clenched teeth.
Newman walked out into the street. He spread out his hands wide in frustration as he saw Nield approaching. Seated now in the Fiat with her head hunched down, Paula saw, understood the gesture. She was not surprised. She waited until Newman with Nield by his side had driven away, then got out, put more coins in the meter and walked along and entered Popsies.
The cafe was empty except for Coral Flenton, who had ordered more coffee, as if to get over her annoyance. Paula stood, staring round vaguely, caught Coral's eye, walked slowly to her table.
'Excuse me, but if you're not waiting for someone I dislike having even coffee alone.'
'Sit down,' Coral invited with a flashing smile. 'The coffee here is rather good.' She waved to the waitress and ordered another cup.
'I'm a bit of a fake,' Paula confessed. 'I'm a friend of Pete Nield, work closely with him.'
'Really.' Coral became guarded. 'And also a friend of Mr Bob Newman?'
'I'm senior to him.' She paused. 'Friend is the wrong word,' she said, implying she didn't much like him. 'He is a very able man but he has to be careful with me otherwise I'd rip him to bits - verbally.'
'So you work for the same insurance outfit,' Coral pressed her.
'Yes, I do . . .' Paula paused. 'I rarely say this to anyone because it sounds so egotistical but I'm second in command. I heard Pete saying he was going to Covent Garden so I thought I'd see if I could find him - to tell him to take the evening off.'
God, I'm awful, Paula thought, making all this up - but this woman could be important. She saw Coral's features relax and when she spoke her manner was animated and friendly.
'You then saw it was Newman so you waited until he had pushed off. If I can help in any way to solve that dreadful murder I will. You see I knew Viola, that is Miss Vander-Browne.'
'Do you know any of her men friends by chance?'
'No, I don't. I do know the Parrot - that's my boss, Miss Partridge - was in a fury and I wondered if she was having a thing with the murderer.'
'Why would she do that? Be in a fury, I mean.'
'Because Viola was very much a woman of the world. I don't wish to speak ill of the dead but Viola, a really nice person, spent the night with rich men for a lot of money. She spent so much on clothes the generous legacy she inherited didn't always cover her wants. I don't think Viola would have minded my telling you if it helps to track down the hideous killer.'
'Did she do this often?'
'Only about three times a year, she told me. We were old friends because we went to the same boarding school. I'm small and you know how vicious some girls can be. Viola used to protect me.'
'So you know Fox Street?'
'Quite well. I used to go and see her and we'd have a meal in her flat. She was a marvellous cook. I'm not going to the police because if they came to my work place the Parrot might use it to have me chucked out of the Civil Service. I need the job, you see.'
'Don't go to the police, then. A very able man, no longer in the police, is investigating the murder. May I tell him what you've told me? It's up to you.'
'I could do with some support.' Coral finished her coffee. 'I trust you, so if you trust this investigator - and you must - then it's OK by me to pass it all on to him. If you're ready to go I'd like you to come and see me sometime. My pad is just down the road. I could show you.'
'I'd like that,' Paula said with a smile.
Coral insisted on paying the small bill. As they were leaving the cafe, which was beginning to fill up, she took a plain visiting card from her handbag. She slipped it to Paula, who palmed it.
'It's got my address, phone number, mobile number,' Coral went on as they turned right towards the main part of Covent Garden. 'The mortgage was terrifying but I liked the place. Tucked away. Here it is.'
They paused before the entrance to a slim three-storey building, recently built after the demolition of several small shops, Paula guessed. She looked up as Coral pointed, gazed up. Paula had a shock.
'That window on the first floor is my living room,' Coral explained. 'The window is frosted glass for privacy. Not much to look out at anyway.'
Paula stared at the tall frosted-glass window. It had a horrible similarity to the blood-drenched window in Fox Street, where Viola had been slaughtered. She forced herself to smile as Coral continued speaking.
'Not much space except in the living room. You see now why I put up with the Parrot -I need the salary.'
'Here is my card,' Paula said, giving her the version with General & Cumbria Assurance, the cover name on the plate outside the SIS headquarters. 'If I'm out speak to Monica, give her your first name only. If you're worried I'll come as soon as I can.'
'I have enjoyed your company,' Coral said as they shook hands. 'Let's see each other soon.'
'I have a photograph of the murderer of Vander-Browne,' Tweed was saying on the phone when Paula returned. Newman and Nield were sitting down, facing each other like antagonists.
Tweed clapped his hand over the phone to inform Paula.
'I'm on the phone to Chief Inspector Hammerhead.' He removed his hand, continued. 'Yes, a photo of the murderer . . .'
'What!' Everyone in the room heard the policeman's explosive outburst.
'You heard me correctly,' Tweed replied calmly. 'I'm sending it over to the Yard for your attention by courier. No, I've no idea who pushed the envelope containing it through my letterbox. The lettering on both envelope and back of the photo is in deliberately crude block lettering. Yes, I've had both items checked for fingerprints. None at all, as you'd expect. I must go now. Sorry. Goodbye.'
'Is it the original?' Paula asked. 'And why send it to him anyway?'
'Because as well as me he's investigating the case. I don't like the man but I play fair, when necessary. You never know, he might just stum
ble over something.'
'The only thing he'll stumble over will be his own feet,' she replied.
'And how did you get on?' Tweed asked, looking at Newman.
'I made a complete and utter balls-up,' Newman began bluntly. 'Pete introduced me to the informant and I couldn't get a word out of them. I think I went about talking to the person concerned in one hundred per cent the wrong way. I've apologized to Pete.'