by Colin Forbes
'Paula and I will wait here, out of sight. Any trouble, you blow it. She won't hear it but I will.'
Tweed moved close to the speakphone outside a heavy door. He pressed the bell. Waited. Nothing. He pressed it again. At head height the door had a closed flap over a Judas window. It opened suddenly. A woman's face was staring at him as he held up his folder.
'Investigating the murder of Viola,' he said tersely. 'Could I come in and have a word with you?'
'At this hour?' Through the bars over the opening he could see she was fully dressed. Smoke was drifting up from a cigarette. 'Who are you, anyway?'
The voice was cut-glass. She repeated her question, this time less politely.
'It says who I am on the folder you can see. SIS. I am Tweed.'
'Oh, him. Bloody good job I stay up late. Don't get up very early in the morning. Can't burn the candle at both ends.'
As she was talking he heard keys turning in three locks, then the clanging removal of four chains. The place was a fortress. Eventually she opened the door and he slipped inside. He was relieved when she turned only one key, leaving it in the lock.
'Better come in and join me with a drink,' she suggested as she stared him up and down. 'And you may smoke.'
Tweed was intrigued to see how much like Viola Marina looked. The resemblance was striking - she too had thick blonde hair, though hers was trimmed shorter - but there was a hardness Viola had lacked.
She wore a short white dress which hugged her excellent figure. The eyes were again blue but hers were cold. Leading him into a flamboyantly furnished living room, she sat on a very long wide sofa, patted the place where Tweed should sit close to her. He chose a chair further away from her. She crossed her legs, began swinging her right leg. On a glass-topped table before her was what Tweed would have called a complete bar, laden with bottles and glasses.
'Drink.' It was almost a command accompanied by a flashing smile. 'Scotch on the rocks, gin, brandy? Come on, I can't call out the lot.'
'I don't drink on duty.'
'On duty! You come to see me of all people at this hour on duty? Come off it.'
The leg was still slowly swinging up and down. Tweed had trouble not glancing at it. In her brazen way she was as attractive as poor Viola had been. He decided he'd preferred her twin sister.
'On official duty,' he emphasized.
'Oh, I see. You don't do it when you're official. Well at this hour you're off duty. Want to see the bedroom?'
'No thanks. It's comfortable in here.'
'Then we could use the sofa. It's wide and long enough. I should know by now.'
'Miss Vander-Browne . . .' His voice now had an edge to it. 'I would have thought it would have been a shock when you heard the horrific way your sister had died.'
'I'm sure she asked for it.'
Tweed drew in a breath. The sheer cold-bloodedness astonished even him with all his experience. His voice became tougher.
'After being raped. By a man - or a woman. Her legs were chopped off at the knees, her arms at the shoulder, then her head . . .'
'Oh, do stop it. You're spoiling what could be a pleasant night for you. Take your mind off it.' She became coy, which was even more sickening. 'I assume you have five hundred pounds on you? The fee always comes first.'
'Had you heard from your late sister recently?' he demanded.
'Why would she be in touch?'
'Because I have evidence she had been hoping to make it up with you.'
She hesitated for the first time. She poured herself a fresh drink, swallowed half of the glass's contents. Then she lit a cigarette with a steady hand. A granite heart, Tweed thought. But for the first time he saw a sign of nervousness.
'She did call you, didn't she?' he persisted abruptly.
'Yes, she did. About ten days ago. All lovey-dovey. Couldn't we meet and talk things over? I said "What for?" and slammed the phone down on her.'
'That was so very nice of you, in view of what's taken place since. Did you both have any of the same clients?'
'We might have done. I'm not sure.'
'I need some names.'
'What sort of names, for Christ's sake?'
'Mutual clients' names.'
'Tweed, I've just told you I don't know. She might have told one of them my name, hoping for a big fat commission.'
Tweed drank some of the wine she'd poured for him. He needed it to take the foul taste out of his mouth.
'You were sisters,' he continued grimly. 'What was she like?'
'The oh-so-bright one,' she said sarcastically. 'Came down from Oxford with a double first. I left Cambridge with nothing. Except useful contacts with men which have been profitable up to the present. All men are alike - which is something I did learn at Cambridge . . .'
'Wrong!' Tweed snapped. 'Some men are, I agree, but many are not fodder for your night activities. Why do you need the money?'
'That's a damned personal question.' She reared up, then pulled down her dress tighter over her chest, in case he hadn't noticed her assets. 'All right,' she continued viciously, 'we both had a rich uncle who left us each a legacy. Enough to live a normal life but not enough to buy things at Escada. I like to buy good clothes. They make all the difference when I entertain the occasional rich man.'
'Occasional?'
'Viola gave me the idea.'
Tweed lost his temper. 'You filthy liar. I've a good mind to take you down to the Yard for a proper interrogation.'
'I do have friends there.' She reached out a hand towards him. He evaded it. His normal controlled temper returned. He spoke softly.
'You have absolutely no regrets as to how your sister died?'
'None at all. Why should I? It eliminates some of the competition.'
Again Tweed was stunned by the cold-bloodedness of this woman. She was watching him, hoping to revel in his shock. His expression remained normal, neutral. He took out a pad and his pen. She frowned, then tucked both legs under herself, swivelled round so she was facing him with an inviting smile.
'I need your full name, telephone number, mobile number. I'm waiting.'
She frowned, probably annoyed that he had not reacted to a pose which had trapped other men. Without speaking she reached over to a small gold box, took out a printed card with a red rim round it, handed it across to him. He was careful to take hold of it by the edge. It was carrying her fingerprints. He stood up.
'I shall probably see you again.'
'Of course you will.' She gave him a lascivious smile. 'I know you will. When you think about me.' She jumped up. 'Back in a sec. Must rush to the loo.'
As soon as she was gone Tweed poured the rest of his wine into a large plant pot nearby. Taking out a handkerchief, he dipped it in her glass, slipped on a latex glove, used the handkerchief to wipe off his fingerprints. He was very quick. When she returned she'd changed her outfit. She was now clad in a transparent nightdress, belted at the waist, the hem ending above her knees.
He headed for the door, concealed the latex glove with his back to her, turned the key, slipped the glove into his pocket after pulling open the door. Marina called out something to him but he was outside on the landing, heading down the first flight of stairs. He paused, looked up.
'Be very careful who you let into your apartment. Don't forget what happened to Viola . . .'
In looking up as she slammed the door he saw Paula and Marler peering down from the fourth floor. They joined him as he unlocked the car, slipped behind the wheel. He looked up at the building.
'Tart can't see us,' Paula told him. 'The only window overlooking the street has frosted glass. I gather you didn't enjoy the interview.'
'Cold-blooded little snake.'
Tweed was crawling so as not to wake up sleeping people. As he turned into the main street he saw an old shabbily dressed woman lifting her head out of a large rubbish bin she had been exploring. He pulled in at the kerb, got out, his voice friendly.
'Doubt if you'll find anything w
orthwhile in there.'
'Never can tell, sir. Me mate once found a real pearl necklace. Took it to the police,' she went on in her heavy Cockney accent. 'I'd 'a done the same. Takin' stuff like that can get you inta the police station if you tries to 'ang on an' sell it to an 'andler. You bin up to see Lady Muck? You'se smart, takin' a woman and a man with you. For an 'our with a man what's loaded she wants a fortune. And 'er so high-and-mighty.'
'You've seen men go up to see her?' Tweed enquired.
'Loads of 'em. When it comes to those not so well off she's mean as muck. So, Lady Muck.'
'Sounds as though you've met her.'
'I 'ave. She comes out one evenin' and I'm skint. Asks her for something to buy meself a meal. Know what she says?'
'Tell me, please.'
'"You should do an honest day's work like other people." I nearly laughed in her face. Honest? When you knows 'ow she makes 'er livin'? Make you want to spit.'
'So you see who goes in there sometimes?'
'If I's workin' this big bin, I do. One man came out pulling up his trousers. Couldn't get 'em round 'is waist. I heard something plop. Called out to 'im., "Think you'se just dropped something, sir." He just rushes off to 'is car 'idden up an alley. So I walks over and you'll not believe what I found on pavement.'
'What was that?' Tweed asked with a smile.
'A wallet. Kind a man keeps in his back trouser pocket. Inside was three hundred nicker. I belt down the street, waved it at him as he drives towards me. Bastard never stops, damn near drives over me. I thought, right, mate. So I keeps the three hundred nicker. Was I wrong, sir?'
'I think you were very sensible. Do you often see the men who visit the lady?'
'Lady? Got that wrong, didn' you? Yes, if it's this time o' night I've seen a few. Chap who dropped his wallet was a short, fat little man.'
'I'd like to ask you a question, if I may.' Tweed took out the photos of the Cabal that Marler had taken in Whitehall. 'Recognize any of these men?'
She produced an ancient pair of spectacles. One of the arms was bent. To see the photos she had to cock her head sideways. She took her time with each photo.
'No, not 'im. Not 'im either.' She paused. 'Bingo. I know this one 'as visited 'er. Sure as I'm standing 'ere.'
She handed the photos back to Tweed. He turned round, stared down the street they had just left. Black hole of Calcutta except for the street lamp opposite Marina's entrance. He turned back to the Cockney woman who had put away her glasses.
'Are you sure you could see clearly at this distance? I do want you to be sure, please.'
'Got long sight without me specs, ain't I? Street lamp down there 'elps a lot. It was 'im.'
'I'm very much obliged for you talking to us.' Tweed took out his wallet, handed her a ten-pound note. 'Get yourself a decent meal. Not your usual places.'
'Gawd bless you, sir. I'm skint. Honest I am. Don't know what to say.'
'Don't say anything. May I ask you your name, in case I'm in the area and want to ask you something?'
'Why not? Annie 'Iggins. That's me. You take care, sir.'
Tweed was silent as he drove them back to Paula's flat. He waited while Marler, with Paula's key, checked the place out. He returned in a few minutes.
'All clear. That sofa in the living room looks inviting. So I'll park myself on it while Paula gets a good sleep.'
Paula got out of the car. She did not close the door. She leant in and stared at Tweed.
'That's right. Keep us all in suspense. Who did Annie Higgins identify as the visitor to Marina?'
'Noel Macomber.'
27
Tweed was driving back to Park Crescent when the mobile phone Paula had left on the seat beside him. started buzzing. He cursed, and pulled in. Paula must have been very tired to forget it. He answered.
'Yes?'
'You have a visitor. She's very anxious to talk to you . . .'
The line went dead. Tweed was puzzled. She? He couldn't imagine which woman it might be. So many were cluttering up his investigation. Coral Flenton, Marina Vander-Browne, the Parrot. He sat still for a moment, switched off the mobile. At this hour? He checked his watch: 2 a.m. Only one way to find out.
His mind churned as he completed his journey. This was the most difficult case he'd ever tackled, even including those when he was at the Yard. He just had no idea who was the chief suspect.
Parking his car outside the Crescent, he pressed the bell in the agreed sequence, walked inside when George unlocked and opened the door. He took off his coat as he darted up the stairs. He felt very alert. Opening his office door he found two people inside.
Monica working her word-processor. The Parrot seated in a chair facing his desk, a cup of coffee close to her. She swung round, gave him a warm smile. He could still see she was worried, even frightened. As she had been on her first visit to him which seemed ages ago.
'I do hope you'll excuse my calling at this barbaric hour,' she began in a soft husky voice, 'but I needed a safe refuge. Someone in a car was stalking me on my way home to Hammersmith. No one else was about . . .'
She trailed off as Tweed nodded, settled behind his desk which meant he was facing her directly.
'Whereabouts were you, and what was the make of the car?' he asked, his manner businesslike.
'It was in Whitehall that I first saw it. I didn't think a lot of it until it kept following my route, so I veered off here hoping someone would still be in the office. As to make, I'm hopeless on car makes.'
'What made you sure he was stalking you?'
'He had his headlights on full beam and drove close behind me. At times I was almost blinded by the lights in my rear-view mirror.'
'Was it Nelson, Benton or Noel?'
'I've really no idea. Don't even know it was a man. I just couldn't see the driver. May I take off my coat? It's warm in here.'
'Go ahead.'
At that moment Howard, Tweed's Director, opened the door. In his early fifties, Howard was as always wearing an expensive Chester Barrie suit, grey with thin stripes, pristine white shirt, and elegant Valentino tie. His shirt cuffs were shot from beyond the sleeves, decorated with gold cufflinks.
His large clean-shaven face had a pink complexion. His voice, like Marler's, was upper-crust. He exuded authority. When he saw Tweed's guest he paused, looked at Tweed, then at the Parrot.
'Sorry if I've interrupted something. At this hour I'd have expected to find no one here except Monica.'
'Howard, Director of the SIS,' Tweed introduced. 'This is Miss Partridge, who came to tell me of a development.'
The Parrot was still gazing at Howard. Tweed had the odd sense of reading her thoughts: Would this be a good catch? Probably loaded with money. Wonder if he's married?
Stop it, he told himself. Your imagination is running riot. She continued gazing at Howard with a ravishing smile. He nodded to her, then turned to Monica as he made his request.
'Could you let me have the first twenty pages of the report? I need to double-check something.'
Quick-witted, Monica collected twenty pages and handed it to him. He thanked her, then left. Howard already had the draft of the whole report in his office. He had used that as an excuse to get out of the office while Tweed dealt with his visitor.
'I think your Director is a most impressive man,' the Parrot remarked.
During this interlude the Parrot had taken off her coat. She was wearing a blue dress. It was supported by thin blue straps slung from her shoulders, leaving her arms completely bare. She lifted one hand to push back a lock of her thick brown hair from her face.
'Now I'm scared stiff about driving home. Would it be asking you too much to escort me to my place in Hammersmith? I know it's rather a distance but at this hour of the night - in view of my recent experience.'
'Of course not.' Tweed stood up, relieved at the prospect of getting rid of her. 'You drive your own car and I'll follow close behind in mind.'
'I cannot tell you how grateful I a
m . . .'
Her bare arms stretched out as though she was determined to hug him. He ignored them, went across to Monica after asking the Parrot for her address. She gave him a plain white card. No red or gold rims. With it in his hands he nipped across behind her back to Monica, dropped the card on her desk. She picked it up, took only seconds to scrutinize the details, handed it back to Tweed.