Cell

by Colin Forbes

  Switching on the flashlight, she examined the contents of the flatbed. Again she was startled. Old bound books covered with mould. Tom Jones, Vanity Fair, etc. Old technical manuals on how to fly a jumbo jet, each one torn in two. It was a rubbish trolley - their method of getting rid of what was no longer needed. So where was the dump? Presumably beyond the end of the tunnel.

  She took the precaution of easing the Beretta out of her boot, pushed the weapon firmly down inside her denims, leaving the handle protruding. There was a large lever protruding from the side of the trolley. Taking hold of it, she moved it forward slowly. The trolley began sliding forward. Downhill. She pulled the lever back and the trolley again became stationary. She had only pushed it forward half-way.

  She settled herself in a seated position after making a space by pushing aside the rubbish. Then she pushed the lever forward and she was moving slowly downhill. In the space she had cleared she saw a large red stain which she was sure someone had attempted to clean. Blood.

  The cold was intense. As she approached the section where the line became a steeper gradient, she pulled the lever back, stopped the trolley moving. She aimed the flashlight at the bottom of the tunnel. The exit was barred by the screen of strong-looking wire. She would never get out past that. She felt she must escape quickly. As if to confirm her fears, she heard the distant sound of voices echoing down the tunnel. She looked back and her vision was hit by a blinding searchlight.

  'Damn you all to hell,' she said under her breath.

  She aimed the Beretta. One bullet did the trick. Above the eerie echo of her bullet she heard glass shattering. The searchlight went out. She swivelled sideways off the trolley into a narrow space between the rail and the wall of the tunnel. Her hand reached out, grasped the lever, shoved it forward as far as it would go. The trolley took off almost like a cannon-shell, racing down the much steeper gradient. It hit the wire screen, which swung open outwards. It must be hinged like the plaque.

  She crawled down the tunnel as fast as she could. Sooner than she'd expected she reached the opening. Icy cold. A dense fog. As she crawled into the open air a shaft of sunlight penetrated the fog. She saw the trolley bumping its way down a shallower slope. Below it was a gleaming lime pit. She was just in time to see the trolley plunge into the large pit, its rear wheels upended, sinking out of sight.

  Move! Where was she? Instinct told her to turn left. She stumbled over a branch. Picking it up, she used it to test the ground in front of her, walking parallel to where she thought the lime pit was located. The ground was rough but her boots helped her to keep her balance.

  She could see nothing beyond the fog. Then a broad beam of sunlight penetrated the fog below her, illuminating a huge abandoned quarry. She heard a rattle at the top of the quarry. Someone up there? She paused, watched as a large boulder slowly toppled from the summit, falling down to join a heap of large rocks at the quarry's base. No sign of anyone. The quarry was unstable.

  She plodded on, always using the branch to test the ground ahead. After a while she decided to move up the slope very cautiously. The fog was thinning, was soon a trailing mist. She saw an ancient one-storey building ahead. It seemed familiar. She climbed more quickly, paused, gasped with relief. It was the rear of Mrs Gobble's shed. She was still in Carpford.

  In her haste to reach the front she nearly stumbled, recovered her balance. Taking out the padlock, she threw open both doors, praying. Parked inside was her car. She nearly wept.

  25

  The car started first time. She drove out and turned left, the quickest way to leave Carpford. The mist had cleared from the plateau. If anyone tried to stop her she would drive straight over them. Between Mrs Gobble's shop and Drew Franklin's concrete cubes she saw two figures walking along the road towards her. Tweed, shoulders sagging, behind him Beaurain, erect. She jammed on the brakes, jumped out.

  Tweed was already rushing towards her, relief written all over his face. They met and he threw his arms round her. They stood there, hugging each other, her face buried against his chest. She was crying now as he stroked her hair.

  'Tweed,' Beaurain told her, 'has almost been out of his mind with anxiety.'

  She eased herself out of Tweed's grip and flung her arms round the Belgian. 'God! Am I glad to see you two.' Tweed produced a handkerchief. She released Beaurain and mopped her eyes, her face. She was shaking with relief.

  'How are you?' Tweed asked gently. 'Are you all right?'

  'I'm bloody hungry. Starving!'

  'That calls for a full breakfast at the Peacock,' Beaurain decided. 'I'll drive. You sit in the back with Tweed.'

  She had her arm round Tweed as Beaurain drove them in her car out of Carpford. At one point Newman, standing by the road, grinning, waved, one thumb up. She waved back and managed to smile. A few feet away Marler, smiling, gave her a little salute as they passed.

  Beyond Marler she saw Harry and Pete, who also waved and grinned. She was startled but waved back. Then they were out of Carpford, descending the hill and past the obtruding rock where Mrs Warner had disappeared.

  'How many of you were up here?' she asked.

  'Everyone.' Tweed was calmer now. 'When I got back from dinner with Eva Brand and read your note I sent up a rocket. I called Buchanan and he's up there, calling on people. I was going to rip the place apart.'

  'I'd better call Buchanan,' Beaurain suggested, 'and give him the good news . . .'

  Driving with one hand, he hauled his mobile out of his pocket, called the Scotland Yard man, gave him the news. He finished the call and spoke over his shoulder.

  'Buchanan is so relieved. Sends you his love, Paula. He said he'd need to question you, but I told him that could wait for later.'

  'He's such a nice man,' she said. 'And I've so much to tell you . . . I've found out things . . . Don't have the faintest idea where I was held after they grabbed me ... I'd just left Drew Franklin's place . . .'

  'Later,' said Tweed. 'After you've had breakfast. Had any sleep?'

  'Only when I was drugged.' She pulled up the sleeve of her windcheater to show the patch. Beaurain was watching in his rear-view mirror.

  'After breakfast,' he said crisply, 'we'll take you to a top-flight consultant, a friend of mine who only recently retired. That needs checking.'

  'I feel OK. Just so hungry.'

  'Even so,' Beaurain insisted, 'when you've eaten we're taking you to see Mr Manderson. He lives near the Peacock. He can find out what they pumped into you. Don't argue.'

  'I won't. I think a minute ago I nearly got hysterical. Sorry.'

  'Concentrate on what you'd like to eat,' Tweed ordered.

  'Forget about Mr Manderson,' she said firmly. 'I'm OK. When we get back to Park Crescent, instead of burbling on I'm going to type a report about everything.'

  'That,' Tweed agreed, 'is a good idea. Then I can quietly read whoever you interviewed. But type your report only after you've had a good sleep.'

  'Don't want sleep. While they are fresh in my mind I need to type the record. Sleep can come later. I had a long conversation with Peregrin Palfry, an encounter with that "priest", Margesson, then a pleasant talk with Billy Hogarth, despite the presence of his nasty brother, Martin. My last conversation was with Drew Franklin. It was soon after leaving his house that someone clubbed me on the head. I'll elaborate later.'

  'So,' Beaurain said thoughtfully, 'the last person you saw before the attack was Drew Franklin. Interesting.'

  'No more,' Tweed ordered. 'Breakfast is the first item on the menu.'

  'Ali speaking,' the occupant of a quiet public phone-box answered as the phone had rung. He made a point of never using the same call-box twice. He carried a list of the numbers and addresses of the phone-boxes, a list the caller also held.

  'Abdullah here. We are running out of time on this business operation. Report!' the distorted voice demanded.

  'The consignments are ready to be transferred to the transporters.'

  The bombs are ready to
be moved to their final destination.

  'Are the teams ready to be linked up with the consignments?'

  'They are in place. They are ready to be moved to handle the consignments when I give the order.'

  'You have decided the best time for the consignments to be delivered?' Abdullah rasped.

  'Five thirty in the evening is a perfect time. The conditions we require will be at a maximum.'

  The British casualties will run into thousands.

  'And zero hour is when?'

  'Three days from now I expect. Height is a factor.'

  Ali listened. Again the connection had been abruptly broken. He swore, left the phone-box. His car was parked just outside the sleepy village. He drove back to the farm.

  Behind her desk at Park Crescent Paula was operating her word-processor at top speed, preparing her reports for Tweed. She was surprised at how even small details of conversation came back easily. Not knowing what he would regard as important, she included every small item. Her ample breakfast at the Peacock had powered her up again. She looked up suddenly.

  'How long was I away?' she asked Tweed. 'I've no idea.'

  'About twelve hours.'

  'Seems like twelve days. I have ready folders with reports on my interviews with Peregrine Palfry and Margesson. Plus a brief description of my visit first to Mrs Gobble's.'

  'Please let me have them. I can start reading. I get the impression of Palfry that he starts talking with caution, then his tongue runs away with him. Right?'

  'My impression too,' she agreed as she placed the folders on his desk.

  Monica was enjoying one of her rare five-minute 'breaks' reading the newspaper. She grunted, folded a page to a small item, took it over to Tweed.

  'It's amazing the things people walk off with. Someone has stolen five of those huge milk wagons which distribute to various dairies. Vanished into thin air. What would anyone want with milk wagons?'

  'Let me see that,' Tweed said, his voice sharp. He read the item. 'Taken from three different depots in the Midlands. I hope the original drivers are still alive.'

  'What makes you say that?' Monica wondered.

  'Large transports.' Paula glanced up. Tweed was staring into the distance. He continued. 'What could they be carrying - apart from the milk? Or, maybe, they were carrying something lowered into the milk cargoes. They were driving south in the dark when they vanished and radio communication with the depots ceased . . .'

  'Can't be important,' Monica commented. 'I just thought it was curious.'

  'So curious I want you to get Buchanan on the line so I can draw his attention to this mysterious development. First three people go missing, then five milk wagons. A pattern is developing . . .'

  An hour later Paula had finished her reports. Tweed had read them carefully. He sat back in his chair, arms folded behind his head.

  'Paula, I know you went through a shocking ordeal. If it's any consolation, the information in these reports is priceless. I don't know yet what the attack plan is but as in a dream I'm beginning to see the outlines of what may be coming. What worries me is I sense we haven't much time left. What is the target? How are they planning to attack London? Who is the mastermind? Those are the questions I need to have answers to. Before it is too late.'

  'Is there someone we should question again?'

  'Yes, there is.' Tweed had jumped to his feet as Newman walked in, rushed towards Paula, wrapped his arm round her.

  'You do know,' he said, 'you are the most valuable member of the team. Up at Carpford I could only wave when the car passed me.' He looked round as Tweed put on his raincoat. 'And where might you be going to? Not on your own.'

  'To question the one individual who may be able to tell us more than he has done. A certain Mr Pecksniff.'

  'Then I'm coming with you. I can drive.'

  'I'm coming too,' said Paula. 'I've finished your reports.'

  'No,' said Tweed, pausing before opening the door. 'Sleep is what you need . . .'

  'Yes!' Paula shouted at him, slipping on her windcheater. 'I will not be left out and I'm feeling alert.'

  'I suppose,' Monica interjected, 'Roy Buchanan didn't think much of the missing milk wagons story.'

  'On the contrary,' Tweed assured her, 'he is phoning the Chief Constable up there, telling him to organize a dragnet to find those wagons. We must visit Mr Pecksniff now.'

  During the long drive through heavy traffic Paula asked how Tweed had brought everyone to Carpford in the middle of the night. He smiled grimly, sitting next to her while Newman drove their car.

  'When I got back from dinner with Eva Brand and saw your note I organized a general alarm. Called Bob, Marler, Pete and Harry on their mobiles. Ordered them to head at once for Carpford. Also called Buchanan who said he'd drive to the Downs immediately. When I arrived I woke up everyone, which wasn't popular but I was in a grim mood so they soon changed their tune. In this way I traced your movements, confirmed by your reports. The trouble was I didn't leave the dinner with Eva until midnight, so everything was pushed into the middle of the night.'

  'How did you get on with Eva?' she wondered.

  'Very pleasurably. She was out to charm me. Wore a low-cut dress, drank heavily and tried to persuade me to do the same. Out to extract information from me. It was a duel of wits, and she's a very smart lady.'

  'Learn anything?'

  'Her mother was killed in a car crash on a motorway five years ago. No other relatives. Refused to talk about a father. I'm intrigued about that. Glided over the missing two years in her life Monica couldn't crack. Doesn't believe Special Branch has the talent to solve the mystery of the people who've vanished. Said she couldn't understand what had happened to Mrs Warner. Described her as a resourceful woman. They'd met at parties, got on well together. Thinks Peregrine Palfry is the Minister's lapdog, an opinion I'm not sure I share. Believes the cleverest man living in Carpford is Drew Franklin.'

  'So she didn't slip up?'

  'There's steel in that lady. Takes brains to be a top code-breaker.'

  'I'm going to have to talk to her again.'

  Tweed chuckled, smiled at her. 'You think you can crack the ice maiden when I failed?'

  'It's not that. Sometimes women will confide in another woman when they're leery of men.'

  No one said anything more until Newman announced they were nearly there. He suggested he parked the car in a side street and walked the rest of the way.

  'Incidentally,' he went on, 'last night Harry watched Pecksniff's office until he was contacted by Tweed at close to 1 a.m. The lights were still on, so presumably Pecksniff was working late. No one called on him . . .'

  He parked the car and they walked along a narrow street with half the old buildings unoccupied. No one about. No sign of life behind the frosted glass windows of Pecksniff's shabby office. Newman was about to press the bell when he paused. The door was almost closed but not quite. He looked at Tweed who gestured for him to open the door fully. Newman called out but no one answered. Again he glanced at Tweed.

  Tweed peered through the stained-glass window in the upper half of the door. No good - it was too filthy to see anything inside.

  'Go in,' he ordered.

  Newman, Smith & Wesson in his hand, entered, followed by Tweed and Paula, who was gripping the Beretta. While she had been imprisoned in Carpford they had taken her shoulder-bag, which contained her Browning.

  The outer office was empty. There was a sinister silence. Newman pushed open the inner door, walked a few paces inside, stopped. Paula peered over his shoulder. This room, Pecksniff's inner sanctum, was also empty. But the throne-like chair he'd occupied behind his Regency desk was lying on the floor, its back broken. The two hard chairs lay on the floor intact.

  Paula put on latex gloves, trod cautiously round the other side of the desk. Near the broken-backed throne chair was a brownish pool on the carpet, a large pool. Blood. The filing cabinet against the wall had been ransacked. It had been levered open with some
kind of tool. There were files left in an open drawer. More files were scattered on the floor.

  'Pecksniff has disappeared now,' Tweed observed sombrely.

  Paula was rifling through the files remaining inside the open drawer. She came to 'M' and then moved to 'P.' 'N' was missing. The New Age Development file, she guessed. She checked the files scattered on the floor. Not there.

  'They've taken the New Age file,' she told Tweed.

  'Bob,' Tweed said decisively, 'call Buchanan. Ask him to get over here. I fear this is the fourth murder.'