Cell

by Colin Forbes

  Buchanan arrived with his poker-faced assistant, Sergeant Warden, nicknamed by Paula the Wooden Indian. Warden stared round the inner office, then gazed at the latex gloves Paula was still wearing. He raised his thick eyebrows. She gazed back at him. His manner had become like a regimental sergeant major's.

  'You haven't been touching anything?' he barked. 'This may turn out to be the scene of a crime.'

  'I'm sure it is,' she told him. 'I have been searching for a file on the New Age Development company. It's gone.

  So whoever took away what was left of Mr Pecksniff was after that file.'

  'What was left of Mr Pecksniff?' Warden's tone was outraged. 'How can you make such an assumption?'

  'Furniture smashed to pieces. Files ransacked.' She paused. 'Then there's the blood on the floor.'

  'Blood . . .'

  'Sergeant Warden,' broke in Buchanan, a bite in his voice. 'Would you be so good as to go now and examine the outer office. You might close the door on your way out.'

  Buchanan waited until Warden had gone. Then he waved a hand round the wreckage. Tweed showed him the stained area discovered by Paula. The chief superintendent bent down, used a finger to touch part of the large discoloured patch. He straightened up.

  'What do you think this is all about?' he asked Tweed.

  'I'm worried that whoever is directing this operation is closing up loopholes. That suggests to me we are dangerously approaching the climax. As for Pecksniff, this is the fourth disappearance - probably the fourth murder.'

  26

  'You have to go straight over to Downing Street to see the PM,' Howard, the Director, fired at Tweed the moment he walked into his office past Monica.

  'There's been a development?' Tweed asked.

  'I'll say there has!'

  Howard was a tall well-built man in his fifties. He wore an expensively tailored blue suit from Savile Row, a white shirt from a Jermyn Street shirt-maker, a blue Hermes tie and a pair of hand-made shoes. As usual, he sat in one of the armchairs, one leg draped over an arm. He had a large head with recently trimmed brown hair, turning white at the temples, a strong nose under blue eyes and, below an amiable mouth, a jaw suggesting energy but without aggression.

  His main function was to keep in touch with Whitehall mandarins he secretly regarded as fools. His bland manner went down well with them and, behind his back, Paula had nicknamed him Mr Bland.

  'Tell me,' Tweed said as Paula slipped past him, smiling at Monica before she sat at her desk.

  Newman came in last, nodded to Howard and perched on the edge of Paula's desk. Howard's upper crust voice got on his nerves.

  'First . . .' Howard waved a manicured hand '. . . I want to tell you, Tweed, I greatly appreciate the way you have kept me fully informed of what has been going on.

  Frightening. Better get over to the holy of holies now. Be very blunt with the PM.'

  'There's been another disappearance, probably the fourth murder,' Newman said casually when Tweed had left.

  'What!' Howard jerked upright, his pink face flushing.

  Newman explained in as few words as possible their visit to Pecksniff's office. Howard stood up, flicked a piece of cotton off his sleeve.

  'Can't get a decent tailor these days. My God, Newman, what is happening?'

  'Tweed thinks a major al-Qa'eda attack on London is pretty imminent.'

  'Well, it's all down to Tweed. Maybe in the nick of time.'

  'What does that mean?' Paula asked.

  'Can't tell you, my dear, until Tweed comes back. All hush-hush. Won't be for long. I'd better get back to my office. In case something else blows up . . .'

  'Paula,' Monica said, when Howard had gone, 'while you were in the loo, Tweed said your report had put him on the right track.'

  'My report of my interview with who? I visited Mrs Gobble's shop, had a long talk with Peregrine Palfry, a confrontation with Margesson, a friendly chat with Billy Hogarth, a few words with his peculiar brother, Martin, then the last one with Drew Franklin. Which one?'

  'He didn't say.' She looked at Paula. 'You really should go home and get some sleep.'

  'Think I will. I'm dropping.' She looked at Newman. 'Bob, could you drive me there?'

  'We're on our way now . . .'

  Marler, Butler and Nield were in the office when Tweed came back. He was carrying a large envelope and his expression was abstracted. He gave Monica his raincoat, sat down and extracted a typed sheet headed Downing Street, handed it to Marler.

  'You might as well be the first to know.'

  Marler read it without showing any reaction. He handed the document back to Tweed. Taking out a cigarette he then spoke.

  'Thank God!'

  'What is it?' several voices wanted to know.

  'Tweed,' Marler said, in a grim voice, 'has been appointed as Commander of all the security services. Including the Ministry of Security, Special Branch, the police and anyone else he wants to rope in.'

  'Lordy!' exclaimed Monica. 'It is all down to Tweed.'

  'Strictly within these walls,' Tweed explained calmly, 'the PM is scared stiff. He has appointed me Supremo -his word, not mine. I may need the SAS - its commander has been sent a copy of that document. As have the chiefs of all other services. Bob, you know the number. Can you get a senior officer on the line for me?'

  'I can get Sarge, the man who ran the unit which trained me when I wrote my article on them. Through him I should get the man you want. I'll try now.'

  'The SAS!' Monica said excitedly. 'The balloon is really going up.'

  The team was still up to full strength in Tweed's office when the phone rang. Monica seemed to have trouble with the caller. Persistently she asked for the caller's identity but was obviously getting nowhere.

  'What is it?' Tweed called out.

  'Someone on the phone with a funny voice, cockney, as far as I can gather. Important information they can only give you. Could be a hoax.'

  'I'll talk to them . . . Tweed here. How can I help?'

  'Got information. Can't 'ang round 'ere much longer.'

  'Then tell me.'

  'Got the name of the boss of Alqueerda. Know what I'm on abaht?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's Abdullah. Runs that gang of killers.'

  'Where is he based?'

  'No idea. You've met with it. Got to scarper . . .'

  'Wait a minute.'

  The line had gone dead. Tweed told everyone what he had been told. So far as he'd been able to tell the caller was talking through a handkerchief to disguise its identity. Couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.

  'Hoax call,' Newman said dismissively. 'Abdullah is a common Arab name!'

  'I wonder,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'The caller said I'd met with it. I haven't met any cockneys recently. I'm inclined to believe the caller knew what it was talking about. Also it's odd I should receive that call soon after the mandates giving me full powers will have reached everyone concerned. The PM was sending copies out by couriers the moment I left to come back here.'

  'Can't see the significance,' Marler commented.

  He had just made his remark when the door opened and Paula walked in, followed by Newman, who spread his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  'Don't blame me. She's had less than five hours' sleep but she insisted on taking a quick shower and came straight back here.'

  'I feel fine,' Paula said emphatically. 'Ready for anything. Any progress while I was in the land of nod?'

  She had perched herself on the edge of her desk instead of sitting in her chair. Dressed in a black trouser suit, she was swinging her legs under the wide kneehole, the picture of energy.

  Tweed stood up, walked over, handed her the document he had brought back from the PM. She read it slowly, twice. She looked serious as she handed it back.

  'Maybe in the nick of time,' was her reaction.

  'We don't know that, do we?'

  There was a bite in Tweed's comment. Paula had noticed in the past there we
re rare occasions when he spoke in that tone. Always when he was concealing great anxiety.

  'We have no vital data,' Tweed continued. 'As I keep reminding all of you, we need three things. Target, identity of the mastermind, timing of the attack. We have none of these. So I want all three within twenty-four hours.'

  There was a hush in the room. The enormity of their task had dawned on them. Tweed studied each of them. He had jerked them out of any complacency. They were in a state of shock.

  He dialled the private number of the Ministry of Security. Of course it would be Palfry who answered, an irritable Palfry.

  'Tweed here. I need to know the present whereabouts of the Minister.'

  'That's classified information . . .'

  'Haven't you received a copy of the PM's directive?'

  'Yes. So has the Minister . . .'

  'So where is he? Tell me now if you want to keep your job.'

  'As far as I know he's at home in his residence in Belgravia.'

  'Dammit! Do you know he's there?'

  'Yes . . .'

  'Thank you.'

  Tweed put down the phone, got up to put on his raincoat. He spoke as he put it on.

  'I must first see Warner, assure myself of his cooperation . . .'

  The phone rang. Monica listened, then waved at Tweed.

  'Someone to see you downstairs . . .'

  'I'm not in. Get rid of them.'

  'It's Eva Brand.'

  'Oh.' Tweed paused. 'Ask her to wait a minute.' His gaze scanned the room. 'This is no time for anyone to be sitting around. Marler, get cracking and interrogate Martin Hogarth. This is not a situation calling for finesse.'

  'Got you,' replied Marler. 'I'll phone him first to make sure he's up at Carpford. Won't say anything when he answers.'

  'Harry,' Tweed snapped, 'you get down into Soho to that place where Bob warned that call girl a brute was on the way up to her apartment. Belles, wasn't it? Chat to people there about rumours of an attack on London. See if you can pick up anything. Then tackle the girls in the street. They often know things.'

  'I'm on my way,' said Harry and left.

  'Pete,' Tweed went on, speaking fast, 'you go up to Carpford separately from Marler. Tackle that Margesson. Not gently. Bob will draw a map showing you where he hangs out.'

  'Martin's in residence,' Marler reported. 'Give me a sheet of paper, Paula, then I can show Pete Margesson's pad.'

  Tweed threw off his raincoat and Monica caught it in mid-air. He went back to his desk and sat thinking for a minute. By the time he asked for Eva to be shown up everyone had gone except Newman.

  'Bob,' Tweed said suddenly, 'I want you to prowl Covent Garden, near that Monk's Alley where poor Eddie was found mutilated.'

  'I'll do that later.' Newman held up his hand as Tweed was going to rap back. 'No argument. I'm driving you over to Warner's penthouse. There have been two attempts to kill you already.'

  'If you must. How long did it take us to drive back last time from Warner's place?'

  'At least half an hour. Traffic.'

  'So, if Eva has come from there, she'd be at the penthouse half an hour ago.'

  'No, she wouldn't,' Monica objected. 'I heard a motorcycle pull up before I heard she was downstairs. I peered out of the window and saw her parking it by the kerb outside. She'd get here like the wind.'

  'Motorcycle,' Tweed repeated slowly. 'Those couriers which arrive after dark in Carpford. I've just remembered reading a newspaper report about Afghanistan. The Northern Alliance lot were closing in on Kandahar. Omar, the key Afghan who worked closely with Osama bin Laden, escaped from Kandahar just in time. On a motor-cycle. Al-Qa'eda seems to like those machines.' He gazed into the distance, lost in his thoughts, then sat up. 'Ask Eva to come up now.'

  Paula was still at her desk when Eva Brand walked in. She had kept quiet, determined to accompany Tweed on his visit to the Minister's home.

  Eva Brand was dressed in a black trouser suit, the bottoms tucked inside her motor-cycle boots. Motoring gloves tucked under her arms. At Tweed's request she sat down in an armchair facing him. He greeted her with an amiable smile, the first time he'd smiled since returning from the PM.

  'It's good to see you again. Looking as delectable as ever. You bring good news?'

  'Flattery will get you somewhere, as the girl said to the predator. And I bring bad news. Which is why I hared over here.'

  'Something has happened?'

  'In a big way. Victor has blown his top after receiving the new mandate ordering him to work under you. I've never known him so livid. Striding about his office like a maniac. Lifting up vases to alter their position, then hammering them down on table tops. He actually broke one in his fury. He's going to block you off. He's going to phone the PM and ask him to cancel the mandate. Says the idea of working under you will make him look such a fool in the Cabinet.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes, really. And he's appointed Tolliver as Acting Chief of Special Branch in Buller's absence. Disappearance.'

  'Tolliver? Not brilliant but he does what he's told, which can be a help. I appreciate your coming to tell me.'

  'I hope I've got his reaction across to you strongly enough. He's acting like Captain Bligh when he realized he had a mutiny on the Bounty.'

  'I think I get the picture. Again, I appreciate your taking the trouble to dash over here.'

  'That's all right.' Eva stood up, very tall and erect. She glanced at her watch. 'And I'd better dash back again before he realizes I've gone out.' She looked over her shoulder at Paula. 'We must have dinner, lunch, tea or something together.'

  'I'll call you soon as I can,' Paula replied with a smile.

  Then, like a whirlwind, Eva was gone. Paula looked across at Tweed.

  'Don't forget I'm coming with you.'

  'I was going to give you a job.'

  He glared ferociously at her. She glared back. Newman suppressed a grin. When these two battled these days it was worth sitting back to enjoy the duel. Paula got up, put on her windcheater. There was a sound from the street of a motor-cycle starting up. Monica peered, out. Eva, at speed, was swinging her machine over at a dangerous angle, saw the main road was clear, disappeared.

  'Bob, we can go now,' Tweed said, putting on his raincoat.

  He walked out, followed by Newman with Paula at his heels. During the drive Tweed sat in the back with Paula by his side. They said not one word to each other. Inwardly Newman was choking with laughter.

  * * *

  Mrs Carson, the housekeeper, opened the door, her expression disagreeable and unwelcoming. She folded her arms. In the background Paula saw Eva approaching. She had changed her boots for pumps.

  'What is it?' Mrs Carson demanded.

  'We have come to see the Minister.'

  'You have an appointment?'

  'I'll show them up,' said Eva, appearing beside Mrs Carson. 'You'd better get back to the kitchen - a pot is about to boil over.'

  Mrs Carson stomped off, a door banged. Tweed walked in with Paula. Newman had parked the car out of sight round a corner and stayed with it. Eva led the way to the study, via the elevator, knocked on the door.

  'Who the hell is it?' Warner's voice barked.

  'Someone to see you,' Eva replied as she opened the door and ushered Tweed and Paula inside. Warner was seated on a high-backed chair on an elevated platform with two chairs in front and below the desk. He swivelled round in the chair, saw who had entered, hastily placed a batch of papers in a red box and slammed the lid closed. One document remained in front of him, the directive from the PM.

  'I'm surprised you have the nerve to show your face here,' he sneered, adjusting his pince-nez.

  Tweed walked forward, occupied one of the chairs, gestured for Paula to sit in the one beside him. The fact that Warner was so lean and tall and perched above them gave him a dominant position.

  'I'm sure you won't mind if my personal assistant is with me,' Tweed suggested quietly.

  'Oh, no,' Warne
r sneered again. 'I appreciate you take your consort with you everywhere.'

  Inside her gloves Paula's fingers clenched. She could have killed him. Her expression remained neutral. Eva was still standing by the open door. Warner glanced at her.