by Colin Forbes
Without bending, the workman threw the scythe a foot or so away from them. What a dreadful way to spend the later years of your life, Tweed thought as he looked up the pathway at the cottage. Built of brick with a renewed tiled roof and a brilliantly polished brass knob on the freshly painted wooden front door that gleamed in the sun. The General was obviously a stickler for appearances.
'Stays there overnight sometimes. Just sleeps there, then buzzes off to Lunnon.'
'When was he last here – and in London?' Tweed asked in an off-hand tone.
'A week ago. Stayed up in the Smoke a few days, then came back here this morning on his way 'ome.'
That places General Lucius Macomber in town at the time of the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. Interesting, Tweed thought. He bent down, picked up the scythe carefully, handed it to its owner.
'Where is his real home, then?' Tweed asked. 'The MoD had lost his permanent address,' he concluded, making it up as he went along.
'That be a distance from 'ere. He's a large house on Black Island, near Tolhaven. You takes the ferry, gets off at Lydford, walks past the village, takes the first road to the left and he's a short way along on your left. I goes down there to look after his garden, more like a park. Other people 'elps 'im but he likes me to trim edges. I'm Pat,' he added.
'You've been very helpful, Pat.' Tweed paused. He was absorbing the shock that the General lived in the location where Newman and Paula were exploring. 'Oh, where does this lane lead to?'
'Mountain 'igh. See all over Sussex and Surrey from the top. I'd take the car, if I was you. It's a long pull walkin' up there.'
Tweed drove up the lane, which swiftly became very steep as the trees disappeared, with green grass spreading up the slope. Tweed was aware he was climbing a considerable height. He'd never heard of Mountain High. Too difficult to find the lane up, he decided.
He had another surprise when he reached the summit. It was flat as a billiard table and extensive. An airsock to show wind direction suggested private planes landed there. He parked on the edge of the landing field, climbed out and took in a deep breath of the marvellous fresh air. He was on top of the world.
Pat had not exaggerated. The panoramic view in every direction was stunning in the sunlight. Tweed could see for miles, and in the far distance he could make out a small plane high in the sky. He went back to his car to fetch his powerful field glasses.
He had already located the General's cottage, which from where he stood looked no bigger than a doll's house. What had attracted his attention was a large enclosed truck moving away from the back of the cottage. Through his lenses he read the legend painted on its side: Windrush amp; Carne Removals. Take Anything But A Tank.
He watched it heading towards a large barn whose rear doors were wide open. The truck entered the barn. The driver appeared at the back and Tweed had a clear view of the contents. Heavy old furniture – and a black metal box. The driver climbed inside the truck, inserted a key, lifted the lid of the black box. Tweed had a brief glimpse inside -a maze of wires. His lips tightened. High explosive.
He had a clearer view of the driver. Grabbing a small sketch pad from his pocket, he used a pencil to draw his impression of the driver's face. A brown trilby pulled down at a slanting angle over his forehead. Thick upper lids were closed down over half his eyes, a bent nose, a slit of a mouth, heavy jaw, the whole expression had a cunning look. The driver turned his head away. Tweed slipped the pad back into his pocket, continued watching through the glasses.
The driver jumped agilely out of the furniture van, fixed a large padlock after closing the heavy doors. He then repeated the process after leaving the barn. He ran across to a Saab parked nearby, jumped in behind the wheel. Tweed noted the plate number and the car was moving fast down the field on to the road leading back to London.
Tweed turned round as the light aircraft he'd seen flew closer, dipped and was landing on the airstrip. The moment it was stationary the pilot leapt out, removed his goggles and helmet. He grinned at Tweed.
'First person I've ever found up here.' He was youngish, his voice was cultured, his personality friendly. He marched towards Tweed.
'Care for a spin? Half an hour and you'll look down on the beauties of this part of the world. I love it.'
'Thank you,' Tweed replied, 'but I have to go now to an urgent appointment in London. I appreciate the offer.'
'Maybe another time.'
Tweed walked briskly back to his car. This landing point might just be useful one day, he thought. Newman is an expert pilot. He could get us down here in no time.
The Cabal's meeting had resumed after lunch. Nelson insisted that they must keep checking on progress. So many aspects to keep moving. Benton spoke gently, gazing up at the ceiling. His words were aimed at Noel.
'Still wasting our time chasing the girls, are we?'
'Of course. What better way of spending a free evening? I've dumped Eve. She was too prissy when it came to the point. Women are useful for only one thing. Not to mind. I'm on with a girl called Tina. Very hoity-toity, but I'm sure she knows what men need.'
He's younger, Benton thought. He'll grow out of it. Or will he? Another anxiety surfaced. He stared at Noel.
'The idea you had about kidnapping Paula Grey isn't going anywhere, I trust?'
'Gone clean out of my mind,' Noel lied. 'Too many other problems to sort out. There's the prison – the one on Black Island
'We haven't seen any plans,' Benton snapped. 'Before we even consider starting building I want to see the plans. So, I'm sure, does Nelson.'
'Yes indeed,' Nelson agreed.
'No work's done yet,' Noel lied again. 'As to the plans, the project is so secret the only plan is with the surveyor on Black Island. I thought it too risky to have photocopies floating about.'
'Well,' Benton persisted, 'not a brick is to be laid until we have seen them. I'm worried about the idea.'
'Benton,' Nelson interjected, 'we do need somewhere to park social saboteurs.'
'And what does that sinister phrase mean?'
'Anyone who tries to disagree with the new society we are creating.'
'Too vague,' snapped Benton. 'If we give the State Security staff too much rope some will use it to pay off old scores. I won't sanction that.'
'Well,' Noel interjected, 'let's leave that problem until later. There's no hurry on that front. Benton could be right.'
Noel was playing a game he'd thought up in the past: act as reasonable peacemaker, then they'd leave him alone. He had been feeling under pressure.
'When do we play the terrorist card?' boomed Nelson.
There was dead silence. Nelson had decided the atmosphere must be tougher. There were rumours in Parliament that he might be nearer to full promotion – to become a member of the Cabinet as Minister of Internal Security. He waited for the outburst of disagreement. Benton was more subtle.
'Noel,' he said casually, staring up at the ceiling, 'have you yet explored the dangers of playing the terrorist card, as Nelson suggested?'
'No, not really,' Noel said, lying once again. 'I had the idea of getting someone to drive a truck with a modest amount of explosives into a side entrance to Richmond Park, an area which, at this time of the year, has no one about. I'm not at all sure it's a good idea.'
'It isn't!' Benton thundered. 'Kill one civilian and we all end up in Belmarsh prison.'
'I did say I felt it was a bad idea,' Noel assured him smoothly. He checked his watch. 'Isn't it time we ended this session? You all agree? Good.'
He had an appointment to take Tina out that evening.
Tweed parked his car, locked it, walked through the dark at Park Crescent, found his whole team assembled in his office. He greedily drank the coffee Monica supplied, then produced his sketch book. What he had drawn of the driver was a caricature.
'I've been down to Mountain High,' he announced.
'Switzerland?' Paula teased him from behind her desk. 'You were quick.'
Twe
ed grinned, then turned round the sketch pad and asked if anyone recognized who it was. Newman loped over from beside Paula's desk, picked up the pad, stared at it for only a few moments.
'God!' he exclaimed. 'That's Amos Fitch. He wasn't close to you, I hope?'
Tweed leaned back in his chair, tersely gave them the details of his excursion. Harry, seated crosslegged on the floor, looked up sharply at the mention of high explosives. This was his speciality. He kept quiet as Tweed spoke.
'Then I drove back here,' Tweed concluded. 'Now I want to hear what you, Bob, have been up to with Paula.'
He listened without interrupting as Newman related the events of their day. When Newman described the details of the prison on Black Island, Tweed's expression changed, became grim.
'I see,' he said as Newman sat down. 'Then that does it. We will use any unorthodox method to remove the Cabal from any contact with politics. Any method, however ruthless. The gloves are off. I'm glad you killed those State Security thugs. We may have to eliminate many more. From this moment on no one leaves this building without carrying weapons. And I want a guard to accompany Paula wherever she goes.' He held up a hand as she started to protest. 'I have a premonition you may be one of their main targets – from the way Partridge looked at you when she pretended to visit us on her own.'
'You think the Cabal knew?' she asked.
'I doubt if they knew everything she told us, but she's too smart to come here without their knowledge.'
'May I report something?' Pete Nield requested. 'While you were away I had another long talk with my informant. She told me the Parrot is crazy over Nelson. At least she was. For some reason now she hates him.'
'Paula,' Tweed asked, 'what emotion is most likely to cause a woman to turn into a murderous rage?'
'Jealousy.'
'It opens up a new possibility.'
'Well,' Paula said, 'at Professor Saafeld's didn't I correct him when he kept saying "he" for the murderer? I suggested it could be a woman who was responsible for Vander-Browne's awful fate.'
'We'll keep all our options open.'
'You know,' remarked Newman to Tweed, 'you do have so much on your plate now. First this merger of the security services you're fighting. Second, the investigation into the Fox Street murder. Two separate problems. A bit much?'
'Not necessarily. I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a link between the two.' Tweed produced a sketch from a locked drawer, invited his team to come and look at it.
It was a retouched photo produced by Joel, the artist in the basement. They crowded behind Tweed and stared at the result. It showed an attractive woman's head and shoulders. Her dark hair was close to the side of her head, like a helmet.
'Joel worked on one of those photos of the Parrot you took, Paula,' Tweed explained. 'I gave him a description of someone. You are now looking at the picture of the waitress, so-called, who laced my margarita with Percodin and brought it to the table. "With the compliments of Mr Mungano." On the way back from Peckham Mallet I called in at Mungano's, saw the proprietor. I knew he'd been adding to his staff of waiters by hiring a few suitable girls. I showed him this.'
'Go on,' Paula urged, 'what did he say?'
'That he'd never hired anyone who looked a bit like her.'
'So that links her directly with the plot to frame you for the Fox Street murder,' Paula said, concealing her excitement. 'Now we can concentrate on the Parrot.'
'She was never out of my calculations – among a range of suspects,' Tweed replied. 'What triggered me off was that contact lens you found on the floor. The fake waitress who drugged me had blue eyes. I'm going to see the Cabal soon. It will be interesting if Partridge appears so I can see the real colour of her eyes.'
'May I corne with you when the time comes?' Paula asked.
'I was going to take you with me in any case.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'Bob, I also want to go down with you and Paula to Black Island, urgently. I found out General Lucius Macomber lives there. Not far from the village of Lydford. I think it's important I have a long talk with him. He is the father of the three men composing the Cabal.'
'What about those explosives in that furniture van? I'd like to go down and check out that black box, maybe muck it up,' said Harry.
'Do that. But Peckham Mallet is the devil of a place to locate. Mainly because it doesn't really exist. I'll draw you a plan marking the lane to the General's cottage, the cottage itself and location of the barn. Both the van and the doors to the barn it's inside have very heavy padlocks.'
'Piece of cake for me.' Harry bent down, lifted up the bag with his tools he carried almost everywhere. 'I've already located Peckham Mallet on the map.'
'Then we don't waste time,' Tweed decided firmly. 'Tomorrow, Harry, you go check out that furniture van.'
'Excuse me,' Monica broke in, 'I checked the name on the side of the van, as you asked me to. No firm with that name exists. I also checked the number plate. Stolen from a car in a police compound.'
'Fitch has a nerve,' Newman commented grimly.
As they were talking, Marler walked in.
Marler was a key member of Tweed's team. He dressed at least as smartly as Pete Nield. This afternoon he was sporting a blue Aquascutum suit, a cream shirt and a blue tie decorated with herons in flight. His feet were clad in black handmade shoes with concealed razor-sharp blades in the tips.
In his early forties, but looking like a man in his thirties, he was slim, and five feet nine tall. Women found him good-looking. His hair was fair, he was clean shaven with features which suggested he felt superior, although he had perfect manners and an upper-crust voice. He was also reputed to be the most deadly marksman in Europe. He walked across to his usual corner by Paula's desk, leaned against the wall, took out a cigarette and inserted it into a black holder before lighting it.
'Thought I heard the name Fitch, my old sparring partner Amos. Weird that such a murderous villain has a biblical name. Last time I met him he tried to knife me. He ended up on the floor, cold to the world. I've often thought I should have killed him,' he remarked casually. 'World would have been a better place without him.'
'It certainly would,' Paula said coldly.
Tweed heard this uncharacteristic tone in her voice. Paula had become even tougher. He guessed it was since seeing Viola's shattered body. He stood up.
'It's been a long day. Tomorrow will be another one. So I suggest you all go home and relax in whatever way you prefer.'
'I'm taking my girlfriend, Roma, out to dinner,' Newman announced. 'She's very bright and entertaining. Two degrees from Cambridge. I have to be alert to keep up with her.'
'Then make the most of it,' Paula teased him. 'It won't last long.'
'You might be more polite. I'm escorting you home.' He saw her expression. 'No option, Tweed's orders. I'll call back later to make sure everything is secure.'
'That will be about 4 a.m.,' she said wickedly. 'When you've torn yourself away from Roma. That's a curious name.'
'She was born in Rome, daughter of the British Ambassador. She was born in the Embassy, so she's as British as you are. Ready to leave?'
'Not for half an hour at least, maybe longer. I have a report to type. If that's going to mess up your date with Roma…'
'It isn't. I'm not seeing her until eight o'clock.'
'I'm off to prowl the East End,' Harry called out as he left.
'I'm off too,' Marler said. 'To have a drink with some Members of Parliament. To see whether they've heard of State Security. If so, get their reaction. Toodle-oo…'
Nield said he had a job to do. He left the building, climbed into his car. He was waiting for Tweed to leave so he could follow him home. No good telling him. He'd blow up.
'I'm off too,' Tweed decided. 'Let's hope we have a quiet night.'
It was a statement he later regretted.
11
That afternoon Fitch had used his mobile to contact his accomplice, Tony Canal. They had arranged to meet at 9.30 p.m. at t
he Pig's Nest in the East End but Fitch had used this tactic before. It was important to show who was boss, to throw his henchmen off balance. He called Canal again in an hour.
'Meet me at the warehouse now!' he snarled.
He switched off before Canal could reply. Fitch was inside the abandoned warehouse. The old wooden floor was still solid but the skylights were missing several panes of glass. The large room, once used by a shipping company for storage, had been rented by Fitch for a song. In a fictitious name.
While he waited his booted feet clunked up and down the floorboards, pacing impatiently. He was smoking a cigar, a Havana. Only the best was good enough for Amos Fitch, and he had a nice balance in a small bank, the fruits of his criminal exploits.
When Canal entered after climbing the rickety staircase Fitch blew smoke in his weird face. Tony Canal was an ex-prize-fighter in matches held in private houses where no holds were barred. A broken nose and a lopsided jaw were the earnings from his underworld life.
'Show you something,' Fitch growled at him.
Bending down, he lifted a handle set into the floor, raised a thick wooden lid about two feet in diameter. Canal heard the gurgle of rushing water a long way down. Roughly, Fitch grabbed his arm, used the other hand to point a torch.
'Take a look, thickhead.'
Canal peered down. The torch beam lit up a steel shaft with a large hook about a foot down. The beam was just strong enough to illuminate rushing black water at the very bottom. Canal didn't like it. He stepped back as Fitch replaced the lid, spoke.
'That's where we'll put 'er when we've grabbed 'er.'
'Put who, may I ask?' Canal enquired.
'You may ask, dear boy,' Fitch told him, mimicking Canal's public-school accent. 'You just damned well did,' he rasped in normal coarse voice. 'Miss Paula Grey goes down the chute.'
He picked up a coil of rope from the floor. One end was twisted into a loop, but without a slip knot. Fitch pointed this out to Canal, who was looking worried. 'With that round her neck,' he explained with a sadistic smile.
'When we get 'er 'ere, we wrap a scarf round 'er neck, then we slip this rope loop over the scarf. With that round 'er neck we lower 'er into the chute, then fasten one end of the rope over the 'ook sticking out from the side of the tube.'