Blood Storm tac-22

by Colin Forbes

  'Man or woman?' Tweed demanded.

  'I don't remember,' Newman replied, staring hard at his chief.

  'A washout, then,' Tweed suggested.

  'Absolutely. I think it's done me good. Brought my big feet back on the ground. I'm taking Pete out for a drink in a minute.'

  'I've had a thought,' Paula began. All eyes turned to her. She stood up, walked to the far side of Tweed's desk, folded her arms.

  'I can't get out of my mind that cat with its neck screwed round the wrong way. It was an act of sadistic cruelty – done by the sort of person who in later years could chop Viola into pieces for the fun of it.'

  'Interesting.' Tweed frowned. 'I think you have detected a significant pointer to the killer. Trouble is, we don't know which of the three teenagers maltreated the cat in such a beastly fashion.'

  'Unless it was the General himself,' she remarked.

  'Oh, my Lord.' Tweed clasped both hands behind his neck. 'That would be a very strange twist in the plot.'

  'And,' Paula went on, 'we know from Frank that the General makes three-day trips up to London. Frank called him "virile". Just a thought which crept into my head.'

  'I could phone every decent hotel in London and persuade them to tell me if he stayed there – and if so when,' volunteered Monica.

  'Do it,' said Tweed.

  Except, Paula thought as she returned to her desk and not voicing the idea aloud, he's clever. He'd probably stay at some rundown boarding house, giving a false name, and never the same place twice.

  When Tweed had started talking to Chief Inspector Hammer, Marler had glided into the room. The Invisible Man, as he was nicknamed in the office, had followed Paula, parked his car in Covent Garden, had seen everyone who had entered and left Popsies.

  Now he announced, 'I'm going out on the prowl. Never know what I might see.'

  'You've just been out somewhere,' Paula said with a smile.

  He squeezed her shoulder. 'And I'm just going out again. Toodle-pip.'

  He saw no point in revealing that his destination was Covent Garden.

  16

  On the Thames, Mugger Morgan was steering his barge in close to the dock. He was the only crew aboard his huge vessel but that was because of what he was carrying in his pocket – a large packet of cocaine which would bring him a load of money when he handed it over to the waiting dealer.

  He swore when his mobile phone started buzzing. The last diversion he wanted at this moment was someone asking him to do a job. Knowing he'd wonder all the time who had called, he kept one hand on the wheel, used the other to take out the mobile and answer the call.

  'Yes,' he growled.

  'It's Fitch, Mugger. Need your help bloody fast or I'm a goner.. .'

  'What is this crap?'

  'Mugger, I've been shoved down the chute at the warehouse. I'm 'angin' with a rope round me bleedin' neck. I've got me feet propped against the side of the chute but they won't hold much longer. For Christ's sake…'

  'How much?'

  'What!'

  'How much for me to come and haul you out? I'm a businessman. You should know that by now.'

  'Five 'undred nicker. In cash. For Gawd's sake, Mugger!'

  'I'm on me way. You 'ang on.'

  Mugger chuckled as he put away the mobile. He rather liked the humour of his remark.

  The barge's prow bumped the wharf. He manoeuvred it alongside, switched off the engine, jumped ashore. Swiftly he roped the barge safely to the bollards, looked round for the dealer. Not here. He was always late and then he'd try to lower the price. Frig him. He would go for the five hundred nicker first.

  He hurried along the crowded street. If he didn't get there in time Fitch would go down the chute. That didn't worry Mugger so much as the fact that he'd take the five hundred pounds with him.

  Mugger was a big man, six foot one tall, fifteen stone, with a brutal face. He was in his forties: he had earned the nickname Mugger in his teens, christened by the police who had never brought him to justice. His technique in those days had been to prowl Mayfair and Regent Street, looking for well-dressed women, snatch their handbags and scarper. He'd made a lot of money that way, but gave it up when police patrols began to walk those areas.

  Buying himself a large barge, he'd entered the drugs trade. He collected the cocaine packets from downriver, sailed back to the East End and charged his dealer three times what he'd paid.

  Arriving at the padlocked entrance to the warehouse he took out a bunch of keys, which included a pick-lock. He was inside the place in minutes. Opening the door into the room where the chute was located, he bent down, grabbed the handle, hauled off the lid. Sure enough there was Fitch, a rope round his neck over a scarf. He'd agilely managed to use his exceptional strength to manoeuvre himself at right angles to the vertical shaft. Both his feet were rammed into the side of the shaft, both hands holding on to the rope. He knew he couldn't last out much longer. He looked up.

  'Reach down, grab the rope and haul me up,' he ordered.

  'I'll need my five 'undred nicker before I do any work,' Mugger informed him with a hideous grin.

  Bastard! Fitch muttered under his breath. He let go of the rope with one hand. It was tricky, but he managed to feel inside his pocket for a sheaf of twenty-pound notes held together with an elastic band. He threw it up and sighed with relief as it shot up through the hole, landing on the warehouse floor.

  Mugger picked up the bundle, counted it quickly. Then he shouted down.

  'Only two 'undred and forty here. We said five 'undred.'

  'You get the rest in my pocket when I'm up there with you. If you don't get me out fast I'm going down – with the money.'

  Mugger reacted quickly. He knelt down, stretched one long arm, grasped the rope. Despite the awkward position and Fitch's weight, he hauled him up. Fitch flopped on the floor, worked his stiff legs, clambered to his feet.

  He was wondering whether to catch Mugger off guard, tip him down the chute. He changed his mind as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead and face. He had thought that Mugger could be useful to him.

  'Money. Now.'

  Mugger was holding out a huge hand, working his fingers in the money gesture. Fitch took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a jewelled lighter. He stared at his saviour.

  'Like to make a lot more? Say two thou?'

  'Talk about that after the two 'undred and sixty you owe.'

  Fitch reached in his other pocket, took out another roll of twenties. He gave it to Mugger, who counted it carefully. While he was doing this Fitch replaced the lid over the chute. He wouldn't send Mugger down to the pearly depths. He could use him, he'd finally decided.

  'What job?' Mugger demanded aggressively.

  'To put away – permanently – a woman and a man. Use any method you like but they must both disappear.'

  'For two thou? You must be jokin', mucker. For five thou I'd consider it.'

  'Four

  'I said five!' Mugger roared.

  'OK,' Fitch agreed, after a long pause. 'Five.'

  'So who are the bodies?' Mugger asked.

  'A man and a woman.'

  'I could have fun with the woman before we finish them…'

  'No!' Fitch shouted.

  He leapt forward, grabbed Mugger round the throat with both his strong hands, pushed him over backwards, fell on top of him, his hands still round the neck. Mugger was stunned. He'd not realized before how strong Fitch was. 'NO!' Fitch yelled again. 'This has to be a quick job. You can get up now.'

  Fitch jumped to his feet. Mugger climbed upright more slowly. His hands were soothing his neck. He was scared now. Fitch realized this and set about making him forget what he'd done.

  'Five thousand nicker,' Fitch repeated. 'How long would it take for you to earn that drug dealing?'

  'A little while,' Mugger admitted. 'I only deal in small packets. Then if I'm stopped by the river patrol they'd never find it even if they turned the b
arge upside down.' He regained his toughness. 'Name of these parties?'

  'Tweed and Paula Grey. I'll be with you when we grab them. Take them in the back of my car – no, the boot.'

  'Then dump them in the river? We'll need heavy chains.'

  'No we won't.' Fitch grinned sadistically. 'Chloroform first to knock them out, then a trip to the burner.'

  'The burner?'

  'I have a pal further east who operates a metal foundry -with a huge furnace. He clears out of the place for a consideration. He'll think I'm getting rid of dud banknotes.'

  'I'm still not sure I know…'

  'Stupid! We take the bodies and shove them into the furnace. You can watch them burn. Only takes a minute. OK?'

  'I guess so.'

  17

  Marler was 'prowling'. He had returned to Covent Garden, and was standing on the opposite side of the street to the building where he had seen the small woman with Paula say goodbye and then enter her flat.

  Earlier he had witnessed Newman's fiasco in his attempt to get on with Coral, had seen him emerge and wave both hands in frustration. Then Paula had entered Popsies. Strolling past he had seen the back of Paula's head as she had talked to the woman.

  Marler was shrewd. He'd realized this must be Pete Nield's secret informant. He was always suspicious of informants, mistrusting half his own sources. He now stood, watching the door to the flat, on the street under a striped blind projecting from a bar entrance. In his hand he held a mug of coffee. He sipped it occasionally. It gave him a reason for hanging about.

  It was dark when a tall woman, good figure, brown hair neatly coiffeured, well dressed in a silk frock and expensive shoes, pressed the bell to the flat. Marler perched the coffee on a nearby ledge, took out a miniature camera which was non-flash, pressed a button for bad light since by now it was dark.

  Paula's friend from Popsies appeared, smiled, shook hands with her visitor. As the visitor turned her head Marler took three quick shots of both of them. He followed them until they went into a good restaurant. He immediately returned to the building, checked the bell he'd seen the visitor push. A small card alongside had the owner's name. C. Flenton.

  Marler then continued his prowl. He hailed a cab, asked to be dropped in the East End. He got out near a pub called the Pig's Nest, not the most salubrious establishment in London. Mixing with the crowd, he was strolling towards the pub's entrance when he nearly stopped short. His instinct and his training saved him. He continued to stroll.

  Marler was startled. For him the immediate reaction was rare. Its cause was hurrying towards him, then turned into the Pig's Nest. Before he did so Marler used his camera to take two shots. His target was Amos Fitch, the man Newman had 'dealt with'.

  At Park Crescent, Newman was still out with Pete Nield. Monica thought they must really be knocking it back. Harry had left, telling Monica he was on his way to Paradise.

  'Some people call it the East End,' he added as he left.

  Paula went over to Tweed, leant over his desk, whispered a suggestion.

  'I have info to pass on, just between us. Would your house be the best place?'

  'I'm leaving now, so it would be.'

  She followed him in her car, stopping several times to pick up some shopping. She arrived after dark to find two new locks on the front door. A Banham and a Chubb. Tweed appeared quickly when she'd pressed the bell three times, then twice.

  Taking two of her three carrier bags he ran up the stairs. Paula followed, noting the locks closed automatically when she shut the door. Tweed was sitting at his desk, studying files when she walked in, picked up the two bags.

  'You haven't eaten today,' she told him. 'I'm cooking a meal for both of us. Liver, bacon, fried egg – followed by creme brulee.'

  'Appreciate that,' he said not looking up.

  She went into the kitchen, closed the door. She knew where everything was. She donned an apron, set to work. He had laid the table when she returned with the meal. She frowned.

  'That's my job. Come and get it while it's hot. I can tell you about my afternoon while we eat…'

  Tweed ate voraciously, congratulated her on another first-class meal. He fixed his eyes on hers as he posed the question.

  'You have information?'

  She told him. About following Newman and Nield. Their meeting in Popsies with Coral Flenton. Newman, frustrated, driving off with Nield. Her own meeting with Coral, their conversation.

  'So Coral and Viola Vander-Browne were friends, went back a long way – to their schooldays,' Tweed observed. 'A strange twist. I find it odd.'

  'I found something about Coral odd, but I can't put my finger on what it was. And she emphasized how far away her desk in the next room is from the Cabal's hideaway…'

  Paula stopped as the front-door bell rang three times, then twice, the signal that it was someone from Park Crescent. Ever cautious, Tweed in his shirt sleeves extracted his Walther, ran down. A large cardboard-backed envelope had been pushed through the letterbox. On the front in neat lettering was Mr Tweed, from M-r. Marler.

  Taking the envelope back upstairs he sank into his favourite armchair. Paula perched on an arm. She watched his expression as he took out a batch of colour photos and hid them from her. The reaction to the first one told her nothing. He looked at two more, then at Paula as he handed her the three photos.

  'Who are these women? Any idea? The smaller one is Coral Flenton – Marler has written her name on the back.'

  'Glory! This is crazy,' Paula exclaimed. 'The woman who is calling on Coral is the Parrot, I'm sure. She was disguised when she came to see you but I'm sure it's her.'

  'And Coral told you in Popsies she hated the Parrot. No sign of hatred there. They look the best of friends.'

  'What the devil is going on?'

  'Loose strands are beginning to link up. First, Coral knew poor Viola. Now she has the Parrot as a friend.'

  'I'm confused,' Paula admitted.

  'Well, you know I never trust anyone. Nield's informant has been playing a double game, but how?'

  'I'm shaken – after what Coral told me. And I've just grasped what I thought was odd about her. While talking she kept looking down at her coffee as though she didn't want to meet my eyes.'

  'There are four more colour pics Marler took. In the East End, this time. Fitch is on the loose again.'

  He handed her the pic showing Fitch walking towards Newman, then three more. One showed the sign board of the Pig's Nest. Another of Fitch inside the pub talking to another man. There were two of the same view. Marler must have stood at the open door. He had a lot of nerve, Tweed thought as he handed her the last photos.

  'I recognize Fitch at the bar,' she said. 'But not the thug he's drinking with.'

  'Thug is too mild a word. That's Mugger Morgan, a very nasty piece of work. Buchanan once showed me a picture of him leaving court. Once again his lawyer had got him off a serious charge of brutal manslaughter. On a technicality. Newman caught Fitch trying to invade your home. He may try again. Wherever you go now you need someone with you from the team.'

  'I think you're right.'

  'And I'd better follow you home in my car.'

  'Couldn't I stay in the spare bedroom tonight? I've done so before. I did bring some night things with me.'

  'Good idea. Sleep well.'

  She bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then headed for the spare bedroom. Tweed continued checking his files on agents operating abroad, recent reports. Nothing from Philip Cardon, who could be anywhere.

  Paula reappeared in her pyjamas and dressing-gown.

  'Any idea of what time it is?'

  'I thought you'd be asleep.'

  'My mind was churning over those photos and other developments. It's 2 a.m.' She placed both hands from behind him firmly on his shoulders. 'Up you get and off to bed.'

  'I suppose you're right.' He suppressed a yawn. 'I need to be fresh for tomorrow, that is today in the morning.'

  'Why?'
/>   'We have a meeting with the Cabal at their HQ in Whitehall. The two of us. I want to study those three brothers.'

  'Two brothers, one half-brother.' She increased the pressure on his shoulders. 'I want to see you actually go to bed.'

  For discretion's sake, Paula left early, collected her car from behind Tweed's in the nearby mews where he'd rented space. When Tweed arrived three-quarters of an hour later the whole team was assembled in his office. Monica spoke up immediately.

  'I've got someone hanging on the line you will want to talk to,' she said.

  'Hello,' Tweed answered.

  'Wonder if you still recognize my voice,' the caller began.

  'Philip! Where the hell are you now? Or maybe you'd sooner…'

  'Just listen. You need to fly to Aix-en-Provence today. By this flight. Here are the details… You land at Marignane Airport, in the middle of nowhere. I'll have a car waiting to drive you to your Aix hotel, the one in the north of the city. It would be safer if you brought two members of the team.'

  'Paula and Newman?'

  'Perfect. Something very weird is going on. A certain Noel Macomber is arriving late tonight to meet a most dubious character tomorrow evening. Twenty-four hours should do the trick. OK?'

  'Yes.'

  The line went dead. Tweed looked round the room. Paula could tell he was delighted. He gave them the news.

  'So,' Newman commented, 'our wandering boy Philip Garden has surfaced again. Bet he knows what is going on over here. Strange that Noel Macomber is flying out to Aix. To meet whom?'

  'We'll find out, won't we,' Tweed told him. 'Heathrow is the worst part. All those queues on security grounds. I hate that.'

  'That's all right,' Monica called out. 'I'll phone your old friend, Jim Corcoran, chief of security. He'll slip you through the queues.'

  'Good idea,' Tweed agreed. 'Now Paula and I have an appointment with the magic circle. All the Macombers. I'm anxious to detect which one is the boss.'

  Tweed found a parking space as a car pulled out. They walked the rest of the way down Whitehall and into the side street – into the dragons' lair, as he called it.