Blood Storm tac-22

by Colin Forbes

  'Such as?'

  'She was expecting a man to come out, a man who'd spent the night with Coral.'

  'Who?'

  'I just wish I knew. It doesn't help me to solve those two murders with these women at each other's throats.' He frowned. 'Or maybe it does.'

  *

  The Cabal were assembled round their strange three-sided table. Nelson kept moving his blotter, rearranging his pens, which showed nervousness unusual for him. The other two waited until he spoke.

  'I think we've got to do something damned quickly to make those few wobbly Cabinet ministers support our draft bill to merge the security services.'

  'Maybe it's time to frighten them,' Noel suggested. 'If an explosion – terrorists, of course – took place in London, that would do it.'

  'In London? Where in London?' Nelson's expression was appalled. 'We must not risk any casualties.'

  'In Richmond Park.'

  'You must be mad,' sneered Benton, glaring through his glasses.

  'Mad as a hatter,' roared Nelson.

  'My intermediary,' Noel began in his soft voice, 'has found a part of Richmond Park a long way from the river. There is an entrance never used at this time of the year, on the outskirts. The only casualty, if any, will be a tree or two. It will be thought by the police the driver was taking it by a roundabout route to the populous area of the park but the bomb exploded prematurely. Panic, but no one even injured.'

  'You have complete confidence in this intermediary?' demanded Nelson.

  'Complete.'

  It was a tactic of Noel's to invent so-called intermediaries, so no one in the room knew he was making the contacts himself.

  'What do you think?' Nelson asked.

  'We do need something to wake those ministers up now,' Benton suggested.

  'I suppose we do.' Nelson's large fleshy face was a picture of uncertainty. 'If we all vote in favour we'll do it,' he decided.

  They all lifted a left hand. Noel stood up, careful not to smile. 'Then I'd better go outside and make a phone call.'

  Tweed and Paula arrived at Park Crescent to find the whole team in the office. Marler was stuffing his flying gear into a large bag, first trying on his flying helmet to make sure it fitted comfortably.

  'What's going on?' Tweed asked as Monica took his overcoat.

  It was Harry who answered. He wore his camouflage jacket. He was tucking away grenades, one into each pocket.

  'Marler and I have decided we'd better check up on that truck, make sure it's still there. Marler is flying me down there. He says you told him there was a landing place on top of the big hill.'

  'Mountain High,' Tweed recalled. 'I want everything tricky dealt with. And fast.'

  'Then if the truck's still there with no one about I could blow the thing up myself,' Harry offered.

  'Do it. Paula and I cleaned up one dangerous aspect in the early morning. I presume you all know there's been another horrific murder. Another woman. Same beastly method.'

  'It's in the late edition of the Daily Nation,' Newman said. 'Drew Franklin's column. He really does have a marvellous network of contacts.'

  'And off the record,' Tweed snapped, 'I imagine a chief inspector's wallet is fat with another two hundred pounds. Can I see the report?'

  'We're off,' Marler said, leaving with Harry as Tweed read:

  SECOND VANDER-BROWNE HORROR MURDER

  Another House of Death now exists in London. The brutally mutilated body of Marina Vander-Browne was discovered at her Mayfair address early this morning, similar to how her sister, Viola, was cut to pieces only a week ago. Chief Inspector Hammer said they were making progress with their investigation.

  'Making progress backwards,' Tweed snorted, handing the newspaper back to Newman.

  He stood up, swept his gaze round the remaining members of his team. From his expression they knew something grim was coming.

  'You should all know that Professor Saafeld believes this fiend – man or woman – may strike again during the next few days.' The timbre of his voice was deep. 'Saafeld calls it blood storm. The killer gets a surge of desire to murder and as this surge accelerates, the time gap between his slaughters decreases. We have only days to identify who it is. I want to know as much as we can extract from all the members of the Cabal, as one approach. Newman, you will do your best link up with Noel, to grill him. Nield, your target is Benton. Paula, you interview the Parrot.'

  'Can I wait a few hours to do that?' Paula requested. 'I've somewhere I want to go before I see her.'

  'Agreed,' Tweed said abruptly. 'I will take on Nelson, but that may have to wait until the end of the day. Howard wants me to go through the report for the PM with him. The timing of showing him that document is vital. Marler and Harry will be given their assignments when they return from Peckham Mallet. Then I may have to make a quick trip to interview General Macomber. I will be back late this afternoon.'

  'You're going down there alone?' Paula asked anxiously.

  'Yes. No argument. The General is up to something. Here is a tip which might help you all. We are looking for someone – again man or woman – who is capable of the most sadistic cruelty.'

  'Who screwed the cat's neck through a hundred and eighty degrees all those years ago,' Paula suggested.

  'Possibly. Remember, we have perhaps only two days to prevent a third horror.'

  In the afternoon Tweed was driving towards Tolhaven and the ferry to Black Island when Marler and Harry returned to the office from their trip. But they had flown there together with Marler as pilot of his light aircraft and Harry trembling beside him.

  'I could do with a tot of brandy,' Harry gasped.

  He was making an effort to walk steadily. Monica jumped up, opened a cupboard, grabbed a bottle of brandy and a glass. She poured a stiff tot. He swallowed half of it, heaved a sigh of relief. He swallowed the rest, stood up straight from the hunched position Monica had noticed when he had entered the office.

  Marler, a sardonic smile on his face, had followed him in.

  Harry assumed his favourite position, seated cross-legged on the floor. Marler walked past him, stood against the wall, put a cigarette in his ivory holder, lit it.

  'We've had a bit of an adventure,' he drawled.

  'A bloody nightmare,' snapped Harry.

  'I'll tell you what happened,' Marler began. 'Monica, you might take this down. As a statement for Tweed…'

  32

  Marler drove them to a private airfield outside London where his light aircraft was housed. The owner ordered his team to trundle the machine on to the runway.

  Marler was handing a helmet equipped with earphones to Harry. He explained this was so they could communicate with each other clearly in midair. Reluctantly Harry donned the helmet.

  Dazed with apprehension, Harry, who hated flying, found himself seated next to Marler as the plane took off, climbed. It was a brilliantly sunny day, warmish for April. Not a cloud in the sky.

  'Wobbles about a lot,' Harry complained.

  'Actually, old chap, we are flying very steadily. Look out at the scenery. Marvellous view.'

  'Is it?'

  Harry stubbornly stared straight ahead as Marler studied the map, checking the route to Mountain High near Peckham Mallet. Near General Macomber's cottage. He glanced at Harry's ashen face.

  'Shouldn't take long to get there.'

  'Seems like forever already.'

  'Relax. I once flew this plane down to Provence in the south of France.'

  'Thank Gawd I wasn't with you.'

  'Harry, take this with that bottle of water I gave you. It's a Dramamine pill. Paula swears by them when she's flying over the Atlantic. An eleven-hour flight to San Francisco.'

  'She takes one?' Harry stared dubiously at the small yellow tablet. Marler waited until he had swallowed it before he replied.

  'Actually, she doesn't. But she persuades Tweed to take one if he's flying or on a sea crossing.'

  'Does it work for her – him?'


  'Yes, it does. Every time.'

  'Well, it's not working for me.'

  'Give it a few minutes to get into your system.'

  Harry sat very still, grimly silent. Marler was looking down, admiring the beautiful countryside, clear as crystal in the sunlight. Rolling downs like frozen green waves, dense evergreen forests, cars looking like tiny models crawling along motorways. They had crossed from Surrey into Sussex.

  'May be a bit of turbulence ahead,' Marler warned.

  'What's turbulence?'

  'Plane might rock a bit from side to side, up and down.'

  'Take me home.'

  'We always complete our missions,' Marler said sternly.

  'Do these things ever crash?' Harry whispered.

  'Not with me as pilot.'

  The plane suddenly swayed from side to side. Then it dropped, climbed again. Marler again glanced at Harry. He had a dozy expression, was now looking out and down. The plane was now flying on an even keel.

  'Bit bumpy there for a moment,' Harry commented.

  Glancing once more at Harry Marler noticed the colour was coming back into his face. The Dramamine had worked. Harry was taking an interest in his surroundings. He pointed ahead.

  'What's that big hill ahead? An alp?'

  'You only get those in Switzerland. That's Mountain High…'

  'I can see a large truck in an empty field. That could be it. A man's walking towards it. Keep this thing steady.'

  Harry took out his powerful binoculars, focused them. He could see the burly figure in denims and a windcheater quite clearly. Could see the man's ugly face under a peaked cap. He swore colourfully.

  'What's the matter?' Marler asked.

  'See that chap heading for the truck? That's Mugger Morgan. A real villain. Been hauled up for two killings, which he did. Got off on a technicality. Friend of Fitch. He's looking up at us.'

  'Have to trick him. We're joy-riders. Brace yourself.'

  Marler looped the loop. Harry found himself staring at the sky, then the earth above him. He yelled in terror.

  'It's OK,' Marler called back.

  He looped the loop a second time. Harry was staring up at earth again. They were crashing. He knew they were crashing. The plane levelled out, the view became normal. Harry let go of the breath he had been holding.

  'What the hell did you do that for?'

  'To fool Mugger Morgan. He'll think we're mad joyriders.'

  'Mad is the word!'

  'Keep an eye on him. What's he doing now?'

  'Stopped looking at us. He's climbing into the cab. He's going to drive the truck off. We're well away from him.'

  They both looked down at the truck, which appeared very small from their height. There was no one else about anywhere.

  The truck moved forward perhaps ten feet, then the explosives detonated. The entire vehicle lifted off the field. There was a blinding flash, a distant boom. The roof shot skywards, split in two. The truck's sides blasted outwards. The cab where Mugger Morgan had sat disintegrated. A small crater appeared in the field. Fragments descended to the field as debris fell inside the crater.

  Inside the Park Crescent office Marler concluded his report to Monica at about the time Tweed parked his car outside Tolhaven.

  It was a different ferryman who took him across to Black Island in a calm sea. It was also a different route from the one to the east he had travelled with the team. So he saw the ugly globe-shaped structures of the oil refinery near the western tip of the island.

  He was totally unprepared for what happened when he had walked past the village of Lydford.

  33

  Instead of turning left towards General Macomber's house and the Crooked Village, Tweed turned right, walking along the track towards where the brutal prison was being built by the Slovaks. A glimpse through the trees showed him eight of the prison buildings had been erected. He was appalled.

  A glimpse to his right through a gap in the forest showed him the oil refinery. He stopped. He pressed his binoculars to his eyes. A tall slim man, clad in a camouflage outfit, including a cap, was detaching a rubber hose from an outlet. His hand, covered in a fireproof glove, checked to make sure the tap had turned off the outlet. Over his shoulder was slung a shotgun. The camouflaged figure began walking towards Tweed.

  A few feet from where he stood Tweed saw a thick rubber hose turning away, heading towards the prison. A shaft of sunlight shone on its oily surface. Tweed smelt petrol. He stepped well back away from it.

  The figure was close now, moving briskly. The shotgun was now in the figure's hands, aimed towards Tweed. He grabbed the Walther from its holster, aimed it at the approaching figure as it came close.

  'General,' Tweed snapped, 'if we shoot each other I can't see it will help either of us.'

  'You are right,' General Macomber replied, lowering the weapon. 'Your timing is bad, but perfect.'

  'Perfect?'

  'From your point of view.'

  'I've just come over by the ferry.'

  'Which has a different ferry master. Perfect.'

  'Why?'

  'Because he won't recognize you when you go back. It leaves for the mainland in ten minutes. Then leave for London. By then you'll have seen the fireworks.'

  'Fireworks?'

  'That diabolical prison must go. I have also cancelled the monthly allowance to my three evil offspring. Are you ready, sir?'

  'Ready for what?'

  'The fireworks.'

  Saying which, the General took out a cigarette lighter, bent down, lit it, and with a quick movement let the flame touch the edge of the pipe which disappeared towards the prison. The flame flared along the outside of the pipe into the distance. The General stood up, stepped back close to Tweed, put the lighter in his pocket.

  'When it reaches the prison the pipe is full of petrol inside,' he explained. 'I once served a short spell with the Royal Engineers.'

  Tweed was almost hypnotized, watching the low line of fire sweeping towards the prison. The General checked his watch.

  'You have five minutes to catch the ferry. Wait just a little longer.'

  'The Slovaks don't have explosives, do they?'

  'I did notice they are careless about storing grenades.'

  'In which case…'

  'They will explode.'

  'I suppose the Slovaks who built this place will be away at lunch?'

  'They have taken to eating lunch inside the prison. About now.'

  'So…'

  'They will be on the premises.'

  'You don't like the Slovaks?'

  'Not the ones from the Tatra mountains. In Bratislava I once met several I liked.'

  Tweed was watching the progress of the flaring pipe. It was getting close to the prison buildings. No sign of guards. They were getting careless.

  'The grenades may injure a few,' Tweed remarked.

  'Oh, there's something else,' the General said casually. 'I've explored the place in the night. The Slovaks sleep inside an encampment some distance away. I found a store of bricks of Semtex.'

  'My God!'

  'I think you should catch that ferry now. You were never here. I was taking a nap in my house. Good luck with finding that murdering animal. I'm sure you will. The fire has reached the section of pipe filled with petrol. Go now.'

  Tweed saw the distant pipe flare up into a huge column of flame. It had reached the inside of the prison complex. He hurried back to the ferry. The barge was just leaving. Scrambling aboard the stern, Tweed went to the prow so he could get off quickly. Soon they were in mid-channel.

  He looked back. Well beyond the oil-refinery complex the world was on fire. Great tongues of flames shot skywards. Black Island became Red Island. The ferryman, at the stern, stared in disbelief as the inferno increased in intensity. Then the devastating explosion roared and Tweed knew the fire had reached the Semtex.

  Large sheets of steel were hurled upwards as the explosion destroyed the hideous prison. And the Slovaks who
had erected it, Tweed thought. Was it his imagination – or did he see half a body tossed up, a burning body, before it fell back out of sight?

  'Stupid foreigners!' the ferryman shouted.

  Tweed shrugged, gave no reply as the barge slid in to the mainland dock. He stepped down and hurried towards Tolhaven. Since he'd taken the precaution of buying a return ticket he was able to leave the ferry immediately.

  Tolhaven's main street was, as usual, deserted. When he had reached his car parked outside the town he took off the beret he had worn. Amazing how such a simple article changed the appearance of a man who never normally wore any kind of hat.

  He paused at the crest of a hill, looked back. The western tip of Black Island beyond the refinery was a curtain of flame.

  As he headed back for Park Crescent Tweed mentally crossed off General Macomber from his list of murder suspects.

  34

  While Tweed was on his way to Tolhaven, Newman was obeying his order to interview Noel Macomber. He phoned Noel first.

  'Robert Newman, SIS, here. I think we should meet urgently.'

  'Why?' the soft voice whispered.

  'To discuss a peaceful solution.'

  'I see,' after a long pause. He'd consulted his colleagues. 'Where? When?' he enquired.

  'Now. I could arrive at your building at twelve. You know a discreet bar near you?'

  'Yes. I'll leave our HQ at twelve.'

  So it came about that Newman found himself seated with Noel in the leather-walled alcove of an exclusive bar in Victoria Street. They faced each other. Noel had occupied the seat inside the alcove, his back to the wall as he swirled his second glass of Scotch.

  When he first saw him descend the steps of the HQ building Newman was startled. Noel wore a smart white suit, a pink shirt, a colourful cravat and two-toned shoes. Now, in the quiet bar each was waiting for the other to speak first.

  Newman had studied the face of his opponent. It was peculiar. Triangular in shape with the apex the pointed jaw. Yet there was a certain handsomeness many women would find attractive. The almost lidless eyes were yellow and rarely moved. Newman decided it was time to move in for the kill.