Blood Storm (11 page)

Abe clambered to his feet, a stunned expression on his
face. He opened his mouth, burbled something. Then he
regained control of his voice.

'What the 'ell was that?'

Newman stood up, walked back to him, laid one hand on
his shoulder, showed him his folder with the other. Abe frowned, blinked, looked at Newman.

'Secret Service,' he gulped. 'Gawd!'

'So you don't mention that we were here - not to a soul.
And if anyone heard that bang in Tolhaven, you simply say
they're using explosives in Black Island's quarry. Got it?'

'Sure I 'ave, and I keeps me mouth closed tight. Now I'll
get you both back to the mainland . . .'

'We're leaving for Park Crescent right away,' Newman
decided as they approached the Monk's Head. 'Grab your
stuff and I'll get mine, then we link up in the car park.'

They left Tolhaven behind, Newman in his Range Rover
with Paula behind him in the Ford. Again she had to fight to stop the car running away from her. They paused for a
quick tea at an old farmhouse, sitting in the garden despite
the cold so no one could hear them.

'Where's Harber's Yard?' Paula wondered. 'We never found it.'

'Remember the old bridge we crossed where you peered
over at the river? It flows on and widens into a lake. Then it continues on through woodland to the sea. I explored down
there before you arrived, then took the ferry and found the
prison. It was important to show you.'

'You're satisfied with our expedition?' she asked.

'I am.' He put his arm round her. 'You've been such a
great help taking all those photos. We now
have powerful
evidence of the lengths to which the so-called State Security
lot are going in plotting to turn Britain into a police state.

On top of that, at the battle of the ridges six of the bastards
killed each other. Add to them the crew in the speedboat
and that makes nine less of them to worry about. The first
phase of the war went well.'

'You're right,' Paula agreed, 'it is a war. I wonder what's been going on in London while we were away in Dorset.'

9

The Cabal was holding yet another of its brain-storming sessions. All three men were seated round the strange
triangular rosewood table. Outside dusk was falling and
they had the lights on. Nelson was playing with his fountain
pen, still wearing his Armani suit. As usual, Noel was
holding forth.

'The Parrot has reported to me about the informant she
sent to spy outside Tweed's office. He was still there, so the
plan to involve him in that horrible murder in Fox Street
didn't work.'

'What horrible murder?' enquired Nelson.

'Obviously you don't read the Daily Nation,' Noel sneered. 'It might help if you kept up with the news.
There's a lurid article on the murder by that swine of a lead
reporter, Drew Franklin. We ought to do something about
him, put him out of action . . .'

'You've just made two mistakes in a few sentences,'
Nelson said severely. 'First, you must call Miss Partridge by
her proper name. If she ever heard you use the nickname
Parrot we could lose her loyalty, which is important to us.
And, in addition, don't try any of your funny tricks on Drew
Franklin. He may be a nuisance but he has great influence.
Just watch it, Horlick.'

Noel, his face livid, jumped up, ran round the table, his
long hands reaching for Nelson's neck.
'Don't ever call me
by that name again,' he screamed.

Benton stood up just in time to stop him reaching
Nelson. He grasped Noel's outstretched arms, forced them
down by his side. Breathing rapidly, Noel glared at Benton,
who was smiling.

'Go back to your chair, Noel.' He looked over his
shoulder. 'Nelson, I think you'd be wise to remember his
name is now Macomber. An apology would help -
otherwise I'm adjourning the meeting.'

'My sincere apologies, Noel,' Nelson said quickly. 'I
made a blunder, which you can rest assured will never be
repeated.'

'I should damned well hope not,' Noel snapped.

He returned to his seat, mopping his sweating forehead
with a handkerchief. To calm himself down he poured
water from a carafe into a glass, drank the lot. He waited
and there was silence while he got a grip on himself. He resumed talking.

'As I was saying, Miss Partridge's informant visited
Tweed, found him seated in his office, his normal self. She,
the informant, did notice one relationship we might exploit to throw Tweed off balance. I refer to his senior assistant,
Paula.'

'What about her?' asked Benton.

'She is Tweed's weak point. He appears to be fond of her.
If she was kidnapped—'

'What!' demanded Benton. 'Who gave you that idea?' he
went on, his tone ominously quiet.

'Thought it up myself,' Noel replied with a smug grin.

'In that case,' Benton leaned across the table, his eyes
fixed on Noel's, 'you can remove the thought from your evil
mind.'

'In any case,' Nelson interjected, 'first, who is the
informant Miss Partridge used who is capable of
penetrating Tweed's fortress?'

'That's restricted info,' Noel replied. 'Not to be told to anyone under any circumstances.'

'I see.' Benton pressed on. 'Had you anyone in mind to
carry out this dangerous folly?'

'As a matter of fact,' Noel continued in the same smug way, 'I have the perfect operator for the job.'

'Who is? This time you tell me,' Benton demanded.

'Amos Fitch.'

He was not able to proceed any further. Benton's full face
became red, red as a man with high blood pressure.

'Oh, my God!' He lifted a hand, ran it through his thick greying hair. 'Amos Fitch. You've lost your mind. We can't
be involved with a brute like that. About eight years ago he
was charged with knifing a man to death. The not guilty verdict was due to his brilliant lawyer discrediting the circumstantial evidence.'

'Just a thought,' Noel said, smiling. 'Forget it. And no
one has noticed that all the time we've been talking the door
to the next room has been left open a few inches. Who left
us last?'

'Actually,' Nelson observed airily, 'it was Miss Partridge.'

'I'm checking,' Noel whispered.

He crept over to the door, moved it slightly. Well-oiled
hinges. He closed it quietly, testing the latch. He pulled at
it quietly. It was firmly closed. He looked at the other two.

'I'm going to see if anyone is there.'

Again he opened the door, slipped into the next room,
closing the door carefully. On their own now, Benton
looked at Nelson.

'That was a bad slip, using the name Horlick. You saw the effect it had on him.'

'My mistake, but I have apologized.'

Noel surveyed the spacious room next door. No sign of
Partridge at her large desk. The only occupant was her
assistant, Coral Flenton, seated with her back to him at a
corner desk as she worked at a word-processor. Noel crept
up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Oh, please! Don't do that.' She had moved her mirror
and she had nearly jumped out of her chair, which amused
Noel. She swung round in her swivel chair, her large hazel
eyes glaring at him. She put up a hand to push back a lock
of red hair. 'What is it?' she snapped.

'No "sir"? I am a junior minister,' Noel said genially and
gave her a wide smile. He perched himself on a nearby desk,
looming over her small neat figure.

He had a winning smile and she responded with a faint
smile of her own, but ignored the reference to 'sir'. He
folded his arms. He still looked youthful and she had mixed
feelings about him.

'The door to our sanctum was open, not properly closed,'
he began. 'Not that I'm suggesting it has anything to do
with you. Has Miss Partridge been lingering near that
door?'

'I doubt it. In any case,' she went on, emboldened, 'with my back to it how would I know who comes and goes?'

'Of course you wouldn't. When you leave the office
tonight maybe you would join me for coffee or a drink?'

'That's very nice of you,' she replied in a neutral tone,
'but I'm attending a girlfriend's birthday party.'

'Pity.' He stood up, still smiling. 'Maybe some other
time.'

He walked slowly back across the wide room to the door
and voiced his thoughts to himself, barely muttering.

'Paula is the key. And Amos Fitch is the man for the job.'

Amos Fitch was at the greyhound races. He kept at the back
of the crowd, always remaining as inconspicuous as
possible. Five feet eight inches tall, he wore a brown over
coat and as usual he also wore a large trilby hat, the brim
pulled well down, exposing only the lower half of his face.
Which, unintentionally, was kinder to the rest of the world.
His restless brown eyes hardly ever stopped moving while
they checked his surroundings. The thick upper lids were
frequently half-closed so only part of the searching eyes
were seen. His bent nose above a thin twisted mouth added
to the cunning look, almost his trademark. His mouth was
little more than a slit with a heavy jaw below. He was known
in certain not-so-law-abiding circles as Sly. He was
pondering the brief message on his mobile inviting him to meet Canal at 9.30 p.m. in an East End pub called the Pig's
Nest.

Tony Canal was a dubious go-between who never
revealed the identity of his employer. This habit had caused
Sly to follow Canal on an earlier occasion. Canal was an old
Etonian who had gone to the bad, as they said at the Yard.
So Sly knew that the real employer was a toff. A real toff,
called Noel Macomber.

10

Tweed was driving slowly in the country near the border of
Surrey and Sussex. He was searching for Peckham Mallet,
where General Lucius Macomber, father of the three Cabal
brothers, had a cottage. He'd decided it was time he met the
General, had a chat with him.

It was early afternoon, the sky was a clear blue, sunlight
illuminated the forested area. He had been driving for over
an hour, searching for this tiny village. He hadn't found it
on the map back at Park Crescent. It was only when Monica
suggested checking the index that he'd located it. Should
have thought of that first. Was that drug still fogging his system? Percodin, Saafeld had called it.