Blood Storm (13 page)

Tweed 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 the 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.'