Blood Storm (17 page)

'I was expecting you,' he continued, hand extended.
'Your friend Allenby at the MoD phoned to say you might be visiting me.'

You can't trust anyone these days not to babble, Tweed
thought. His hand was ready for the General's crushing grip,
but the hand that grasped his was strong but not aggressive.
After shaking hands with Tweed he turned immediately to
Paula, clasping her hand gently, bowing slightly.

'Tweed is an able fellow otherwise I would not have
opened the gate,' he told her. 'But without you I suspect
he'd find life very difficult indeed. Ability and charm - not
something I often encounter.'

'You overestimate me, sir,' she replied. 'But you are
correct in your assessment of my chief.'

'And here is the tough guy, Robert Newman. Not a man
I'd trifle with.'

Newman was ready for a bone-crushing grip and that was
what he experienced. He squeezed as hard as he could while
smiling. The General's expression changed briefly. He'd
felt the pressure.

'Of course, Newman, you are younger, so you have the
advantage over ancient material. You should start writing
more of those articles on the state of the world. I have read
them all. You are the best journalist I've read. Of course
there is Drew Franklin. Good, but lacks sharpness, which
is just one of your strong points.' He spotted Harry, who
was a few paces behind the others. He strode over,
hand extended. 'You must be Harry Butler, another key
member of Tweed's amazing team. Explosives is your
speciality.' He was shaking hands as he continued talking.
'Tricky job, yours. Suppose you cut the wrong wire on a
time bomb . . .'

'If I was not sure which wire to cut I'd leave the damned
thing alone,' Harry said emphatically.

'Which is why you're still here.' He put an arm round
Harry's shoulders. 'Come on now. We'll have drinks inside
to celebrate your courtesy in calling on me. A sundowner, as they called it in the Far East. I know that because my
favourite author is Somerset Maugham. He knew a thing or
two . . .'

They followed the General up the steps and Tweed asked
the question on the terrace before they entered the
mansion.

'One thing intrigues me. How did you know we were coming? The gates opened automatically for us.'

'See that object fixed to that tree at the corner of the drive
where it turns?'

Tweed stared at where the General was pointing.
Attached to a lower branch was a large mirror. The General
chuckled.

'That mirror shows me who is outside the gates. If it's
someone interesting - like you and your team - I operate a
lever behind the trunk where I was chopping the logs. At
night glare-lights illuminate the entrance and the road
outside. Have to get organized in these decadent days.
Now, let's get those drinks.'

Double doors of oak opened into a spacious hall. The
floor was covered with a huge Persian rug. On one wall Tweed was not surprised to see a portrait of the Duke of Wellington. On another a self-portrait of Van Gogh, the
colours so reminiscent of the Crooked Village.

A white-painted door off the hall led into a comfortable
living room with windows on three sides. A girl appeared,
obviously the maid. The General checked what everyone
preferred, then spoke in French.

'Celeste, our guests would appreciate drinks . . .'

He rattled off what was required. In an astonishingly
short time she reappeared with the drinks on a silver tray,
served them, left the room. Paula, who was intrigued by the
French maid and understood the language, asked a
question.

'General, are all your staff French?'

'Yes, indeed. These days most British people think a
servant's job is below their dignity. I have four girls who
look after this rather large house. And a dragon of a French
housekeeper. They all live in the cottages in Crooked
Village. They seem to feel at home there.' He stared at Tweed. 'The murder of the Vander-Browne lady sounds
quite ghastly. We are descending into barbarism.'

'How did you hear about that?' Tweed enquired.

'I have the Daily Nation delivered every day. Like to keep
up with what's going on. Drew Franklin has written a long
article on the subject. Sounds gruesome.'

'I understand it was certainly that,' Tweed replied.

'And now,' the General continued, 'we have the
Blackshirts, the Fascists, the so-called State Security lot
taking over the western tip of this island, building strange
buildings. You know, I wouldn't be surprised' - he paused,
ran a finger over his lower lip - 'if one dark evening those
buildings and anyone still working on them were blown sky
high. What I've just said is off the record and you never
heard me say it.'

'Say what?' asked Tweed with an innocent expression.

'My mind was elsewhere,' Paula remarked.

'And I've gone deaf,' Newman said.

'That's the ticket.' The General smiled as he stood up.
'Now you've finished your drinks perhaps I could show you my little Versailles.'

He led the way into the hall and down a long corridor
towards the back of the house. Opening a door he stood
aside to let Paula walk out on to a spacious terrace running the width of the back of the house. She stopped, gasped as
the others followed her. The white stone terrace was
elevated with a flight of wide steps leading down into a
small paradise - although not so small: the estate spread out
on both sides, with stretches of green lawn like a vast
putting green. There were pergolas and stone arches,
arrangements of evergreen shrubs such as she had never
seen before, all trimmed neatly. In the distance, beyond a
lake shaped like a swan, was a large maze of evergreen
hedges. The General stood beside her.

'Walk into that maze without the map and you'd never find your way out. There's more.'

He walked across to a chrome wheel in the balustrade
wall, turned it. All over the endless vista great fountains of
water rose up high, each creating a different shape. He explained the jets were sunk in the lawn.

'I've never seen anything like it,' she enthused,
rhapsodized.

'Better than Versailles,' Tweed commented. 'Which is
too large for my taste. This is a jewel.'

'Don't need a gardener do you, sir?' joked Harry.

'I have twelve from a village to the east but I can always do with someone else,' the General chuckled, joining in the
joke.

'Breathtaking,' Newman commented, placing his hands on the balustrade. 'You had people from France to create
this?'

'Yes, I did. Experts from outside Paris.'

They lingered for a while, unable to tear themselves away
from the spectacle. Then Tweed checked his watch.

'We thank you for your hospitality, General, but if we
leave now I think we'll just catch the return
ferry to the
mainland.' He looked at his host. 'You look very fit. How
do you do it?'

'I get up early, have a glass of orange juice, then jog over
Hog's Nose Down. They say you can just see the Isle of
Wight to the east but I never have. Not even on a clear
day.'

He accompanied them to the end of the drive, then
turned back as the gates automatically closed behind him.

Returning aboard the ferry, Paula had expected to recall the
powerboat roaring close to them, the explosion when
Harry's jumbo-size grenade landed inside it. Instead she
found her imagination filled with visions of the Crooked
Village, then the amazing garden at the back of the
General's house.

They had quick refreshment in the bar of the Monk's
Head and settled themselves in the Bentley. The sun was
still blazing as Newman pressed his foot down. He called out to Marler, who had stayed in Tolhaven.
'You missed some extraordinary experiences.'
'I was chatting to the barman. They're often funds of
info. He's counted fifty of those infernal Special Branch -
beg their pardon, State Security - men coming in and
heading for the ferry. So they have a small army to build
those appalling prisons I saw in the photos Paula took.'

'As many as that?' Paula exclaimed. 'They're breeding
like ants.'

'That's valuable information,' Tweed commented. 'Now we know what we're up against. They have to be stopped
and quickly.'

'But how?' Paula asked.

'I'll think of something.' Newman assured her with a wide smile.

They were approaching Park Crescent, crawling through
a jungle of traffic, when Paula voiced her thought to
Tweed.

'Did you notice the General never mentioned that you
are in charge of the murder investigation? I thought it odd.'

'I did notice,' he replied. 'I thought it very odd too. I am sure he knows.'

She opened the day's copy of the Daily Nation Newman
had just bought. She stared at the article by Drew Franklin,
splashed on the front page.

HORRIFIC MURDER IN LONDON

Only two days ago Viola Vander-Browne, society
beauty, was raped, then her body chopped up into
pieces like a butcher using his cleaver to chop meat. No
photos are available from the police, on the grounds
they are too horrible for circulation. It is understood
this case, exceptionally, has been put in the hands of a
top SIS officer, a man who previously was an ace
detective at Scotland Yard, solving three murder cases
which baffled everyone else at the Yard. Londoners, do
not go out after dark. Check your windows and doors. This psycho may well strike again. He has a liking for
women victims.

She sighed, handed the paper to Tweed as she reacted to
what she had read.

'Drew has really gone to town this time. The General
seemed to know so much about many things, including us,
I'd have thought he'd have caught on as to who the chief
investigator was. You.'

'I'd have thought so too,' Tweed replied as he rapidly read the lurid article. 'He does everything except print my name.'

'I'm going to see Drew as soon as I can. He'll talk, if I
have to put my hands round his throat,' said Newman.

Paula, seated beside him, glanced at his expression. It
confirmed her earlier opinion that Newman was in the most
ferocious and determined mood she had ever seen.