Blood Storm (4 page)

Loelia, forty years old and a glamorous brunette, was not
pleased to see him. He could tell from the downward slant
of her full lips. She spoke rapidly.

'Don't close the door. You're home in the middle of your
working day. You might have phoned me first.'

'Why?' He was heading for the bedroom. 'On your way
to see your close friend, Frederick?'

'Everyone else calls him Freddie . . .'

'To me the conceited playboy is Frederick.'

'He's not conceited,' she snapped, the downward slant of her mouth becoming more pronounced. 'He's got far better manners than you. Who is the cheap floozie you're visiting today? Jeanette would be my guess.'

'As usual you've guessed wrong. This is business. Where is my Armani suit?'

'You're staring at it. Don't forget to fold it neatly before
you hop into bed.'

'Get the hell out of here,' he shouted.

'F— you,' she screamed, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Nelson dressed quickly. He did everything quickly unless
he was playing a political game. Then he spoke slowly and
not often. He must remember to adopt that pose when he
confronted Tweed.

4

In the early hours of the morning, Newman made fast
progress down the motorway towards the south-west.
Normally smiling, his face was set in a grim expression.
Who had attempted to frame Tweed? And why? He had
examined the contents of the briefcase during a brief stop, wearing latex
gloves. I don't like the look of this one little
bit, he thought, echoing Paula's earlier reaction.

Blazing lights came towards him in the murky dawn, the
lights of heavy trucks. Newman had already decided which
safe house he would use to hide the briefcase. During his
stop he had also taken from his pocket the piece of folded
paper handed to him by his informant before arriving at
Tweed's house where the crisis had started.

Harber's Yard, on the coast south of Tolhaven.

He turned off the motorway to Tolhaven. Once, on a
previous case with Tweed, he had visited Buckler's Hard
near Beaulieu. Was this new location the same sort of
secretive place? He would find out. His informant seldom
made any mistakes.

Reaching the hidden entrance to the safe house, close to
the motorway, he parked the Range Rover in a field behind
some trees. He was not confident that he had lost the
sinister men in black uniforms.

The sky was still heavily overcast as he made his way up
the footpath, overgrown with weeds, to the safe house, an
isolated single-storey thatched cottage. He approached
cautiously, circling the cottage, pausing for long minutes to
listen. No sign of anyone.

He was now up above the motorway, and looking down he saw the chain of trucks' lights
following each other to
London. It was cold as he took out the key to open the
shabby front door. It creaked resentfully as he pushed it
open, went straight in, Smith & Wesson in his right hand.
He had heard a faint sound of movement. There was no
security in the cottage - it would have made the place look
suspicious - and the sound he'd heard worried him.

He waited just inside the door, half hidden behind it,
took out a powerful torch, listened again. There was the
furtive sound again. Revolver in one hand, torch in the
other, he switched it on. Startled eyes stared back at him.
The fox took off, leapt through a broken window, was gone.
He let out the breath he'd been holding.

He moved quickly. With the briefcase gripped under his
strong arm, he hauled out the only solid chair from an old
wooden table. Placing it in the middle of the room, he used
the torch for illumination as he stood on the chair. Reaching
up between the ancient cross-beams supporting the roof, he
pushed at a panel in the wooden ceiling. He kept his eyes closed as dust floated down. Pushing the panel to one side,
his hands were covered in spiders' webs. Feeling to his
right, he lifted an ancient trunk containing old clothes, slid the briefcase under it, lowered the trunk, closed the panel,
stepped down on to the floor. Before he opened his eyes he
took out a handkerchief, wiped away a mess of dust and
cobwebs.

He carefully replaced the chair in exactly the same place.
Opening the creaking door to the outside, he stood
listening. It had started to drizzle. He swore to himself, shrugged, went out and locked the door with the rusty key.

Fortunately he was wearing his rainproof jacket with a
hood, which he pulled over his head. Tolhaven next - and the mystery of Harber's Yard.

Inside Tweed's flat Paula had completed a second search
for incriminating objects. Nothing. Meanwhile, Tweed had
taken a long shower, dried and shaved, then dressed. He
was beginning to feel more normal. He walked into the bedroom to find the light on and Paula peering down into
the street.

'Another visitor,' she informed him. 'In a limo. It's
Professor Saafeld, of all people. I'll go down, let him in . . .'

Tweed was walking up and down to check the stability of
his movements when two pairs of feet clattered up the
stairs. He was puzzled. Professor Saafeld, his friend, was the most eminent pathologist in Britain, called in by the
police on major cases.

With bushy white hair the gnome-like professor, his eyes
so alert even at this early hour, smiled as he came in
carrying a bag, followed by Paula.

'On the bed,' he ordered Tweed. 'Stretch out.'

'What the hell for?' demanded Tweed.

'Do as you're told. Paula has given me a brief account of
your adventures last night. You were drugged, I gather - in
a margarita. Clever. That drink conceals most drugs. I'm giving you a blood test. Then I can analyse what was fed
into you.'

He was extracting a large hypodermic needle as he spoke.
Paula grabbed a towel from the bathroom, spread it on the bed so Tweed needn't take off his shoes. His sleeve rolled up, with a sigh Tweed allowed himself to be subjected to
what he regarded as an unnecessary bother. Saafeld
extracted his blood sample in no time, applied a sticking plaster, placed the needle in a white metal sleeve.

'Should be able to report to you what it was before the
end of the day,' he explained in his rapid
way of speaking.
'I'm on my way to a particularly hideous murder, called in
by your friend Commander Roy Buchanan.'

'Who was murdered?' asked Tweed.

'A Miss Viola Vander-Browne, at her flat in Covent
Garden. Sounds like a psycho. All her limbs have been
chopped off, and her head. The truly hideous aspect is the
killer finished up by arranging the severed limbs, and the
head, in roughly the way she was when alive. On her bed.
Must fly - before some clod of a policeman messes up a vital
clue. You have a day in bed,' he called out from the door as
he left.

Paula followed him out to make sure the front door was
secured behind him, then darted back upstairs, her
expression serious.

Tweed was standing perfectly erect in front of a mirror
while he adjusted his tie. He swung round and smiled at
her. Then he paced back and forth rapidly, smiled again,
concealing his sense of shock.

'You're feeling better?' Paula enquired anxiously.

'Thought I'd just demonstrated that. So Saafeld is haring off to the murder scene. Roy called him,' - referring to his
old friend Commander Roy Buchanan.

'Was Viola Vander-Browne the woman you had dinner with at Mungano's last night?' she said nervously.

'Don't look so worried. I didn't murder her . . . But I shall
always curse myself for not seeing her safely to her apartment.'

He opened the wardrobe, fished out from the top pocket
of the coat he'd worn the previous evening the card Viola
had tucked in. 'She lives - or lived - in Fox Street.'

'I know it. I used it one evening this winter to visit a girl
friend of mine in Covent Garden. It's a short cut to Covent
Garden across King Street - this side of King Street. I
didn't like it at night. Rather narrow, cobbled, and very
lonely. A weird atmosphere. I hurried to get through it. I've
something rather ugly to tell you . . .'

She explained how she'd noticed the front door had been
tampered with. How she had searched his room while he
was unconscious - and what she'd found in a drawer before
handing it over to Newman. She described the arrival of
two black cars and men with long black coats., how
Newman had dealt with them.

'Long black coats,' Tweed responded. 'Any caps? Yes, I
see. And with armlets on their sleeves. I don't like the sound
of the way things are going. We'll leave for the office.'

In his first-floor office with large windows looking towards
Regent's Park, Tweed was settled behind his antique desk
(a present from his staff) when the visitor arrived. Paula
was seated at her desk in a corner. Monica, a middle-aged
woman with her hair tucked up in a bun and his faithful
secretary for years, sat behind her desk by the door
working at her word-processor. Two other key members
of his team were also present. Harry Butler, a Cockney,
wearing an old windcheater and shabby slacks, sat
crosslegged on the floor. His partner, Pete Nield, sat in a
chair close to Paula's desk.

Partners, but their contrast in personality and dress were striking. Nield, in his late thirties, wore a smart suit with a
well-pressed shirt and a smart tie. They had listened in
silence while Tweed told them of recent events.

'You was set up,' Harry growled. 'Timing was all worked
out by a planner. Chose the wrong man. We'll locate 'im -
and when we do if I'm there he'll end up in 'ospital. . .'

He stopped talking as the phone rang, Monica answered,
then looked at Tweed.

'You won't believe this but Commander Roy Buchanan
is downstairs, requesting to see you urgently.'

'Wheel him up, then.'

They heard feet clumping quickly up the stairs. Paula
stared in disbelief as Buchanan entered the room. Instead
of his usual business suit, he was clad in full-dress uniform
as Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad, a temporary
appointment since he was normally Superintendent of the
CID.

'Good morning, Roy,' Tweed greeted him amiably. 'Why the fancy dress?'

'I'm here in an official capacity,' Buchanan said grimly,
his expression stern as he seated himself in front of Tweed's
desk.

'Hello, Roy,' Paula called out cheerfully.