Blood Storm (40 page)

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.

'Where were you on these nights?' he asked, pushing
forward a sheet of paper with the two murder dates.
'Between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m.?'

'Funny way to start discussing a peaceful solution.'

'Tweed has a long list of suspects. We eliminate you and
move on to the next name. Logical.'

'You really expect me to recall where I was on two out-
of-the-blue dates?'

'Yes. Because in both cases - Viola and Marina - the crimes were splashed all over the following morning's
papers.'

'Point,' Noel agreed. 'On each night I was drunk and
went to my flat at ten o'clock to sleep it off.'

'Anyone to confirm that?'

'Not those nights.' Noel grinned wolfishly. 'I didn't have
a girl with me in bed. Too drunk.'

'Did you know either woman?'

'I visited Marina about a month ago at midnight.' A
second wolfish grin. 'She only worked in the early hours, if
you catch my meaning.'

'And Viola?'

'Didn't know she existed until I read the paper about her
unfortunate experience.'

'It was more than unfortunate for her.'

'I suppose it was.' Noel emptied his glass, called for a
refill, raised his thin eyebrows at Newman, who shook his
head. He was on his first Scotch still. 'Newman, can you
keep a secret until late this afternoon?'

'I suppose so.'

'Nelson is being appointed to the Cabinet. As Minister
for Internal Security. A new post.' Noel raised his thin
brows which exposed all his yellowish eyes. Disconcerting.
'You won't, then, be rushing to phone your chum, Drew
Franklin?'

'Hardly, since he isn't my chum. Regarding a peaceful
solution. Wouldn't the first step be to dismantle the awful
prison system being erected on Black Island?'

'Damn it!' Noel exploded, his face turning red. 'You're
conspiring to wreck a system it has taken us months to plan.'

He jumped up to leave, but not before he had swallowed
his third full glass of Scotch. 'Now Nelson will be in the
Cabinet this afternoon I'll be able to have you as the first
one thrown into the prison on Black Island. As a social
saboteur.'

He dived out of the alcove, rushed for the door, very fleet
of foot, Newman noticed. Then he rushed back, threw a
twenty-pound note on the table, rushed again through the
bar and in doing so nearly knocked over a waiter before disappearing full tilt into the street.

'He must be annoyed at something,' Newman said with
a smile to the stunned waiter as he also walked slowly out of
the bar.

It was a very thoughtful Newman who made his way back
up Whitehall to where he had parked his car.

35

Nield, waiting in Whitehall near the Cabal's HQ, was taken
aback at Benton Macomber's reaction to his approach. He
had expected hostility initially. He walked up to Benton as
he descended the steps into the side street.

'Benton Macomber, sir?'

'That's right. What can I do for you?'

'I'm Pete Nield of the SIS,' he said, showing his folder. 'I would appreciate a few words with you. I'm investigating the murders of Viola and Marina Vander-Browne.'

Benton would be in his late forties, Nield estimated. He was well built, with unusually wide shoulders which gave
him a hunched appearance. His clean-shaven face was
bony, the observant eyes greenish, his complexion rugged with a reddish tinge, the mouth full-lipped and sensual. He exuded an air of suppressed energy.

'I'm just going for a quick lunch,' he explained. 'Just a sandwich and a drink at an up-market wine bar at this end of Victoria Street. Why don't you join me? Later it gets busy but it will be quiet now.'

Benton walked with long strides and Nield, being shorter,
had to hurry to keep up with him. He's a very fit man, Nield
thought as they turned into the wine bar. Neither said
another word until they were seated at a table and Benton had ordered for them both after consulting Nield.

Both drank Scotch. Benton sipped his glass, pushed it
away. He smiled pleasantly at Nield.

'I drink moderately, unlike Nelson. Doesn't seem to
affect his ability to think and act. What is this?' He glanced
at the sheet with the dates of both murders, pushed it back.

'I thought those dates might be significant.'

'The first date is when Viola Vander-Browne was savaged
and murdered. The second is when her sister, Marina, was
killed.'

Nield was taken aback. Benton was so different from
what he had expected. It was more like talking to a favourite
uncle. He pressed on.

'Where were you on those particular nights between the
hours of 11 a.m. and 3 a.m.? You have a remarkable
memory,' he added.

'A phenomenal memory. Born with it, or inherited it.
Who knows? But specific hours on two different nights?
That's pushing it a bit. Wait a minute.'

Benton took out a pocket diary. He then extracted a pair
of rimless glasses from a case, put them on. The
transformation rattled Nield's nerves. Benton glanced at
Nield, then looked at his diary before staring at Nield. The
rimless glasses had converted Benton into something
sinister. The greenish eyes pierced Nield's. Sinister was not
a strong enough word.

'The night Viola died I was with a girl, Patsy, in a flat I
rent in a mews off Mayfair. She left at 10.30 p.m. She'd
exhausted me,' he remarked with a strange smile. 'I went to
bed, slept until morning. Not much of an alibi, Mr Nield.'

'What about the second date?' Nield persisted.

'Spent the whole evening and night in my Mayfair flat. Alone. No alibi at all.' He took off his glasses and again
looked normal. 'I'd appreciate it if you'd not mention Patsy,
at least by name, if at all. I'm just about to divorce my wife,
who is visiting her boyfriend in Canada.'

'I'll forget Patsy - unless it becomes essential to name her. I have to ask you these questions because you're one of a number of names on Tweed's list of suspects.'

'Then you'll have to tell Tweed to leave my name on it.'
Benton smiled pleasantly, sipped a little more of his Scotch.

Nield drank the rest of his Scotch. He still had in his
mind the evil vision of Benton wearing his rimless glasses.
Which was the real man?

'Who do you think killed those women?' Benton asked
suddenly.

Nield was briefly stunned by the sheer bravado of the
question. Benton must have guessed the whole Cabal was
on the list of suspects. He rallied swiftly, gazing straight at
Benton.

'Someone powerful. Someone who lives in London.
Someone who will be identified by Tweed within the next
twenty-four hours.'

'I see.' Benton paused. Now he was stunned. 'You are
very confident. . .'

'Someone,' Nield continued his counter-attack, 'who left a clue at one of the crime scenes.'

Benton called for the bill, paid it quickly, stood up, his
expression grim. His mouth was turned down at the
corners, all traces of the benevolent uncle absent. Without a word he strode out of the wine bar, moving rapidly.