No Mercy (17 page)

'Mustn't keep the luscious Lucinda waiting.' Paula
chaffed him. 'That's rather a good description. Luscious
Lucinda.'

'I'm getting out of here.' responded Tweed, putting on his camel-hair overcoat.

'Hang on a sec.' said Newman, who had been quiet as he
sat in his armchair. 'I've been busy today. Went down to the
East End to meet a chap who runs a chain of barges - and
is a race-goer during the season. He knows everything that's
going on. I asked him about Abel Gallagher. He threw his hands into the air, said there was a mate in deep water.
Gallagher haunts the races during the season. Did last year.
My informant knows his bookie. Gallagher's twenty
thousand quid in debt to him. Always picks losers. Bookie's
getting restless.'

'His name?'

'Torture wouldn't make him reveal that. Gallagher? Chief
of Special Branch. He could set up anyone who talks for a
drug bust.'

'I'm going down to have a word with George.' Tweed had
the door half open. 'I'll be back.'

'Good,' said Newman. 'Because I'm driving you to the
restaurant. You don't have to be on the A303 to get a bullet
through your window.'

Paula drifted over to the window. Mist was invading London's streets. She was still able to see below her. She
waited, then turned to Newman.

'You won't be driving Tweed. He's just disappeared in his
car.'

Tweed arrived at Santorini's five minutes early. A doorman
came out to park his car. The head
waiter greeted him
effusively.

'I have your table waiting, the best in the house.'

'I'm expecting a lady guest. Blonde hair.'

'You'll find her in the bar, sir.'

Held up several times in the traffic on his way, Tweed had
pondered what he'd been told. Marseilles. Did that link up
with anywhere - or anyone - he'd seen or met? He felt he was missing something. Then there was Abel Gallagher.
Twenty thousand in debt to a bookie. What bookie would let anyone pile up such a huge sum? The answer was clear. The
bookie knew he might need Gallagher's protection one day if he found himself in a dangerous situation.

'We're looking for someone in need of substantial funds,'
Paula had said. Something like that.

In the bar, almost empty at that early hour, Tweed found
Lucinda perched on a stool, drinking champagne. She
looked stunning. She wore a green dress, slashed up the side
of her right leg, and the colour was just right for her long
blonde hair. On the counter was a second glass of
champagne, untouched.

She had seen him come in from his reflection in the
mirror behind the bar. He headed for the stool to her left. She swung round to face him.

'Tweed, you're late. I've been here ages. Cheers!'

She pushed the full glass towards him. He picked it up after perching on the stool. They clinked glasses. She
swallowed half the contents of her drink, which the barman
had filled up. Tweed sipped.

'I'm not late,' he told her. 'I'm exactly on time. So what
are we drinking to?'

'To us! May our relationship be long and fruitful.'

'I'll drink to that.'

Tweed drank only occasionally and then moderately. But he had the capacity to drink a lot - and still remain alert and
sober. He turned to face her, smiled.

'May I say you are looking terrific?'

'Thank you.' Her left hand reached out, plucked gently at
the sleeve of his suit. 'This suit is having an effect on me. So
smart.'

'The waiter said our table's waiting. We could take our drinks with us.'

As they walked into the spacious and tastefully decorated
restaurant, the barman followed, carrying a silver tray with a bottle of Krug. The wine waiter appeared as they settled themselves at a corner table, placed two new champagne
glasses on the table, uncorked the Krug, poured a little into
one glass. Tweed sampled it, gave a nod of approval. Menus
were presented, they studied them, then ordered. Lucinda
leaned forward, her voice low, although there was only one
other couple in the room so far.

'The morning you came to see me at the plant one of our trucks was hijacked early in the morning. The driver was
waved down, a masked man chloroformed him and shoved
him into a hedge. Truck was found on the M3. The police
soon lost interest. The driver recovered quickly. No
aftereffects. Strange.'

'Mysterious,' said Tweed.

They had finished their starters and main courses when they decided they needed a pause. Lucinda lit a cigarette.
The Krug bottle was now half empty, the greater part of its
contents swallowed by Lucinda.

'Tell me about Larry,' Tweed suggested. 'What sort of
chap is he?'

'Brilliant. A quick brain. Decisive. Won't suffer fools
gladly. Can be tough. Loves travelling abroad. Is often away
for longish periods, meeting big customers. Half the time we
don't know where he is. Very independent.'

'What was Michael like before amnesia hit him?'

'Here we go!' She shook her cigarette holder at him. 'I just
knew you'd veer into an interrogation.'

'I'm interested in people.'

'OK,' she sighed and grinned at him. 'Michael is even cleverer than Larry. A superb sales director. We have two
more and they're keeping things afloat. They lack Michael's
initiative. We survive, Mr Detective. Now, have you
identified those two poor skeletons on Dartmoor?'

Tweed took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket. He gave
her the ring found inside the mining shaft. Told her to read
the inscription inside: 'From Lee to Lucinda'. Her reaction
was electric.

'Oh, my God! Lee tried to give this to me. See the size of
the rock? I declined it. It was too much. So she wears it herself. Where did you find it?'

'Who is Lee? What's her surname?'

'Never stop, do you? Interrogating. She calls herself by her
maiden name, Lee Charlton. She's married to one of our
directors, Aubrey Greystoke.'

'What kind of director is he?'

'God!' She drank more champagne. 'He's the finance
director. Their marriage is breaking up. Which doesn't
surprise me . . .' She paused, staring at the entrance to
the restaurant. 'Talk of the devil, Greystoke's coming in
here with his latest girlfriend.'

Tweed turned in his chair. Greystoke was a tall, well-
built man wearing a black tie. In his early fifties, he exuded
self-satisfaction, scanning the restaurant with an imperious
expression. His thick brown hair was carefully coiffeured,
a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on his Roman nose, his lips were sensuous, his chin pointed. Lucinda had lowered her eyes .but he 'had spotted her,
began to walk over.

On his arm was a short slim girl with jet-black hair falling
to her shoulders. Not yet thirty, Tweed judged. Greystoke's
voice was lofty.

'Well, well, gathering of the clans, Lucinda. This is
Martina Martello.'

'Any news of Lee?' asked Lucinda with deliberate lack of
tact, her expression cold.

'Not a dickey-bird. Didn't expect any. You know how she
is, my dear.'

'No.
How
is she?' Lucinda shot back.

'Chasing her chances somewhere in the world, I expect.'

'I'm still here in case anyone's not noticed,' Martina
snapped.

Tweed stood up, introduced himself, shook her hand. She
gave him a thankful smile. Greystoke stiffened.
. 'Tweed? The gentleman who's investigating the
unfortunate occurrences down at
Dartmoor?'

'Yes.' Tweed's tone was grim. 'If you can call two exceptionally brutal murders unfortunate occurrences.'

'Nice to meet you both.' Greystoke waved a well-
manicured hand. 'Martina, time we grabbed our table
before someone poaches it."

They were an odd couple. As they strolled to a table at the
far side of the room Tweed noticed Greystoke's large wiry hands, the careful and slow way he walked.

'When did Lee dump him?' he asked.

'Must be over three months ago. Left him a note. "To hell
with you, Aubrey".'

'Handwritten?'

'No. On his computer.'

'And Lee hasn't been seen since? Why did she try to give
the ring to you? Must have cost a packet.'

'If you must know, I was in a bad temper - Aubrey was late in giving me some accounts. Lee was in the waiting
room. She'd been there an hour. Her husband was taking
her to lunch. I said maybe he was calling one of his dolly
birds. Which was a bad mistake on my part. Lee, who was a close friend of mine, pinned me to the wall, demanded
details. I gave them to her. I felt it was time Aubrey was
pulled up sharp.'

'How did Lee react?'

'Surprisingly calmly. Thanked me, said she was going to
the loo. If Aubrey came down would I tell him she'd left.
Which I did a minute later.'

'So how did he react to that?'

'You'd get information out of a mute. Oh Lord! I'd
forgotten about Michael. That was tactless. Aubrey said, "Good. Saves me the most boring lunch." I was going to
give him hell but he walked out. End of story. Maybe we
could have a fun conversation now. Just for a change,
Tweed.'

'Bear with me. Just two more items. How do I contact Larry here in town? I need to have a chat with him.'

'A bloody interrogation, you mean.' She smiled, spread a spare paper napkin on the table, took out a pen, wrote swiftly in capital letters, folded the napkin and handed it
to him. 'That gives the address of the London offices in the Tower and his private phone number.' She leaned towards him. 'Now, Mr Detective, what was the other
thing?'

'I need to talk to Drago Volkanian very urgently. How do
I reach him?'

'You don't. I'm not sure which country he's in.' She,
paused. 'But I can tell you he wants to contact you.'

'He knows about Michael and the amnesia?'

'No idea. Tweed, thank you for a marvellous dinner.
I stay up late. Come back to my place and we'll have a
nightcap.'

'Let me think about it, please.'

He paid the bill. As they walked towards the exit he glanced over towards Greystoke's table. His girlfriend,
Martina, was stroking his cheek. Greystoke looked at Tweed,
looked away without any sign of recognition. The head waiter brought their coats.