No Mercy (31 page)

'Thank you,' Tweed said as they entered the elevator. He
took off his overcoat. It was warm inside the building. Lucinda took it off him, looked at Paula, who shook her
head. They walked down a long corridor. The walls were decorated with a selection of Van Gogh prints.

'I like Van Gogh,' Tweed remarked. 'Who chose the
prints?'

'Larry, of course.' Pausing before a closed door, she
rapped on it. Larry's distinctive voice called out 'Come in.'

Not just 'Come', thought Tweed, who disliked the single-
word invitation. It betrayed arrogance, someone who
thought he was the cat's whiskers. Lucinda inserted a card in a slot, turned the handle, opened the door and ushered
them inside.

Larry was already walking to meet them, after jumping up
athletically from his large desk facing the windows
overlooking the front. Dressed in a polo-necked white
pullover and white trousers, he was the image of
informality. He is good-looking, Paula thought, had such a
nice smile, and yet there was a commanding air about him.
The perfect managing director.

'Saw you coming,' he said, kissing Paula on both cheeks.
'Hoped you were here to visit me. Do sit down. What are
you drinking? Coffee, something stronger? The sun's going down.'

They both asked for coffee and Lucinda disappeared to
get their beverages. Larry escorted them to a large couch,
pulled up a chair to face them. A very easy manner, Paula
was thinking.

'How can I help you?' Larry enquired as Lucinda
appeared with the coffee on a tray, placed it on a small table,
then left.

'This has become a very serious murder investigation,'
Tweed began grimly. 'So I have to ask some personal
questions. For example, where were you three to four
months ago?'

'Which means I'm a suspect,' Larry replied with a smile.

'We do have a number of suspects,' Paula assured him.

'I don't even have to refer to my diary to answer your question,' Larry said with another smile. 'I was touring the States. Visiting some of our more important customers. I
felt it important to keep up contact when our top salesman,
Michael, went missing. We have two other sales executives,
but not up
to his calibre. Half the people I wanted to see were away - golf tournaments. Would you believe it? But I'd left a note so they knew we were trying to look after
them.'

'So no alibi?'

'I agree. I could give you a list.'

'Not necessary,' Tweed said abruptly. 'Another question. Who has keys to get into any office at night?'

'Myself, Lucinda and Michael had one - but I gather all
his belongings had been taken by whoever left him sitting on
some steps in Whitehall. Superintendent Buchanan's been
to see me.'

'Anyone else?' Tweed whipped back.

'Yes. Aubrey Greystoke needs one. And . . .' He paused.
'This is sad. Lee Greystoke had a key, which I assume she'd
obtained from Drago. No one else. Lucinda's very hot on
security.'

'Who among the executives has a knowledge of
accountancy?'

Larry leaned back in his chair, frowned. 'That's an odd
question. I'm not going to enquire why you've asked it. First,
I have a broad knowledge of balance sheets. I need to
because of my position. But no qualification. Aubrey, of
course, is a qualified chartered accountant. A finance
director must have that. Lucinda doesn't like figures but she
is qualified. Oh, and Michael also is a chartered accountant.
Disliked the subject but qualified in half the normal time. Typical of his astute brain. Didn't like the subject so he
wolfed it down.'

Tweed sipped some coffee, then spoke more quietly. 'How
is Michael now?'

'No change so far, I regret to report. Never says a word.
I find it perplexing, distressing.'

'So how does he spend his days? He's still at Abbey
Grange, I presume?'

'All the time, so far as I know. Promptly at eight every
morning he walks down the track to Post Lacey as he used
to do when he was working for us. Then walks back to the
Grange. Spends a lot of his time in his room reading odd
books.'

'Odd?'

'Strange.
Gray's Anatomy
seems to be his favourite.'

'What did you think of Lee Greystoke?'

Paula smiled to herself. She'd experienced this before
when Tweed was in full flood. The unexpected switching to
some quite different topic.

'Lee? I liked her.' He stood up. 'I think I need a Scotch.
Would you join me?'

'No, thank you,' both of them said.

Larry returned with a large glass of Scotch. He drank half
of it, put down the glass. 'I liked Lee,' he repeated. 'I didn't
know her all that well, but I once had a long conversation with
her. I was struck by her exceptional intelligence. You do know,
of course, that Aubrey can't keep his hands off an attractive,
willing woman. Tragic. For Lee. So when she disappeared we
all thought she'd at long last walked. A ghastly business.'

'Indeed.' Tweed stood up. 'I don't think there's anything
else. For the moment. Thank you for your time.'

'Anything else you want to know, just contact me.'

Earlier, Charmian, the expert French assassin, had got off
his motorcycle, hiding it behind a hedge. Then, after
checking this isolated spot to make sure no one was about,
he walked into a public phone box.

He attached a small metal device to the phone before he
made the timed call to M. The device ensured that, if the
call was hacked into, the number that would come up would
be that of a Mrs Wilson. This innocent lady lived in Hammersmith, a long way from the phone box. Charmian had obtained the number by the simple method of tracking
through the London phone book.

The phone rang at the agreed time. Impossible to tell
whether the voice that now spoke was that of a man or a
woman.

'M here.'

'M?' Charmian queried.

'M for mosque. Have you tracked Tweed?'

'Driving down the M3 with that woman of his. They are
heading for the Gantia plant, I suspect.'

'Kill Tweed. Do it immediately. He is getting too close.'

'Depends where he parks his car. It will be dark soon so I do not see any problem.'

'You want the other half of your fee, you had better
succeed this time.'
'I always succeed.'

It was getting dark as Tweed and Paula left Larry, walked
into the corridor and bumped into Aubrey Greystoke,
standing suspiciously close to the door of Larry's office.

'Good evening, Aubrey,' Tweed said politely. 'Listening
in?'

'Don't know . . . what you are meaning. Come to my
office. Just along the corridor.'

Greystoke led the way, walking slowly, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. Tweed recalled this peculiar habit from when he'd seen Greystoke walking away from
them at Santorini's when he'd had dinner in town with
Lucinda.

'He's drunk,' Paula whispered. 'I smelled whisky the moment we met him.'

'Shh!' Tweed whispered back.

He was not convinced that Aubrey was drunk. He
suspected it was a pose, to fool people. The slow-march way
of walking was a little too deliberate. When they entered
Aubrey's office located at the front of the building with a
view towards the main entrance, he was not surprised to see a bottle of Scotch, a half-filled glass beside it, on his desk. More camouflage?

'Do sit down, you nice people.'

He sank into one armchair, wiped his high forehead with
a handkerchief and smiled foolishly.

'Saw you arrive through the window ages ago. Getting
dark.'

Clambering laboriously to his large feet, he padded over,
pressed a switch. Automatic blinds closed just before Tweed
had been going to peer out to see his car. Returning, he
placed two glasses on a square glass block, which Paula
assumed passed for a table, and sagged down again.

'Drinks all round. To celebrate.'

'Celebrate what?' asked Paula.

'Any excuse will do.' The silly smile again. He filled his
own glass up, raised it, sipped. Paula noticed that the front
of his open-necked shirt had a damp patch. Where he had
spilled Scotch to create an alcoholic odour?

'Ever travel to the States?' Tweed asked suddenly.

'All the time. If I don't check the costs those Americans
are charging, no one does.'. He sat up straight. 'I am the
finance director.'

'What about three to four months ago?' Tweed
demanded.

'I'd be in the States then.'

'So you could give me a list of the firms you called on?'

'Won't do you any good. I'm so well known the
receptionists never bother to record my arrival.'

'I think that's all. For the moment,' declared Tweed, standing up. He looked back as they reached the door. 'Lucinda is dealing with funeral arrangements for Lee;'

'A job I could do without.'

Callous bastard, Paula said to herself.

Charmian had completed his mission. Under the cover of
night he had inserted the powerful bomb inside Tweed's car.
The moment Tweed switched on it would detonate.

As he made his way to the rear of the building the glaring lights illuminating the building's front were switched on. For a moment his shadow was cast against the front wall below
the windows, then he was gone.

For Charmian the security had been easy to evade.
Arriving on his motorcycle, parked nearby, close to the M3,
he had taken out the folded telescopic ladder from his
pannier. The electric wire running along the top of the fence
was no obstacle. His ladder was covered with rubber.

Working his way round to the rear, he found the blind
spot. He always found a blind spot, this one facing a section
of rear wall without windows. Arriving at the top of the fence,
he had pressed a button. A fresh section of ladder had extended upwards. He turned a lever, and the extension
dropped on the far side of the fence at an angle, giving him
access to the plant.

After planting the bomb he returned to the ladder. A
bony-faced man, he sported a thin black moustache
curving down round the ends of his cruel mouth. His eyes were like ice. Reaching the top of the ladder, he climbed
over, turned the lever again and waited as the extension slid
back inside the section he stood on. He swiftly arrived on
the ground.