No Mercy (36 page)

'Yes, you've got to listen to him,' growled Marler.

'You're going to,' added Nield.

'All right.' Tweed threw up his hands in exasperation. 'To
keep you all happy I'll agree to that.'

'Even going home to your apartment,' Paula hammered.
'No more walking home till Charmian is in the morgue.'

'Next, I have to phone Lucinda,' Tweed decided. 'I want her to drive down to Abbey Grange to check out Michael.'

'Michael? Why?' asked Paula.

Without replying, he called Lucinda himself. He had her number in his head. A sleepy voice answered.

'Tweed here. Hope I didn't wake you.'

'You didn't. I can't sleep. Keep thinking about all those
horrible murders. Wish I had something to do.'

'You have. In the morning I want you to drive down to Abbey Grange and check on Michael.'

'I can drive down now, get there early morning. He's still
not said one word. I called Mrs Brogan. So if you hoped he'd talk to me . . .'

'No. I want you to watch him without his realizing what you're up to. Then let me know what your impressions are.'

'I'm on my way . . .'

'Hold on, we visited Ivy Cottage out at Boxton. Place had
been ransacked. Same as in the houseboat where the
detective, John Jackson, was found.'

'I'm on my way . . .' she repeated.

'You didn't tell her about the envelope I found in the cottage,' Paula commented.

'Didn't I?'

'And why are you sending Lucinda down to watch
Michael?'

'Everybody except me is forgetting about him. I want to
see how she reports the situation down there.'

'That's right.' She smiled ruefully. 'Go cryptic on me.'

'Now let's see if I can get any cooperation, even sense, out
of the MoD.' Again he dialled the number himself on his
old-fashioned phone. 'MoD? Tweed here, Deputy Director, SIS. I need to speak urgently to Commander David Wells. He's usually on night duty. My code? Stop wasting my time
or you'll lose your job.
Just get Commander Wells'

'Who is speaking?' a cultured voice enquired after a long pause.

'Tweed. David, I need to know—'

'You didn't give the code.'

'Damn the code. You know my voice. Is this a secure line?'

'At this end, yes. Don't know about yours . . .'

'I want your searcher ships - and aircraft - to scan the
route up north from Gibraltar for a freighter. Old job,
tonnage fifteen to sixteen thousand tons. Single funnel.
Name of vessel
Oran.
Flies Liberian flag.'

'This is confidential. We do have search ships out
already - concentrating on the Straits of Dover
and the
Anglian coast. As regards the Med, the Americans have sent
out searchers from their big base at Naples, concentrating on
the eastern Med. Happy now?' David's tone was becoming
bored.

'Wrong damned area,' Tweed snapped. 'I've given you a very precise description. And the crew are all Arabs.'

'Really? Then it would automatically be stopped and searched by a corvette at the Dover Straits.'

'Supposing that isn't its destination?'

'There's a limit to the areas we can cover. And Naples would not appreciate suggestions from us.'

'Great collaboration. One more question. We know
Angora has obtained a large delivery of long-range rocket
launchers from North Korea, but no missiles. How much
would the sort of missile they need cost?'

'I can't imagine why this interests you. One missile would
cost about one million pounds.'

'One million pounds per missile?' Tweed repeated.

'Yes. That paranoid North Korean dictator, Kim, sent the launchers in an advance vessel, then followed it up with the
missiles on another ship which promptly collided with an
American destroyer in the Sea of Japan. Tokyo reported their
divers found forty armed missiles aboard the sunken ship.
Armed! They must be mad to send them armed. But Kim
is
mad.'

'So Angora's now desperately short of missiles, can't yet
launch them against a big city target in Europe?'

'I would presume so.' Commander Wells paused. 'Tweed, you're not off your rocker, are you? The newspapers are full
of reports that you're investigating a pretty ghastly murder
case. I don't see any link between what you've been asking
me and the mass murderer.'

'I do now.' Tweed controlled his desire to slam down the
receiver. 'David, thank you for being so helpful.'

'Any time, old boy . . .'

'Just before you go, any chance of sending searchers out
to check the waters off Portugal, Spain and France?'

'None at all. Fully stretched now.'

During their conversation Paula had brought over a notepad
in case Tweed needed it. She heard the last part of the conversation, perched on the edge of his desk, her arms
folded.

'I couldn't help hearing the bit about the link between the
skeletons and this freighter, the
Oran.
I can't see any connection between the two elements.'

'Which is why I'm sitting here and your desk is over there.'

'I understand,' she said quietly.

She was sliding off his desk when he reached forward,
grabbed her by the arm. 'I'm sorry. That was unfair of me,
unforgivable.'

'You don't have to apologize.' She smiled warmly. 'We
all know you're under great pressure. We're just
surprised you haven't sworn at any of us.' She smiled
again, returned to her desk, peered between the curtains after drawing them back a few inches. 'It's really dark
outside,' she said as she sat down. 'Clouds blotting out the
moon. Shouldn't someone check to make sure Charmian
isn't waiting out there - as he did before Tweed and I
drove out to Boxton?'

'I should have thought of that,' said Marler. 'I'm going out
to have a shufti.' He saw Paula's expression. 'Arabic for take
a look around.'

'I'll come with you,' piped up Harry.

The atmosphere of tension was demonstrated by the fact
that Marler took out a Walther, slipped it under the raincoat
he put on. Harry fitted a knuckleduster over the fingers of his right hand.

Despite street lamps outside it was pitch black in the
shadows. Marler was the first to spot a figure crouched on
the pavement on the far side of the main road. They
separated, Marler approaching from the left, Harry from
the right. The figure remained motionless. Close up he saw
it was a tramp, his black overcoat old, rumpled and
stained.

'What are you doing here?' Marler demanded.

'Been here quite a while,' Harry said, guessing.

'Got a fiver, sir?' the tramp asked. 'I haven't eaten for hours.'

Marler frowned. He was surprised at how well educated
the tramp's voice was. What was going on?

'For a tramp you speak pretty well,' he said grimly. 'What's
your name?'

'Ken.' A pause. 'Ken Millington. Or Lord Ken
Millington at one time eons ago.'

The name triggered off a memory inside Marler's head,
the recollection of one of the top-flight journalists Drew
Franklin's lighter-weight articles on 'characters'.

He switched on his torch, shone it down on the tramp's
face. About forty years old, his face was covered with
bristles, his nose was long and sharply pointed. Obviously he
hadn't shaved for days. His hands were clad in old woollen gloves with holes in them. His shoes were old, well worn,
tied with string instead of laces.

'If you're a lord,' Harry said aggressively, 'why are you in
the state you're in? Never seen a tramp with a voice like
yours. Tell the truth before I beat you to a pulp. Who was it
hired you to keep a watch on our building?'

'Hang on, Harry,' Marler said. 'Better explain yourself
now before my friend gets to work on you.'

'There are others like me,' Millington explained. 'In my
case I was bored silly by the life my wife wanted to lead.
Parties every night. A load of idiots. Then my wife leaves me
for a millionaire. I decided I wanted freedom, the freedom
to live my own life. No responsibilities. So I walked out on my greedy family - after willing my assets to a charity. I like
this life. It's freedom,' he repeated.

'For fifty pounds, maybe more, would you do a job for
us?' Marler suggested.

'For fifty I'd jump over the moon. An honest job, you
mean?' he asked suspiciously.

'My boss,' Marler continued, 'was almost murdered by a
thug. Hired by a rival businessman. The thug speaks English
with a French accent. Can't give you much of a description, but he's recently shaved off a dark moustache which curled
round the ends of his mouth. He's French and dangerous. If
you see anyone lurking round here, watching our
building . . .'

'The insurance outfit in the Crescent?'

He was referring to the plate on the wall .outside the
entrance to SIS headquarters. It read
general
&
cumbria insurance.
It was the cover name for the SIS. Harry was still
suspicious.

'How come you noticed that from over here?'

'I walk around an area before I settle for the night - to find
the most comfortable perch. It was here with a cushion
against the railings.'

'Here is your fifty,' interjected Marler impatiently. 'You see
anyone suspicious lurking about, walk slowly over to the
insurance building, press the bell, three long rings. The
guard will let you in and call me.'

'This is too much money,' Millington protested. 'I'll take ten, then the rest if I can serve you.'

'Keep the lot. . .'

They explained to Tweed what had happened when they
returned to the office. Tweed was more impressed than
Marler had expected.

'That was a good idea. We need an element of luck to help
us.'

'He sounded a fake to me,' Harry commented,
disgruntled.

'There are such people,' Paula told him. 'They get fed up
with
les richesses,
yearn for freedom to live their own lives.
This Millington apparently said as much.'

'And Lucinda,' Tweed reflected, 'is now on her way
driving down to Abbey Grange. I'll be interested in how she
phrases her report.'