Blood Storm (15 page)

'Listen, pie-face, where do you come from? You're not
East End.'

'Blackpool.'

'Any contacts up there?'

'My sister has a place I stay at.'

'Then you catch the first train north and never come
back. If you do I'll report you to Commander Buchanan at
the Yard. Tell him you were involved in a kidnap attempt.
Should get you five years inside. Maybe more. So better
keep your stupid trap shut. Get moving.'

'You'll tell Fitch where I've gone?'

'I'll tell him you're hiding away locally. Can you imagine
what he'll do to you if he ever catches up with you?'

'I'm on my way.'

Alone with Fitch, who was stirring feebly on the floor,
Newman put on latex gloves. No fingerprints. He lifted the
lid off, used a torch to stare down into the metal shell, saw
the rushing water at the bottom heading for the river. He
was in a fierce mood when he recalled Canal's babbling
account of what had been planned for Paula.

Picking up the large coil of rope from the floor, he
checked it, saw the loop for Paula's neck, the frayed section
which wouldn't have lasted long. Taking out a knife, he cut
away that section, then re-formed the loop without a slip
knot so it would hold.

Using the woollen scarf he'd taken from the back seat of
the car (Fitch was a well-organized piece of filth), he
wrapped the scarf round Fitch's neck not too tightly, so he could breathe easily. Next he slipped the safe loop he had
prepared round the scarf. Fitch suddenly came wide
awake.

'What the 'ell you doin' now? I'll get you for this, Newman.'

'You think so?'

Grabbing both Fitch's legs he hauled him to the chute,
dropped them over. Fitch was now mixing the worst swear
words with pleas for mercy. Newman looped the long
length of rope over the hook a short distance down the
chute, then lowered Fitch slowly down inside the metal
tube. His head was now a short distance below the hook.
His voice echoed weirdly inside the metal tube.

'For Gawd's sake, Newman, don't do this to me. I've a
pile of money. It's all yours . . .'

The rest of his maundering plea was shut off as Newman
replaced the lid. It was now up to fate. Newman couldn't bring himself to use the frayed loop. That would be coldblooded murder. Not his style.

13

It was still dark. Newman walked some distance before he hailed a cab driver, told him to drop him outside a block of
flats in the Fulham Road. He didn't want any witnesses
who could report where he had boarded the cab, where he had left it.

A promising dawn was casting first light as he walked
quickly to Paula's place. He'd intended to get into his car
and drive quietly away. Paula, fully dressed, appeared at her
bedroom window, called down to him.

'Come on up. Here's the key to the front door . . .'

He caught it, went inside and up to her flat. The ground-
floor flat was occupied by a woman who spent little time there. Paula was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, took him by the arm, led him inside. She was clad in what
she called her 'battledress' - smart blue slacks tucked into
the tops of knee-length boots, a warm blue windcheater.
Her hair was well brushed, as though she'd just been to the hairdresser's.

'I was worried when I saw your car still parked out
there . . .'

'I've been up the last twenty-four hours.'

'So you had a great night with Roma.' Paula smiled as she
said it. 'I'm not asking for details.'

'You can have them. I left Santorini's with Roma at 4 a.m., drove her home, then came straight on up here. Which may mean that's why you're still alive.'

He'd decided to tell her part of his encounter with Fitch. She needed to grasp the danger of this mission. He cut off the story with shoving an unconscious Fitch in the rear of
the Ford, ordering Canal to drive off and never to come
back.

'He was climbing up the drainpipe,' Paula said nervously.

'What's in the loft? Another way in?'

'There's a large skylight.'

'Fitch must have done a recce earlier. That's where he
planned to get in, to grab you. He had a bag containing
cloth soaked with chloroform. You'd have ended up in the river.'

'Are you trying to frighten me? If so, you're doing a good
job. And you look fagged out. You need sleep - in my back
bedroom. Now!'

'Tweed wants us to go down to Black Island, to inter
view the General. Then there's his trip to confront the
Cabal.'

'Shut up! Sleep.'

Newman stumbled, she grasped his arm, led him to the
back bedroom. He found the sight of the made-up bed
alluring; his head was throbbing. He was taking off his
shoes when Paula reappeared with a glass and a large carafe
of water. He swallowed the whole of the glass she poured
for him, drank half the refill. Taking off his windcheater he stripped off his tie, loosened his collar.

'I'll phone Tweed, explain the position,' Paula assured
him.

He flopped full-length on the bed. He was asleep when she tucked the pillow more comfortably
under his head.
Then she went into the kitchen, prepared two thermoses,
one with coffee, the other with tea, a jug of milk, two cups
and saucers, a plate of currant buns, carried everything on
a tray, left it on the table by his bedside. Newman was motionless, breathing steadily, out of this world.

*

Paula drove to Park Crescent, was the first person in the
office except for Monica. She had phoned Tweed at home from her flat. Everyone else arrived later, including Marler,
who took up his favourite position, leaning against the wall,
inserting a cigarette into his holder.

When he'd settled behind his desk, Tweed's first
question was addressed to Paula.

'How is Bob?'

'Sleeping like a babe. I think he'd had a tougher night than I relayed to you on the phone.'

'I suspected that. Marler, you were going to contact
some of your pals in Parliament, to check what they'd
heard.'

'Not my pals,' Marler drawled, 'my contacts. Fed them
plenty of booze in the visitors' room or whatever they call it
- and they talked their heads off. One of the brighter
characters had heard the rumours about the formation of
State Security. Didn't like it a bit. Said this land of freedom
was
going to be converted into a police state. A number of
others agreed. A number of Cabinet Ministers are in favour,
but not quite enough yet to agree to a bill being presented.
It's on a knife-edge.'

'So we can expect further incentives to scare everyone
stiff. Hooligans smashing up inner cities. God knows what
other villainy . . .'

Tweed paused as Newman roared into the office. Paula
checked the time. Newman couldn't have had more than
four hours' sleep but his mood was tigerish.

'I've been thinking,' he began. 'We're not moving quickly enough. Tweed has a horrific murder to solve, then we have
the State Security lot to smash. Anyone with scruples about
using unorthodox methods had better wake up. Now I'm
ready to drive down with Tweed and Paula to Black Island
as a starter.'

Paula was marvelling at Newman's speedy recovery, his vitality. His appearance was intimidating. He was wearing a
camouflage jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. He
had crammed a black beret over his tousled hair. Like a
Commando, she thought. But at one time he had trained
with the SAS to write an article on them. His experience
had included joining potential recruits in a gruelling march
over the Welsh mountains. To everyone's astonishment,
including the SAS commander's, Newman had reached the
far-away stop line as Number Two.

'Pete,' Tweed interjected, wanting to give him a difficult
task so he'd not feel put down by Newman, 'I need you to
do a tricky thing while we're down south. I want you to take
photos of the three members of the Cabal when they leave
their HQ. They must not see what you are doing.'

What a devil of a job, Paula thought.

'One other point,' Newman roared on. 'Remembering
our last experience down there with Paula, we need a strike
force. So I'd like Harry and Marler to come with us. All
heavily armed.'

'You are starting a war,' Paula commented.

'Only if the other side shoots first. Agreed, Tweed?'

'Yes. And Paula comes too.'

'So,' Newman decided, 'we'll travel in the ancient
Bentley with the souped-up engine, courtesy of Harry.'

'What are we waiting for, then?' Tweed demanded as he
checked his Walther and slid it back into his shoulder
holster.

They parked the car in the area near the ferry where a
striped pole was lifted. Tweed gave a local a generous tip to
keep an eye on the Bentley.

The drive down to Dorset had been a pleasure, with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. It was warmer as they neared the sea. This time Abe was no longer operating the
barge. His replacement, a local man called Judd, explained
Abe had gone on holiday. Newman smiled as they settled down, the only passengers aboard the barge.

'Poor Abe has been scared off by that powerboat which
blew up,' he remarked.

The crossing to Black Island was like travelling over a lake. Paula revelled in the experience, sitting so she could
see the approach to Lydford. They disembarked at the
dock. The streets were deserted as they passed through the
village and turned along the road to the left. It was very
quiet. As Paula walked in front Harry was wary.

'It's too quiet,' he remarked, bringing up the rear. Inside
a long leather pouch he carried an automatic weapon. In the capacious pockets of his camouflage jacket was a collection
of hand grenades. Tweed walked alongside Paula as they
went down a wooded lane. Entrances to drives leading to
large houses had names but there was no sign of Lockwood,
the General's house. The previous evening a friend at the
MoD had given Tweed the name. He stopped in front of
wrought-iron gates which were closed. The name board
merely gave the owner's name: 'Macomber'.

There was no sign of life along the curving drive behind
the gates, and no speakphone. Tweed shrugged.

'He likes his privacy,' he observed. 'We'll walk a bit
further. There must be someone about. . .'