Blood Storm (18 page)

Arriving back in the office they found only two occupants:
Monica, as ever, behind her machine, and Pete Nield
pacing up and down with a worried expression.

'Something wrong?' Tweed asked him.

'Just turning things over in my mind.'

As soon as Tweed had settled behind the desk, Monica
jumped up, a large white envelope in her hand. She wore
gloves as she placed the envelope on his desk.

'That was pushed through our letterbox at lunchtime.'

'By whom?'

'We don't know. I was out collecting my lunch from the
deli. I was only away about twenty minutes. I think
someone chose their time carefully.'

'What about George?' Tweed asked, referring to the ex-
army GSM who was their guard behind a desk near the
front door. It would take someone very strong and agile to
mix it with George.

'He was in the loo for about five minutes. Came back and
this was on the floor below the letterbox. George opened
the door and couldn't see anyone in particular among the
lunchtime pedestrians on the main road. He handled it with
gloves.'

'So will I.'

Tweed put on latex gloves, weighed the envelope in his
hand. Not much inside. A good-class envelope which
could be purchased at any decent stationer's. The flap
was tucked inside the envelope, in spite of the fact that it
had glue which most people would lick. So no saliva, no
DNA. He carefully pulled out the flap, then what was
inside.

A large colour photograph, taken at night, showing a
man from the rear, wearing a coat with the collar turned
up, which concealed whether the neck was thick or slim. No more than a silhouette of a heavily built figure in a
narrow cobbled street, a first-floor window on the left
covered with bright red. An ancient street lamp attached
on an arm protruding from a wall gave some illumination.

Tweed looked at Paula.

'What is it?' she called out as she hurried across to him, holding a magnifying glass she had been using to check a
map of Black Island. He looked up at her as she stooped
over his shoulder.

'You tell me.'

'I'm sure that's Fox Street,' she said. 'Oh, my God, that
looks like blood spread all over the first-floor frosted-glass
window.'

She used her magnifying glass to examine the window.
She looked at Tweed with a grim expression. 'It's recent
blood, hasn't had time to turn brown. Didn't Saafeld say
when the killer of Viola chopped off her head he severed
the main arteries, which would have sent a powerful jet of
blood across the room? It hit the window and covered it
with solid streaks. This must be where Viola lived. In Fox
Street.'

'Turn it over,' he said.

She did so. In crude block lettering were the words
Portrait of a Murderer. Tweed showed her the envelope,
addressed to Mista Tweed, again in crude block letters.

'Can't spell,' she said without thinking.

'You think not? I'd say whoever wrote the wording and
delivered it here is well educated. The spelling and the
crude lettering is to cover up that fact.'

'It was a big man, difficult to tell his height.'

'Not necessarily big, not necessarily a man, as you
keep reminding me. Someone wearing three raincoats and
then an overcoat could bulk out their figure. It could be a
man or a woman. The key question is who took the photo
- and how did they come to be there at just the right
moment?'

'The killer was followed earlier.'

'And the motive?'

'I take your point,' she admitted. 'Jealousy?'

'So all we have to do is to identify the photographer,' he
said ironically.

'The Parrot would be my best guess,' she told him.

'During an investigation we don't rely on guesses. And I
was under the impression the Parrot was at the head of your
list of murder suspects.'

'It's confusing . . .'

'So take this photo down to the basement when you can. I want three copies and the original.'

During this conversation Newman had marched up to
Pete Nield. He jerked his head towards the door.

'A quiet word in your shell-like ear. Visitors' room
downstairs would be best.'

Paula had the unusual ability to carry on a conversation and at the same time overhear someone else's. She dashed
down to the basement ahead of Newman and Nield.

Inside the visitors' room, a spartanly furnished room
opposite George's post, Newman sat Nield down, then sat
down himself, facing him across the table. His tone was
grim.

'I need to speak to your informant urgently, which means
as quickly as possible. Not tonight - now!'

'I don't like it,' Nield protested strongly. 'It's an iron rule that none of us ever reveal to any of the team—'

'In the diabolical situation Tweed finds himself in - and so do the rest of us - the rules go out of the window.' His
tone became sarcastic, which was out of character. 'Unless
you look forward to wearing a long black coat and cap, with
an armlet carrying the legend State Security. Secret police
would be a better description. Knocking on people's doors
in the middle of the night, then dragging
them away for
brutal interrogation. What's the informant's name?'

'Coral Flenton,' Nield said quietly.

'That's better. Don't make me drag every detail out
of you. Who is she? Where does she work - if she does
work?'

'She's a civil servant. Assistant to the Parrot, who treats
her abominably. Very dominating, the Parrot, always
hoping she can catch Coral out in a mistake. And,
Newman . . .' Nield had raised his voice, 'she's sensitive so
I won't have you upsetting her. You've become a bit of a
bastard on occasions recently.'

'I have,' Newman agreed, lighting one of his rare
cigarettes. 'But when you're dealing with characters like
Fitch, who was on the verge of kidnapping Paula from her
home, the Marquess of Queensberry rules are pretty
useless.'

'You could meet her in about half an hour's time,' Nield said after checking his watch. 'I've agreed to meet her at a
cafe in Covent Garden - Popsies. I'll introduce you then
make myself scarce.'

'I would appreciate that,' Newman replied, standing up.

What Newman didn't know was that Paula had guessed
what he was up to. And it bothered her. After leaving the
photo with a boffin she darted out of the front door. She
chose Harry's Fiat, locating the spare ignition key under the
cheap floor covering. Typical of Harry that he hadn't had
the covering replaced.

She pushed the seat back, kept an eye on the door to Park
Crescent, bobbed her head out of sight when Newman
emerged with Pete.

15

Paula carefully followed Newman's car. He was good at
spotting tails, but Paula was expert at not being seen.
Newman was clever in the route he took to Covent Garden,
using the back streets from Leicester Square favoured by
experienced cabbies. Once there, he drove very slowly,
glancing out of his window at a cafe. Paula had trouble
reading the elaborate script but then made out the name.
Popsies.

Most people were going home so Newman soon found an
empty parking spot. Paula drove straight past him, found
another empty spot. She put coins in the meter as Newman
and Nield entered the cafe.

If Nield's informant was a man she wouldn't worry. If it
was a woman she'd fume. Newman was in no mood to be
subtle. Paula understood why and he had saved her life on
Black Island. She jumped inside a shop entrance when
Nield reappeared and went off towards the market.

Paula took her sunshade out of the car where she'd
thrown it after collecting it from the office. Tweed, thank Heaven, had been absorbed on the phone. He'd have had a
fit if he'd known she was out on her own.

She strolled along slowly under her sunshade even though it was by now dusk. As she passed the entrance to Popsies she saw Newman's back seated stiffly and a good view of a small attractive girl. She took out her camera, took two quick shots, walked on.

'So you're some sort of friend of Pete's,' Coral Flenton said
with an edge to her tone.

'That's right. We work closely together . . .'

'On special insurance. You take premiums from rich men
frightened of being kidnapped.'

She had made it sound like a racket. Her large hazel eyes never left Newman's. He knew she was suspicious, hostile.
Pity, because he liked her.

'That's right,' he answered. 'But we've been landed with
a grim murder investigation. May I ask what you do in the
way of work?'

'I'm a civil servant. I think you knew that.'

Newman sipped the coffee he'd ordered. It was very
good. He could bring Roma here one evening before taking
her on to dinner.

'I believe you work for the Parrot,' he struggled on.

'You mean Miss Partridge.'

Her expression was blank and those penetrating eyes
never left his. He was beginning to lose the plot. He really
liked her but was getting nowhere.

'Do you have anything to do with Nelson, Benton and
Noel Macomber?' he asked with another forced smile.

'No, they're in another room.'

'So who does look after them?'

'Miss Partridge.'

'Ever heard of State Security?' he asked, moving in
deeper.

'What?'

'State Security.'

'That's a new one on me.'

Newman forced himself to relax in the comfortable chair.
He kept smiling and she kept the blank expression.
Newman did not give up easily.

'Another life may be at stake after one horrific murder and that's why I'm asking these questions.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I'm referring to the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. It's in the papers today.'

'Now you're putting me off my dinner this evening. I read
about it.'

'May I ask you out to dinner? I promise not to ask you any more questions.'

'Certainly not. I already have a date, Mr Newman.'