Rhinoceros (22 page)

'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled
and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him.
'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few
minutes' chat about her . . .'

'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a
mile off.'

'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of—'

'Go jump off Beachy Head.'

She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this
paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel
and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman.
He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line
of business.

A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next
to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.

'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'

'You live round here?'

'I might.'

'I don't think you do.'

'Bloody well drink on your own.'

She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips,
then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact
someone who knew the area.

He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was
dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in
as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted
his order at the girl behind the bar.

'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'

'Coming up now, Mr Barton.'

'You seen anythin' of that girl with the long red hair
I asked you about last night? Slim, good figure, a real
looker.'

'No,' the girl said as she served the drink. 'She hasn't
come in here.'

I'll pay for that drink,' Marler said suddenly.

He moved to the stool next to Mr Barton, noticed he had
very large hands with hair growing on their backs. Lifting his glass, Barton turned to study Marler with hostile eyes.
The girl had moved to the far end of the counter, now Marler had given her the money for the drink.

'An attractive girl with long red hair,' Marler whispered. I'm looking for her too. I'll pay for information. What do you know about her?'

'Let's go outside,' the big man suggested. 'Walls 'ave
ears 'ere . . .'

It seemed very dark outside. The street was ill-lit. They
came to a corner, walked round it. Barton was gradually
dropping behind Marler. Out of nowhere a youth on
a skateboard was speeding towards them. Marler felt
something hard and round rammed into his back.

'This is a gun,' Barton growled menacingly. 'So you tell
me
what you
know about the red-haired tart . . .'

A car backfired. The youth glanced back over his
shoulder, wasn't looking where he was going, cannoned
into Marler who twisted his body as he was hurled back
against Barton. He stamped his foot down with great force
on Barton's foot. The big man dropped his gun, limped,
groaned. Marler stooped swiftly, picked up the gun. It was a .455 Colt automatic. From its weight Marler knew it was
loaded, with seven rounds probably. Charming. Barton,
still limping, yelled out the words.

'Come an' 'elp me, Skinny . . .'

Marler slammed his attacker across the jaw with the
barrel of the Colt. Off balance, the big man tumbled down
the steps into an area below street level, hit his skull against
a brick wall, sagged down, moaning. Marler switched his
gaze to the small lean streak of a thug charging across from
the opposite side of the street. In his right hand he gripped a flick knife, the murderous blade exposed. Marler waited
until he was close, on the pavement, looked behind him, called out.

'Take him, Larry
...'

The oldest trick in the world but it worked. As Skinny looked back Marler used the barrel of the Colt again, but
this time he aimed it at the side of Skinny's head. It was
a businesslike blow and
threw Skinny hurtling down the
steps after Barton. He remained still at the bottom. Marler
checked the street. Empty. Skateboard had long since
vanished round a corner. Marler went down the steps.

He checked Skinny's pulse, which was beating steadily,
but he was unconscious. Lifting him out of the way,
Marler dumped him in a far corner, returned to Barton, still moaning. He bent down, aimed the Colt.

'What were you going to do to the red-haired lady?'

'Rough her up . . .'

'Open your mouth or I'll blow your head off.'

Terrified, Barton flopped open his mouth as blood
dripped from his jaw. Marler shoved the muzzle of the Colt
inside the open mouth. Barton's eyes nearly popped out.

'Again,' said Marler, his tone steely. 'What were you
going to do with her? Three seconds and I'll pull the
trigger.'

He removed the muzzle from the big man's mouth so
he could speak. It took him half a minute to get the words
out and then they were
a
mumble.

'We was goin' to kill her.'

'Right. Who paid you to do it?'

'For Gawd's sake. Mister . . . don't know. One like us
. . . wore dark glasses. Paid cash . . .'

Marler was convinced Barton didn't know. In any case,
the man who had instructed him, who had paid the cash, would be only part of a chain, extending back who knew where. He looked carefully at Barton. The big man was
lying motionless, his eyes half closed, a real mess. And
Skinny was out for die count.

Climbing back up the steps, he walked a short distance away, took out his mobile, called Buchanan's private line.
The Superintendent answered at once.

'Yes?'

'Marler here.' He had already noted the street name,
the number of the house above the area. He gave them
to Buchanan. 'In the area at that address you'll find two
criminals, knocked about a bit, waiting for your collection
by a patrol car . . .'

'Hang on.'

Marler knew Buchanan was already dispatching the
patrol car. He spoke quickly so he could get away before
the police arrived.

'The big fellow is Barton, if that's his real name. The
other one has the nickname Skinny. Barton admitted they
tried to kill a certain girl, muffed it . . .'

'Knocked about a bit, you said. Your work?'

'Have to go now. Run out of coins . . .'

He hurried back to the hotel, went up to his room, locked
the door. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a police siren. Taking out his mobile, he called Newman at
Park Crescent, explained what had happened.

'I can't keep out of trouble, can I? Now, how is Tweed?'

'Bearing up, I gather. Not the easiest patient in the
world.'

'Good for him. And Lisa?'

'Still at the clinic. The consultant doesn't seem worried,
but like Tweed it could be a slow recovery.'

'OK. By the way, when I spoke to Buchanan I didn't let
slip we even knew Lisa, didn't mention her name.'

'That's the way Tweed would want it, I'm sure. Go out
and find some more thugs you can chat to . . .'

'I'm sorry I'm late relieving Monica,' Paula said as she sat
down by Tweed's bedside. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better.' Tweed was perched up against a pillow. 'I think
the first antibiotic Master gave me is doing the trick. I
won't need the second one.'

'Yes, you will. Master says that's the vital one. Behave yourself.'

'You've been up to something. You're an hour late.
You're never late except for a very good reason. Tell me,'
Tweed snapped.

'All right. I thought you'd get it out of me. Since Monica
took over this afternoon I've been trawling London - in the
hope I'd see something - or someone - which would tell
us what is going on. Partly walking, partly moving from area to area by taxi. I may have struck gold this evening,'
Paula ruminated.

'Get to the point.'

'A taxi dropped me near Santorini's, that expensive restaurant with a platform projecting over the river. I saw the
Brig. — Lord Barford - and his disgusting son, Aubrey. The
one I had lunch with. They had just got out of a taxi and
Aubrey was carrying a large suitcase plastered with labels.
The sort of thing you collect travelling abroad . . .'

'I know,' Tweed said impatiently.

'I got the distinct impression they'd just got back from Heathrow - because of the suitcase. Which one made the
trip to somewhere I don't know - Aubrey could have been
carrying his father's suitcase. They went into Santorini's.'

'And?'

'I had a mad idea,' Paula informed him. 'I followed
them in a few minutes later. They'd be in the restau
rant by then. I looked at the hat-check girl's cubbyhole
and saw the Brig.'s suitcase with the labels showing.
Went up to her and told her Mr Swanton had sent me
because he owed them ten pounds on his dinner bill.
Held out my hand, full of ten pound coins, reached
over the counter, pretended to drop them by mistake on her floor. She bent down to scoop them up and I
took a pic of the suitcase with my non-flash camera, then
took a taxi back to Park Crescent where they developed
the print.'

'Which you've got with you.'

'Yes. I really think this can wait. . .'

'Give.'

She handed over the print, took a magnifying glass out
of her shoulder bag, handed that to Tweed. He studied
the print.

'Hotels in Brussels, Berlin, Paris and Stockholm. Those
were the places Aubrey, while drunk in Martino's, told you
his father visited.'

'Exactly.'

'But it looks as though one label has been removed.'

'It has,' Paula agreed. 'And it must have been recently.
Those labels stick like the devil if they're left for a while.'

'The missing label must show where he has flown back
from. Today. Why the secrecy?'

'I wondered that.' She watched as he placed the print in the drawer of his bedside table. 'You haven't been working
on your pad, I hope?'

'Added one name. Rhinoceros.'

M. Bleu had left France. Following the car with his target,
Louis Lospin, at the wheel, he had been surprised when
the car headed in a different direction, eventually arriving
at the airport.