Cell

Colin Forbes

The Cell

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2002

This edition first published by Pocket Books, 2003

An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

A Viacom Company

Copyright © Colin Forbes, 2002

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved

Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc

The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

13579
10
8642

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

Africa House

64-78 Kingsway

London WC2B 6AH

Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN 07434 6138 X

Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Polmont, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Australia by
Griffin Press

Author's Note

All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. The same principle of pure invention applies to all the residences, villages, hotels, institutions and apartments in Great Britain and Italy.

For Suzanne,
her never-ending, so professional support always.

Prologue

'It is now three weeks since Linda Warner, wife of the Minister for Home Security, disappeared overnight,' Superintendent Roy Buchanan told Tweed emphatically. 'Three weeks and not a clue as to what has happened to her.'

The senior detective from the Yard looked round Tweed's office at Park Crescent. He sat facing Tweed across from his desk. Gazing round he nodded to Paula Grey, Tweed's close assistant, seated at her own desk; at Bob Newman, ex-international news reporter. Behind him near the door a corner desk was occupied by Monica, Tweed's office assistant, a middle-aged woman with hair fastened back in a bun as she worked at her word-processor. It was the attractive Paula, in her thirties with long glossy black hair, who responded.

'Three weeks is a long time. Worrying. Has there been any kind of ransom note - assuming she was kidnapped?'

'No,' Buchanan told her. 'Which makes her disappearance even more worrying.'

'The news was splashed for a while in the papers,' Paula recalled, 'but now it's barely referred to.'

'Because the papers,' Newman explained, 'are full of rumours that, after September 11 last year in New York, Britain is now the System's next target.'

'Just how did she disappear?' Paula persisted.

'Victor Warner has two homes,' Buchanan reminded her. 'His penthouse in Belgravia and some place in the country
at Carpford. That's a weird village hidden away in the North Downs. Mrs Warner's Porsche was found on the wrong side of the road just beyond a curve. No signs of
any attack. The engine switched off, key left in the ignition.
Mysterious.' He turned back to Tweed. 'I'd like you to drive
down there with me to see for yourself.'

'Have you forgotten I'm Deputy Director of the SIS?'

'Of course not.' Buchanan paused. 'But you did break
that Arbogast case* concerning five murders across two continents, to say nothing of the involvement of the Vice-
President of the United States. And before you joined
this outfit, you were the youngest homicide superintendent at the Yard. Arbogast proved you hadn't lost your
touch.'

'Not possible. I have to concentrate on this job.'

Tweed was a man of uncertain age, of medium height,
and wore horn-rim glasses. He was the man you passed in the street without noticing him, a characteristic he'd found
invaluable in his profession. But recently he seemed
to have grown younger, his fabled energy even more noticeable. His blue eyes were more lively, as were his
gestures.

'As a favour to me,' Buchanan coaxed.

'I said no, Roy.' Tweed hammered his fist on his desktop.
'Also I've heard Warner has persuaded the Cabinet to give
him full powers with no interference from any other service.
He meant me . . .'

He paused as the door was thrown open, almost taken
off its hinges. The Director, Howard, stormed into the
office with sheets of paper in his hand. Six feet tall, he had
developed a paunch from frequenting expensive restaurants
and clubs.

He sagged into an armchair opposite Newman. Impec
cably clad in a Savile Row blue bird's-eye suit, a crisp
white shirt, a speckled bow-tie, his voice was upper-crust.
He was, Tweed felt, the ideal boss - he dealt with the senior
civil servants in Whitehall, where he was popular, leaving
Tweed free to run the Service in his own way.

* Author's previous novel,
The Vorpal Blade.

'Triumph!' Howard boomed. 'Just returned from the
PM. I persuaded him to cancel Warner's edict that only
he can handle everything over here. Tweed, you can check
out the mystery of Linda Warner's disappearance. PM's
worried. Ugly rumours are circulating that Linda was too
friendly with another key member of the Cabinet.'

'So,' Buchanan interjected with a smile, 'Tweed, you can
come with me to Carpford, scene of Linda Warner's strange
disappearance.'

'And,' Howard intervened, 'here is a copy of the
authorization from the PM that we are completely independent of the Ministry of Security, that we continue to function as in the past.'

'He hasn't minced his words,' Tweed commented after
scanning the document. 'But I'm still sticking to my
decision not to investigate Linda Warner's disappearance.
That's your problem, Roy, I don't think there's anything
in these newspaper rumours that Britain is the next target of the System, as Victor Warner keeps calling it.'

'You did know Linda,' Paula coaxed. 'Maybe not well but she liked you.'

'I've made up my mind . . .'

The phone rang. Monica answered, placed her hand
over the mouthpiece, pulled a wry face as she called out to Tweed.

'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Warner's personal
assistant. Insists on speaking to you.'

'That crawler. Probably bows to Warner every time he
enters the room. All right, I'll speak to him for a minute . . .
Tweed here.'

'Mr Tweed . . .' The voice was arrogant. 'I have been asked to inform you by the Minister . . .'

'Then put the the Minister on the line. I don't take calls
from civil servants.'

'This is important, I would have you know . . .'

'Put the Minister on the line before I break the con
nection.'

There was a choking sound, a pause, voices whispering,
then Warner himself came on the line. Not best pleased.

'Tweed, I'm a busy man
...'

'That makes two of us. What is it?'

'Now listen carefully.' The tone was polite and deter
mined. 'I have heard that you were considering investigating
the strange disappearance of my wife. I absolutely forbid
you to interfere with the
investigation. It is in the hands
of Superintendent Buchanan and Jasper Buller, Chief of
Special Branch. Is that understood?'

'Absolutely.' Tweed, smiling, paused before continuing.
'I have to inform you there is a road-block to your request
- my Service does not come under your jurisdiction. Thank
you for calling. Goodbye . . .'

Tweed sat up straight, eyes blazing. He lifted his clenched
fist, banged it on his desktop so ferociously Paula jumped.
She was fascinated. Recently Tweed had undergone a
change of personality. Normally calm, passive, he was now
commanding, far more energetic.

'That does it,' he snapped. 'Warner telling me to keep
off the grass. Obviously hasn't heard yet of the PM's
edict. Roy,' he went on, speaking quickly. 'I don't want
to start by driving with you to Carpford. Give me the address of Warner's pad in Belgravia. Also the name of
his housekeeper.' He was standing up, hauling his overcoat
off the stand, slipping quickly into it. 'Paula, you'd better come with me. You're good at spotting some detail about
how people live that I might miss.'

'There's the address,' Buchanan said, hardly able to conceal his delight. 'Name of the housekeeper is Mrs
Carson. I've seen her. Like talking to an iceberg. Got
nothing out of her. Want me to come with you?'

'No!' Tweed gave Buchanan a friendly punch on the shoulder. 'Obviously you didn't ask the right questions. Now, Paula, I'll drive.' He handed her Buchanan's directions. 'You can navigate.'

'Maybe it would be best to phone first,' Paula sug
gested.

'No, it wouldn't. Catch the iceberg on the wrong foot.
If icebergs have feet. . .'

Warner's London base was a penthouse on the fifth floor of
a modern apartment block, fortunately hidden behind the
grandeur of Belgrave Square, since its modernity was quite
out of keeping with the square's stately buildings. Tweed used his SIS pass to shut up the aggressive porter. The
elevator was luxurious, with gilded mirrors and red leather
seats. It climbed silently and the doors slid back on the fifth
floor to reveal wide corridors with deep-pile carpets.

'Warner owns the whole top floor,' Tweed remarked as
they turned left, following Buchanan's instructions. 'Half of it he doesn't use. Just doesn't want other people near
him, I presume.'

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door with a speak-
phone on the wall. Pressing the button he waited. A
woman's harsh voice spoke.

'Who is it?' demanded the voice.

'Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS.'

'Someone phoned to say you were coming. Who was
it?'

'Superintendent Buchanan of the Yard.'

'Doesn't take any chances, does she?' Paula whispered.

They heard the three Banham locks being turned, the
door opened and they faced a tall, forbidding woman, slim,
with grey hair and well-dressed. She stared at Paula with her penetrating eyes.

'Who might this be?'

'It might be my personal assistant, Paula Grey. And it
is,' Tweed said with a wry smile.

'I suppose you'd better come in. I must warn you I have very little time.'

'The interview will last as long as is necessary,' Tweed said, his expression grim.

They were led into a large living-room with white leather
sofas and chairs scattered about. Tweed and Paula shared
a sofa while Mrs Carson perched on a carver chair facing
them, her lips pursed in her bony face.