Cell (10 page)

'You missed your vocation,' Beaurain told him. 'You
should have been an artist. Incredibly accurate. Now draw in two bungalows, well spaced apart, here, south
of Margesson's house.'

Tweed drew two small oblongs where Beaurain's fingers
had indicated. He looked up at Paula.

'I remember passing these before we met Buchanan
again. I thought that, like every other dwelling, they were
out of place.'

'In the first one lives a man called Billy Hogarth, like the
painter. In the last one resides Martin Hogarth, the brother
of Billy. They hate each other. Understandably.'

'What are they like then?'

'Billy is the black sheep. Half the time he's roaring drunk
- when he's not driving off somewhere. Then he's sober. Bit of a thug. Ask him the time of the day and he's likely to throw a heavy clock at you.'

'And Martin?'

'English gentleman. Tall, in his fifties. Well-spoken. Good-looking. Polite. Master of chatting and telling you
nothing.'

'And these two are brothers? Martin and Billy?'

'They are. And there's more to relationships up there than you might think. Both Martin and Billy - wait for it - are cousins of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'

'They are?' Tweed was taken aback. 'Do they communi
cate with each other? I'd have thought it likely.'

'Not according to Martin when I asked that same ques
tion. His reply, mind you, was vague as usual. He said, "We
all live our own lives. Haven't you heard that old saying -
'the bloodiest battlefield is the family
arena'.'"

'Doesn't tell us much.'

'Which seems to be Martin's way of conducting a con
versation. He'll chat for ages, but give you no information
at all.'

'Talking about relationships,' Paula began, 'maybe we ought to tell Jules about our strange visitor this morning.
Eva Brand.'

Tweed then gave Beaurain a full report of everything
Eva had said - including the fact that she was a niece
of Drew Franklin. When he had concluded, Tweed took out of his top drawer the drawing in ink of the cathedral
the motor-cyclist had delivered. Beaurain studied it for a
moment, threw it back on Tweed's desk.

'St Paul's Cathedral.'

'Exactly,' Tweed replied. 'Could it be significant?'

'Decoy,' Beaurain said dismissively.

7

'Is that Ali?' asked the voice on the phone.

Spoken in English, it was impossible to tell whether the caller was a man or a woman. The use of a voice-distorter
made the speaker impossible to identify.

'It is Ali from Finsbury Park,' the man inside the public
phone-box replied.

'Abdullah speaking. Is the consignment on its way. All
five of the transporters.'

'They are coming. On schedule. They arrive at their
destination at eight o'clock tonight.'

'I will call again, using the other number you gave, at
seven . . .'

Ali left the phone-box quickly. Located in a carefully chosen quiet area of London, it was rarely used, a fact
confirmed by constant observation.

The transporters referred to were milk wagons, each driving
south on a different road, the route they used every day at
this time. Innocent enough cargoes, on this occasion they carried more than milk.

At the bottom of each load was a larger container, swathed thickly in waterproof cloth. There was also a
thick cable wrapped round the container very securely.
The end of the cable had a handle attached to a strong
hook concealed just below the surface of the milk at the
rear of the vehicle.

Later, arriving at a farm with a large barn, purchased
weeks before, they would drive in. Once inside the barn the
wagon would be opened, a gloved hand would feel for the
handle, grasp it, hauling the metal container to the surface. Inside the barn it would be transferred to a small van with
the words
Fresh Fruit
inscribed on its outer bodywork. All
five vans, refrigerated, had also been purchased weeks
before. To bolster the supplier's confidence, a cheque
on a London bank had been paid in advance. It was the
supplier's understanding that a new company was entering
the business of providing fruit to larger supermarkets at
highly competitive prices.

The organizer of the operation, who used the name
Abdullah, was confident that if the milk wagons were
found, eventually, it would be too late. The spectacular and catastrophic attack would have occurred. Abdullah
had no doubt the casualties would run into thousands,
the dead casualties.

Inside each concealed container was a new weapon, the
warhead armed with an explosive of devastating power.

8

When Beaurain left Park Crescent both Tweed and Paula escorted him downstairs. At the bottom he paused, spoke very quietly to them so George, the guard, could not hear
what he was saying.

'Is there somewhere I could have a private word with
both of you?'

'Visitors' room,' said Tweed, crossing the hall and open
ing a door into a barely furnished room. He closed the door
as Beaurain looked round with a cynical smile.

'Don't make your visitors very comfortable, do you?
Wooden table, hard-backed chairs, nothing to read.'

'There are visitors I feel I should see but don't want them
to linger. What is it, Jules?'

'I want you to know that I'm flying to Brussels - there
and back in a day. I have made an appointment to see the
top Director of the Banque de Bruxelles et Liege. The place
where you told me a dubious lawyer in London sends the
rent money collected from Carpford. I want him to tell me
where it is forwarded to - I'm convinced it doesn't just sit
in Brussels.'

'But,' Paula objected, 'you did say Belgian banks are even
more security-conscious than Swiss banks.'

'True,' said Beaurain. 'Clever girl. Luckily I know
this man and I don't think he is aware I am no longer Commissioner of Police. It was kept quiet, my resigna
tion - maybe because I am popular with the people
for putting certain corrupt fat cats behind bars. I know
certain illegalities the man I am going to see has engaged in. Blackmail is a powerful weapon.'

'You're wicked,' Paula said with a smile. 'One more
thing. I was going to ask you if you know what lies behind
that tall brick wall extending from Victor Warner's property.
It's pure curiosity, I admit.'

'I imagine it's security,' Beaurain replied. 'Remember what
his position is. As for behind it, the ground slopes down steeply
and there's a lime pit and an old abandoned quarry.'

'How are you for time?' Tweed enquired.

'I must leave at once or I'll miss my flight. The bad news
is I'll be back.'

He hugged Paula, shook Tweed's hand, opened the door
and before they could leave the room he was gone.

'I'm going back to Carpford when I can,' Paula said as they climbed the stairs. 'I want to talk to those brothers -
Billy and Martin. Something odd about them.'

'Then you won't go on your own. If I'm tied up, Newman
can come with you.'

Newman looked up as they came in. He was grinning
sardonically. He spoke to Paula.

'I think you've made a conquest. Jules has really taken a
fancy to you.'

'Don't be so stupid,' she snapped. Sitting at her desk she
glared at him. 'Instead of making foolish remarks you might
as well help me. When I can I'm going back to Carpford. To see those two brothers, Martin and Billy. While I'm up
there I'd also like to call on Drew Franklin, your favourite
columnist. But when is he
there?'

'My favourite creep,' Newman told her. 'He'll be there
tomorrow evening. I know he likes to hide himself away
when he's typing his column. You'd better watch it. He
has a reputation for being a professional ladies' man.'

'That might help me to get him talking,' she teased
Newman. 'You think I'm his type?'

'He'll either tell you to go to hell or flatter the life
out of you. So you won't know whether you're coming
or going.'

'In case you didn't realize it, I have had experience
fending off numerous predatory males. I'll cope.'

'If I can, could I come with you? Unless you have Tweed
by your side.'

'Thanks. I'll bear it in mind.'

'And,' Newman warned, 'those Hogarth brothers -strange name - don't sound like the sort you'd ask to
dinner. Especially Billy.'

Tweed jumped up, began pacing as he gave orders to
Monica. 'I've a load of work for you. I want dossiers
compiling on all those people who live up at Carpford.
Where they came from, their associates, as far as possible.
Also a dossier on Victor Warner, the Minister. That will
have to be dealt with delicately. Finally, one on Eva Brand.
You've got her address, Paula.'

'Yes, she lives not far away from me in Fulham. Surely
you don't suspect her of something?'

'I'm not trusting anyone. Eva came charging in here with
her drawing of St Paul's. Can't imagine what that has to
do with Warner's apparent interest in a Colombian drug
cartel. Check her out. I'm also intrigued about the circle of
relationships in that village. The Hogarths are brothers, but
they're also cousins of Drew Franklin. On top of that Eva
Brand is a niece of Franklin's. Too much coincidence. You
know I don't believe in coincidences.' He extracted from
a drawer his detailed plan of Carpford and its inhabitants,
handed it to Paula. 'I'd like you to check that and show the
position of Black Wood. I'm not sure how far away it was.'

'Pretty close. I'll draw it in for you.'

'Tweed,' Monica called out after answering the phone. 'I have Pete Nield on the line for you . . .'

'Pete, how are you getting on. Haven't lost her, have
you?' he joked.

'As if we would. It's a bit odd. She first took a cab to the Ministry of Security. Was inside fifteen minutes. Then she
comes out, catches another cab and goes into the maze of
streets near Covent Garden. The cab waits while she walks out of sight of it and enters Monk's Alley, crouching to slip
under the crime scene tape. She uses a torch - it's dark
by now - and appears to be looking for something on
the ground. When she comes out she's holding a Beretta
automatic in her right hand which she slips inside her coat
presumably so the cab driver waiting for her a distance back
won't see it . . .'