Cell (13 page)

'Abdullah' had hammered home this instruction to Ali.
In the rare event that a van was stopped by a police car the
driver would hand the keys to an officer, standing back.

When the officer opened a door an avalanche of heavy
pots carrying plants would descend on him, possibly knock
ing him out. That would curb a patrol car's officers from probing any further into the van. Similar 'barricades' had been built up against the locked doors of the three 'florist's' vans.

Ali checked his watch. They were keeping to the timing.
The master planner had insisted the vans, departing sepa
rately, should drive south so they would be caught up in the London rush hour. Hardly a time when police would
be stopping vehicles and adding to the chaos. As with the
planes which had flown into the World Trade Center in
New York, everything had been thought of. London was doomed.

11

Paula, clad in a pale orange suit, glanced back through the
rear window of the cab taking her to the Ivy. She couldn't
rid herself of the feeling that she was being followed.

There were three cars behind her cab, but close behind
the third car was a motor-cyclist. Black leather gear, a large
helmet which concealed his face, the shape of his head.
She'd thought she had heard a motor-cycle start up soon
after the cab left her flat.

It was night, but the Strand was well illuminated. Street lights and shop windows glowing. They were close to the restaurant when she looked back again. The motor-cyclist
was now behind her. She decided to pay the cabbie now, gave him a generous tip. As he pulled in to the kerb she
threw open the door, jumped out, and ran to and inside the
Ivy. The manager told her Miss Brand was already waiting,
at their table.

She followed him into the spacious restaurant. Already
the place was almost full. Eva wore a close-fitting dress of
gold with a high collar. She jumped up to kiss Paula and a
bottle of Krug was nestling in an ice bucket.

'You look ravishing,' Paula said as she sat down. 'Gold
suits you.'

'And your suit is so smart,' Eva replied with a wide smile.
'Now we've told each other how good we look let's have a
toast.' She raised the glass the waiter had just filled. 'Here's
to crime.'

'I prefer here's to the destruction of criminals.'

'Excuse me.' Eva chuckled. 'That was the toast we used to drink at Medfords, the security lot. Without crime we'd
have been out of business. Mind if I smoke? Thanks.'

'I was really thinking of Mr Warner. A disappearance is
in a way even more disturbing than a body. You wonder
and wonder. Victor Warner conceals his emotions well but
he must be going nearly crazy.'

'I agree.' Eva played with her cigarette in an ashtray. 'She
was a nice lady. Like me she was a linguist.'

'You knew her then?' Paula asked.

'I met her at several panics. She loved England. Said
she'd travelled but there was nowhere in the world like it.'

'What languages do you speak then?' Paula asked, look
ing up from the menu.

'Oh, French, Arabic, Spanish and Italian.'

'Arabic? That's impressive.'

'Medfords once sent me to Cairo after a man who'd absconded with a large sum of money. Now,' she said
quickly, 'see anything that appeals?'

They ordered. Both avoided starters and Paula ordered
the salmon fishcake. She had the impression Eva wished to
get the conversation away from Arabs and Arabic. Determined that they would not just indulge in chit-chat, Paula
changed the topic.

'What do you think has happened to Mrs Warner?'

'Who knows?' Eva waved an elegant hand. 'Kidnapped?'

'Then why no ransom note? I happen to know that is the case. After three long weeks.'

'It's a mystery others must solve. I heard your people are
working hard on the case,' commented Eva.

'Among other things. So you're also fluent in Italian. I
imagine you've been to Italy?'

'Rome, Florence and Verona. And Milan.'

'So when were you last in Milan?' Paula asked with
a smile.

'If I didn't know you have perfect manners,' Eva began,
her smile gone, her large dark eyes staring, 'I would get the
impression you are interrogating me.'

'Now why would I do that?' Paula enquired with a
smile. 'Is there some significance about Milan? Do tell.'
She sipped her champagne. 'This is wonderful. I suppose you can get it in Milan,' she persisted. 'I've heard in Italy they push their own vintages.'

Eva, her expression neutral, buttered a piece of bread.
She ate it before wiping her wide mouth.

'Italy does have some excellent wines. But of course,
if you stayed at a top hotel you could get anything you
fancied.'

She's evaded my question, Paula thought. Why? They
began to chat about well-known people occupying tables
a distance from them. Eva showed a malicious side to her
humour.

'I do detest that fat pig over there. I avoid pop stars
like the plague. Why have they become so important -
self-important might be a better description. Making a
fortune out of a ghastly row they call music. The fat
pig has just looked at me and then obviously turned his head away. Maybe he can lip-read.' She chuckled. 'I do hope so.'

A skinny young man in a white suit who was not com
pletely sober came to their table, grasped Eva's wrist below
her full cuffs. His sensuous lips were open in an inviting smile, exposing bad teeth.

'Miss Eva Brand, if my eyes do not fool me. I'm Joe
Yorkie, lead singer with the Busy Bees. Got a yacht in the
Med. I could fly you down there.'

'If you don't remove your hand off me this plate of
omelette is going to end up all down that silly white
suit.' She took hold of the plate with both hands, began
to lift it.

'Don't . . . thin . . . think you're my type.'

'Then fly down to the Med, dive off the deck and don't
bother to come up again. Shove off, you nobody.'

Eva's tone was vicious. Paula stopped eating, convinced
the omelette would end up on the suit if the drunk didn't
get the message. He did, staggering a little on his way back
to his table.

Eva smiled, as though nothing had happened. 'Now,
what were we talking about?'

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with both women
chatting about this and that. Paula was careful to keep
away from any more controversial subjects. After coffee
she checked her watch.

'Eva, it has been an evening for me to remember, but I
have to leave. A business appointment,' she fibbed, 'at this
hour. Such is life. And thank you again.'

'Do you mind if I wait?' Eva suggested with her wide
smile. 'A friend is coming to have liqueurs with me. I still
do the odd job for Medfords. Damned if I know why . . .'

Paula was collecting her coat in the lobby as the girl was
about to help her on with her coat. Hands appeared behind
her, grasped the coat.

'Allow me,' Peregrine Palfry said cheerfully. 'Don't for
get we're having dinner some time. You really do look so
devastating I could melt.'

'Thank you very much, Mr Palfry . . .'

'All my friends call me Perry. Please.'

Palfry, his smooth skin gleaming in the light, was wearing
a dinner jacket. His greenish eyes held hers as he kissed her
on both cheeks.

'Have a care,' he concluded.

Paula pretended to take time buttoning her coat, stepping
back so she could see into the restaurant. Palfry bent down
and hugged Eva, then sat down opposite her and began talking animatedly, waving his hands.

'That's weird,' Paula said to herself and walked out into the freezing night. They were waiting for her the moment
the door closed behind her and she stepped on to the
pavement.

A short, heavily built man in working clothes, with a cap pulled well down over his swarthy face, grabbed her right forearm tightly. Since it was the right forearm Paula could
not reach down for her Browning. Another even larger man
with a bald head grasped her left arm.

'Got a limo to take you 'ome,' snarled the brute with the
cap. 'Ups-a-daisy.'

Helpless, she knew her feet were about to be lifted off the
pavement while she was carried to the limo. Harry Butler
appeared out of nowhere, slammed a haymaker into the man with the cap.

'Shouldn't have done that, you piece of rubbish,' Harry
rasped.

Her right arm was released and the grip on it had been so savage she could hardly move it. At the same moment, Pete
Nield, also appearing out of nowhere, hit the bald-headed
man with his stiffened right hand against the side of his
neck, followed it up by a vicious punch into the kidneys. Blinking, but free, Paula stepped back.

This was only for starters. Harry's first punch had hit
the attacker in the stomach and his target was bent for
ward, groaning. Harry jerked up his metal-rimmed boot
between the man's legs. His target screamed, bent over the
pavement. Harry rammed his head down on to the stone pavement. Paula heard something crack.

Pete now had a choke hold on Bald Head whose tongue was protruding from between his thick lips. While all this
took place, Paula saw Newman running to the limo where
a driver waited behind the wheel, his window up. Newman
reached in through the open window with his left hand,
pressed the button, closing the window. While it was partly
open he tossed a smoke bomb inside. The driver stopped
trying to release his seat-belt as acrid smoke filled the
interior. He began to cough, spluttering, unable to leave
his seat. Newman brushed his hands together, dived into
his waiting car, drove it over to where Paula waited.

'Take you home, lady. Only a modest charge . . .'

She was already seated in the front passenger seat and
he drove off as she fastened her seat belt. She looked back.
Harry and Pete were still hammering at the two thugs who were now lying on the pavement. She had little doubt both of her attackers would be crippled for weeks.

'How come you were there? You saved my bacon, as
they say.'

'Tweed's idea. He was nervous about that dinner at the Ivy, sent out Pete and Harry to wait for you. I decided to join the party.' He chuckled. 'Driver of that limo waiting
to cart you off somewhere is having a smoke.'