Cell (23 page)

'Don't be silly,' Tweed told him mildly. 'You're probably
in serious trouble.'

'The door is there.' Pecksniff had stood up. He pointed a quavering finger. 'This interview is concluded.'

'We tried to do it the easy way.' Tweed sighed as he stood
up. 'We can find our own way out.'

They left the building. Harry unlocked the doors, slipped the Mace canister under his seat. Seated behind the driving
seat, he turned round.

'Any luck? You've been very quick.'

'He won't talk.'

'Paula,' Harry suggested. 'While I'm away lock the doors.
Get into this seat. I may be a while.'

Stepping out, he waited until Paula was behind the
wheel, closed the door. Standing in front of the solici
tor's door he stretched, widening his hefty shoulders. His
thick thumb pressed the bell, held it pressed. He had
his folder in his hand as the door opened. Swiftly he
thrust it into Pecksniff's face, giving him little chance to
examine it.

'Special Branch. I'm coming in . . .'

Harry pushed past Pecksniff, grabbed him by the arm, kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, hauled his
captive into the inner office, used his foot again to kick the
inner door shut, then pushed the solicitor towards the chair
behind his desk.

'That looks like where you hold court.'

'I'm a solicitor . . .'

'Sit down.'

Harry pushed one of the hard chairs closer to the desk, sat. Pecksniff, looking dazed, resumed his normal seat on his throne. He was looking more normal. Which would never do. Harry leaned both meaty forearms on the desk.

'That filing cabinet over there will have the papers. Get
them out.'

'What papers?' A vague hint of indignation.

'The New Age development gang!'

'I have already told the man who came in before you . . .'

Harry half stood up. His right hand whipped out, grabbed
Pecksniff by the wing collar, tightened it. He hauled him out
of his tall chair so he was stretched halfway across the desk,
his own face close to the solicitor's. His voice was quiet and,
like his expression, menacing.

'Now listen to me, Peckysniff. I have a short fuse. This
ain't just about a property development. We'll have you for
obstruction for starters. But there's more. You could go
down as accomplice in two murders. So open the cabinet
before I loses my temper.'

'Two murders . . .'

Pecksniff's voice was garbled, half-choking on Butler's
grip. Butler sniffed again. Thought he'd caught the fumes
of whisky when he'd entered. He relaxed his hold, jumped up, brought back a smeared glass from a side table, planted
it in front of Pecksniff.

'Where's the bottle? Have a tot. Settle your nerves.'

Pecksniff, ashen-faced, tried to adjust his collar, then
opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk, brought out
a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He removed the top and was
on the verge of drinking from the bottle when Harry
stopped him.

'Don't do it like that. You'll choke. Pour it into the glass
first. That's what the damned thing's for.'

A lot of rattling. Harry, arms crossed, watched as Pecksniff
poured a strong tot into the glass, held the shaking glass, looked at his visitor. Harry shook his head. Earlier he had
used a handkerchief to pick up the glass. No fingerprints.

Pecksniff drank the whisky in two swallows. He sighed.
Pale colour was coming back into his face. He put the glass
down next to the bottle where he could reach it. His voice
was hoarse.

'Two murders?'

'Yes. Mrs Gobble at the shop in Carpford. The other one
will make you think. Mrs Warner. Linda Warner. Wife of
the Minister for Home Security. You could be in line for
both - unless we get cooperation.'

Pecksniff sighed again. Standing up, staggering a little,
he took a ring of keys from his pocket, made his way to the
cabinet. Unlocking it, he stooped, hauled out a fat green folder, placed it on the desk.

'It's all in there. Records of money transmissions, monies
concerning Carpford.'

'There are some very large amounts here,' Harry said after
riffling through the sheets. 'One for £200,000. Another,
quite recently, for £400,000. All this for rents? Come
on.'

'He said they were for renovations at Carpford.'

'Who said that?'

'Gerald Hanover. The man who organized the creation
of New Age, who supervised the building of the village. He
also checked the credentials of the tenants. Except for one.
He wanted an unmarried woman - or a widow - to take charge of the shop. She was to keep an eye on the other tenants. A simple soul, he said. I interviewed those who
answered an ad in
The Times.
I thought Mrs Gobble fitted
the bill. A simple soul. It did strike me as odd, but Hanover
paid me generous fees.'

'What does this Hanover look like?'

'I have no idea. Always gave instructions on the phone.'

'What did he sound like?'

'Very odd. The voice was so distorted I couldn't decide
whether it was a man or a woman. Victor Warner infuriated
Hanover when he slipped in and bought a large piece of
land they'd overlooked. I didn't handle that transaction. I suppose Warner has some big solicitor in the City.'

The dam had broken. It had all come tumbling out because he was frightened. The whisky had probably
helped.

'Ever try to trace Hanover?' Harry asked casually.

'Well . . . once. I used the four numbers which provide
the number that calls you. Turned out it was a call-box
in Berkeley Square. I rang a long time and a passer-by eventually answered, told me the number and where this phone-box was.'

'Nothing but the best for Mr Hanover. Berkeley Square.
How was the money delivered to you?'

'By one of those big international transport firms who
want a signature. That really is all I know about New Age.'
He paused, his voice shook. 'I won't hear any more about
those two murders, will I? I cooperated.'

'I can't promise, but I very much doubt it. Providing
you never tell Mr Hanover about my visit. If you do we
shall know.'

20

Tweed and Paula stepped inside the luxurious lift with its
gilded mirrors and red leather seats. Tweed had decided Victor Warner must be working away from the Ministry
and inside his flat in Belgravia. As the elevator ascended,
Paula glanced round.

'Some people live in style.'

'He has money,' Tweed told her.

'I know. From some brand of laxative.'

Mrs Carson, the forbidding grey-haired housekeeper,
opened the apartment door. She was polite but distant.

'Good afternoon, Mr Tweed. I didn't know you were
expected.'

'I'm not. This is an emergency . . .'

The Minister looked up from a desk in the palatial living-
room, hastily scooped up a pile of papers, put them inside
a Cabinet red box, closed it. He stood up, tall, agile and
bad-tempered. His hawk-like face was grim, his eyes glittered
behind the pince-nez, his voice was crisply upper crust.

'People call for an appointment, they don't come barging
in without notice.'

'Yes, I know. I recall your summons via him.'

He pointed to Palfry, seated on a sofa when they arrived.
He had now stood up with an unctuous smile. The small
neat man tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.

'Either of you . . .' he gave Paula a beaming smile 'could
have contacted me but I sense an urgency about you. Is there a problem?'

'Of course there is. I imagine you both know a very major
attack is expected on London soon. Or doesn't that bother
you?' he suggested, staring straight at the Minister.

'Please do sit down, make yourselves comfortable.' Palfry said quickly, ushering them to a sofa facing Warner's chair sideways on. 'We are all on the same side.'

'Most reassuring,' Tweed responded in an unconvinced tone.

As they sat on the sofa Warner was still standing, glaring.
With obvious reluctance he swung his chair round to face them, slowly sat down. Even seated he appeared tall, lean.

'Have you ever heard of Gerald Hanover?' Tweed snapped.

'Who?' Warner polished his pince-nez, perched them back on the bridge of his prominent nose.

'Gerald Hanover,' Tweed repeated.

'Can't say that I have. Who is he?'

'Oh, probably the key piece in this deadly game of chess we are playing with the invisible enemy
...
So far that's all
we know.' He paused. 'Could be a man or a woman . . .'

The door opened and Eva Brand walked in, carrying a
tray with tea for three. Paula stared as Eva placed the tray where they could reach it. She blew a kiss at Paula. Again Palfry spoke up quickly, smiling amiably.

'This is Eva Brand. I think you know her, Miss Grey.
Eva, her companion is Tweed of the SIS.'

'Happy to meet you,' Eva said, as though she had never
met Tweed in his office. 'How do you like your tea? It's Earl Grey. I hope that is acceptable.'

'It is most acceptable and very kind of you,' said Paula, who had taken over Palfry's role of covering for her host.
Tweed was sitting in grim silence.

'Eva,' Palfry went on explaining, 'is a close friend of
mine. An exceptionally intelligent lady.'

'Does a bit of work for us,' growled Warner, annoyed
at others taking over the conversation. 'Nothing secret, of
course.'

'Then that may make some of what I have to say awk
ward,' Tweed snapped.

'Don't worry, my dear chap,' Warner said, smiling acidly.
'Miss Brand was with Medfords Security. She is the epitome
of discretion.'

'I suppose you've heard,' Tweed plunged forward, 'that
the head of Special Branch, Jasper Buller, has disappeared.
In very similar circumstances to those of your wife - and
Mrs Gobble.'

'It's distressing, disturbing.' Warner gazed at the ceiling.

'It's more than that. It could be mass murder,' Tweed
went on brutally. 'And it centres on that weird village,
Carpford. We need to tear the place to pieces.'