Cell (28 page)

He walked over to his desk, took out a red pen, ringed round one short para. She went over to read it. Above and
below the para were snippets which were not complimen
tary about well-known people on the society circuit.

Have the police considered Linda Warner may have
gone off with a friend? Just one of other more draconian
possibilities. The Minister seems concerned about St Paul's
Cathedral. Does he really think September 11 could be
repeated here? A quite different form of attack seems more
likely. Al-Qa'eda are a very cunning organization.

'Isn't the first sentence libellous?' she wondered.

'Just checked it with our lawyer. He says it's all right.'

'Warner will go potty when he reads the reference to
al-Qa'eda. He's trying to keep any reference to them in
the press under wraps.'

'May wake up the PM at the eleventh hour. I am a
responsible journalist, Miss Grey.'

'You don't think Warner can handle the crisis then?'

'I don't think Warner
is
handling the situation. That para
will hit the Cabinet like a bombshell. Which is my motive.'

'You'll drive back to London with this copy in time to get it into tomorrow's edition?'

'You think I'm clueless, Miss Grey?' he said sarcastically.
'I shall transmit it to the editor over the phone tonight. Never
missed a deadline yet. Is Tweed beginning to get a grip on his
widespread investigation? The energy of your chief.'

'He's pursuing all leads,' she said cautiously.

'Oh, come on, Miss Grey! That's the kind of nonsense
statement the police issue when they don't know what they're doing.'

His tone dripped sarcasm. He folded his arms, walked
away and sat on the sofa. At no time since she had arrived had he stood close to her, let alone touched her. He crossed
his legs.

'Do give me credit for knowing what's going on, Miss
Grey. Instead of wasting time in London, examining the mutilated body of an informant called Eddie in Covent
Garden, he'd do better to come up here, grill everyone
of the sinister lot who live here. Tweed should be here,'
he snapped. 'At least you have come. Seen anyone else?'

'Yes, I have. Peregrine Palfry, then Margesson, who
slammed the door in my face. After that Billy Hogarth, who happened to have his brother, Martin, with him.'

'Martin? You're on the right track. You've done well so
far. Can't remember when I said that to anyone else.'

'I'd better go now.' She was putting on her windcheater.
'I would like to thank you for giving me so much time.
You'll want to transmit your latest commentary.'

'Yes, true.' He stood up, a lean athletic figure. 'How are
you going to get back to London? It's late.'

'I have my car parked safely away.'

He had accompanied her to the door which he opened.
He was close to her as he whispered in her ear.

'There's no safety up here . . .'

She started walking back to the shed where her car was parked. Drew Franklin had a powerful personality. She was almost sorry to leave him. If anything the fog seemed denser, an opaque cloud which swirled slowly round her. Made her feel nervous. She was still close to Drew Franklin's house when she sensed someone was behind her. She was turning her head when she was struck with a ferocious blow. She fell forward, diving into an endless abyss of darkness.

24

She woke slowly, had trouble thinking, felt as though she
had been drugged. Her eyes were closed. She kept them
closed, hoping her head would clear, her brain would start functioning.

Gradually she realized she was stretched out on her back
and lying on a bed of hard boards. Feeling was returning.
She listened for a long time, eyes still closed. Her arms were
stretched out, lying on her body. Something was pinioning
her wrists together. She was listening to check whether a
guard was with her. She heard nothing. A tomb-like silence.

It was cold. Gently she twiddled her toes. She was still wearing her boots. Where the hell was she? She risked
opening her eyes quickly. What she saw was not reassuring.
The room was square, the floor paved with stone slabs, no windows. Over to her right a heavy wooden door, a barred window in its upper half, a cover over the window on the
other side. She eased herself up, felt terribly stiff. How long
had she been lying here?

Her left arm ached, the sleeves of the windcheater had been pulled up. In her forearm where it hurt a plaster had
been attached. She
was
drugged. She raised her aching
arms, saw the rope binding her wrists together, with about
a foot of slack between the rope round her wrists. They had
also roped her ankles round the boots. Her legs had swollen.
Maybe they'd had trouble trying to take off the boots, had
given up trying.

With a great effort, she sat up, twisted her head to see
behind her. A stone wall with a peculiar plaque, a large
circle set into the wall. The plaque carried a symbol she
didn't recognize. She made no attempt to read the brief
Arabic wording.

She realized they had left her watch on her wrist. She
checked the time. Eight o'clock. In the night or in the
morning? She had no idea. She lay back in her origi
nal position, exhausted. She was hungry. A wave of her
helplessness swept over her. No good. She bit her tongue
carefully. The pain brought about sudden recovery. She began to think.

She realized for the first time her prison was illuminated
by a light in the ceiling, a light protected by a glass box with
thin wire bars. Presumably so it wouldn't be smashed by
the prisoner. She heard the cover over the window in the
door opening, closed her eyes, sagged back. Someone was
coming to see her.

Another sound. The turning of a rusty key in a lock. As
the door swung inwards she peered quickly through almost closed eyes. The man who entered was hampered, carrying a large-plastic container, a glass protected with clingfilm or
something similar.

She saw a tall slim man in his late twenties, his face
and arms brown, hair cut short. She closed her eyes as he re-locked the door, leaving the key on the inside of
the lock. The ceiling light went out. Most reassuring. She
heard him approaching the wide bed, putting what he'd
been carrying on the stone floor. He was close to her now.
He slapped the side of her face, spoke in English.

'Wake up! It must have worn off now.'

Another slap to the other side of her face. She opened her eyes. He held a large flashlight beamed on her head. She groaned, said something deliberately unintelligible. Her next words were clear but hoarse.

'Put on the friggin' light . . . Dopey . . .'

To her surprise he went back to the door, pressed a
switch. The ceiling light came on. Returning, he switched off the flashlight, laid it on the floor. She heard it rolling away under the bed. He rasped out his annoyance in a language she didn't understand. She made a great effort to divert his attention.

'You'll
...
go to prison . . . for this. For a long time.'

'You are the one in prison. Whether you ever leave it is
dependent on yourself.'

She was staring at him now. He wore a T-shirt and a pair
of blue slacks. The forearms exposed by the half-sleeved
T-shirt exposed more brown skin. His young face was smooth-skinned, the eyes dark, soulless. He stared at her
without expression. Egyptian was her best guess about his nationality. His arms looked strong, wiry. Difficult
to tackle. She deliberately exaggerated the hoarseness of
her voice.

'I'm thirsty . . . Water
...
I need . . . water.'

He nodded. Took the glass out of its protective covering,
poured liquid which looked like water from the canister. He
handed her the glass. She snarled at him.

'I've . . . been drugged . . . you drink first.'

'But of course.' He lifted the large container, drank from
it. She still held on to the glass without drinking. 'You see,'
he continued, 'just water. Nothing in it.'

Her throat was crying out with thirst. She forced herself to drink slowly. When the glass was empty, she shoved it at him. Her movements were difficult with her hands tied
together.

'More . . . more,' she croaked.

He refilled the glass, seated on the edge of the bed. She
took it from him. Again she compelled herself to drink
slowly. She was feeling half-alive now. Her brain ticked
over. How to handle him. Every time he spoke his face
had the awful blank expression. No emotion whatsoever.

'Now you answer questions,' he told her. 'Information is what I need. What does Tweed know? How far has he got with his ridiculous investigation?'

She stopped herself protesting at 'ridiculous'. Instead she
sagged back. She moved slowly, as though completely worn
out. She shook her head, slowly. She pretended to try and speak several times before the words came out.

'Can't think . . . feel drugged . . . Mind not working.
Sleep . . . must sleep.'

'Then I come back later. Then you answer questions - if
you want to leave your prison alive. Answer questions and
you are released . . .'

She was staring straight at him as he spoke, at his eyes,
so blank of feeling. She knew he was lying. If she had given
him information - which she had no intention of doing - she
would then be killed. Would disappear like the others.

'Later,' she said, 'I tell you . . . anything I can. Information.'

Her unexpected agreement to cooperate diverted him, as was her intention. He stood up, a lithe athletic young
man in the prime of condition. He took the glass from her,
picked up the canister, headed towards the door. He was
so smooth, his voice and his physical movements. It was
frightening. He unlocked the door, took out the key, went
out, closed and locked it behind him.

She sagged further back, eyes closed - in case he took a
second look through the window in the door. He didn't. She
felt she had won a small victory. The flashlight which had rolled under the bed was still there. It might be so useful to
her later. She wasn't sure how.

She sat up again. Leaning forward, ignoring her aching
body, she held her hands together, used one to feel down
inside her boot. The sheathed knife was still there. She
eased it out, pushed sheath and knife under her waist band.
The Beretta was still inside the other boot, but firing that
could be heard by Lord knew what other vicious thugs were
inside this place.

Where was she? She had asked herself a dozen times. Now
her memory was clearing. The last person she had called
on was Drew Franklin. It was shortly after she had left his
house that she had been clubbed on the back of the head.
Those concrete cubes could hide heaven knew what below
the ground. But it could have been someone else.