Cell (3 page)

'Sergeant Abbott,' she asked, 'is this exactly how it was
found? The ignition key is still in place. Was it turned
on?'

'No. It was exactly as you see it. You can get inside if
you wish, even sit behind the wheel. The lab people have finished going over it thoroughly.'

'Did they find anything?'

'One or two red hairs were found against the back of
the driver's seat. Compared with hair brought from her
home in London they match. Nothing else in the way
of fibres.'

Paula opened the driver's door, eased her way behind the wheel. She felt strange grasping the wheel. The pre
vious hands in this position had presumably been Linda
Warner's. She looked out at Buchanan, Tweed and Abbott
standing outside.

'The only window down is the driver's. Is that the way you found it.'

'It is, Madame,' Abbott told her.

'She parked on the wrong side of the road. Any signs of
another car coming up the hill which blocked her way?'

'I know what you're thinking,' Abbott said with a smile.

'That if it had been waiting there for a while it might have
leaked oil. We checked. Not a drop.'

'Would it be possible,' Paula suggested, 'for me to back
the car a short way round the bend - the way she would
be coming?'

'No trouble. I'll stand at the bend and beckon you so there's no danger of another vehicle coming down and driving through the tape. Lunatics are everywhere.'

Paula switched on the engine, kept a close eye on
Buchanan, beckoning her. Slowly she backed round the
sharp corner where a limestone crag protruded dangerously.
Stopping the car she tried to imagine she was Mrs Warner,
who would know the road. She drove forward, crawling, realized why the car had been found on the wrong side of
the road — it was the only way she could see safely round
the bend. Pulling
up at the exact point where the Porsche had been found, she sat, thinking.

'Something, someone stopped her.' She was talking to
herself. 'She had her window down so she could
hear if anything was coming.'

'Then,' suggested Buchanan, standing outside the win
dow, 'a man with a gun aimed it through the window, ordered her to get out. One theory.'

'A man?' Paula queried. 'Or a woman.'

'Abbott,' Buchanan called out as Paula slowly left the car, 'get this vehicle out of the way. I want to take my associates
up to Carpford.' He looked grimly towards Paula. 'You're
in for a shock.'

'I don't like it,' Paula said to Tweed as they followed
Buchanan beyond the bend and up another section of
steep hill.

'You think she's been kidnapped then?'

'I just hope to God that's all it is . . .'

They drove over a crest and Buchanan pulled in on to the
verge. A plateau stretched out before them. In the middle
was a large lake with a landing stage, a small yacht was
moored and the light was fading as wisps of pale mist
swirled in the distance.

'This is Carpford?' Paula asked. 'It's really weird.'

'Warned you were in for a shock. Look at the houses.'

Well spaced out and near the edge of the silent lake was
the oddest collection of dwellings Paula had ever seen. The
nearest to where they stood was a distance back from the
lake, perched on a small hill. It had a massive tower at one
corner with a mosaic-decorated roof rising high above the
three floors below. Attached to it were lower floors with tall
narrow windows. At the far end was a smaller tower with a
peaked roof.

'What is it?' Paula said aloud. 'It's almost Italianate in architecture.'

'Victor Warner's hideaway,' Buchanan told her. 'Called
Garda. Place is like a fortress. He's the only occupant who
had his place built to his specification. All the others are
rented.'

'Rented to who?' Tweed enquired.

'The New Age Development Corp. The rents are paid to
a dubious lawyer in London. He sends the money on to the
Banque de Bruxelles et Liege, a small bank in Belgium.'

'And it stays there?'

'We don't think so. But what happens to the money
we have no idea. You know how difficult it is to get
information from a Belgian bank. Much tighter even
than the Swiss.'

'I might know someone who can track it,' Tweed remarked,
staring round the lake.

Near the edge of the lake stood a dwelling reminding
Paula of a concrete blockhouse. Cubes of massive concrete
were piled on top of each other with circular windows carved out of the concrete. Tweed pointed.

'Who lives in that horror?'

'Drew Franklin, the most highly paid gossip columnist in
Britain. An awkward so-and-so. Told me the police always got it wrong, that he'd only answer questions with his lawyer present.'

'And who has the pseudo-Cotswold cottage beyond?'

'Mrs Agatha Gobble. Believe it or not, that's a shop
selling antiques. She'll talk if you approach her in the right
way. Gets going and you can't stop her.'

'Gobble?' said Paula. 'You must be joking.'

'No. That's her name. Trouble is she's a bit muddled in the upper storey.'

'And,' Tweed persisted, 'what about that two-storey
round wooden barn on the far side of the lake? First time
I've seen a round barn.'

'It is a house,' Buchanan assured him. 'Occupied by
Peregrine Palfry . . .'

'That's the name of Warner's assistant,' Paula inter
jected.

'The very same. Haven't been able to find him at home.
In London he's always away from the Ministry - or so
I'm told.'

'It's creepy,' Paula burst out. 'No one anywhere. A ghost
village.'

'Not quite,' Tweed told her. 'A few minutes ago, over
at the edge of Black Wood in the distance, a tall thin man wearing a long black overcoat was watching us through
field-glasses. He chose his vantage point well - his coat
hardly showed up against the wood. He's gone now. Van
ished suddenly.'

'Let's go and talk to Mrs Gobble,' Paula said firmly. 'She
might tell us something.'

'I'll wait here with the cars,' Buchanan decided. 'The
lady doesn't like me.'

'What do you think of Carpford?' Tweed asked Paula as he strode off briskly.

'It's not of this world. The atmosphere is frightening.'

* * *

The Cotswold-style house was more welcoming when they
reached it. The windows were bubble glass so, peering in,
Paula had trouble recognizing the array of small pieces
of so-called antiques displayed behind the glass. She saw
nothing she'd want to buy. When Tweed opened the door an ancient bell, hung above it on the inside, rattled away.
A small plump woman in her sixties, a string of large blue
beads round her neck, appeared behind the counter. Her
mouth was clamped tightly before she spoke.

'I'm just closing.'

'Mrs Gobble?' Tweed said politely. 'A lady friend of mine recommended your shop to me. She said the way
you presented your stock was a model of perfection.'

'Very good of her, I'm sure.'

'My name is Tweed. This is my assistant, Paula Grey.
Here are my credentials.'

Mrs Gobble examined the folder, stared at them in
surprise. She looked taken aback, handed Tweed his
folder.

'Secret Service. Praise the Lord, someone is taking seri
ously what happened to poor Mrs Warner. I told the police
she had been murdered. They pooh-poohed me.'

'Tell us why you are convinced she was murdered. You
saw something?'

'I know up here.' Mrs Gobble tapped her wide forehead.
'The rays of vision from above are always right.'

'You knew Mrs Warner then?'

'A lovely lady. Gave the village class. More than I can
say about the rest of them. They're all batty. Mrs
Warner
bought a small landscape. Best in the shop. No attempt to 'aggie over price.'

Paula realized Mrs Gobble had been, up to this point,
careful to 'talk proper', as she would probably put it. It
was Tweed's manner of speech which had influenced her.
She was wearing an apron decorated with strange symbols.
Paula's reaction was to think of witchcraft.

'Well,' Paula remarked, 'it's very peaceful and quiet round here.'

'Until the motor-bikes arrive.' Mrs Gobble's mouth
turned sour.

'Motor-bikes?' Tweed's tone sharpened. 'When do they
come?'

'Every second day - or rather night - one zooms up 'ere
at ten o'clock after dark. Makes me jump every time when
it roars past and round the lake.'

'Any idea where it's going to?'

'Mr Margesson's place. Don't like 'im. 'E's strange. Big
man with a beard, very unpleasant. Came in 'ere once,
walked round, was going out without saying a word. I
asked 'im why 'e'd come. Know what 'e said? "Just came to see what you're like." Then walked out.'

'He lives where?' Tweed persisted.

'Go over to the door. I'm switching out the light. Wait
and I'll come over . . .'

She walked to the wall and pressed an old-fashioned
switch. Standing by the door, they were plunged into darkness. Mrs Gobble joined them. She locked the door
and pointed. A crescent-shaped moon gave enough illu
mination to see across the lake. A heavy cloud bank had
settled over the village.

'See that funny round wooden 'ouse? Belongs to another unpleasant man, a Mr Palfry. To the left of 'is big tub, see
the Georgian style 'ouse with a glare light?'

'Yes. Quite clearly,' Tweed told her.

'That's where the motor-cyclist delivers a big white
envelope. He chats to Margesson for a moment, then 'e's
off on 'is wretched bike back this way and off towards the
main road.'

'Sounds like a courier,' Tweed remarked.

'Call 'im what you like, there's something funny about 'im. Told you 'e delivers a large white envelope to Margesson. At
ten at night. I took some rubbish to the village bin one
morning just after dawn it was. There in the bin was a large
white envelope. 'Adn't been opened.'

'You mean it was still sealed?' Paula asked.