Cell (30 page)

'I'd better call Buchanan,' Beaurain suggested, 'and give
him the good news . . .'

Driving with one hand, he hauled his mobile out of his
pocket, called the Scotland Yard man, gave him the news.
He finished the call and spoke over his shoulder.

'Buchanan is so relieved. Sends you his love, Paula. He
said he'd need to question you, but I told him that could wait for later.'

'He's such a nice man,' she said. 'And I've so much to tell
you . . . I've found out things . . . Don't have the faintest
idea where I was held after they grabbed me
...
I'd just left
Drew Franklin's place . . .'

'Later,' said Tweed. 'After you've had breakfast. Had
any sleep?'

'Only when I was drugged.' She pulled up the sleeve of
her windcheater to show the patch. Beaurain was watching
in his rear-view mirror.

'After breakfast,' he said crisply, 'we'll take you to a top-flight consultant, a friend of mine who only recently
retired. That needs checking.'

'I feel OK. Just so hungry.'

'Even so,' Beaurain insisted, 'when you've eaten we're
taking you to see Mr Manderson. He lives near the Peacock.
He can find out what they pumped into you. Don't argue.'

'I won't. I think a minute ago I nearly got hysterical.
Sorry.'

'Concentrate on what you'd like to eat,' Tweed ordered.

'Forget about Mr Manderson,' she said firmly. 'I'm OK. When we get back to Park Crescent, instead of burbling on I'm going to type a report about everything.'

'That,' Tweed agreed, 'is a good idea. Then I can quietly read whoever you interviewed. But type your report only
after you've had a good sleep.'

'Don't want sleep. While they are fresh in my mind I need to type the record. Sleep can come later. I had
a long conversation with Peregrin Palfry, an encounter with that "priest", Margesson, then a pleasant talk with
Billy Hogarth, despite the presence of his nasty brother, Martin. My last conversation was with Drew Franklin. It
was soon after leaving his house that someone clubbed me
on the head. I'll elaborate
later.'

'So,' Beaurain said thoughtfully, 'the last person you saw
before the attack was Drew Franklin. Interesting.'

'No more,' Tweed ordered. 'Breakfast is the first item on the menu.'

'Ali speaking,' the occupant of a quiet public phone-box
answered as the phone had rung. He made a point of
never using the same call-box twice. He carried a list of
the numbers and addresses of the phone-boxes, a list the
caller also held.

'Abdullah here. We are running out of time on this busi
ness operation. Report!' the distorted voice demanded.

'The consignments are ready to be transferred to the transporters.'

The bombs are ready to be moved to their final destination.

'Are the teams ready to be linked up with the consign
ments?'

'They are in place. They are ready to be moved to handle
the consignments when I give the order.'

'You have decided the best time for the consignments to
be delivered?' Abdullah rasped.

'Five thirty in the evening is a perfect time. The con
ditions we require will be at a maximum.'

The British casualties will run into thousands.

'And zero hour is when?'

'Three days from now I expect. Height is a factor.'

Ali listened. Again the connection had been abruptly
broken. He swore, left the phone-box. His car was parked just outside the sleepy village. He drove back to the farm.

Behind her desk at Park Crescent Paula was operating
her word-processor at top speed, preparing her reports
for Tweed. She was surprised at how even small details
of conversation came back easily. Not knowing what he would regard as important, she included every small item.
Her ample breakfast at the Peacock had powered her up again. She looked up suddenly.

'How long was I away?' she asked Tweed. 'I've no
idea.'

'About twelve hours.'

'Seems like twelve days. I have ready folders with reports
on my interviews with Peregrine Palfry and Margesson.
Plus a brief description of my visit first to Mrs Gobble's.'

'Please let me have them. I can start reading. I get the
impression of Palfry that he starts talking with caution, then
his tongue runs away with him. Right?'

'My impression too,' she agreed as she placed the folders
on his desk.

Monica was enjoying one of her rare five-minute 'breaks'
reading the newspaper. She grunted, folded a page to a
small item, took it over to Tweed.

'It's amazing the things people walk off with. Someone
has stolen five of those huge milk wagons which distribute to
various dairies. Vanished into thin air. What would anyone
want with milk wagons?'

'Let me see that,' Tweed said, his voice sharp. He read the
item. 'Taken from three different depots in the Midlands. I
hope the original drivers are still alive.'

'What makes you say that?' Monica wondered.

'Large transports.'
Paula glanced up. Tweed was staring
into the distance. He continued. 'What could they be
carrying - apart from the milk? Or, maybe, they were
carrying something lowered into the milk cargoes. They
were driving south in the dark when they vanished and radio communication with the depots ceased . . .'

'Can't be important,' Monica commented. 'I just thought
it was curious.'

'So curious I want you to get Buchanan on the line so
I can draw his attention to this mysterious development.
First three people go missing, then five milk wagons. A
pattern is developing . . .'

An hour later Paula had finished her reports. Tweed had
read them carefully. He sat back in his chair, arms folded
behind his head.

'Paula, I know you went through a shocking ordeal. If it's any consolation, the information in these reports is
priceless. I don't know yet what the attack plan is but
as in a dream I'm beginning to see the outlines of what
may be coming. What worries me is I sense we haven't
much time left. What is the target? How are they planning
to attack London? Who is the mastermind? Those are the
questions I need to have answers to. Before it is too late.'

'Is there someone we should question again?'

'Yes, there is.' Tweed had jumped to his feet as
Newman walked in, rushed towards Paula, wrapped his arm round her.

'You do know,' he said, 'you are the most valuable mem
ber of the team. Up at Carpford I could only wave when the
car passed me.' He looked round as Tweed put on his rain
coat. 'And where might you be going to? Not on your own.'

'To question the one individual who may be able to tell
us more than he has done. A certain Mr Pecksniff.'

'Then I'm coming with you. I can drive.'

'I'm coming too,' said Paula. 'I've finished your reports.'

'No,' said Tweed, pausing before opening the door.
'Sleep is what you need . . .'

'Yes!' Paula shouted at him, slipping on her windcheater.
'I will not be left out and I'm feeling alert.'

'I suppose,' Monica interjected, 'Roy Buchanan didn't
think much of the missing milk wagons story.'

'On the contrary,' Tweed assured her, 'he is phoning the
Chief Constable up there, telling him to organize a dragnet
to find those wagons. We must visit Mr Pecksniff
now.'

During the long drive through heavy traffic Paula asked
how Tweed had brought everyone to Carpford in the
middle of the night. He smiled grimly, sitting next to her while Newman drove their car.

'When I got back from dinner with Eva Brand and saw
your note I organized a general alarm. Called Bob, Marler,
Pete and Harry on their mobiles. Ordered them to head at
once for Carpford. Also called Buchanan who said he'd drive to the Downs immediately. When I arrived I woke up everyone, which wasn't popular but I was in a grim
mood so they soon changed their tune. In this way I traced
your movements, confirmed by your reports. The trouble was I didn't leave the dinner with Eva until midnight, so
everything was pushed into the middle of the night.'

'How did you get on with Eva?' she wondered.

'Very pleasurably. She was out to charm me. Wore a
low-cut dress, drank heavily and tried to persuade me to
do the same. Out to extract information from me. It was
a duel of wits, and she's a very smart lady.'

'Learn anything?'

'Her mother was killed in a car crash on a motorway five
years ago. No other relatives. Refused to talk about a father.
I'm intrigued about that. Glided over the missing two years
in her life Monica couldn't crack. Doesn't believe Special Branch has the talent to solve the mystery of the people
who've vanished. Said she couldn't understand what had
happened to Mrs Warner. Described her as a resourceful
woman. They'd met at parties, got on well together. Thinks
Peregrine Palfry is the Minister's lapdog, an opinion I'm not
sure I share. Believes the cleverest man living in Carpford is
Drew Franklin.'

'So she didn't slip up?'

'There's steel in that lady. Takes brains to be a top code-breaker.'

'I'm going to have to talk to her again.'

Tweed chuckled, smiled at her. 'You think you can crack
the ice maiden when I failed?'

'It's not that. Sometimes women will confide in another
woman when they're leery of men.'

No one said anything more until Newman announced they were nearly there. He suggested he parked the car in
a side street and walked the rest of the way.

'Incidentally,' he went on, 'last night Harry watched
Pecksniff's office until he was contacted by Tweed at close
to 1 a.m. The lights were still on, so presumably Pecksniff
was working late. No one called on him . . .'

He parked the car and they walked along a narrow street with half the old buildings unoccupied. No one about. No
sign of life behind the frosted glass windows of Pecksniff's
shabby office. Newman was about to press the bell when
he paused. The door was almost closed but not quite. He looked at Tweed who gestured for him to open the door
fully. Newman called out but no one answered. Again he glanced at Tweed.