Cell (31 page)

Tweed peered through the stained-glass window in the upper half of the door. No good - it was too filthy to see
anything inside.

'Go in,' he ordered.

Newman, Smith & Wesson in his hand, entered, followed by Tweed and Paula, who was gripping the Beretta. While she had been imprisoned in Carpford they had taken her shoulder-bag, which contained her Browning.

The outer office was empty. There was a sinister silence.
Newman pushed open the inner door, walked a few paces
inside, stopped. Paula peered over his shoulder. This room,
Pecksniff's inner sanctum, was also empty. But the throne-
like chair he'd occupied behind his Regency desk was lying
on the floor, its back broken. The two hard chairs lay on
the floor intact.

Paula put on latex gloves, trod cautiously round the other side of the desk. Near the broken-backed throne chair was a
brownish pool on the carpet, a large pool. Blood. The filing
cabinet against the wall had been ransacked. It had been levered open with some kind of tool. There were files left in an open drawer. More files were scattered on the floor.

'Pecksniff has disappeared now,' Tweed observed som
brely.

Paula was rifling through the files remaining inside the
open drawer. She came to 'M' and then moved to 'P.' 'N'
was missing. The New Age Development file, she guessed.
She checked the files scattered on the floor. Not there.

'They've taken the New Age file,' she told Tweed.

'Bob,' Tweed said decisively, 'call Buchanan. Ask him to get over here. I fear this is the fourth murder.'

Buchanan arrived with his poker-faced assistant, Sergeant Warden, nicknamed by Paula the Wooden Indian. Warden
stared round the inner office, then gazed at the latex gloves
Paula was still wearing. He raised his thick eyebrows.
She gazed back at him. His manner had become like a regimental sergeant major's.

'You haven't been touching anything?' he barked. 'This
may turn out to be the scene of a crime.'

'I'm sure it is,' she told him. 'I have been searching for
a file on the New Age Development company. It's gone.

So whoever took away what was left of Mr Pecksniff was
after that file.'

'What was left of Mr Pecksniff?' Warden's tone was
outraged. 'How can you make such an assumption?'

'Furniture smashed to pieces. Files ransacked.' She paused. 'Then there's the blood on the floor.'

'Blood . . .'

'Sergeant Warden,' broke in Buchanan, a bite in his
voice. 'Would you be so good as to go now and examine the
outer office. You might close the door on your way out.'

Buchanan waited until Warden had gone. Then he waved
a hand round the wreckage. Tweed showed him the stained
area discovered by Paula. The chief superintendent bent
down, used a finger to touch part of the large discoloured
patch. He straightened up.

'What do you think this is all about?' he asked Tweed.

'I'm worried that whoever is directing this operation is closing up loopholes. That suggests to me we are danger
ously approaching the climax. As for Pecksniff, this is the
fourth disappearance - probably the fourth murder.'

26

'You have to go straight over to Downing Street to see the
PM,' Howard, the Director, fired at Tweed the moment
he walked into his office past Monica.

'There's been a development?' Tweed asked.

'I'll say there has!'

Howard was a tall well-built man in his fifties. He wore
an expensively tailored blue suit from Savile Row, a white
shirt from a Jermyn Street shirt-maker, a blue Hermes tie and a pair of hand-made shoes. As usual, he sat in one of
the armchairs, one leg draped over an arm. He had a large
head with recently trimmed brown hair, turning white at
the temples, a strong nose under blue eyes and, below
an amiable mouth, a jaw suggesting energy but without
aggression.

His main function was to keep in touch with Whitehall
mandarins he secretly regarded as fools. His bland manner
went down well with them and, behind his back, Paula had
nicknamed him Mr Bland.

'Tell me,' Tweed said as Paula slipped past him, smiling
at Monica before she sat at her desk.

Newman came in last, nodded to Howard and perched on the edge of Paula's desk. Howard's upper crust voice
got on his nerves.

'First . . .' Howard waved a manicured hand '. . . I
want to tell you, Tweed, I greatly appreciate the way you
have kept me fully informed of what has been going on.

Frightening. Better get over to the holy of holies now. Be
very blunt with the PM.'

'There's been another disappearance, probably the fourth
murder,' Newman said casually when Tweed had left.

'What!'
Howard jerked upright, his pink face flushing.

Newman explained in as few words as possible their visit
to Pecksniff's office. Howard stood up, flicked a piece of
cotton off his sleeve.

'Can't get a decent tailor these days. My God, Newman,
what is happening?'

'Tweed thinks a major al-Qa'eda attack on London is pretty imminent.'

'Well, it's all down to Tweed. Maybe in the nick of
time.'

'What does that mean?' Paula asked.

'Can't tell you, my dear, until Tweed comes back. All
hush-hush. Won't be for long. I'd better get back to my
office. In case something else blows up . . .'

'Paula,' Monica said, when Howard had gone, 'while
you were in the loo, Tweed said your report had put him on the right track.'

'My report of my interview with who? I visited Mrs
Gobble's shop, had a long talk with Peregrine Palfry,
a confrontation with Margesson, a friendly chat with
Billy Hogarth, a few words with his peculiar brother,
Martin, then the last one with Drew Franklin. Which
one?'

'He didn't say.' She looked at Paula. 'You really should
go home and get some sleep.'

'Think I will. I'm dropping.' She looked at Newman. 'Bob, could you drive me there?'

'We're on our way now . . .'

Marler, Butler and Nield were in the office when Tweed came back. He was carrying a large envelope and his
expression was abstracted. He gave Monica his raincoat,
sat down and extracted a typed sheet headed
Downing Street,
handed it to Marler.

'You might as well be the first to know.'

Marler read it without showing any reaction. He handed
the document back to Tweed. Taking out a cigarette he
then spoke.

'Thank God!'

'What is it?' several voices wanted to know.

'Tweed,' Marler said, in a grim voice, 'has been appointed
as Commander of all the security services. Including the
Ministry of Security, Special Branch, the police and anyone
else he wants to rope in.'

'Lordy!' exclaimed Monica. 'It is all down to Tweed.'

'Strictly within these walls,' Tweed explained calmly,
'the PM is scared stiff. He has appointed me Supremo -
his word, not mine. I may need the SAS - its commander
has been sent a copy of that document. As have the chiefs of all other services. Bob, you know the number. Can you
get a senior officer on the line for me?'

'I can get Sarge, the man who ran the unit which trained
me when I wrote my article on them. Through him I should
get the man you want. I'll try now.'

'The SAS!' Monica said excitedly. 'The balloon is really
going up.'

The team was still up to full strength in Tweed's office
when the phone rang. Monica seemed to have trouble with
the caller. Persistently she asked for the caller's identity but was obviously getting nowhere.

'What is it?' Tweed called out.

'Someone on the phone with a funny voice, cockney, as
far as I can gather. Important information they can only give you. Could be a hoax.'

'I'll talk to them . . . Tweed here. How can I help?'

'Got information. Can't 'ang round 'ere much longer.'

'Then tell me.'

'Got the name of the boss of Alqueerda. Know what I'm
on abaht?'

'Yes.'

'It's Abdullah. Runs that gang of killers.'

'Where is he based?'

'No idea. You've met with it. Got to scarper . . .'

'Wait a minute.'

The line had gone dead. Tweed told everyone what he
had been told. So far as he'd been able to tell the caller
was talking through a handkerchief to disguise its identity.
Couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.

'Hoax call,' Newman said dismissively. 'Abdullah is a
common Arab name!'

'I wonder,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'The caller said
I'd met with it. I haven't met any cockneys recently. I'm inclined to believe the caller knew what it was talking
about. Also it's odd I should receive that call soon after the
mandates giving me full powers will have reached everyone
concerned. The PM was sending copies out by couriers the
moment I left to come back here.'

'Can't see the significance,' Marler commented.

He had just made his remark when the door opened
and Paula walked in, followed by Newman, who spread his hands in a gesture of frustration.

'Don't blame me. She's had less than five hours' sleep
but she insisted on taking a quick shower and came straight
back here.'

'I feel fine,' Paula said emphatically. 'Ready for anything.
Any progress while I was in the land of nod?'

She had perched herself on the edge of her desk instead
of sitting in her chair. Dressed in a black trouser suit, she
was swinging her legs under the wide kneehole, the picture
of energy.

Tweed stood up, walked over, handed her the document
he had brought back from the PM. She read it slowly, twice.
She looked serious as she handed it back.

'Maybe in the nick of time,' was her reaction.

'We don't know that, do we?'

There was a bite in Tweed's comment. Paula had noticed
in the past there were rare occasions when he
spoke in that tone. Always when he was concealing great anxiety.

'We have no vital data,' Tweed continued. 'As I keep
reminding all of you, we need three things. Target, identity
of the mastermind, timing of the attack. We have none of
these. So I want all three within twenty-four hours.'