Cell (33 page)

Warner was taken aback. He removed his pince-nez,
exposing his hawk-like nose. He took out a cloth, polished
the pince-nez, perched them back on the bridge of his nose.

'There is a lot in what you have just said,' he agreed, his
voice now normal, verging on the polite.

Paula suddenly caught on. Tweed was being very clever.
Realizing Warner was worried about his position in the
Cabinet, he had just been provided with the perfect way
to present the development to his colleagues.

Tweed has explained to me the meaning of the document. He
says the meaning of the document is to encourage collaboration between all the security services.

'May I make a suggestion about one way forward?'
Tweed asked.

'Certainly, my dear chap. I am all ears.'

'My Whitehall visitor had heard a rumour that Tolliver
is now head of Special Branch.'

'That is so. With Buller disappearing I had to appoint
someone to run that vital service. Tolliver is very able.'

'For some time,' Tweed continued, 'Special Branch
officers have worn a kind of uniform - camel-hair coats.
So much so that villains recognize them. I suggest a large number of Special Branch officers flood the main areas of
Central London. Buckingham Palace, St Paul's, Canary
Wharf, along the Thames Embankment.'

'What a brilliant, idea!' Warner smiled, as always an
insincere smirk. 'I'll get that organized the moment you
leave.'

'Then there are communications,' Tweed went on.
'Whoever is planning this attack has to communicate.
It's possible he does so with radio. You have a section which monitors certain radio transmissions. They could
be asked to listen for unusually heavy traffic. You have
code-breakers. One is sitting next to Miss Grey.'

'You are full of good ideas, even if we are already
listening. But I will direct that section to listen for any unusually heavy traffic. Tweed, I think it's time for us to
seal our pact with sherry.'

Tweed stood up. 'Thank you for the suggestion. Another
time, perhaps. I have to get back to Park Crescent.'

'Of course. Eva will show you out. I must deal with your
suggestions urgently . . .'

They had left the study. The door was closed when
Eva moved close to Tweed. She squeezed his arm as she
whispered.

'I can see even more now why you hold the job you do.
I'd never have dreamt you could turn him round the way you did.'

'The first rule,' Tweed told her, 'is self-control. You
can then adapt your tactics to whatever situation con
fronts you.'

'I'm still stunned . . .'

They had left the building and were walking to where
Newman had parked his car when Paula squeezed Tweed's arm.

'I'm wondering how Marler will get on at Carpford.'

27

Martin Hogarth's bungalow was a luxurious establishment. The walls were partly made of stone and above this expen
sive pine planks faced the wall. The front door, massive, was made of heavy oak and had three Banham locks.
Pinewood shutters were closed over slit-like windows. In
the dark lights from inside filtered through the shutters. Marler hammered on the iron door knocker, continued
hammering.

The sound of locks being turned. A blinding glare light
over the door was switched on. The door opened and a man
in his late thirties was framed in the light, a man holding
a gun. A 7.63mm Mauser with a long barrel, magazine
capable of holding ten rounds.

'Marler, SIS.'

He was holding up his identity folder open. It could
be clearly seen in the glare light. The slim man wore a
polo-necked sweater, green slacks. No shoes, his feet were
clad in white socks.

'Could you please stop pointing that thing at me?'
drawled Marler. 'Guns are dangerous.'

'Didn't you know,' the man sneered, 'we live in a dan
gerous world. You come making one helluva row knocking
on my door after dark. I have no idea what may be waiting
for me when I open the door.'

'You know now,' Marler said, tucking away his folder.
'So put the damned gun away. We need to talk.'

'By that,' the man continued sneering, 'you mean you need to talk. Doesn't mean I need any conversation.'

As he spoke he placed the Mauser on a table next to
the door. He nodded, indicating Marler could come in
- nodded as he might to a tradesman. His thick brown
hair was carefully coiffeured and below a sharp nose he
sported a trim moustache. Marler had already weighed
him up as a con-man, consumed with his
own vanity.
He walked into an expensively furnished drawing-room. Shaded wall-lights. The walls were painted a pale green.
There were framed pictures of girls wearing nothing except
inviting smiles. It all fitted in with the personality of the
owner.

There was another performance as all three locks on the
door were closed. Marler took the opportunity
to pick up
the Mauser by the barrel, to extract the magazine, putting
it in his pocket.

'Just in case we have a disagreement,' he explained,
placing the weapon back on the table. 'You are Martin
Hogarth?'

'You knew that before you started trying to kick the door
down.'

'It could have been a neighbour.'

'Let's get one thing clear from the start. I've already had
a visit from your lot. When I was with my brother, Billy,
that tart you employ wormed her way in.'

Marler hit Martin. A hard swift blow on the meagre chin.
Martin went over backwards, ended up on the deep pile
carpet, one hand nursing the chin. His shifty eyes were full
of venom as he slowly clambered to his feet.

'I'm reporting this to the Minister, Victor Warner,' he hissed. 'An unprovoked assault.'

'Do that. Waste of time. Don't come under his jurisdiction.' Marler's voice was calm, indifferent. 'But clean
out that mouth of yours. Maybe a good job I emptied the
Mauser? You look put out. While we're on the subject,

Miss Grey is a very professional woman, also a very
decent
one. Now, we'll talk.'

Marler perched himself on a silk-covered upright chair.
As he did so Martin opened a cupboard, brought out a
bottle of fine Scotch, poured himself a stiff one, swallowed it. He returned it to the cupboard without offering his guest
a drink.

'You have motor-cycle couriers calling on you at dead of
night,' Marler began. 'They bring large envelopes.'

'Nothing to do with me,' Martin snapped as he sprawled
in an arm chair, legs splayed out on the carpet. 'They park their damned machines against my bungalow wall at the
side. A ruddy nuisance.'

'So why not go out and tell them to park their machines
in Carp Lake?'

'I read the newspapers. Britain is as dangerous a place today as Afghanistan. They carry knives, not fussy about
using them.'

'You've been to Afghanistan then?'

The shifty eyes flickered. Wandered about the room.
Martin reached for his glass, realized it was empty.

'Good Lord no,' Martin replied after a few moments.
'Africa and Asia are full of savages. Trouble is we're letting
the blighters in here. They should beat them up when they
crawl in here and send them straight back . . .'

'How did you come to buy this bungalow?'

'What? Oh, saw an ad in
The Times.
Rented it, wasn't for
purchase. Got it for five years. Rent's extortionate . . .'

'You were vetted by Pecksniff then?'

'Vetted! Don't like that word at all. I did pay one visit
to the Dickensian old clot's office in the sewers . . .'

'Your Dickensian old clot has disappeared, probably
murdered. Why?'

'Hold on, Sweetie.' Martin got up, fetched the Scotch,
poured himself another stiff one. 'Cheers!' he said, raising
the glass.

Marler ignored the insult as Martin emptied the glass. He
sat very still while Martin sprawled again in his armchair,
clutching his glass. The silence continued and Martin felt
compelled to speak.

'Was there anything else?'

'Yes, I'm wondering why you chose this quiet isolated spot to live in. Not that it's quiet any more - not with four
murders to its credit.'

The shifty eyes again began scanning the room. Almost as
though its occupant was checking up to make sure nothing
was missing since his visitor's arrival. Martin was clutching his glass tightly.

'Four murders?' he enquired eventually. 'You've lost me.'

'Let me help you.' Marler began counting on his fingers.
'We have Mrs Warner, gone missing. Mrs Gobble, ditto.
Jasper Buller, Chief of Special Branch, ditto. Now Pecksniff,
ditto. Chief Superintendent Buchanan of the Yard, a most
experienced officer, now thinks all four were murdered.
Why? They knew too much. Maybe about the New Age
Development organization?'

Marler's barrage of interrogation was getting to Martin.
He shifted restlessly in his chair. Withdrawing his sprawled
legs, he sat up straight.

'I never knew any of these people.'

'You knew Pecksniff. You've just told me you met him.
And maybe,' Marler went on, remembering what Paula
had told him, 'you were worried about Mrs Gobble's
high-powered telescope observing what you did, who came
here.'

'Telescope? Sweetie, you've lost me again.'

'I think,' Marler decided, standing up, 'I have obtained the information I came for. I'll leave now if you'll kindly go through unlocking all those Banhams again.'

'Information?'

Marler made no reply as Martin went to the door, unlocked it. Opening it, he glared at Marler. 'Information? What information?'

'People never seem to know when they've talked too
much.' Marler turned on the doorstep outside and smiled.
'I don't think we'll be calling on you again. Unless, of
course, we come with an arrest warrant.'

His last view of Martin was of all the colour draining
from his face. Soon as he's barred and bolted the place
he'll run for the whisky bottle, he said to himself. A really well-worthwhile interrogation.