Cell (39 page)

'We want to go and wake him gently.' It was Tall Thin
talking.

'It will be a shock, so we won't tell him until he's really
woken up. Which room is he in?'

'Number 16 . . .'

'Then if you loan us your master key we can be sure not
to startle him too much. See what I mean.' Now it was Short Tubby speaking. 'He was very fond of his mother.'

'Not nice,' the dopey receptionist mumbled, reaching for
the key, handing it to him. 'Up those stairs, to the second
landing, then turn right.'

'We appreciate this,' Short Tubby said in his hoarse
voice. He picked up the key.

'Gentlemen, I suggest we discuss this in the parlour -
that door over there,' Pete said quietly. His Walther was
pressed into the back of Tall Thin. 'This gun holds eight rounds - it will blow your pal's spine into two pieces.'

Tall Thin had frozen. Short Tubby slipped his hand
inside his jacket. Pete shook his head at him, his eyes
cold as ice.

'You have one second to show me that hand - without anything in it. I'm going to pull the trigger.'

Short Tubby's hand whipped out, empty, even faster than
he had inserted it. The night clerk was staring, her mouth
open, standing still as a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's.

'Now,' Pete continued in his deadly quiet tone, 'we'll all go into that parlour, sit down and discuss the situation. You go first, Fatty. Walk very slowly.'

'Call the Yard,' Pete said over his shoulder to the woman.
'Ask for Chief Superintendent Buchanan. Tell him where
this place is, tell him to send armed men. Now,-gentlemen,'
he went on, talking to the two men, 'do walk slowly, I beg
you, if you want to see the dawn . . .'

Short Tubby kept both of his hands by his sides, palms
outwards as he took slow steps into the parlour. Pete
prodded the Walther harder into Tall Thin, who followed
his partner.

Inside the small parlour, decorated with a palm plant in
a pot, badly in need of water, and a few wicker chairs, Pete
kicked the door shut behind him.

'No!
Don't sit down,' he ordered in the same Siberian
voice, as Short Tubby was about to occupy a chair. 'Walk
slowly to that wall. Now press your face against it, then
lift the hands high above your head, press them against the wall. If you look round I'll be the last person you ever see.
You stand very still,' he
ordered Tall Thin, his Walther still
pressed into the thug's spine.

From behind he used his left hand to pat and feel over his
body. Under his left armpit he found the gun, withdrew it
from the shoulder holster. A Webley-Fosbery, fully loaded.
He continued to search, felt something round and hard in
his overcoat pocket. A silencer, ready to be screwed on to the weapon before it was used to kill the sleeping Billy.

Pete's expression became even grimmer. He slipped Tall
Thin's gun and silencer into his pocket. Reversing his Walther, holding it by the barrel, he brought the weapon
down with savage force on the back of his captive's head.
Tall Thin fell forward, unconscious, landed in one of the
wicker chairs.

'Don't look round!'
he hissed at Short Tubby.

Approaching him quietly, he rammed the Walther into Short Tubby's spine. He proceeded swiftly to search him.

Another shoulder holster from which he extracted a Colt .455, also fully loaded. Slipped that into his other pocket and continued searching. Nothing else, no silencer, but he hadn't expected one considering the weapon. He also now
had two wallets shoved inside his pocket. They could be examined later. He also had the master key, which Short Tubby had put in his trouser pocket.

'Stay where you are. Quite still. I'm going to sit down
and then we can . . .'

He was still speaking when he smashed his gun down
on the fat man's head. He jumped back as Short Tubby
slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He
checked both men's carotid arteries, found them ticking
over. He reckoned it would be an hour before they regained
consciousness.

Leaving the parlour, he closed the door. The night clerk
woman was sitting behind her counter, absorbed in looking
at one of the cheaper women's magazines. She looked up,
went back to her magazine.

'Did you call Superintendent Buchanan at the Yard?'
Pete asked.

'Don't know the number.'

Pete raised his eyes towards the ceiling. She was no longer
looking at him. He took a deep breath. There was 999.

'Give me a piece of paper.'

She scrabbled below the counter. Eventually she found a
notebook with creased pages. He wrote down the number,
Buchanan's name and rank, then his own name.

'This is serious,' he snapped. 'Here is the number, the
name of the man you need to speak to, and my name, which
he will want. Tell him to send two patrol, cars with armed
men. Tell him I said it was
urgent.'
He added that word
to the notepad, underlined it. 'Give him the name of this hotel, the address. The two men who came in are waiting in the parlour, don't wish to be disturbed. Do it now.' He
took out a five-pound note, gave it to her. She woke up,
grabbed the note. 'They will give you more money when they arrive,' he fibbed.

He ran upstairs, followed the instructions she had given the two killers. Billy Hogarth woke quickly, did not seem
worried when Pete said he was moving him to another
hotel. He dressed quickly, picked up the case he hadn't
unpacked, fetched his shaving-kit bag from the bathroom,
tucked it under his arm and they went downstairs.

Dopey Woman was talking on the phone. Pete listened. She'd garbled his instructions but given enough
for Buchanan to react. Pete paid the bill with cash, hustled Billy down the steps and into his car. It was very cold and
the first streaks of dawn, promising another unpleasant day, were now visible.

'What's up?' Billy asked, suppressing a yawn.

'I think we were followed here by some undesirable
characters. I'm taking you to another hotel in a different area. You'll be safe . . . more comfortable there.'

'Lots more goin' on up at Carpford than round 'ere.'

'What do you mean?'

No reply. He glanced at Billy. His passenger had fallen
asleep, his head drooped on his chest. Pete checked the rear-
view mirror. No traffic at all. No one was following them
this time. But what had Billy seen up at Carpford?

31

Beaurain., with Paula by his side, was driving down the
narrow, steep curving lane, descending from the Downs to the main road. Paula had gratefully accepted his offer
to drive - she was feeling shaky, a reaction to the violent events at Carpford. They had dropped Newman where he had left his car. Beaurain had let Newman, anxious to get
back to Park Crescent, go ahead of him.

It was daylight, of a sort. Murky grey clouds drifted
above them and the wind was cold. Beaurain was driving well within the speed limit, cautious as to what might lie round the next corner - in this section there was only room for one car.

A violent honking started behind them, continued non-stop. Paula looked back. She recognized the aggressive
driver in his Alfa-Romeo. Martin Hogarth, wearing a base
ball cap. The honking of the horn went on, sending the
message:
Get out of my way.

'This is ridiculous,' Paula protested. 'It's Martin, Billy's
brother. How can he possibly hope to pass here?'

'He wants me to speed up,' Beaurain said with a smile. 'How old is he?'

'At least forty and he's wearing one of those stupid
baseball caps.'

They turned yet another corner and the road widened.
As the honking was maintained, Beaurain steered into the
middle of the road, making it impossible for their harasser to
pass. Beaurain waved a hand out of his window, indicating
he was slowing down, which he did, then stopped.

'Won't take a minute,' he said, still smiling.

Martin slammed on his brakes, left his engine running as
he dived out to confront the Belgian. Beaurain stood with his arms folded, smiling. Martin came up close to him, his
tone sneering.

'Think you own the bloody road? Time you read the
Highway Code. Of course, you're a foreigner.'

Paula had left her car. She stood beside it, watching.

'Actually,' Beaurain said mildly, 'I have read the Highway Code from cover to cover.'

'Didn't do you much good, did it? You're a slob. You need a lesson.'

Martin bunched his right fist, aimed it at the other
man's jaw. Beaurain moved his head, the punch went
past him, then he did something, the movement so swift Paula couldn't follow what happened. Beaurain now had
Martin's right arm gripped in a peculiar angle, pushed him
back over the bonnet over his Alfa.

'Watch it!' Martin yelled. 'You'll break my arm.'

'Just keep quiet and listen,' Beaurain said calmly. 'What
is your job? That is, if you've got one.'

'I'm
...
a stockbroker
...
if you must know.'

'I pity the people you advise. Doubtless they all lose
money. Now I'm going to release you. Don't move until
I tell you.'

Martin remained bent backwards over the car. He glanced
to his right, saw Paula, averted his gaze quickly. Beaurain
had walked round to the open driver's door. Leaning
inside, he switched off the engine, took out the ignition
key, then threw it into the grass verge, which had not been cut for ages.

'You can get up now,' he called out as he walked back
and got behind the wheel as Paula sat again in the passenger
seat. He began driving downhill.

'It will take him ages to find that key,' Paula said with a touch of malice.

'Not too long. I could have thrown it into the field, but I don't like overdoing things. London, here we come.'

'Tweed will have been up all night,' she predicted.
'Maybe he has found something important.'

When they walked into the office at Park Crescent it was
crowded with members of the team. Newman occupied one armchair facing Buchanan, who sat in the other one.
Marler was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. Pete
Nield was perched against the edge of Paula's desk, and was
speaking. He stopped when Paula walked in with Beaurain.
The only one not present was Harry Butler. Nield moved
away from the desk as Paula went to sit behind it. Monica, Beaurain observed, was seated behind her word-processor.
Paula stared at Newman and her tone was sharp when
she spoke.