Cell (4 page)

"That's it. No one 'bout so I kept it inside the bin and
opened it. Nothing inside. I asks you. Why deliver an empty
envelope?'

'Someone probably forgot to put the contents inside,'
Tweed said dismissively.

'How would Margesson know that if 'e never opened it?'
Mrs Gobble snapped. 'Stay where you are while I switch on
the light.'

She shuffled back to the wall, her carpet slippers making
no sound. There was a whirring sound and electrically oper
ated blinds closed over the windows. The light came on.

'I 'ad Jem come up from Foxfold to fit the blinds. Don't
like the idea I could be watched after dark. By the man in
the long black coat, whoever 'e may be.'

'What does he look like?' Tweed wondered.

'No idea. Appears after dark. Saw 'im when the moon
was getting big.'

'Mrs Gobble,' Tweed began carefully, 'you saw a lot of detail right across the lake at ten o'clock in the night. You
must have better eyesight than me.'

'That's my little secret.' Mrs Gobble chuckled. 'Come behind this screen and see what I've got 'idden.'

Close to the far window a three-sided tall screen stood, all its flaps opened. Looking behind it, they gazed at Mrs
Gobble's 'treasure'. A high-powered telescope mounted on
a tripod. Tweed bent down, peered through the lens. The
glare light and Margesson's front door could be seen clearly.
There was more to Mrs Gobble than he had realized.

He straightened up and she lowered the blind she had
briefly raised.

'You have been very kind and helpful, Mrs Gobble. I
think we will now go and pay Mr Margesson a visit. There
are a number of lights on in his house.'

''Ave a care. That man has strange powers. And don't fall into Carp Lake. Keep to the footpath all the way.'

'Has it carp in it?'

'Never seen any. It's very deep, that lake. I'll switch off
the light when you've both got to the door . . .'

Tweed noticed she had three bolts as well as two Banham
locks on the door as she opened it for them. They slipped
outside and bitter cold hit them. The cloud was so low and
dense it was like night. There was a heavy frost on the green
round the lake.

'I think it might be a mistake not to interview Margesson,'
Tweed remarked as Paula pulled up her scarf, closed the top button of her coat. 'I get a funny feeling about him.'

'I get a bloody funny feeling about the whole place,' Paula retorted.

2

Inside Tweed's office at Park Crescent Bob Newman sat
reading the. day's issue of .the
Daily Nation,
London's
big-selling 'serious' newspaper. While active as a foreign
correspondent he had contributed major pieces to the
paper - articles which had been syndicated to
Der Spiegel
in Germany,
Le Monde
in France and the
New York Times.
He looked up as Marler came into the office.

In his thirties, Marler was of medium height, slim, agile,
good-looking and the best marksman in Western Europe.
He was always smartly dressed and today he was clad in a
grey two-piece suit, and a crisp white shirt with a Chanel
tie. After kissing Monica on one cheek he walked over to
a corner, stood against the wall, took out a long cigarette,
lit it and stared at Newman.

He saw a well-built man in his forties, fair-haired, with
a strong nose and jaw. His eyes were blue, his personality
formidable. He had never yet been mugged. Even tough
rubbish took one look at him and decided to go looking
for easier pickings.

'We have to go and see my informant, Eddie,' Marler
told him.

'You always see your informants on your own. So what
is different now? I'm sure Eddie isn't his real name.'

'It will do for now. First time Eddie has clammed up on
me. Says he has news so dangerous he'll only
talk direct
to Tweed. Whom he's never met, of course. Fact that he
knows Tweed's name shows he's the tops.'

'Tweed is somewhere deep in Surrey with Paula. No idea
when he'll get back.'

'So our faithful guard on the front door, George, told me, so I'm not sure we can wait. I'm hoping he'll talk to you. Make with the feet.'

Newman was wearing jeans, and a heavy zip-up jacket
hung from the back of his chair. He sighed, stood up
and put on the jacket. His bolstered .38 Smith & Wesson
revolver was now perfectly concealed. He made a gesture
of resignation to Monica and she saluted with a grin.

'Just so I know,' Newman said as they walked down the
stairs from the first floor office, 'where are we going?'

'Deepest and darkest Soho.'

'Great. Haven't been there for ages. Can't wait.'

They parked Newman's car on the edge of Soho. Marler
led the way and soon they were walking down a main street.
Newman looked round in surprise.

'They've smartened the place up. It almost looks inviting.'

'Almost. It's all cosmetic.'

The narrow street was well lit. Crowds of youngsters were drifting along, wondering what to do next to raise some hell. Ahead of them on the pavement a burly man
with a cap leant against a wall as he carefully lit a cigar. He
had first glanced their way. Newman grasped Marler's arm
to slow him down. They were close to the man, who had just
taken a deep puff on his cigar. Newman stopped a foot away
from him as the burly character blew out a smokescreen of
foul smoke intended to catch Newman in the face. As the smoke cleared Newman stopped opposite him.

'Meant for me, mate?'

'You bet, sonny.'

Newman's clenched right fist slammed into his stomach.
Cigar groaned horribly, bent forward, burning half of his
cigar on the pavement. Newman pulled the cap down over his eyes and walked on.

'Welcome to Soho,' Marler quipped.

'Think he swallowed half of it. Hope he enjoyed the taste.'

'We turn down here.'

'Even more salubrious.'

This street was even narrower. Newman saw a greasy-faced
man handing a small packet to his customer. Cocaine. Ahead
of them a slanting neon sign which had once been straight
had a name.
Belles.
Two young scruffy-looking blondes
were standing by the door, watching them coming.

'Belles,' Marler said. 'He should be inside. We're punc
tual. Eddie doesn't like waiting.'

'We're better than what you'll find inside,' one of the
blondes said, leering.

'So you say,' Newman snapped, following Marler inside.

A barrage of noise assailed them. A mix of voices and the
voice of a skimpily clad black girl perched on a platform
as she 'sang' into a microphone. Marler pushed his way between crowded tables to the back where a staircase led
upstairs.

At a table tucked under the stairs sat a small shabbily
dressed man with a broken nose, a scar on his left cheek. Marler grabbed the chair with its back to the wall, sat down as Newman moved one of the chairs so
he faced the crowd.

'Eddie,' Marler introduced, 'meet Tweed's right-hand
man. Bob Newman.'

'Why three bottles of beer?' Newman wanted to know.

'To keep people away from this table,' Eddie explained.
'Where is Tweed?'

'A hundred miles away. Newman will tell him what you
have to pass on. You said it was urgent.'

'New York had September 11.' Eddie kept his voice
down. He paused, 'London is next. This month. February.'

'Dates?'

'Tweed gets those. No one else.' Eddie sipped his beer
as Newman watched him. Shabby clothes. Nutcracker face, his cheeks sunk. Could be any age. 'So when do I meet him?' Eddie persisted.

Newman turned away, studied the jostling crowd. A
small man had entered, wearing a worn leather
suit. What
caught Newman's eye was the black turban he was wearing,
the eyes scanning the place. Newman turned round.

'That newcomer,' he said, addressing Eddie. 'With a turban. What the hell is he?'

'Probably Taliban. Our stupid government has let a
horde in through Dover. They don't wear the turban till they get up here.'

'Not al-Qa'eda?'

'Probably . . . He's come for the girl upstairs. Sorry for
her. They don't know. Knew one who was maimed for life.
Her attacker was only with her for five minutes.'

'What's the name of the girl upstairs?'

'Lily.'

'Excuse me.'

The man in the black turban was approaching the staircase. As Newman ran up it ahead of him Marler took one
of the beer bottles, emptied the contents on to the floor, only adding to the rubbish.

At the top of the stairs Newman ran along a narrow
corridor. One door had a crudely painted sign hanging
from the door knob. He hammered on the door. Nothing. He hammered again and a seductive voice answered.

'Who the hell is it?'

'Now listen good. I'm Robert Newman, newspaper
reporter. You've got a brutal Afghan customer on the way
up. He'll cut you to pieces. Afterwards. Just for the fun of
it. So for God's sake don't open the door. Lock it, bolt it, put a handle under the knob - the handle of a chair. And
I'm damned well not joking . . .'

As he started back down the corridor he heard locks being
turned. He began descending the stairs. The Afghan was on his way up. Seen close up, Newman was appalled by the savage face, the death-like eyes. Newman stopped him.

'She's not for you. Get the hell out of here.'

The Afghan scuttled downstairs, close behind Newman.

Newman had sat down as Marler stood up. The Afghan
was almost at their table. His right hand had slipped under
his leather jacket. Newman had a glimpse of a vicious
curved blade. Marler raised the heavy bottle with one hand, whipped off the turban with the other. The bottle
hit the back of the Afghan's head
with such force it broke in two. The Afghan sank to the floor, lay still.

'Tweed will be back by eleven,' Marler whispered to Eddie. 'Midnight at the latest. He's not coming to this
cesspit.'

'You know Monk's Alley - off Covent Garden and King Street?'

'Yes.'

'Meet him inside the alley at midnight. You can come
with him, but stay back.'