Cell (45 page)

'That Walther used to kill the hitman. Are you still
carrying it?'

'Of course not. The police have a very good Ballistics Department. So I went into the basement before I came up
here. Gave them the Walther, watched while they crushed it with their machine into nothing. The remnants are now
on their way to our training mansion in Surrey for total disposal. I also collected this from their weapons store.' He produced a Walther.

'Not brand new?' Tweed checked.

'Does it look it? They worked on it while I watched. Looks just like the one I carried for months.'

'The police will find the body,' Tweed explained. 'So just
in case someone saw you on the Embankment - a patrol
car with an officer who knows you - what were you doing
down there?'

'What you asked me to. Checking for Special Branch men. Not a single one.'

'You said the hitman cab driver was originally parked
near the end of the Crescent here. Wake up, Newman.
Those two new men who may join us - Wilson and Walker,
the twins. They are still along the road at our Communi
cations Branch learning discreet ways of communicating?'

'They are,' Newman agreed.

'Get along there now. Instruct them to patrol the area
outside, looking for anyone watching this building. I won
der what on earth has happened to Paula and Jules?'

'Charming district,' Beaurain commented. 'Streets hardly
wider than alleys, not a coat of paint for years on these
shabby buildings. And women clearing stuff off stalls, then
folding the stalls up. At this hour, in this cold. Who on earth
would be out buying in this cold?'

'This is Wapping,' Paula told him, amused. 'Deep in the East End, which is what you wanted. As to the stalls, men who work the river get back late and buy on their way home. I thought this is what you wanted.'

'It is. And there's a pub. The Pig's Snout. So tasteful,
but it's the sort of place I want to go into. I can't leave you
in the car, but taking you in there . . .'

She punched him on the shoulder. 'Stop being so protective. I've been in worse places than that.'

'Where do I park? Safely?'

He was looking at a gang of boys, ages from ten to
sixteen, Paula estimated. They were quite well-dressed
but they were watching him as he parked, his front tyres
squelching over discarded fish. He turned away from them, took out his wallet, extracted three five pound notes, shoved
the wallet back, carefully buttoned up the pocket.

'You know what you're doing,' Paula said, surprised.

'Certain areas of Brussels, all Liege and Antwerp. I can sense where I am. Why that ten-pound note tucked in your glove? I'll be paying.'

'Jules, leave this to me.'

She got out, followed by Jules, who had run round the car
to join her. The tallest, tough-looking lad, stood in her way,
his bare hands on his hips. She showed him the ten-pound
note which he reached out to grab. She snatched it out
of reach.

'What's your name?'

'Jem. What's yours?'

'I'm giving you this ten-pound note to make sure no one
gets near this car. I've got one more tenner, then I'm out
of cash. You get that if the car is untouched when we
come out.'

'You're on, lady. Toffs come down 'ere to see 'ow the other 'alf lives. They leave without their wallets. Watch it
in there. A redhair called Sammy.'

'It should be
OK,'
Beaurain said as they approached
the pub.

'Any of them approach the car and Jem will smash them
to pulp.'

It was crowded inside, a babble of voices, the air filled with
smoke. Beaurain noted a number of the men wore oilskin
coats. Seamen. This was the right place. His arm round
Paula, he shoved his way to the bar. He was so tall, his
face so weathered, people let him through. He hoisted Paula
on to a stool, sat on the one beside her. On his right sat a man
wearing an oilskin. He studied the bottles behind the bar.

'What's yours, mate?' a burly man asked.

'Have you any wine?' Paula asked.

'You look like Chardonnay. French. The good stuff.'

'My favourite drink.'

'Had it before?' the barman asked Paula, looking Beaurain
up and down.

'I like to experiment.'

'Then you'll end up on the floor . . .'

The barman brought the drinks, took the notes Beaurain
produced from his trouser pocket, slapped down the change,
headed for another customer.

A red-haired lad pushed his way between Beaurain and
the seaman. He had a cunning smile as he slapped down
an envelope, grubby all over.

'Interesting photos. Girls doing different things. You'd
never believe it.'

'Shove off.'

Beaurain swept the envelope off the bar on to the floor. It burst open, spilling lewd photos. Redhair swore, using
filthy language.

'Shouldna 'ave done that.'

His hand reached inside his soiled windcheater, came out
with a knife. Beaurain grabbed his wrist, twisted. Redhair
let out a scream. Beaurain released his grip and the hand
was limp, the wrist at an unnatural angle. Broken. The
barman appeared, holding a large leather-covered sap. He
leaned over the counter.

'Get out of 'ere, scumbag, before I break the other
wrist.'

Redhair used his shoulder to push his way through the
crowd, out of the pub. The seaman got off his stool, picked
up the photos, crammed them inside the envelope, pushed
it over the counter to the barman.

'Dustbin.' He turned to Beaurain. 'You 'andled that well.
He's dangerous.' He grinned. 'Was.'

'You're off the river?' Beaurain asked with a smile.

'That's right. I've worked freighters, ferries, barges, the
lot.'

'I'm thinking of buying a barge for my business,' Beaurain
continued. 'Saw what I need going upriver laden with
coal dust.'

'They'd be goin' to the new powerhouse, other side of
the river. Built by Dixon, Harrington and Mosley. We calls
it the Dick powerhouse. Got a plant next to it for makin' machine tools. New design. And new design of barges.
Made to order.'

'Could you do me a rough drawing of the design? Then I can get one for myself?'

Paula, who had sipped cautiously at her wine, surprised
to find how good it was, pushed a fresh notebook along the
counter to Beaurain. The seaman reached for it, took out a small stub of pencil, began drawing, talking as he worked.

'There's a sort of lid made of metal you can unroll to cover your cargo. From bow to stern. In the middle, 'ere,
is a very big hatch you can open so a crane can lower bales into the 'old. A smaller hatch near both bow and stern. Like
this. Control bridge is perched up at stern, of course. The
skipper then 'as a good view of where 'e's goin', which is
rather important.' He chuckled.

'Does the Dick director use the roll-over metal cover?'

'No. They needs as much coal as they can pile in.'

'Have I got this right?' Beaurain queried. 'Dick had both
the powerhouse and the barges built?'

'Yes, 'e did. To keep down cost 'e gets a firm in Austria to
build the barges. You could find out the name easy - name
of the firm.'

'Austria makes sense. They have a lot of barge traffic on
the Danube.'

'You're right there. I've taken barges all the way to the
Black Sea.' He pushed the notebook with the barge plan
over to Beaurain. 'Makes sense?' Beaurain nodded. 'I think
the lady is interested,' the seaman said, pushing it further
along the counter.

'Thank you,' said Paula. 'I'm Paula.'

'Never gave you my moniker. Sharkey.' He grinned, showing neat white teeth. 'Nothing personal. They call me Shark. On the river we've all got funny names. Got what you want? I'm not a dab hand at drawing.'

'The details you've given me are crystal clear. I see you
like Black Jack.'

He ordered another one for Sharkey, his way of saying
thanks. They touched tankards and Beaurain swallowed
the little left in his glass.

'I was fortunate to sit next to you,' he remarked. 'Seeing
as you've had all that experience with barges.'

'Not really. See that fat chap at that table by the wall with his mates? He's a bargee too. Good luck . . .'

As they walked outside Paula had a ten-pound note
folded inside her fist. The gang of lads were still out
side. One of them sat on the pavement, nursing a bloody nose. Jem appeared, his hand held out. She gave him the
tenner.

'Thanks for looking after the car.'

'Good thing you hired me, 'e was goin' to use a coin
to scratch your door.' He pointed towards the lad using a blood-stained handkerchief. 'Door's OK.'

'Oh dear,' said Paula.

'That's what you paid me for. Safe trip back to the
smoke.'

Beaurain had to manoeuvre a three-point turn to go back
the way they had come. He drove more quickly now the market stalls had been removed.

'What I'd like to have done now,' he said, 'was to visit Mrs
Wharton, the lady who told us about those men carrying
some kind of machine away on a motorized trolley. Down
that track to nowhere. But we've no idea of her address.'

'Yes, we have.' Paula smiled, opened her shoulder-bag
and extracted a small gilt-edged card from a side pocket.
'She gave me that on the quiet just before we left. 50 Upper
Cheyne Lane. I could guide you there.'

'Do it. I want to persuade her to provide a drawing of that
machine they put on the trolley. I'm a man for detail.'

'Where are we going with this?' she asked.

Looking at Beaurain, she saw his eyes were gleaming. He
was excited about something.

'We're going to 50 Upper Cheyne Lane,' he replied, grinning at her. 'Calling at Park Crescent en route.'

She punched him gently on the arm. He was as bad as
Tweed - wouldn't reveal what he was thinking until he
knew he was right.

34

'All here

'Abdullah. Zero hour is close.'

'I know. We're on the site of the merger. We should be
ready for the demonstration to our client.'