Cell (7 page)

'Maybe Eddie has changed his mind,' she remarked for
something to say. She didn't like the heavy silence, the lack
of anyone else about.

'Relax,' was Tweed's only reply.

'You're better at sitting still, waiting.'

'You're just as good if you're on your own.'

'I've got a funny feeling about this.'

'The atmosphere round here encourages funny feelings,'
Newman reassured her.

'It's more than the atmosphere. Marler is taking too long
coming back to us. Maybe we'd better explore.'

'Stay exactly where you are,' Tweed ordered.

'Well, here comes Marler, moving quickly,' Newman
reported. 'Probably had to reassure Eddie that he really
did have Tweed waiting here.'

Marler opened the front passenger door, looked swiftly
at Tweed and Newman, then glanced at Paula. He spoke
quietly, without his usual jaunty drawl.

'It's not good. In fact, it's pretty bad. Eddie is dead in
the alley. Not a pretty sight. Paula, wait here, lock all the
doors.'

'Now you're starting it,' Paula fumed.

She opened her door and was outside almost as quickly as Tweed and Newman. She was glad she was wearing
sensible shoes - the street was cobbled, an ankle-breaker. She called out.

'Isn't anyone going to lock the car doors?'

'Sorry . . .'

Newman and Marler used their remotes to lock the cars.
With Marler leading, they hurried down the street until he stopped at the entrance to a cobbled opening only wide enough for one person to walk down. Paula noticed the ancient plaque.
Monk's Alley.
The figure of a monk was engraved below the name. Marler had switched on his
powerful torch, beamed it just inside.

Eddie's crumpled figure lay on the cobbles, his right
arm outstretched, the fingers of the hand tightly clenched.
Lying on his back, he was soaked with blood. Pools of blood
were spreading over the cobbles. His eyes gazed up at the sky, lifeless. Paula thought she had never before seen so
much blood.

'I reckon he was stabbed more than twenty times,' Marler
informed them. 'My guess is someone went on stabbing
well after he was dead. An atrocious assault. Whoever did
it searched his clothes. Everything has gone. No indication
of his identity. And his wallet was taken. I've checked him
thoroughly. He was stripped.'

'You missed nothing?' Tweed queried.

'Excuse me,' Marler said indignantly.

'Mind if I just check? Hold your torch steady.'

'Suit yourself.'

Tweed crouched down. He looked for a long time, then
he put latex gloves on his hands. Gently he prised open
the fingers of the clenched hand. No sign of rigor mortis. This had happened fairly recently.
Inside the palm was a
screwed-up piece of paper. Paula was already holding a
transparent evidence bag. Tweed dropped the screwed-up
piece of paper inside. Then he carefully lifted the side of
the body. A piece of dark cloth was protruding. He hauled out a long length of black cloth, crumpled as though it had
at one time been folded.

'Jesus!' exclaimed Newman. 'Taliban. A turban.'

Paula had her mobile ready and Tweed agreed she should
call Buchanan. He looked up quickly.

'Don't let him see that bit of paper . . .'

It was after one in the morning when they sat down in Tweed's office. Buchanan had arrived quickly with an
ambulance. Marler gave him a brief resume of events
leading up to the hideous killing. Buchanan said he'd take
a full statement later in the day.

Marler leant against a wall, lit a cigarette. When he spoke
his voice was cold, as though suppressing strong emotion.

'Eddie was my best informant. He had contacts every
where — even in Italy. Milan, I think. The poor
devil deserved a better fate.'

'I think hell has come to London,' Tweed said quietly as
Paula handed him the evidence bag.

Wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, Tweed carefully began unrolling the tightly screwed piece of paper. Then he took a lot of trouble smoothing it out on his desk.

'Doesn't mean a thing to me,' he commented.

'It's drawn in charcoal,' Marler said, peering over Tweed's
shoulder. 'Eddie used charcoal to write anything. Kept
a stick of it in his top breast pocket. The killer took
that too.'

'Some kind of symbol,' Paula said, peering over the other
shoulder. 'Could be anything.'

'Yet Eddie,' Tweed pointed out, 'thought it was so
important he screwed it up inside his hand even when
he was being stabbed to death. And it tells us nothing.'
He stared down at what Eddie had scrawled on the sheet
of paper.

5

At 8 a.m. the next morning, bitterly cold with a bleak
overcast, Tweed arrived at his office. He was surprised to
see all his staff waiting. Newman, relaxing in an armchair;
Marler in his usual stance, leaning against a wall; Paula
seated at her corner desk; Pete Nield and Harry Butler.

The last two were very tough and experienced legmen. They often worked together, a formidable team. The con
trast between the two men could not be more marked. Nield, as usual, was smartly dressed, his grey business
suit perfectly fitting his lean frame. In his thirties, his
brown hair was well brushed, his small moustache neatly trimmed. He had come to Tweed from Oxford University
and spoke well so was able to mix in any society. He was
quiet, thoughtful.

Harry Butler was clad in a worn pair of jeans, a creased
shirt which had seen better days. More heavily built than
Nield, he was a dangerous opponent in a street brawl,
his happy hunting ground the East End. He merged into
that type of area well. Muggers took one look at his wide
shoulders, his ham-like fists, his dark glaring eyes, and kept
well away.

'Why is everyone so early?' Tweed enquired, removing
his camel-hair coat and sitting behind the antique desk
bought for him by his staff. He was becoming fond of it.

'I phoned everyone when I got home,' Marler explained.
'To tell them about Eddie. They take a grim view.'

'If I ever meet that Afghan killer,' Harry said forcefully,
'I'll kick him between the legs, then stamp on his face so his
wretched mother wouldn't recognize him. That for starters.
We're going to have to play this one very rough.'

Unlike Nield, perched on an arm of Newman's chair,
Harry was sitting on the floor, stocky legs crossed. Tweed noticed he was wearing boots with metal rims. The phone
rang, Monica answered, looked at Tweed.

'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Says the Minister,
Victor Warner, wants to see you in his office.'

'Tell Palfry I'm very busy - and that if the Minister wants
to see me will he do me the courtesy of calling himself.'

Monica kept repeating the same message, then broke the
connection. She sighed.

'I think he's one of those,' she remarked. 'He's up in the
clouds and tried to treat me like a serf. I think I got under his skin when I kept repeating exactly the same words.'

Paula was smiling at Tweed. 'The Minister of Security
is going to love you.'

'It's a tactic,' Tweed told her. 'If he really does have a rea
son for seeing me he'll swallow his pride, call me back.'

'You really are a devil,' she said.

Within five minutes the phone was ringing again.
Monica listened, clamped a hand over the speaker. She
was grinning.

'It's him, his lordship. He sounded very upper-crust but he was polite to me . . .'

'Tweed here. Is there a problem?'

'My dear Tweed, I really would appreciate it if you could pop over here. Can't explain why over the phone.
I also appreciate a man in your position must be overwhelmed at times, but this is rather urgent. What time
would suit you?'

'Now? I can be there in thirty minutes.'

'Splendid! I really would be most grateful for your co
operation. I look forward very much to seeing you . . .'

'Smooth as silk,' Tweed told them as he put on his coat. 'Paula, I'd like you to come with me. Don't expect to like
him. Very upper-crust, I've heard. A cog from the old boys'
network.'

'Can't wait,' she told him.

'Wearing that coat you look like a member of Special Branch,' Paula teased Tweed as they arrived at the tall
doors closed at the entrance to the Ministry of Security.
'Nowadays a camel-hair coat is their uniform.'

'I like the coat,' Tweed replied as he pressed the bell.

One massive door was opened almost at once and Pere
grine Palfry stood there to greet them with a smile. He
shook hands with both of them as he ushered them into
a vast hall.

'It's very good of you to traipse all this way to see the
Minister. Strictly between us I think he might have asked to visit you.'

Tweed was surprised at the firmness of his hand clasp.
Paula was surprised by his warm welcome. His face was pale, his hair jet black. Clean-shaven, he would be in his
thirties and he struck her as athletic. Not at all what she
had expected.

Walking swiftly, he led them up a wide flight of stairs,
along a hallway, and paused before a door. He pulled a face, as much as to say, 'Here we go!' He had knocked once when
a voice beyond the door called out loudly.

'Enter!'

The office beyond was spacious and the Minister stood
up from behind a long imposing antique desk. He strode
round to greet them. Very tall and thin, he carried himself
very erect and the thinness extended to his
long face.
On the bridge of a strong nose were perched a pair of
gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his cold blue eyes scanned his visitors swiftly. His mouth was wide and again thin,
his chin suggested a touch of aggression.