'The idea you had about kidnapping Paula Grey isn't going anywhere, I trust?'

'Gone clean out of my mind,' Noel lied. 'Too many other problems to sort out. There's the prison - the one on Black Island

'We haven't seen any plans,' Benton snapped. 'Before we even consider starting building I want to see the plans. So, I'm sure, does Nelson.'

'Yes indeed,' Nelson agreed.

'No work's done yet,' Noel lied again. 'As to the plans, the project is so secret the only plan is with the surveyor on Black Island. I thought it too risky to have photocopies floating about.'

'Well,' Benton persisted, 'not a brick is to be laid until we have seen them. I'm worried about the idea.'

'Benton,' Nelson interjected, 'we do need somewhere to park social saboteurs.'

'And what does that sinister phrase mean?'

'Anyone who tries to disagree with the new society we are creating.'

'Too vague,' snapped Benton. 'If we give the State Security staff too much rope some will use it to pay off old scores. I won't sanction that.'

'Well,' Noel interjected, 'let's leave that problem until later. There's no hurry on that front. Benton could be right.'

Noel was playing a game he'd thought up in the past: act as reasonable peacemaker, then they'd leave him alone. He had been feeling under pressure.

'When do we play the terrorist card?' boomed Nelson.

There was dead silence. Nelson had decided the atmosphere must be tougher. There were rumours in Parliament that he might be nearer to full promotion - to become a member of the Cabinet as Minister of Internal Security. He waited for the outburst of disagreement. Benton was more subtle.

'Noel,' he said casually, staring up at the ceiling, 'have you yet explored the dangers of playing the terrorist card, as Nelson suggested?'

'No, not really,' Noel said, lying once again. 'I had the idea of getting someone to drive a truck with a modest amount of explosives into a side entrance to Richmond Park, an area which, at this time of the year, has no one about. I'm not at all sure it's a good idea.'

'It isn't!' Benton thundered. 'Kill one civilian and we all end up in Belmarsh prison.'

'I did say I felt it was a bad idea,' Noel assured him smoothly. He checked his watch. 'Isn't it time we ended this session? You all agree? Good.'

He had an appointment to take Tina out that evening.

Tweed parked his car, locked it, walked through the dark at Park Crescent, found his whole team assembled in his office. He greedily drank the coffee Monica supplied, then produced his sketch book. What he had drawn of the driver was a caricature.

'I've been down to Mountain High,' he announced.

'Switzerland?' Paula teased him from behind her desk. 'You were quick.'

Tweed grinned, then turned round the sketch pad and asked if anyone recognized who it was. Newman loped over from beside Paula's desk, picked up the pad, stared at it for only a few moments.

'God!' he exclaimed. 'That's Amos Fitch. He wasn't close to you, I hope?'

Tweed leaned back in his chair, tersely gave them the details of his excursion. Harry, seated crosslegged on the floor, looked up sharply at the mention of high explosives. This was his speciality. He kept quiet as Tweed spoke.

'Then I drove back here,' Tweed concluded. 'Now I want to hear what you, Bob, have been up to with Paula.'

He listened without interrupting as Newman related the events of their day. When Newman described the details of the prison on Black Island, Tweed's expression changed, became grim.

'I see,' he said as Newman sat down. 'Then that does it. We will use any unorthodox method to remove the Cabal from any contact with politics. Any method, however ruthless. The gloves are off. I'm glad you killed those State Security thugs. We may have to eliminate many more. From this moment on no one leaves this building without carrying weapons. And I want a guard to accompany Paula wherever she goes.' He held up a hand as she started to protest. 'I have a premonition you may be one of their main targets - from the way Partridge looked at you when she pretended to visit us on her own.'

'You think the Cabal knew?' she asked.

'I doubt if they knew everything she told us, but she's too smart to come here without their knowledge.'

'May I report something?' Pete Nield requested. 'While you were away I had another long talk with my informant. She told me the Parrot is crazy over Nelson. At least she was. For some reason now she hates him.'

'Paula,' Tweed asked, 'what emotion is most likely to cause a woman to turn into a murderous rage?'

'Jealousy.'

'It opens up a new possibility.'

'Well,' Paula said, 'at Professor Saafeld's didn't I correct him when he kept saying "he" for the murderer? I suggested it could be a woman who was responsible for Vander-Browne's awful fate.'

'We'll keep all our options open.'

'You know,' remarked Newman to Tweed, 'you do have so much on your plate now. First this merger of the security services you're fighting. Second, the investigation into the Fox Street murder. Two separate problems. A bit much?'

'Not necessarily. I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a link between the two.' Tweed produced a sketch from a locked drawer, invited his team to come and look at it.

It was a retouched photo produced by Joel, the artist in the basement. They crowded behind Tweed and stared at the result. It showed an attractive woman's head and shoulders. Her dark hair was close to the side of her head, like a helmet.

'Joel worked on one of those photos of the Parrot you took, Paula,' Tweed explained. 'I gave him a description of someone. You are now looking at the picture of the waitress, so-called, who laced my margarita with Percodin and brought it to the table. "With the compliments of Mr Mungano." On the way back from Peckham Mallet I called in at Mungano's, saw the proprietor. I knew he'd been adding to his staff of waiters by hiring a few suitable girls. I showed him this.'

'Go on,' Paula urged, 'what did he say?'

'That he'd never hired anyone who looked a bit like her.'

'So that links her directly with the plot to frame you for the Fox Street murder,' Paula said, concealing her excitement. 'Now we can concentrate on the Parrot.'

'She was never out of my calculations - among a range of suspects,' Tweed replied. 'What triggered me off was that contact lens you found on the floor. The fake waitress who drugged me had blue eyes. I'm going to see the Cabal soon. It will be interesting if Partridge appears so I can see the real colour of her eyes.'

'May I corne with you when the time comes?' Paula asked.

'I was going to take you with me in any case.' Tweed looked at Newman. 'Bob, I also want to go down with you and Paula to Black Island, urgently. I found out General Lucius Macomber lives there. Not far from the village of Lydford. I think it's important I have a long talk with him. He is the father of the three men composing the Cabal.'

'What about those explosives in that furniture van? I'd like to go down and check out that black box, maybe muck it up,' said Harry.

'Do that. But Peckham Mallet is the devil of a place to locate. Mainly because it doesn't really exist. I'll draw you a plan marking the lane to the General's cottage, the cottage itself and location of the barn. Both the van and the doors to the barn it's inside have very heavy padlocks.'

'Piece of cake for me.' Harry bent down, lifted up the bag with his tools he carried almost everywhere. 'I've already located Peckham Mallet on the map.'

'Then we don't waste time,' Tweed decided firmly. 'Tomorrow, Harry, you go check out that furniture van.'

'Excuse me,' Monica broke in, 'I checked the name on the side of the van, as you asked me to. No firm with that name exists. I also checked the number plate. Stolen from a car in a police compound.'

'Fitch has a nerve,' Newman commented grimly.

As they were talking, Marler walked in.

Marler was a key member of Tweed's team. He dressed at least as smartly as Pete Nield. This afternoon he was sporting a blue Aquascutum suit, a cream shirt and a blue tie decorated with herons in flight. His feet were clad in black handmade shoes with concealed razor-sharp blades in the tips.

In his early forties, but looking like a man in his thirties, he was slim, and five feet nine tall. Women found him good-looking. His hair was fair, he was clean shaven with features which suggested he felt superior, although he had perfect manners and an upper-crust voice. He was also reputed to be the most deadly marksman in Europe. He walked across to his usual corner by Paula's desk, leaned against the wall, took out a cigarette and inserted it into a black holder before lighting it.

'Thought I heard the name Fitch, my old sparring partner Amos. Weird that such a murderous villain has a biblical name. Last time I met him he tried to knife me. He ended up on the floor, cold to the world. I've often thought I should have killed him,' he remarked casually. 'World would have been a better place without him.'

'It certainly would,' Paula said coldly.

Tweed heard this uncharacteristic tone in her voice. Paula had become even tougher. He guessed it was since seeing Viola's shattered body. He stood up.

'It's been a long day. Tomorrow will be another one. So I suggest you all go home and relax in whatever way you prefer.'

'I'm taking my girlfriend, Roma, out to dinner,' Newman announced. 'She's very bright and entertaining. Two degrees from Cambridge. I have to be alert to keep up with her.'

'Then make the most of it,' Paula teased him. 'It won't last long.'

'You might be more polite. I'm escorting you home.' He saw her expression. 'No option, Tweed's orders. I'll call back later to make sure everything is secure.'

'That will be about 4 a.m.,' she said wickedly. 'When you've torn yourself away from Roma. That's a curious name.'

'She was born in Rome, daughter of the British Ambassador. She was born in the Embassy, so she's as British as you are. Ready to leave?'

'Not for half an hour at least, maybe longer. I have a report to type. If that's going to mess up your date with Roma . . .'

'It isn't. I'm not seeing her until eight o'clock.'

'I'm off to prowl the East End,' Harry called out as he left.

'I'm off too,' Marler said. 'To have a drink with some Members of Parliament. To see whether they've heard of State Security. If so, get their reaction. Toodle-oo . . .'

Nield said he had a job to do. He left the building, climbed into his car. He was waiting for Tweed to leave so he could follow him home. No good telling him. He'd blow up.

'I'm off too,' Tweed decided. 'Let's hope we have a quiet night.'

It was a statement he later regretted.

11

That afternoon Fitch had used his mobile to contact his accomplice, Tony Canal. They had arranged to meet at 9.30 p.m. at the Pig's Nest in the East End but Fitch had used this tactic before. It was important to show who was boss, to throw his henchmen off balance. He called Canal again in an hour.

'Meet me at the warehouse now!' he snarled.

He switched off before Canal could reply. Fitch was inside the abandoned warehouse. The old wooden floor was still solid but the skylights were missing several panes of glass. The large room, once used by a shipping company for storage, had been rented by Fitch for a song. In a fictitious name.

While he waited his booted feet clunked up and down the floorboards, pacing impatiently. He was smoking a cigar, a Havana. Only the best was good enough for Amos Fitch, and he had a nice balance in a small bank, the fruits of his criminal exploits.

When Canal entered after climbing the rickety staircase Fitch blew smoke in his weird face. Tony Canal was an ex-prize-fighter in matches held in private houses where no holds were barred. A broken nose and a lopsided jaw were the earnings from his underworld life.

'Show you something,' Fitch growled at him.

Bending down, he lifted a handle set into the floor, raised a thick wooden lid about two feet in diameter. Canal heard the gurgle of rushing water a long way down. Roughly, Fitch grabbed his arm, used the other hand to point a torch.

'Take a look, thickhead.'

Canal peered down. The torch beam lit up a steel shaft with a large hook about a foot down. The beam was just strong enough to illuminate rushing black water at the very bottom. Canal didn't like it. He stepped back as Fitch replaced the lid, spoke.

'That's where we'll put 'er when we've grabbed 'er.'

'Put who, may I ask?' Canal enquired.

'You may ask, dear boy,' Fitch told him, mimicking Canal's public-school accent. 'You just damned well did,' he rasped in normal coarse voice. 'Miss Paula Grey goes down the chute.'

He picked up a coil of rope from the floor. One end was twisted into a loop, but without a slip knot. Fitch pointed this out to Canal, who was looking worried. 'With that round her neck,' he explained with a sadistic smile.

'When we get 'er 'ere, we wrap a scarf round 'er neck, then we slip this rope loop over the scarf. With that round 'er neck we lower 'er into the chute, then fasten one end of the rope over the 'ook sticking out from the side of the tube.'

'I don't understand, I'm afraid,' Canal protested.

'No, you wouldn't. You've noticed the loop goin' round 'er neck is frayed, have you? Good. Miracles 'appen. She's suspended down in the tube. She'll try to remove the rope. When she keeps tryin' to do that the frayed part gives way. Down goes Tweed's pet into the water and gets carried into the river. End of the lady.'

'Sounds horrible - and strangely complex.'

'Heaven give us strength. Don't you see? The body will be carried down the river towards the barrage. At some point the body will be seen and dragged out - or she'll get washed up on the river edge. The police autopsy will check her. No sign of strangulation. The scarf has protected her neck against the grazin' of the rope. Rope and scarf will have got washed away. She'll have lungs full of water. Verdict? She drowned. No risk of it lookin' like murder. See?'

'I think so. Do we have to do this?' 'Monkey, we're being paid good money to kidnap Miss Paula Grey. To hit Tweed hard. Imagine how much harder it'll hit him when she's dragged out dead. Get it?' 'I guess so. I'm not happy about her dying.' 'Who asked you to be 'appy? This is business. Now we've got to go out and grab 'er. You've nicked a car, fitted it with stolen plates?'

'Of course I have. It's parked out of sight at the back of the warehouse here.'

'Good. We'll grab 'er tonight. Bring 'er back 'ere.' 'You're not going to put her down that awful shaft?' 'Listen, mate,' Fitch snarled, 'your job is to do what I tell you to do. And yes, she'll be food for the fishes in the river before the night is out. I've done my 'omework. She often arrives back at 'er Fulham Road pad at about 9 p.m. So we get there early, park further down the Fulham Road, chew the fat until she arrives.'

12

Newman insisted on escorting Paula home despite her protests. She was not best pleased when Tweed ordered her to drive home while Newman followed her in his own car.

'You've got your dinner with Roma,' she protested as they went down the stairs.

'I've phoned her, made a later appointment.'

'Great, she must have loved that.'

'She knows I'm very busy and said she'd phone the restaurant to warn them to keep the table. She's very amenable.'

'I still don't like it.'

As she pulled up outside the entrance to the large yard where she'd park her car outside her apartment she didn't notice the battered Ford parked further behind her. Inside it Fitch grunted with satisfaction, lifted a tin off the floor, took out the airtight bag containing a cloth soaked in chloroform.

'Got 'er,' he gloated.

Then he stared as another car pulled up behind her Saab. A man jumped out, walked alongside the Saab as she drove it inside the yard. Fitch rammed the bag back inside the tin.

'Friggin' 'ell,' he said to Canal beside him. 'That's Newman going in with 'er. He's a tough bastard.' He started his engine. 'We'll 'ave to come back about 4 a.m.

What 'e's goin' to do with her could take a while,' he commented coarsely. 'We'd better make ourselves scarce.'

He drove at moderate speed past Newman's car and continued along the Fulham Road.

Newman searched her flat on the first floor thoroughly. Paula, feeling guilty, offered him a drink. He was in the main corridor, staring up at a flat panel let into the ceiling. He called out to Paula, who was hanging up her windcheater. He pointed.

'What's up there?'

'Just a loft. I never use it. Some people put all their junk up there. I don't. Now, have a nice evening with Roma. I'm sure you will.'

He'd refused the drink. She kissed him on the cheek, then hugged him, smiling as she let him go. She'd seen no point in mentioning there was a large skylight in the loft.

'I do appreciate your looking after me. Go wild tonight.'

'It's early days with her.'

He met Roma at Santorini's, a luxurious restaurant with a section projecting over the Thames. No one was using that area tonight - it was too cold.

Roma was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with perfectly coiffeured black hair. She had large blue eyes, a well-shaped profile and a wicked sense of humour with a habit of laughing a lot, a low husky laugh.

Her father was rich, owning a large chain of retail stores he'd inherited from his father. She'd been to private school at Benenden but had no airs and graces. He had no trouble talking to her.

'You're in insurance, I gather,' she remarked later in the evening over coffee and the rest of the wine. 'A special sort, I've heard.'

'The General & Cumbria Insurance,' Newman said, quoting the name on the plate outside SIS headquarters in Park Crescent. It was a cover for the real activities they engaged in. 'It is a bit special. We only insure wealthy men and their families against being kidnapped. The ransom demand.'

'You just pay up, Bob? I can't quite imagine that's how you always operate.'

'Shrewd lady.' He smiled again. 'We have been known to track down the kidnappers. It can get a bit hairy sometimes.'

'You lead a dangerous life . . .'

'I suppose I do, now and then.'

Her remark made him check his watch under the tablecloth. It was 4 a.m. Roma had just suppressed a yawn.

After escorting Roma to her apartment nearby Newman sat for a moment in the car. He remembered the battered old Citroen parked further along the Fulham Road when he'd arrived with Paula. Automatically he'd swung round, caught a glimpse of the driver. He'd seemed familiar. Alarm bells began ringing now inside his head.

Fitch. He'd seen police photos of the brutal villain. He drove as fast as he dared back to the Fulham Road. A few yards beyond the entrance to Paula's place the same battered Ford was parked. One man inside, in the front passenger seat.

Newman pulled up, switched off the engine, dived out on to the pavement. He then walked casually up to the Ford. The driver's window was lowered. Newman tested the door handle. It opened. He leaned inside.

The passenger had slipped something into the side pocket of his jacket. He looked at Newman nervously. Didn't say anything. Which was odd.

'Why are you parked here in the middle of the night?' Newman demanded in an unfriendly tone.

'I've . . . had too much ... to drink. Waiting till it's safe ... to drive.'

'Really?' Newman had leaned in closer. No smell of any liquor on his breath. 'Where's the driver?' he snapped.

'He had to . . .'

'You kidded me up you were the driver. What's going on?'

'Nothing. I told you . . .'

Newman jumped inside, sat in the driver's seat, grasped his captive round the neck. He pressed a thumb against the windpipe. Canal's eyes bulged, he began to choke.

'Who is the driver?' Newman demanded in an unpleasant voice. 'And where is he now?'

With the hands removed from his throat Canal started talking. Newman listened. Canal admitted that they were going to kidnap Paula. The moment he heard this Newman hit him on the jaw, hard enough to knock him out. He left Canal, who had given his name, slumped half on the floor.

Newman ran back towards Paula's flat. No sign of Fitch. He walked quietly on his rubber-soled shoes over the cobbles, glanced at Paula's window. No light. He walked round the side. A strong-looking drainpipe was attached to the wall. Fitch was nearly at the top. Newman recalled that on his crime sheet among many other more villainous crimes Fitch had been a cat burglar.

'Come on down, pal,' he called up loudly. He had his Smith & Wesson in his right hand. 'Unless you'd prefer a bullet up the rear end.'

Fitch, startled, nearly lost his grip. He regained it as he glared viciously down at Newman, his eyes like those of a snake, then descended quickly when he saw the revolver. Newman had holstered his gun when Fitch landed expertly on the cobbles, bending his knees. He was swinging round when Newman grabbed both his shoulders, hauled him across the yard, slammed him forcefully into a wall. Fitch's head met the wall with a loud crunch. He was tough. He pretended to be winded, crouched down, grasped a knife from a sheath strapped to his leg.

Newman raised his right foot, kicked Fitch hard between the legs. Fitch groaned, dropped his knife, used both hands to clutch the injury. Newman grasped his hair, hauled him out of the yard and along the deserted pavement to the car. Before opening the rear door he slammed Fitch's head hard against the car's roof. Fitch was unconscious as he heaved him on to the floor in the rear of the Ford.

As Newman had hoped, Canal was sitting up, staring as though he couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. Newman climbed into the back of the car, placed his feet on Fitch's face.

'Canal,' he said grimly, 'you can drive now, can't you?'

'I guess so.'

'Don't guess, just do it. Slide behind the wheel. Then you drive to that warehouse you told me about. . .'

It was still dark. Canal made a better job of driving than Newman had expected. The East End was still quiet as they pulled up in front of the warehouse entrance. On Newman's ferocious order Canal got out, opened the padlock, went inside. Newman followed, Fitch's unconscious body looped over his shoulder. They entered the large bare room. Newman saw the handle to the round lid let into the dirty wooden floor. He dumped Fitch, then turned on Canal.

'Listen, pie-face, where do you come from? You're not East End.'

'Blackpool.'

'Any contacts up there?'

'My sister has a place I stay at.'

'Then you catch the first train north and never come back. If you do I'll report you to Commander Buchanan at the Yard. Tell him you were involved in a kidnap attempt. Should get you five years inside. Maybe more. So better keep your stupid trap shut. Get moving.'

'You'll tell Fitch where I've gone?'

'I'll tell him you're hiding away locally. Can you imagine what he'll do to you if he ever catches up with you?'

'I'm on my way.'

Alone with Fitch, who was stirring feebly on the floor, Newman put on latex gloves. No fingerprints. He lifted the lid off, used a torch to stare down into the metal shell, saw the rushing water at the bottom heading for the river. He was in a fierce mood when he recalled Canal's babbling account of what had been planned for Paula.

Picking up the large coil of rope from the floor, he checked it, saw the loop for Paula's neck, the frayed section which wouldn't have lasted long. Taking out a knife, he cut away that section, then re-formed the loop without a slip knot so it would hold.

Using the woollen scarf he'd taken from the back seat of the car (Fitch was a well-organized piece of filth), he wrapped the scarf round Fitch's neck not too tightly, so he could breathe easily. Next he slipped the safe loop he had prepared round the scarf. Fitch suddenly came wide awake.

'What the 'ell you doin' now? I'll get you for this, Newman.'

'You think so?'

Grabbing both Fitch's legs he hauled him to the chute, dropped them over. Fitch was now mixing the worst swear words with pleas for mercy. Newman looped the long length of rope over the hook a short distance down the chute, then lowered Fitch slowly down inside the metal tube. His head was now a short distance below the hook. His voice echoed weirdly inside the metal tube.

'For Gawd's sake, Newman, don't do this to me. I've a pile of money. It's all yours . . .'

The rest of his maundering plea was shut off as Newman replaced the lid. It was now up to fate. Newman couldn't bring himself to use the frayed loop. That would be coldblooded murder. Not his style.

13

It was still dark. Newman walked some distance before he hailed a cab driver, told him to drop him outside a block of flats in the Fulham Road. He didn't want any witnesses who could report where he had boarded the cab, where he had left it.

A promising dawn was casting first light as he walked quickly to Paula's place. He'd intended to get into his car and drive quietly away. Paula, fully dressed, appeared at her bedroom window, called down to him.

'Come on up. Here's the key to the front door . . .'

He caught it, went inside and up to her flat. The ground-floor flat was occupied by a woman who spent little time there. Paula was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, took him by the arm, led him inside. She was clad in what she called her 'battledress' - smart blue slacks tucked into the tops of knee-length boots, a warm blue windcheater. Her hair was well brushed, as though she'd just been to the hairdresser's.

'I was worried when I saw your car still parked out there . . .'

'I've been up the last twenty-four hours.'

'So you had a great night with Roma.' Paula smiled as she said it. 'I'm not asking for details.'

'You can have them. I left Santorini's with Roma at 4 a.m., drove her home, then came straight on up here. Which may mean that's why you're still alive.'

He'd decided to tell her part of his encounter with Fitch. She needed to grasp the danger of this mission. He cut off the story with shoving an unconscious Fitch in the rear of the Ford, ordering Canal to drive off and never to come back.

'He was climbing up the drainpipe,' Paula said nervously.

'What's in the loft? Another way in?'

'There's a large skylight.'

'Fitch must have done a recce earlier. That's where he planned to get in, to grab you. He had a bag containing cloth soaked with chloroform. You'd have ended up in the river.'

'Are you trying to frighten me? If so, you're doing a good job. And you look fagged out. You need sleep - in my back bedroom. Now!'

'Tweed wants us to go down to Black Island, to interview the General. Then there's his trip to confront the Cabal.'

'Shut up! Sleep.'

Newman stumbled, she grasped his arm, led him to the back bedroom. He found the sight of the made-up bed alluring; his head was throbbing. He was taking off his shoes when Paula reappeared with a glass and a large carafe of water. He swallowed the whole of the glass she poured for him, drank half the refill. Taking off his windcheater he stripped off his tie, loosened his collar.

'I'll phone Tweed, explain the position,' Paula assured him.

He flopped full-length on the bed. He was asleep when she tucked the pillow more comfortably under his head. Then she went into the kitchen, prepared two thermoses, one with coffee, the other with tea, a jug of milk, two cups and saucers, a plate of currant buns, carried everything on a tray, left it on the table by his bedside. Newman was motionless, breathing steadily, out of this world.

*

Paula drove to Park Crescent, was the first person in the office except for Monica. She had phoned Tweed at home from her flat. Everyone else arrived later, including Marler, who took up his favourite position, leaning against the wall, inserting a cigarette into his holder.

When he'd settled behind his desk, Tweed's first question was addressed to Paula.

'How is Bob?'

'Sleeping like a babe. I think he'd had a tougher night than I relayed to you on the phone.'

'I suspected that. Marler, you were going to contact some of your pals in Parliament, to check what they'd heard.'

'Not my pals,' Marler drawled, 'my contacts. Fed them plenty of booze in the visitors' room or whatever they call it - and they talked their heads off. One of the brighter characters had heard the rumours about the formation of State Security. Didn't like it a bit. Said this land of freedom was going to be converted into a police state. A number of others agreed. A number of Cabinet Ministers are in favour, but not quite enough yet to agree to a bill being presented. It's on a knife-edge.'

'So we can expect further incentives to scare everyone stiff. Hooligans smashing up inner cities. God knows what other villainy . . .'

Tweed paused as Newman roared into the office. Paula checked the time. Newman couldn't have had more than four hours' sleep but his mood was tigerish.

'I've been thinking,' he began. 'We're not moving quickly enough. Tweed has a horrific murder to solve, then we have the State Security lot to smash. Anyone with scruples about using unorthodox methods had better wake up. Now I'm ready to drive down with Tweed and Paula to Black Island as a starter.'

Paula was marvelling at Newman's speedy recovery, his vitality. His appearance was intimidating. He was wearing a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked inside his boots. He had crammed a black beret over his tousled hair. Like a Commando, she thought. But at one time he had trained with the SAS to write an article on them. His experience had included joining potential recruits in a gruelling march over the Welsh mountains. To everyone's astonishment, including the SAS commander's, Newman had reached the far-away stop line as Number Two.

'Pete,' Tweed interjected, wanting to give him a difficult task so he'd not feel put down by Newman, 'I need you to do a tricky thing while we're down south. I want you to take photos of the three members of the Cabal when they leave their HQ. They must not see what you are doing.'

What a devil of a job, Paula thought.

'One other point,' Newman roared on. 'Remembering our last experience down there with Paula, we need a strike force. So I'd like Harry and Marler to come with us. All heavily armed.'

'You are starting a war,' Paula commented.

'Only if the other side shoots first. Agreed, Tweed?'

'Yes. And Paula comes too.'

'So,' Newman decided, 'we'll travel in the ancient Bentley with the souped-up engine, courtesy of Harry.'

'What are we waiting for, then?' Tweed demanded as he checked his Walther and slid it back into his shoulder holster.

They parked the car in the area near the ferry where a striped pole was lifted. Tweed gave a local a generous tip to keep an eye on the Bentley.

The drive down to Dorset had been a pleasure, with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky. It was warmer as they neared the sea. This time Abe was no longer operating the barge. His replacement, a local man called Judd, explained Abe had gone on holiday. Newman smiled as they settled down, the only passengers aboard the barge.

'Poor Abe has been scared off by that powerboat which blew up,' he remarked.

The crossing to Black Island was like travelling over a lake. Paula revelled in the experience, sitting so she could see the approach to Lydford. They disembarked at the dock. The streets were deserted as they passed through the village and turned along the road to the left. It was very quiet. As Paula walked in front Harry was wary.

'It's too quiet,' he remarked, bringing up the rear. Inside a long leather pouch he carried an automatic weapon. In the capacious pockets of his camouflage jacket was a collection of hand grenades. Tweed walked alongside Paula as they went down a wooded lane. Entrances to drives leading to large houses had names but there was no sign of Lockwood, the General's house. The previous evening a friend at the MoD had given Tweed the name. He stopped in front of wrought-iron gates which were closed. The name board merely gave the owner's name: 'Macomber'.

There was no sign of life along the curving drive behind the gates, and no speakphone. Tweed shrugged.

'He likes his privacy,' he observed. 'We'll walk a bit further. There must be someone about. . .'

Paula clutched his sleeve. On either side of the tall gates was a massive stone pillar. She pointed to the top of the right-hand pillar, her voice expressing distaste.

'Look at the top of that pillar. It's really rather awful.'

Perched on top of the pillar was a stone sculpture of a cat. It was crouched down but its head was twisted round the wrong way, twisted through an angle of a hundred and eighty degrees. There was something horrible about the distortion.

Turning a corner in the lane, Paula stopped. A freshly repainted sign board carried the legend 'Crooked Village'. What lay beyond was extraordinary. With little space between each very un-English one-storey cottage was a scene which reminded Tweed of Provence.

The walls, and the steeply angled roofs above them, were painted with white paint, piled on thickly. Some had spike-like rafters protruding beyond the roof-line. Each cottage had only a few small windows and the doors were painted, again thickly, in blue.

Tweed stared. The sunlight gave the brilliant colours a powerful blinding effect. A mass of cacti were placed close to the front walls. They turned a corner and now the steeply slanted roofs were painted red. It was not like England at all. They felt they had been transferred to another world.

'Someone round here likes Van Gogh,' Tweed observed. 'This village is like one of his paintings.'

'There's someone working inside this one,' Paula pointed out.

'So we can ask about the General,' Tweed said and walked inside, followed by Paula.

Another surprise. The large room was a potter's working area. The potter, working a wheel, was a small heavily built man with a crooked face, one side of his jaw lower than the other. He stopped working and gave Paula the pleasantest of smiles. His gnarled hands were enormous. He wore a white smock, woollen leggings and suede slippers smeared with white paint.

'Welcome to France,' he greeted them. 'I am Francois. I hope you like our village. The General paid all the costs. General Lucius Macomber. He loves France.'

He sat on a three-legged stool, indicated for them to sit in wicker chairs. Tweed lowered himself gingerly but the chair was solidly constructed. He introduced himself and jumped in with a reference to the General.

'I was intrigued by the sculpture of a cat on one of his pillars. The cat with its head the wrong way round. Rather unusual.'

'The story behind that is unusual, even macabre. The General has three offspring, Nelson, Benton and Noel. This goes back to when they were boys, approaching their teens.

There was a cat the General worshipped, called Tommy. An old name for army privates. The General used to feed Tommy - no one else could give it milk or food. I had better demonstrate . . .'

Francois picked up a large chunk of malleable clay from a table. Paula watched, fascinated, as he used his large hands skilfully, moulding the clay until, quickly, it became a cat. He held it up so they could see how lifelike it looked. He then did something which horrified her. He took hold of it by the neck, slowly twisted it until the head was the wrong way round.

'That,' he said quietly, 'is what one of the offspring did to the cat.'

'How beastly,' Paula exclaimed.

'The General went almost out of his mind with grief and fury. He did everything possible to find out which of the boys had committed this atrocity. He never did. So, to punish the culprit, he asked me to create that sculpture in stone, to fix it to the top of the pillar. His idea was that every time the culprit walked out of the grounds they would see this aberration.'

'I think that too is quite horrible,' Paula muttered. 'So he never knew who was responsible?'

'Never.'

'What about his relationship with his three sons now?' Tweed asked.

'Not all is as it seems.'

'I don't understand.'

'The General is a virile man, even now when he is eighty. His wife died three years ago. Years before that he had an affair with a woman called Horlick. She became pregnant. He told his wife, a remarkable woman. She agreed to tell the neighbours she was pregnant and went on to the mainland. When Mrs Horlick gave birth to Noel the General's wife came back with the baby and everyone thought that it was hers.'

'So Nelson and Benton never knew the truth?'

'Not then. When they were grown up they did find out. I'm not sure how.'

'So how did they react to having a half-brother instead of a real one? Not pleasantly, I imagine.'

'You're wrong there,' Francois told him. 'First, Noel turned out to have a brilliant brain, especially on the planning front. He also took wrestling lessons at a specialist gym on the other side of the island. Nelson is pretty tough but he wouldn't mix it with Noel. If he did he'd end up with a broken arm. When none of them would own up to screwing the cat's neck the General took his revenge.'

'The stone sculpture, you mean?' Tweed suggested.

'More than that. The General is rich. His father was a billionaire, left it all to him. The General used a top lawyer in London to create three trusts. One for each of his offspring. Every year the boys get a handsome amount which enables them to live well - but nothing like a fortune. They were furious. Greed. The General never sees any of them when he goes on one of his three-day trips to London.'

'You did say,' Tweed began, phrasing it delicately, 'that the General is virile. Has he still an interest in women? These trips to London.'

Francois stopped what he was doing. He stood up suddenly and Tweed was surprised to see him standing straight as a ramrod.

'That is personal. The General's private life is his own business.'

He stared hard to Tweed, cocked his head to one side as though he couldn't quite make Tweed out. He sat on the stool again, still gazing at Tweed.

'What is it about you, sir? I'm telling you things I've never told another soul. I presume you will never repeat any of this to anyone. And my real name is Frank. The General calls me Francois to fit in with the atmosphere of the Crooked Village.'

'I give you my word I will never repeat anything you have told me,' Tweed said firmly, his eyes fixed on Frank's.

'You didn't introduce me to the charming lady,' Frank said, gazing at Paula.

'I'm sorry,' Tweed said quickly. 'My manners must be slipping. This is Miss Paula Grey, my confidential assistant.'

'May I call you Paula?' Frank suggested, taking off his working gloves and extending his hand.

'Of course you may,' she said with a smile, shaking his hand.

'I can tell,' Frank went on, 'that she is a trustworthy and most able assistant. Tight-lipped, I am sure.'

He didn't seem bothered about Newman, who had been standing a distance away by the open heavy door at the entrance. Newman kept glancing outside. He had posted Harry with his weapon at the entrance to the village to warn of any intruders. He also had very acute hearing and had heard every word.

'You're going now?' Frank said as Tweed held out his hand. 'I was going to offer you some refreshment.'

'Thank you, but I want to have a word with the General. Is it all right if I tell him we have been here, that we chatted with you about your pottery and the village?'

'Of course it is. He is very proud of his village. When it was built he brought over architects and workmen from France. They advised me about the paint to use. The colours are deliberately exaggerated - the light in Provence is so much stronger than here. Go well. . .'

14

In a daze, Paula turned to look at the village they had left. The startling effect of being in France seemed stronger than ever. She took out her camera, pressed the button three times.

'That was a unique experience,' she said to Tweed with a lilt in her voice. 'And I liked Frank.'

'He liked you. Otherwise he wouldn't have told us so much. A shrewd old boy. And one of the happiest men I've ever met.'

They walked quickly, Harry in the vanguard, his eyes everywhere. Behind him Newman strode briskly along, also very alert. He was worried about Paula. He hoped they wouldn't have another grim experience. To Tweed's surprise the wrought-iron gates guarding the General's estate were swinging open. He stopped, listening.

Thud...

Thud...

Thud...

The sounds were coming from round a curve in the wide drive. For no reason he could fathom Tweed thought of the trip to the mortuary, and what Professor Saafeld had said about the murder of Viola Vander-Browne.

Tweed walked round the bend. He was in the lead and Paula was close behind him. He stopped abruptly. Newman came up behind him.

'Trouble? You're disturbed.'

Tweed was staring at the stretch of drive leading up to a large gracious mansion. Red-brick, Georgian in style, a long terrace perched above a flight of stone steps.

The sounds were being made by a tall agile man swinging a huge axe up and down, chopping large logs into smaller pieces with the flat base of a tree trunk as the chopping block.

The General, wearing a peaked army cap to protect his face against flying chips, laid down the axe, took off his gloves and turned to face Tweed. When he took off the cap he revealed a sun-tanned face with a large hooked nose, piercing blue eyes, a firm mouth, a strong jaw - all of which reminded Tweed of paintings he'd seen of the Duke of Wellington.

'Mr Tweed, I presume, with Miss Paula Grey and the formidable Robert Newman,' he called out in his commanding voice.

No suggestion of the pompous brass-hat in the voice. Rather the voice acquired over the years when addressing officers. Despite his age his skin was leathery rather than lined and he moved briskly as he walked to greet them. Upright as a telegraph pole.

'I was expecting you,' he continued, hand extended. 'Your friend Allenby at the MoD phoned to say you might be visiting me.'

You can't trust anyone these days not to babble, Tweed thought. His hand was ready for the General's crushing grip, but the hand that grasped his was strong but not aggressive. After shaking hands with Tweed he turned immediately to Paula, clasping her hand gently, bowing slightly.

'Tweed is an able fellow otherwise I would not have opened the gate,' he told her. 'But without you I suspect he'd find life very difficult indeed. Ability and charm - not something I often encounter.'

'You overestimate me, sir,' she replied. 'But you are correct in your assessment of my chief.'

'And here is the tough guy, Robert Newman. Not a man I'd trifle with.'

Newman was ready for a bone-crushing grip and that was what he experienced. He squeezed as hard as he could while smiling. The General's expression changed briefly. He'd felt the pressure.

'Of course, Newman, you are younger, so you have the advantage over ancient material. You should start writing more of those articles on the state of the world. I have read them all. You are the best journalist I've read. Of course there is Drew Franklin. Good, but lacks sharpness, which is just one of your strong points.' He spotted Harry, who was a few paces behind the others. He strode over, hand extended. 'You must be Harry Butler, another key member of Tweed's amazing team. Explosives is your speciality.' He was shaking hands as he continued talking. 'Tricky job, yours. Suppose you cut the wrong wire on a time bomb . . .'

'If I was not sure which wire to cut I'd leave the damned thing alone,' Harry said emphatically.

'Which is why you're still here.' He put an arm round Harry's shoulders. 'Come on now. We'll have drinks inside to celebrate your courtesy in calling on me. A sundowner, as they called it in the Far East. I know that because my favourite author is Somerset Maugham. He knew a thing or two . . .'

They followed the General up the steps and Tweed asked the question on the terrace before they entered the mansion.

'One thing intrigues me. How did you know we were coming? The gates opened automatically for us.'

'See that object fixed to that tree at the corner of the drive where it turns?'

Tweed stared at where the General was pointing. Attached to a lower branch was a large mirror. The General chuckled.

'That mirror shows me who is outside the gates. If it's someone interesting - like you and your team - I operate a lever behind the trunk where I was chopping the logs. At night glare-lights illuminate the entrance and the road outside. Have to get organized in these decadent days. Now, let's get those drinks.'

Double doors of oak opened into a spacious hall. The floor was covered with a huge Persian rug. On one wall Tweed was not surprised to see a portrait of the Duke of Wellington. On another a self-portrait of Van Gogh, the colours so reminiscent of the Crooked Village.

A white-painted door off the hall led into a comfortable living room with windows on three sides. A girl appeared, obviously the maid. The General checked what everyone preferred, then spoke in French.

'Celeste, our guests would appreciate drinks . . .'

He rattled off what was required. In an astonishingly short time she reappeared with the drinks on a silver tray, served them, left the room. Paula, who was intrigued by the French maid and understood the language, asked a question.

'General, are all your staff French?'

'Yes, indeed. These days most British people think a servant's job is below their dignity. I have four girls who look after this rather large house. And a dragon of a French housekeeper. They all live in the cottages in Crooked Village. They seem to feel at home there.' He stared at Tweed. 'The murder of the Vander-Browne lady sounds quite ghastly. We are descending into barbarism.'

'How did you hear about that?' Tweed enquired.

'I have the Daily Nation delivered every day. Like to keep up with what's going on. Drew Franklin has written a long article on the subject. Sounds gruesome.'

'I understand it was certainly that,' Tweed replied.

'And now,' the General continued, 'we have the Blackshirts, the Fascists, the so-called State Security lot taking over the western tip of this island, building strange buildings. You know, I wouldn't be surprised' - he paused, ran a finger over his lower lip - 'if one dark evening those buildings and anyone still working on them were blown sky high. What I've just said is off the record and you never heard me say it.'

'Say what?' asked Tweed with an innocent expression.

'My mind was elsewhere,' Paula remarked.

'And I've gone deaf,' Newman said.

'That's the ticket.' The General smiled as he stood up. 'Now you've finished your drinks perhaps I could show you my little Versailles.'

He led the way into the hall and down a long corridor towards the back of the house. Opening a door he stood aside to let Paula walk out on to a spacious terrace running the width of the back of the house. She stopped, gasped as the others followed her. The white stone terrace was elevated with a flight of wide steps leading down into a small paradise - although not so small: the estate spread out on both sides, with stretches of green lawn like a vast putting green. There were pergolas and stone arches, arrangements of evergreen shrubs such as she had never seen before, all trimmed neatly. In the distance, beyond a lake shaped like a swan, was a large maze of evergreen hedges. The General stood beside her.

'Walk into that maze without the map and you'd never find your way out. There's more.'

He walked across to a chrome wheel in the balustrade wall, turned it. All over the endless vista great fountains of water rose up high, each creating a different shape. He explained the jets were sunk in the lawn.

'I've never seen anything like it,' she enthused, rhapsodized.

'Better than Versailles,' Tweed commented. 'Which is too large for my taste. This is a jewel.'

'Don't need a gardener do you, sir?' joked Harry.

'I have twelve from a village to the east but I can always do with someone else,' the General chuckled, joining in the joke.

'Breathtaking,' Newman commented, placing his hands on the balustrade. 'You had people from France to create this?'

'Yes, I did. Experts from outside Paris.'

They lingered for a while, unable to tear themselves away from the spectacle. Then Tweed checked his watch.

'We thank you for your hospitality, General, but if we leave now I think we'll just catch the return ferry to the mainland.' He looked at his host. 'You look very fit. How do you do it?'

'I get up early, have a glass of orange juice, then jog over Hog's Nose Down. They say you can just see the Isle of Wight to the east but I never have. Not even on a clear day.'

He accompanied them to the end of the drive, then turned back as the gates automatically closed behind him.

Returning aboard the ferry, Paula had expected to recall the powerboat roaring close to them, the explosion when Harry's jumbo-size grenade landed inside it. Instead she found her imagination filled with visions of the Crooked Village, then the amazing garden at the back of the General's house.

They had quick refreshment in the bar of the Monk's Head and settled themselves in the Bentley. The sun was still blazing as Newman pressed his foot down. He called out to Marler, who had stayed in Tolhaven. 'You missed some extraordinary experiences.' 'I was chatting to the barman. They're often funds of info. He's counted fifty of those infernal Special Branch -beg their pardon, State Security - men coming in and heading for the ferry. So they have a small army to build those appalling prisons I saw in the photos Paula took.'

'As many as that?' Paula exclaimed. 'They're breeding like ants.'

'That's valuable information,' Tweed commented. 'Now we know what we're up against. They have to be stopped and quickly.'

'But how?' Paula asked.

'I'll think of something.' Newman assured her with a wide smile.

They were approaching Park Crescent, crawling through a jungle of traffic, when Paula voiced her thought to Tweed.

'Did you notice the General never mentioned that you are in charge of the murder investigation? I thought it odd.'

'I did notice,' he replied. 'I thought it very odd too. I am sure he knows.'

She opened the day's copy of the Daily Nation Newman had just bought. She stared at the article by Drew Franklin, splashed on the front page.

HORRIFIC MURDER IN LONDON

Only two days ago Viola Vander-Browne, society beauty, was raped, then her body chopped up into pieces like a butcher using his cleaver to chop meat. No photos are available from the police, on the grounds they are too horrible for circulation. It is understood this case, exceptionally, has been put in the hands of a top SIS officer, a man who previously was an ace detective at Scotland Yard, solving three murder cases which baffled everyone else at the Yard. Londoners, do not go out after dark. Check your windows and doors. This psycho may well strike again. He has a liking for women victims.

She sighed, handed the paper to Tweed as she reacted to what she had read.

'Drew has really gone to town this time. The General seemed to know so much about many things, including us, I'd have thought he'd have caught on as to who the chief investigator was. You.'

'I'd have thought so too,' Tweed replied as he rapidly read the lurid article. 'He does everything except print my name.'

'I'm going to see Drew as soon as I can. He'll talk, if I have to put my hands round his throat,' said Newman.

Paula, seated beside him, glanced at his expression. It confirmed her earlier opinion that Newman was in the most ferocious and determined mood she had ever seen.

Arriving back in the office they found only two occupants: Monica, as ever, behind her machine, and Pete Nield pacing up and down with a worried expression.

'Something wrong?' Tweed asked him.

'Just turning things over in my mind.'

As soon as Tweed had settled behind the desk, Monica jumped up, a large white envelope in her hand. She wore gloves as she placed the envelope on his desk.

'That was pushed through our letterbox at lunchtime.'

'By whom?'

'We don't know. I was out collecting my lunch from the deli. I was only away about twenty minutes. I think someone chose their time carefully.'

'What about George?' Tweed asked, referring to the ex-army GSM who was their guard behind a desk near the front door. It would take someone very strong and agile to mix it with George.

'He was in the loo for about five minutes. Came back and this was on the floor below the letterbox. George opened the door and couldn't see anyone in particular among the lunchtime pedestrians on the main road. He handled it with gloves.'

'So will I.'

Tweed put on latex gloves, weighed the envelope in his hand. Not much inside. A good-class envelope which could be purchased at any decent stationer's. The flap was tucked inside the envelope, in spite of the fact that it had glue which most people would lick. So no saliva, no DNA. He carefully pulled out the flap, then what was inside.

A large colour photograph, taken at night, showing a man from the rear, wearing a coat with the collar turned up, which concealed whether the neck was thick or slim. No more than a silhouette of a heavily built figure in a narrow cobbled street, a first-floor window on the left covered with bright red. An ancient street lamp attached on an arm protruding from a wall gave some illumination.

Tweed looked at Paula.

'What is it?' she called out as she hurried across to him, holding a magnifying glass she had been using to check a map of Black Island. He looked up at her as she stooped over his shoulder.

'You tell me.'

'I'm sure that's Fox Street,' she said. 'Oh, my God, that looks like blood spread all over the first-floor frosted-glass window.'

She used her magnifying glass to examine the window. She looked at Tweed with a grim expression. 'It's recent blood, hasn't had time to turn brown. Didn't Saafeld say when the killer of Viola chopped off her head he severed the main arteries, which would have sent a powerful jet of blood across the room? It hit the window and covered it with solid streaks. This must be where Viola lived. In Fox Street.'

'Turn it over,' he said.

She did so. In crude block lettering were the words Portrait of a Murderer. Tweed showed her the envelope, addressed to Mista Tweed, again in crude block letters.

'Can't spell,' she said without thinking.

'You think not? I'd say whoever wrote the wording and delivered it here is well educated. The spelling and the crude lettering is to cover up that fact.'

'It was a big man, difficult to tell his height.'

'Not necessarily big, not necessarily a man, as you keep reminding me. Someone wearing three raincoats and then an overcoat could bulk out their figure. It could be a man or a woman. The key question is who took the photo - and how did they come to be there at just the right moment?'

'The killer was followed earlier.'

'And the motive?'

'I take your point,' she admitted. 'Jealousy?'

'So all we have to do is to identify the photographer,' he said ironically.

'The Parrot would be my best guess,' she told him.

'During an investigation we don't rely on guesses. And I was under the impression the Parrot was at the head of your list of murder suspects.'

'It's confusing . . .'

'So take this photo down to the basement when you can. I want three copies and the original.'

During this conversation Newman had marched up to Pete Nield. He jerked his head towards the door.

'A quiet word in your shell-like ear. Visitors' room downstairs would be best.'

Paula had the unusual ability to carry on a conversation and at the same time overhear someone else's. She dashed down to the basement ahead of Newman and Nield.

Inside the visitors' room, a spartanly furnished room opposite George's post, Newman sat Nield down, then sat down himself, facing him across the table. His tone was grim.

'I need to speak to your informant urgently, which means as quickly as possible. Not tonight - now!'

'I don't like it,' Nield protested strongly. 'It's an iron rule that none of us ever reveal to any of the team—'

'In the diabolical situation Tweed finds himself in - and so do the rest of us - the rules go out of the window.' His tone became sarcastic, which was out of character. 'Unless you look forward to wearing a long black coat and cap, with an armlet carrying the legend State Security. Secret police would be a better description. Knocking on people's doors in the middle of the night, then dragging them away for brutal interrogation. What's the informant's name?'

'Coral Flenton,' Nield said quietly.

'That's better. Don't make me drag every detail out of you. Who is she? Where does she work - if she does work?'

'She's a civil servant. Assistant to the Parrot, who treats her abominably. Very dominating, the Parrot, always hoping she can catch Coral out in a mistake. And, Newman . . .' Nield had raised his voice, 'she's sensitive so I won't have you upsetting her. You've become a bit of a bastard on occasions recently.'

'I have,' Newman agreed, lighting one of his rare cigarettes. 'But when you're dealing with characters like Fitch, who was on the verge of kidnapping Paula from her home, the Marquess of Queensberry rules are pretty useless.'

'You could meet her in about half an hour's time,' Nield said after checking his watch. 'I've agreed to meet her at a cafe in Covent Garden - Popsies. I'll introduce you then make myself scarce.'

'I would appreciate that,' Newman replied, standing up.

What Newman didn't know was that Paula had guessed what he was up to. And it bothered her. After leaving the photo with a boffin she darted out of the front door. She chose Harry's Fiat, locating the spare ignition key under the cheap floor covering. Typical of Harry that he hadn't had the covering replaced.

She pushed the seat back, kept an eye on the door to Park Crescent, bobbed her head out of sight when Newman emerged with Pete.

15

Paula carefully followed Newman's car. He was good at spotting tails, but Paula was expert at not being seen. Newman was clever in the route he took to Covent Garden, using the back streets from Leicester Square favoured by experienced cabbies. Once there, he drove very slowly, glancing out of his window at a cafe. Paula had trouble reading the elaborate script but then made out the name. Popsies.

Most people were going home so Newman soon found an empty parking spot. Paula drove straight past him, found another empty spot. She put coins in the meter as Newman and Nield entered the cafe.

If Nield's informant was a man she wouldn't worry. If it was a woman she'd fume. Newman was in no mood to be subtle. Paula understood why and he had saved her life on Black Island. She jumped inside a shop entrance when Nield reappeared and went off towards the market.

Paula took her sunshade out of the car where she'd thrown it after collecting it from the office. Tweed, thank Heaven, had been absorbed on the phone. He'd have had a fit if he'd known she was out on her own.

She strolled along slowly under her sunshade even though it was by now dusk. As she passed the entrance to Popsies she saw Newman's back seated stiffly and a good view of a small attractive girl. She took out her camera, took two quick shots, walked on.

'So you're some sort of friend of Pete's,' Coral Flenton said with an edge to her tone.

'That's right. We work closely together . . .'

'On special insurance. You take premiums from rich men frightened of being kidnapped.'

She had made it sound like a racket. Her large hazel eyes never left Newman's. He knew she was suspicious, hostile. Pity, because he liked her.

'That's right,' he answered. 'But we've been landed with a grim murder investigation. May I ask what you do in the way of work?'

'I'm a civil servant. I think you knew that.'

Newman sipped the coffee he'd ordered. It was very good. He could bring Roma here one evening before taking her on to dinner.

'I believe you work for the Parrot,' he struggled on.

'You mean Miss Partridge.'

Her expression was blank and those penetrating eyes never left his. He was beginning to lose the plot. He really liked her but was getting nowhere.

'Do you have anything to do with Nelson, Benton and Noel Macomber?' he asked with another forced smile.

'No, they're in another room.'

'So who does look after them?'

'Miss Partridge.'

'Ever heard of State Security?' he asked, moving in deeper.

'What?'

'State Security.'

'That's a new one on me.'

Newman forced himself to relax in the comfortable chair. He kept smiling and she kept the blank expression. Newman did not give up easily.

'Another life may be at stake after one horrific murder and that's why I'm asking these questions.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I'm referring to the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. It's in the papers today.'

'Now you're putting me off my dinner this evening. I read about it.'

'May I ask you out to dinner? I promise not to ask you any more questions.'

'Certainly not. I already have a date, Mr Newman.'

'I think I'd better go now.' Newman stood up and called the waitress for the bill.

'Don't pay for me,' she said through clenched teeth.

Newman walked out into the street. He spread out his hands wide in frustration as he saw Nield approaching. Seated now in the Fiat with her head hunched down, Paula saw, understood the gesture. She was not surprised. She waited until Newman with Nield by his side had driven away, then got out, put more coins in the meter and walked along and entered Popsies.

The cafe was empty except for Coral Flenton, who had ordered more coffee, as if to get over her annoyance. Paula stood, staring round vaguely, caught Coral's eye, walked slowly to her table.

'Excuse me, but if you're not waiting for someone I dislike having even coffee alone.'

'Sit down,' Coral invited with a flashing smile. 'The coffee here is rather good.' She waved to the waitress and ordered another cup.

'I'm a bit of a fake,' Paula confessed. 'I'm a friend of Pete Nield, work closely with him.'

'Really.' Coral became guarded. 'And also a friend of Mr Bob Newman?'

'I'm senior to him.' She paused. 'Friend is the wrong word,' she said, implying she didn't much like him. 'He is a very able man but he has to be careful with me otherwise I'd rip him to bits - verbally.'

'So you work for the same insurance outfit,' Coral pressed her.

'Yes, I do . . .' Paula paused. 'I rarely say this to anyone because it sounds so egotistical but I'm second in command. I heard Pete saying he was going to Covent Garden so I thought I'd see if I could find him - to tell him to take the evening off.'

God, I'm awful, Paula thought, making all this up - but this woman could be important. She saw Coral's features relax and when she spoke her manner was animated and friendly.

'You then saw it was Newman so you waited until he had pushed off. If I can help in any way to solve that dreadful murder I will. You see I knew Viola, that is Miss Vander-Browne.'

'Do you know any of her men friends by chance?'

'No, I don't. I do know the Parrot - that's my boss, Miss Partridge - was in a fury and I wondered if she was having a thing with the murderer.'

'Why would she do that? Be in a fury, I mean.'

'Because Viola was very much a woman of the world. I don't wish to speak ill of the dead but Viola, a really nice person, spent the night with rich men for a lot of money. She spent so much on clothes the generous legacy she inherited didn't always cover her wants. I don't think Viola would have minded my telling you if it helps to track down the hideous killer.'

'Did she do this often?'

'Only about three times a year, she told me. We were old friends because we went to the same boarding school. I'm small and you know how vicious some girls can be. Viola used to protect me.'

'So you know Fox Street?'

'Quite well. I used to go and see her and we'd have a meal in her flat. She was a marvellous cook. I'm not going to the police because if they came to my work place the Parrot might use it to have me chucked out of the Civil Service. I need the job, you see.'

'Don't go to the police, then. A very able man, no longer in the police, is investigating the murder. May I tell him what you've told me? It's up to you.'

'I could do with some support.' Coral finished her coffee. 'I trust you, so if you trust this investigator - and you must - then it's OK by me to pass it all on to him. If you're ready to go I'd like you to come and see me sometime. My pad is just down the road. I could show you.'

'I'd like that,' Paula said with a smile.

Coral insisted on paying the small bill. As they were leaving the cafe, which was beginning to fill up, she took a plain visiting card from her handbag. She slipped it to Paula, who palmed it.

'It's got my address, phone number, mobile number,' Coral went on as they turned right towards the main part of Covent Garden. 'The mortgage was terrifying but I liked the place. Tucked away. Here it is.'

They paused before the entrance to a slim three-storey building, recently built after the demolition of several small shops, Paula guessed. She looked up as Coral pointed, gazed up. Paula had a shock.

'That window on the first floor is my living room,' Coral explained. 'The window is frosted glass for privacy. Not much to look out at anyway.'

Paula stared at the tall frosted-glass window. It had a horrible similarity to the blood-drenched window in Fox Street, where Viola had been slaughtered. She forced herself to smile as Coral continued speaking.

'Not much space except in the living room. You see now why I put up with the Parrot -I need the salary.'

'Here is my card,' Paula said, giving her the version with General & Cumbria Assurance, the cover name on the plate outside the SIS headquarters. 'If I'm out speak to Monica, give her your first name only. If you're worried I'll come as soon as I can.'

'I have enjoyed your company,' Coral said as they shook hands. 'Let's see each other soon.'

'I have a photograph of the murderer of Vander-Browne,' Tweed was saying on the phone when Paula returned. Newman and Nield were sitting down, facing each other like antagonists.

Tweed clapped his hand over the phone to inform Paula.

'I'm on the phone to Chief Inspector Hammerhead.' He removed his hand, continued. 'Yes, a photo of the murderer . . .'

'What!' Everyone in the room heard the policeman's explosive outburst.

'You heard me correctly,' Tweed replied calmly. 'I'm sending it over to the Yard for your attention by courier. No, I've no idea who pushed the envelope containing it through my letterbox. The lettering on both envelope and back of the photo is in deliberately crude block lettering. Yes, I've had both items checked for fingerprints. None at all, as you'd expect. I must go now. Sorry. Goodbye.'

'Is it the original?' Paula asked. 'And why send it to him anyway?'

'Because as well as me he's investigating the case. I don't like the man but I play fair, when necessary. You never know, he might just stumble over something.'

'The only thing he'll stumble over will be his own feet,' she replied.

'And how did you get on?' Tweed asked, looking at Newman.

'I made a complete and utter balls-up,' Newman began bluntly. 'Pete introduced me to the informant and I couldn't get a word out of them. I think I went about talking to the person concerned in one hundred per cent the wrong way. I've apologized to Pete.'

Paula admired Newman's frankness about his failure. She also noticed he'd made no reference which could even vaguely identify Coral. Tweed must have read her mind, which he often did, as she frequently read his.

'Man or woman?' Tweed demanded.

'I don't remember,' Newman replied, staring hard at his chief.

'A washout, then,' Tweed suggested.

'Absolutely. I think it's done me good. Brought my big feet back on the ground. I'm taking Pete out for a drink in a minute.'

'I've had a thought,' Paula began. All eyes turned to her. She stood up, walked to the far side of Tweed's desk, folded her arms.

'I can't get out of my mind that cat with its neck screwed round the wrong way. It was an act of sadistic cruelty - done by the sort of person who in later years could chop Viola into pieces for the fun of it.'

'Interesting.' Tweed frowned. 'I think you have detected a significant pointer to the killer. Trouble is, we don't know which of the three teenagers maltreated the cat in such a beastly fashion.'

'Unless it was the General himself,' she remarked.

'Oh, my Lord.' Tweed clasped both hands behind his neck. 'That would be a very strange twist in the plot.'

'And,' Paula went on, 'we know from Frank that the General makes three-day trips up to London. Frank called him "virile". Just a thought which crept into my head.'

'I could phone every decent hotel in London and persuade them to tell me if he stayed there - and if so when,' volunteered Monica.

'Do it,' said Tweed.

Except, Paula thought as she returned to her desk and not voicing the idea aloud, he's clever. He'd probably stay at some rundown boarding house, giving a false name, and never the same place twice.

When Tweed had started talking to Chief Inspector Hammer, Marler had glided into the room. The Invisible Man, as he was nicknamed in the office, had followed Paula, parked his car in Covent Garden, had seen everyone who had entered and left Popsies.

Now he announced, 'I'm going out on the prowl. Never know what I might see.'

'You've just been out somewhere,' Paula said with a smile.

He squeezed her shoulder. 'And I'm just going out again. Toodle-pip.'

He saw no point in revealing that his destination was Covent Garden.

16

On the Thames, Mugger Morgan was steering his barge in close to the dock. He was the only crew aboard his huge vessel but that was because of what he was carrying in his pocket - a large packet of cocaine which would bring him a load of money when he handed it over to the waiting dealer.

He swore when his mobile phone started buzzing. The last diversion he wanted at this moment was someone asking him to do a job. Knowing he'd wonder all the time who had called, he kept one hand on the wheel, used the other to take out the mobile and answer the call.

'Yes,' he growled.

'It's Fitch, Mugger. Need your help bloody fast or I'm a goner . . .'

'What is this crap?'

'Mugger, I've been shoved down the chute at the warehouse. I'm 'angin' with a rope round me bleedin' neck. I've got me feet propped against the side of the chute but they won't hold much longer. For Christ's sake . . .'

'How much?'

'What!'

'How much for me to come and haul you out? I'm a businessman. You should know that by now.'

'Five 'undred nicker. In cash. For Gawd's sake, Mugger!'

'I'm on me way. You 'ang on.'

Mugger chuckled as he put away the mobile. He rather liked the humour of his remark.

The barge's prow bumped the wharf. He manoeuvred it alongside, switched off the engine, jumped ashore. Swiftly he roped the barge safely to the bollards, looked round for the dealer. Not here. He was always late and then he'd try to lower the price. Frig him. He would go for the five hundred nicker first.

He hurried along the crowded street. If he didn't get there in time Fitch would go down the chute. That didn't worry Mugger so much as the fact that he'd take the five hundred pounds with him.

Mugger was a big man, six foot one tall, fifteen stone, with a brutal face. He was in his forties: he had earned the nickname Mugger in his teens, christened by the police who had never brought him to justice. His technique in those days had been to prowl Mayfair and Regent Street, looking for well-dressed women, snatch their handbags and scarper. He'd made a lot of money that way, but gave it up when police patrols began to walk those areas.

Buying himself a large barge, he'd entered the drugs trade. He collected the cocaine packets from downriver, sailed back to the East End and charged his dealer three times what he'd paid.

Arriving at the padlocked entrance to the warehouse he took out a bunch of keys, which included a pick-lock. He was inside the place in minutes. Opening the door into the room where the chute was located, he bent down, grabbed the handle, hauled off the lid. Sure enough there was Fitch, a rope round his neck over a scarf. He'd agilely managed to use his exceptional strength to manoeuvre himself at right angles to the vertical shaft. Both his feet were rammed into the side of the shaft, both hands holding on to the rope. He knew he couldn't last out much longer. He looked up.

'Reach down, grab the rope and haul me up,' he ordered.

'I'll need my five 'undred nicker before I do any work,' Mugger informed him with a hideous grin.

Bastard! Fitch muttered under his breath. He let go of the rope with one hand. It was tricky, but he managed to feel inside his pocket for a sheaf of twenty-pound notes held together with an elastic band. He threw it up and sighed with relief as it shot up through the hole, landing on the warehouse floor.

Mugger picked up the bundle, counted it quickly. Then he shouted down.

'Only two 'undred and forty here. We said five 'undred.'

'You get the rest in my pocket when I'm up there with you. If you don't get me out fast I'm going down - with the money.'

Mugger reacted quickly. He knelt down, stretched one long arm, grasped the rope. Despite the awkward position and Fitch's weight, he hauled him up. Fitch flopped on the floor, worked his stiff legs, clambered to his feet.

He was wondering whether to catch Mugger off guard, tip him down the chute. He changed his mind as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead and face. He had thought that Mugger could be useful to him.

'Money. Now.'

Mugger was holding out a huge hand, working his fingers in the money gesture. Fitch took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a jewelled lighter. He stared at his saviour.

'Like to make a lot more? Say two thou?'

'Talk about that after the two 'undred and sixty you owe.'

Fitch reached in his other pocket, took out another roll of twenties. He gave it to Mugger, who counted it carefully. While he was doing this Fitch replaced the lid over the chute. He wouldn't send Mugger down to the pearly depths. He could use him, he'd finally decided.

'What job?' Mugger demanded aggressively.

'To put away - permanently - a woman and a man. Use any method you like but they must both disappear.'

'For two thou? You must be jokin', mucker. For five thou I'd consider it.'

'Four

'I said five!' Mugger roared.

'OK,' Fitch agreed, after a long pause. 'Five.'

'So who are the bodies?' Mugger asked.

'A man and a woman.'

'I could have fun with the woman before we finish them . . .'

'No!' Fitch shouted.

He leapt forward, grabbed Mugger round the throat with both his strong hands, pushed him over backwards, fell on top of him, his hands still round the neck. Mugger was stunned. He'd not realized before how strong Fitch was. 'NO!' Fitch yelled again. 'This has to be a quick job. You can get up now.'

Fitch jumped to his feet. Mugger climbed upright more slowly. His hands were soothing his neck. He was scared now. Fitch realized this and set about making him forget what he'd done.

'Five thousand nicker,' Fitch repeated. 'How long would it take for you to earn that drug dealing?'

'A little while,' Mugger admitted. 'I only deal in small packets. Then if I'm stopped by the river patrol they'd never find it even if they turned the barge upside down.' He regained his toughness. 'Name of these parties?'

'Tweed and Paula Grey. I'll be with you when we grab them. Take them in the back of my car - no, the boot.'

'Then dump them in the river? We'll need heavy chains.'

'No we won't.' Fitch grinned sadistically. 'Chloroform first to knock them out, then a trip to the burner.'

'The burner?'

'I have a pal further east who operates a metal foundry -with a huge furnace. He clears out of the place for a consideration. He'll think I'm getting rid of dud banknotes.'

'I'm still not sure I know . . .'

'Stupid! We take the bodies and shove them into the furnace. You can watch them burn. Only takes a minute. OK?'

'I guess so.'

17

Marler was 'prowling'. He had returned to Covent Garden, and was standing on the opposite side of the street to the building where he had seen the small woman with Paula say goodbye and then enter her flat.

Earlier he had witnessed Newman's fiasco in his attempt to get on with Coral, had seen him emerge and wave both hands in frustration. Then Paula had entered Popsies. Strolling past he had seen the back of Paula's head as she had talked to the woman.

Marler was shrewd. He'd realized this must be Pete Nield's secret informant. He was always suspicious of informants, mistrusting half his own sources. He now stood, watching the door to the flat, on the street under a striped blind projecting from a bar entrance. In his hand he held a mug of coffee. He sipped it occasionally. It gave him a reason for hanging about.

It was dark when a tall woman, good figure, brown hair neatly coiffeured, well dressed in a silk frock and expensive shoes, pressed the bell to the flat. Marler perched the coffee on a nearby ledge, took out a miniature camera which was non-flash, pressed a button for bad light since by now it was dark.

Paula's friend from Popsies appeared, smiled, shook hands with her visitor. As the visitor turned her head Marler took three quick shots of both of them. He followed them until they went into a good restaurant. He immediately returned to the building, checked the bell he'd seen the visitor push. A small card alongside had the owner's name. C. Flenton.

Marler then continued his prowl. He hailed a cab, asked to be dropped in the East End. He got out near a pub called the Pig's Nest, not the most salubrious establishment in London. Mixing with the crowd, he was strolling towards the pub's entrance when he nearly stopped short. His instinct and his training saved him. He continued to stroll.

Marler was startled. For him the immediate reaction was rare. Its cause was hurrying towards him, then turned into the Pig's Nest. Before he did so Marler used his camera to take two shots. His target was Amos Fitch, the man Newman had 'dealt with'.

At Park Crescent, Newman was still out with Pete Nield. Monica thought they must really be knocking it back. Harry had left, telling Monica he was on his way to Paradise.

'Some people call it the East End,' he added as he left.

Paula went over to Tweed, leant over his desk, whispered a suggestion.

'I have info to pass on, just between us. Would your house be the best place?'

'I'm leaving now, so it would be.'

She followed him in her car, stopping several times to pick up some shopping. She arrived after dark to find two new locks on the front door. A Banham and a Chubb. Tweed appeared quickly when she'd pressed the bell three times, then twice.

Taking two of her three carrier bags he ran up the stairs. Paula followed, noting the locks closed automatically when she shut the door. Tweed was sitting at his desk, studying files when she walked in, picked up the two bags.

'You haven't eaten today,' she told him. 'I'm cooking a meal for both of us. Liver, bacon, fried egg - followed by creme brulee.'

'Appreciate that,' he said not looking up.

She went into the kitchen, closed the door. She knew where everything was. She donned an apron, set to work. He had laid the table when she returned with the meal. She frowned.

'That's my job. Come and get it while it's hot. I can tell you about my afternoon while we eat. . .'

Tweed ate voraciously, congratulated her on another first-class meal. He fixed his eyes on hers as he posed the question.

'You have information?'

She told him. About following Newman and Nield. Their meeting in Popsies with Coral Flenton. Newman, frustrated, driving off with Nield. Her own meeting with Coral, their conversation.

'So Coral and Viola Vander-Browne were friends, went back a long way - to their schooldays,' Tweed observed. 'A strange twist. I find it odd.'

'I found something about Coral odd, but I can't put my finger on what it was. And she emphasized how far away her desk in the next room is from the Cabal's hideaway . . .'

Paula stopped as the front-door bell rang three times, then twice, the signal that it was someone from Park Crescent. Ever cautious, Tweed in his shirt sleeves extracted his Walther, ran down. A large cardboard-backed envelope had been pushed through the letterbox. On the front in neat lettering was Mr Tweed, from M—r. Marler.

Taking the envelope back upstairs he sank into his favourite armchair. Paula perched on an arm. She watched his expression as he took out a batch of colour photos and hid them from her. The reaction to the first one told her nothing. He looked at two more, then at Paula as he handed her the three photos.

'Who are these women? Any idea? The smaller one is Coral Flenton - Marler has written her name on the back.'

'Glory! This is crazy,' Paula exclaimed. 'The woman who is calling on Coral is the Parrot, I'm sure. She was disguised when she came to see you but I'm sure it's her.'

'And Coral told you in Popsies she hated the Parrot. No sign of hatred there. They look the best of friends.'

'What the devil is going on?'

'Loose strands are beginning to link up. First, Coral knew poor Viola. Now she has the Parrot as a friend.'

'I'm confused,' Paula admitted.

'Well, you know I never trust anyone. Nield's informant has been playing a double game, but how?'

'I'm shaken - after what Coral told me. And I've just grasped what I thought was odd about her. While talking she kept looking down at her coffee as though she didn't want to meet my eyes.'

'There are four more colour pics Marler took. In the East End, this time. Fitch is on the loose again.'

He handed her the pic showing Fitch walking towards Newman, then three more. One showed the sign board of the Pig's Nest. Another of Fitch inside the pub talking to another man. There were two of the same view. Marler must have stood at the open door. He had a lot of nerve, Tweed thought as he handed her the last photos.

'I recognize Fitch at the bar,' she said. 'But not the thug he's drinking with.'

'Thug is too mild a word. That's Mugger Morgan, a very nasty piece of work. Buchanan once showed me a picture of him leaving court. Once again his lawyer had got him off a serious charge of brutal manslaughter. On a technicality. Newman caught Fitch trying to invade your home. He may try again. Wherever you go now you need someone with you from the team.'

'I think you're right.'

'And I'd better follow you home in my car.'

'Couldn't I stay in the spare bedroom tonight? I've done so before. I did bring some night things with me.'

'Good idea. Sleep well.'

She bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then headed for the spare bedroom. Tweed continued checking his files on agents operating abroad, recent reports. Nothing from Philip Cardon, who could be anywhere.

Paula reappeared in her pyjamas and dressing-gown.

'Any idea of what time it is?'

'I thought you'd be asleep.'

'My mind was churning over those photos and other developments. It's 2 a.m.' She placed both hands from behind him firmly on his shoulders. 'Up you get and off to bed.'

'I suppose you're right.' He suppressed a yawn. 'I need to be fresh for tomorrow, that is today in the morning.'

'Why?'

'We have a meeting with the Cabal at their HQ in Whitehall. The two of us. I want to study those three brothers.'

'Two brothers, one half-brother.' She increased the pressure on his shoulders. 'I want to see you actually go to bed.'

For discretion's sake, Paula left early, collected her car from behind Tweed's in the nearby mews where he'd rented space. When Tweed arrived three-quarters of an hour later the whole team was assembled in his office. Monica spoke up immediately.

'I've got someone hanging on the line you will want to talk to,' she said.

'Hello,' Tweed answered.

'Wonder if you still recognize my voice,' the caller began.

'Philip! Where the hell are you now? Or maybe you'd sooner . . .'

'Just listen. You need to fly to Aix-en-Provence today. By this flight. Here are the details . . . You land at Marignane Airport, in the middle of nowhere. I'll have a car waiting to drive you to your Aix hotel, the one in the north of the city. It would be safer if you brought two members of the team.'

'Paula and Newman?'

'Perfect. Something very weird is going on. A certain Noel Macomber is arriving late tonight to meet a most dubious character tomorrow evening. Twenty-four hours should do the trick. OK?'

'Yes.'

The line went dead. Tweed looked round the room. Paula could tell he was delighted. He gave them the news.

'So,' Newman commented, 'our wandering boy Philip Garden has surfaced again. Bet he knows what is going on over here. Strange that Noel Macomber is flying out to Aix. To meet whom?'

'We'll find out, won't we,' Tweed told him. 'Heathrow is the worst part. All those queues on security grounds. I hate that.'

'That's all right,' Monica called out. 'I'll phone your old friend, Jim Corcoran, chief of security. He'll slip you through the queues.'

'Good idea,' Tweed agreed. 'Now Paula and I have an appointment with the magic circle. All the Macombers. I'm anxious to detect which one is the boss.'

Tweed found a parking space as a car pulled out. They walked the rest of the way down Whitehall and into the side street - into the dragons' lair, as he called it.

'Bet I spot the chief dragon,' Paula teased him.

The side street was narrow and deserted. Tweed stopped in front of a building which bore a wall plate: Special Branch. He pointed.

'Let's hope that's never altered to State Security. And they've converted the place into a fortress.'

The ground floor windows had been blocked up with steel sheets. On the first floor all the windows had bars and wire netting over them. To reach the speakphone Tweed had to perch on a big stone slab with a rubber pressure pad attached to its top.

'How do we get into Fort Knox?' he demanded after pressing the bell.

'Identify yourself,' a metallic voice demanded.

'Oh, for Heaven's sake, you know we're coming. Tweed - and don't forget Paula Grey. Now open up, if you can.'

Tweed was about to add something even more caustic when Paula pulled at his sleeve, a finger to her lips. She eased him off the stone slab.

'Probably nothing will open while you're on the pressure pad,' she whispered, then grinned.

They waited. Tweed put his executive case, which contained nothing but blank sheets of paper, over the lens of a camera let into the large metal door. Paula frowned, pulled his arm away.

There was an electronic buzzing sound and the door slid up, disappeared. In the opening stood Noel Macomber, smiling as he checked out Paula. She stared back until his gaze dropped.

'Welcome to you both,' Noel began in a cultured voice. 'In you both trot.'

Trot? Tweed wondered. 'Electronics? Is the fire exit also opened by gizmos? Because if it is and there is a fire you'll all burn to a frazzle.'

If he keeps on like this, Paula thought, we'll get nowhere.

They stepped on to an escalator which purred up to the first floor. Noel had pressed something, there was more buzzing and the entrance door slid back to the closed position.

'We have to take all precautions,' Noel explained as they stepped off the escalator.

'So if anyone wanted to wipe you out,' Tweed replied, 'a truck with a very large bomb could just get down the narrow street by riding its wheels on the pavement.'

Paula wanted to punch Tweed but desisted as Noel opened a mahogany door into a large room, the walls painted cream, the only furniture a triangular table of rosewood with a chair on each of the sides. A large square table stood further back, at which two men were seated. They stood up and came forward to greet their visitors with outstretched hands.

'I'm Nelson,' the largest brother said. 'My father was an admirer of the famous admiral.' After shaking hands with Tweed he turned to Paula, a wide smile on his face as he grasped her hand, then released it. 'Bit of a joke - if I'm in a rowing boat on a lake I feel seasick.'

'Didn't your father realize this later on?' she asked, smiling back.

He laughed. 'A bit late to do anything about it. Not that he'd have bothered. This is Benton, my brother.'

'I am glad to make your acquaintance.' He was smaller than his brother but also heavily built. He also smiled warmly. 'Do come and sit down.' His voice was soft, gentle, unlike Nelson's, who spoke with force.

'Then there is an equally important member of our little group, or perhaps the most important,' Nelson boomed. 'Noel is our planner. He has a head for detail which I fear I lack!'

By now they were close to the large square table. Noel smiled at Paula, a very pleasant wide smile as he studied her. 'I am glad Tweed brought you along. You would have an important part to play in the new organization. We do know something of your remarkable ability.' He held out a chair for her. She looked up, smiled, thanked him.

Tweed, who was rather left out at this stage, was amused. They were all concentrating on Paula. He thought he knew why. When they were all seated Nelson asked whether they would like tea or coffee. Both guests opted for coffee. Black.

Nelson pressed a bell under the table. A side door was opened at once and the Parrot appeared. Tweed looked straight at her, betraying no recognition. Coffee was brought quickly, but was served by a red-haired girl who did not even look at Paula. Coral Flenton.

'I expect,' Benton said, 'that Mr Tweed has heard a few details of what is proposed. May I ask you, sir, what is your reaction? You do have a veto.'

'Veto?' Tweed queried.

'Yes,' Nelson said in his loud voice, 'a veto. You don't like some aspect of the new system, then we eliminate it—'

'I hadn't finished,' Benton interrupted, smiling at Paula now. 'And you will have an important role to play, as Noel told you. We all admire your decisive mind, your courage. You may well be second-in-command to Tweed, as you are now.'

His whole manner was persuasive, the ever present smile warm. Paula showed no reaction, staring at his greenish eyes below his fair hair. He was very convincing. She looked at Tweed, who started speaking.

'Details. How would this so-called State Security operate?'

There was a tap on the door connecting with the next room. Nelson called out, 'Come.' The Parrot entered, stared at Benton. 'A call for you on the phone next door, Mr Macomber.'

'I'd better take it, I suppose, please excuse me. I'll make sure whatever this is it doesn't take long.'

'Details,' Tweed repeated. Visitors come first.

Nelson began to outline how he saw the merger of the security services would work.

18

'First,' Nelson explained, 'I'm sure you'll agree Britain is now full of frightened citizens. In the suburbs people install glare-lights which illuminate anyone approaching their houses. They sleep with all the doors and windows secured with a variety of locks. Women don't dare walk the streets alone after dark. We live today in an atmosphere of terror. Right?'

'Go on.'

'You agree with what I just said.'

'Yes.'

'So why is this?' Nelson threw his hands wide. 'Because we have let in through Dover alien forces from the Continent, from Africa, from the East. The government fiddles the figures to conceal the truth. We are being inundated with a tidal wave of criminals from all over the world. Hence the atmosphere of terror.' He raised his voice. 'We propose to deport this trash - dangerous trash - back to where it came from. No argument. No stupid tribunals to hear their efforts to stay here. We call on these people in the dead of night, knock on their doors, grab them, take them to the nearest deportation station . . .'

Benton returned in time to hear some of this. He walked to his chair, sat down.

'Veto,' snapped Tweed.

'Why, for God's sake?' thundered Nelson.

'Because it sounds too much like the KGB. Knocking on doors at the dead of night, hauling people out, taking them away. President Putin of Russia, an ex-KGB officer, is moving in the same direction. Veto!'

Benton interceded. 'Now, Nelson, I suspect you have, as you do, dramatized what we really propose,' he said in his calm voice.

'We shall convert Britain into a country for the British,' Nelson rolled on, in full blood. 'Social saboteurs will be rounded up . . .'

'What is a social saboteur?' Tweed demanded.

'Anyone who disagrees with the government,' Nelson told him. 'Don't you agree that the whole moral structure of society has broken down? That our young people are confused, have no rules to guide their behaviour?'

'Something in that, yes,' Tweed agreed.

'You see,' Benton broke in, 'Tweed is a realist. A very worried realist, Nelson, if I have understood him. You have so exaggerated what we must do, he has compared us to the KGB. We are not monsters, Mr Tweed. Nelson does go over the top at times. We are democrats. Perhaps, Mr Tweed, you would look at that peculiar three-sided table over there where we hold our consultations.'

'So who is the boss?' Tweed enquired. 'Who is in charge here?'

Tweed gazed straight at Benton's small greenish eyes. His face was flushed red, as though he had high blood pressure. The strain of coping with his brother, Nelson? Tweed thought.

'There is no boss,' Benton told him. 'I said we are democrats. We sit at that neutral table and work together. The table is symbolic of our relationship.'

'That should convince you,' Noel said, speaking for the first time. He was lightly spoken and was smiling. Paula thought she rather liked him. So controlled, so charming. His V-shaped features suggested character.

'What about uniforms for this merged State Security?' Tweed asked suddenly.

There was a long silence. Nelson glanced at Benton as if he wished him to answer the question. He did.

'Noel,' Benton explained, 'has designed a distinctive uniform. We think that will give the population a feeling of safety. To see them patrolling the streets day and night. A symbol that protection is available, which is not the case now.'

'I've seen some of them already. Before the bill has been passed - even presented to Parliament. That's illegal.'

'Indeed it is,' agreed Benton. 'Their commander must have jumped the gun. Where did you see them, Mr Tweed?'

'Outside my London house - in the middle of the night.'

'Then someone has tripped up,' Noel spoke again. 'We shall have to investigate that, make sure it doesn't happen again. I am surprised.'

'Building up a completely new organization,' Nelson said in a quieter voice, 'you always get glitches.'

'Big glitch,' Tweed told him. 'Veto.'

Benton finished his coffee. Neither Tweed nor Paula had touched theirs. Tweed stood up and Paula, with relief, followed suit. At his most amiable, Tweed explained they had to leave, thanked them for their explanations, said he would have to think over their conversation before he reacted in his report to the PM.

'The PM?'

Nelson had jumped up, his expression a mix of frustration and anger. He walked over to Tweed, grasped him by the arm.

'I do not see any reason to send a report to Downing Street. This meeting was confidential, off the record completely.'

'You didn't say that at the beginning, did you?' Tweed replied with a smile.

'Of course,' Benton said quietly, 'Mr Tweed must react however he thinks best. . .'

'We would appreciate seeing a copy before you submit it to the PM,' Nelson said brusquely.

'You will have a copy in due course,' Tweed told him.

'We are all forgetting our manners,' Noel said. He turned to Paula. 'Your reaction is equally important. So what do you think of our proposals?'

'Like Tweed, I need time to think it over.' She smiled because he was smiling at her. 'There was so much to take in.'

'Yes, there was.' He walked with them towards the exit. 'Nelson is the oldest brother and rather runs away with himself at times. I'll escort you out. That wretched escalator has to be got moving, then there's the electronically operated door. I think they went mad when they designed security for this place. On behalf of my brothers I'd like to thank you both for sparing so much time to see us. May I keep in touch with you?'

'Of course,' she replied.

'I thought I saw Marler a moment ago,' Paula said as they walked down the narrow street. 'Strolling along on the opposite side of Whitehall.'

'You must have been mistaken. What would he be doing here?'

They walked in silence until they reached the car. Once inside Tweed started the engine. He backed cautiously from the parking space into heavy traffic. It never seemed to stop. They were well on their way back to Park Crescent before Tweed asked the question.

'What did you think of the play they performed for us?'

'Play?'

'You don't really think we've seen the real Cabal, do you? Before we arrived they'd decided who would play which part. How did you weigh up the three of them?'

'Well, the most polite and, apparently, the most civilized was Noel.'

'You were rather taken by him?' Tweed said with a grin.

'Of course not,' she snapped.

'What about the others? Who is the boss? Because there is one.'

'I've no idea. At first I thought it was Nelson, he was so dominating. Then I wondered about Benton. He really is an enigma, the peacemaker. The way he intercepted Nelson as soon as he thought he was going over the top. He was very pacific.'

'And Noel?' Tweed asked. 'He may be the youngest but I had the impression he's very clever. And he was the one who talked about reining in the State Security men in uniform. Could be any of the three.'

The traffic was either crawling like a snail or stationary. When he couldn't do anything about a problem Tweed was eternally patient.

'Anything else occur to you,' he asked, 'while you sat and watched them?'

'I was trying to imagine which pair of hands had strangled the cat so horribly all those years ago. Came to no conclusion at all. One of them had a viciously cruel streak in those days.'

'Probably still has. Which could link up with the horrific murder of Viola. That's only a theory,' he warned.

Eventually arriving back at Park Crescent they were met in the office by Marler. He handed Tweed an envelope.

'More snaps for your photo album. I waited near the exit of Special Branch HQ. Saw you both leave, then three men came out one by one, with intervals between them. I took their pics.'

'That's Nelson,' Tweed said, showing Paula who had darted over from her desk. 'Then this is Benton. Finally, we have Noel. You followed them, of course?' he said, looking at Marler.

'Of course. They left at intervals, and one by one they met inside a restaurant beyond Trafalgar Square. Cunning lot. They didn't want to be seen going to lunch together.'

'So how on earth,' queried Paula, 'did you get back here ahead of us - and in time to get these printed downstairs?'

'Motorbike. I passed your stopped car, nipping in and out of traffic. Knew you wouldn't spot me. Not with my helmet and visor. Any good? The pics.'

'First rate,' said Paula, picking them up again. 'You have their features so clearly.' She handed them to Pete and Harry. She told them who was who. 'In case you ever encounter one of them.'

'Maybe I could get a word in edgeways,' Monica piped up. She brought over a thick envelope, dropped it on Tweed's desk. 'Return tickets for you, Newman and Paula. To Marignane on your way to Aix. Phoned Jim Corcoran. He'll be on the lookout for you - to slip you past security.'

'Economy,' Tweed replied. 'Thank you.'

'Well, Newman told me Philip had warned us Noel Macomber was on his way to Aix. If he's delayed he might be on the same flight. I'm gambling that, if he is, he'll hide himself in economy.'

'Clever lady. What would I do without you?'

'Get the paperwork in a proper mess,' she joked.

'So where is Newman?' he asked.

'Back at his flat in bed with Roma, would be my guess. She has lasted longer than any of her predecessors.'

The Cabal had waited until they returned from lunch to

talk about their visitors, and were seated at the three-sided

table. Nelson set the ball rolling.

'I don't think we're going to get Tweed to join us . . .' 'No doubt about that,' agreed Benton. 'So the next item

on the agenda is: how do we stop him cold?'

'By elimination,' Noel decided. 'I'll be thinking about the

best method to deal with them - Paula has to go too - while I'm flying out to Aix. Best thing would be if they both disappeared for ever. Bodies never found. I've set the wheels in motion in case it comes to this.'

'Won't involve Fitch, I hope,' mused Benton.

'I'm the Planner,' snapped Noel, glaring at Benton. 'So you leave the problem to me. You don't want to know.'

19

Tweed was in a hurry. Monica had warned him they should leave soon or miss the Air France flight. He gave orders to Pete Nield to see Coral Flenton again, to extract more information from her - about the Parrot, about her friendship with Viola from their schooldays on.

'Harry,' he called out. 'You are coming with us to Aix, flying tonight. At the special late request of Philip.'

'Now we're in April,' Paula told him, 'it's warmer. I have checked Provence. It's warmer still down there. So in that bag you'll find lighter-weight clothes.'

Monica walked over, handed Harry an envelope. 'There's a return ticket for you also,' she said. 'So make sure you come back.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' he replied.

Within minutes they were all inside Newman's Range Rover, on their way to Heathrow. Tweed told Newman to park in Short Stay. Crossing the bridge from the car park to the airport they met Jim Corcoran.

'You go aboard first,' he told them. 'Get a move on. I'll be with you until you're aboard . . .'

At the check-in desk Paula became aware of a passenger behind her who appeared to have survived a car crash. He was a tall man, smartly dressed, but his head was covered with a bandage. He gazed round through dark tinted glasses. As Paula presented her ticket he muttered something like 'wrong check-in . . .'

As he walked away Newman watched him and Paula did the same. The bandaged victim was standing near the exit talking into a sophisticated mobile. Newman grunted, smiled.

'A spy reporting the flight we're on. Maybe a reception committee waiting for us.'

'That was Mugger Morgan,' Harry said. 'Forgot to bandage his jaw. I broke it once.'

They settled in their seats. Very quickly the engines built up power, they were rolling towards the departure slot, straight on to the runway, then taking off.

Newman found two cushions, slipped one behind Paula's back, seated in front of him, the other behind her head. She rested her head, fell fast asleep. It was almost dark but in the seat beside her Tweed remained alert. He hated sleeping when flying.

Paula woke suddenly, looked out of the window. A moon cast a luminous glow over a landscape with rows of sticks on a south-facing slope. Vineyards were beginning to show signs of life. The plane was dropping rapidly. She'd slept during the whole flight.

'That man at the airport,' she whispered to Tweed. 'I wonder what will happen at Aix's airport?'

'Philip will have foreseen that development. Never misses a trick. I don't understand his late request for Harry.'

He kept his voice very low since Harry was seated across the aisle.

'He'll have a reason,' she replied, gazing out of the window.

In the distance she could see several new buildings. Beyond them nothing but a flat endless plain. Marignane was in the middle of nowhere. We have no weapons if there's trouble, Paula thought. Leave it all up to Philip.

They disembarked down the staircase and walked to the airport buildings. Paula was immediately aware it was much warmer. Philip met them the moment they entered. He was accompanied by a small Frenchman in an elaborate uniform.

'Armand,' Philip introduced. 'Chef du Securite. We must keep moving. Good flight?'

'Must have been,' said Paula, trotting to keep up with the two men. Tweed by her side, Newman and Harry guarding their rear. Armand unlocked a door, led them down a long corridor well away from the arrivals hall. Outside again, Newman shook hands with Armand, hustled them inside a grey people-carrier with small windows. No one had checked their tickets or the small bags they were carrying.

Behind the wheel, Philip Cardon smiled at Paula. He drove at speed along a narrow road, emerged on to an autoroute, pressed his foot down. Now they were really moving. Tweed, who had again given Paula the window seat, grunted.

'When we stop somewhere I'll catch my breath.'

'Soon,' Philip called back, 'we will stop briefly. So I can hand out cutlery, the weapons you're all used to.'

'So it's that sort of a trip,' Harry called out behind Paula. 'I guessed it might be when I was hauled in at the last minute. Fair enough . . .'

Paula gazed out of her window. The vineyards had disappeared. In their place were dense forests of evergreens. Between gaps she caught sight of high rolling hills, everything glowing in the luminous moonlight. Philip slowed down, glanced again in his rear-view mirror, then swung off the main road up a cutting fenced in by trees, arrived at a concrete circle. He turned round it, stopped, switched off headlights, engine.

After telling everyone to stay in their seats, Philip pressed a button. The door opened and a small fat man with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder appeared. Philip called down in French, which Paula caught the gist of.

'Pierre, everything clear? Nothing suspicious.'

'You see no bodies. I haven't shot anyone yet tonight.'

'Everyone out,' Philip ordered in English.

He was delving into a large bag when they surrounded him. He carefully brought out what to Paula looked like the first of several metal pancakes.

'Limpet mines, special type,' Philip explained. 'We'll need them later in Paris.'

Paris? Paula thought.

'They are switched off?' Harry asked as he took the first mine.

'Of course,' snapped Philip. 'Turn that lever to the right and they're active.' He showed Harry three more mines, put them back in the leather bag with thick cloth between each one. From the next container he brought out a Browning, shoulder holster, a Beretta, a leg holster, spare mags. Handed them to Paula, grinned.

'Feel dressed now?'

'I do. What about registration?'

'Don't worry. Dollars satisfy many officials. As they did Armand at the airport. Now, Tweed . . .'