Blood Storm

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 amp; 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 amp; 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.