Blood Storm

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.