Blood Storm

2

Slumped behind the wheel of his stationary car, Tweed stirred. Where was he? Memory of the dinner with Viola flooded back, then feeling so strange as they left Mungano's. He straightened up, worked his arms, found he felt normal. Almost normal enough to drive. He checked the time: 6 a.m. God!

He could hardly credit it – he'd slept seven and a half hours. He drove very slowly, emerging from the cul-de-sac. The street was empty. He knew he could now drive safely. Even so he crawled back to the mews near his flat where he had hired a garage for a small fortune.

Locking the door, he paused to glance everywhere. No sign of a soul. He felt better. The cold early morning air was welcome. He began to stride quickly across the cobbled mews to the exit. A mistake. He still felt wobbly.

Arriving in Bexford Street, lined with tall old terraced houses, he climbed the steps to his heavy wooden front door. A street lamp on the deserted pavement provided illumination to find the Banham lock.

As he wrestled his keys from an inner pocket he stared at the lock. There were gouge marks round it. Someone had tried to get inside during the night. He had trouble turning the key. Someone had entered his flat. Twiddling with his key he managed to turn it. He opened the door silently.

Once inside, he closed the door without switching on any lights, stood listening. Not a sound. He moved slowly along the hall, his hand counting the panels in the wall to his right. Reaching number four he paused, pressed his thumb three times against a corner, waited, pressed twice, then three times again. The panel slid back. He reached in, grasped the loaded Walther automatic, closed the coded panel, felt his way past the drawing-room door, began to climb the stairs cautiously. Although it was called a flat he owned the entire four storeys. He avoided stepping on the stair tread which creaked, reached the first floor. His bedroom door was not quite closed. After dressing for his dinner with Viola he had been in a hurry, but he still took precautions. Standing to one side of the door he reached inside, turned on the main light. He went inside quickly, gripping his Walther, stared all round. Nothing. His head was playing tricks on him again. He cursed, closed the door, staggered over to his bed, jerked off the top cover on to the floor. He was on the verge of collapse.

Making a great effort, he pulled off his shoes, threw off his overcoat, slipped the Walther under the pillow. Tearing off his tie, opening his collar, he sank on to the bed, switched off the light, lost consciousness.

Paula, determined to start work early, was driving down the short cut which was Bexford Street. She parked outside Tweed's home. She'd leave him a note through the letterbox to tell him what she was doing.

Climbing the steps, her alert eyes instantly noticed gouge marks round the lock. Someone must have tried to break in while Tweed was dining with Viola. She took out the duplicate key he had given her, had trouble turning it in the lock. Before she entered quietly she hauled out the Browning. 32 automatic from the holster beneath her thigh-length raincoat.

She closed the front door carefully, walked noiselessly along the hall. Reaching the living-room door, she listened, then stood to one side as she threw it wide open. Her other hand found the switch and she was inside, swivelling her Browning in all directions. No one. No sign the intruder had been in here.

She mounted the stairs, stepping over the creaking tread. Pressing an ear against Tweed's bedroom door, she heard the sound of loud snoring. He never snored. Extracting her powerful torch from her coat pocket, she opened the door, swept her beam quickly. Tweed was lying on his back, eyes closed, which was not normal. His breathing was regular, which was reassuring. She aimed the beam over the front part of the bedroom, froze. Perched on a side table a silver candlestick lay on its side, resting on a folded duster – which would have cushioned the sound. One drawer of a chest of drawers was not fully closed.

Paula knew that Tweed was fastidiously neat in his housekeeping. He would never have left the candlestick like that if he had caught it with his arm. He would never have left one of the drawers partially open. She made her way across to the front of the room, turned on a shaded table lamp, turned off her torch, set to work.

Seven drawers, the deepest at the bottom. She began with the top one, opened it, searched carefully through piles of handkerchiefs and scarves. Nothing. The partly closed drawer also contained nothing unusual. It was only when she opened the large drawer at the bottom that she found under a pile of shirts what had been planted.

A large old briefcase, not one of Tweed's, was stuffed full – it bulged. Paula put on latex gloves, lifted out the briefcase, unfastened the catch. She sucked in her breath. Inside was a large transparent envelope containing a meat cleaver, the blade coated with a reddish tinge which she knew was dried blood. Inside a smaller transparent envelope were small pieces of dried flesh, also stained with blood.

She reacted quickly. After rechecking the drawer, she carried the briefcase to the window. She heard a car pull up outside. Scared stiff, she doused the table lamp and peered out. Bob Newman's Range Rover was parked. He was half out of the front door, peering up. She grabbed her torch, switched it on, held it under her chin, then flashed it urgently. He was jumping out of the car as she headed for the stairs.

'I was just passing and Tweed is often up early-' Newman began.

'Someone is trying to frame Tweed for some crime I don't like the look of one little bit,' she interrupted him. 'Evidence is inside this thing…'

She handed him the briefcase, which he took from her without question. He ran back to his car as she closed the door and hurried upstairs, worried in case Tweed had woken, was wondering what was going on. Arriving back in the bedroom she found Tweed still fast asleep. She hurried to the window in time to see Newman was trapped.

Newman shoved the briefcase under his seat as a dark car came round the corner, its lights on full beam focused on him. It stopped, barring his way. A tall man clad in a long black coat ran up to him. Round the left arm of his coat which he perched on Newman's open window was a wide armlet with two words in white embroidered on it: State Security.

'Out of the car. Now! Hands on your shoulders,' he ordered savagely.

His hat was pulled well down over his face, but not low enough to conceal a hooked nose, a thin grim mouth, a V-shaped chin. His other hand was reaching inside the coat.

'Don't do that,' Newman told him, his Smith amp; Wesson aimed point-blank at the thug.

Newman ripped off the armlet. Evidence. He thrust the long barrel of the Smith amp; Wesson through the window and struck the thug hard across the side of the face, probably breaking a cheekbone. The thug screamed, moved back, tripped over the kerb. He fell backwards on to the pavement.

Newman was already backing away from the dark car at speed. He switched to 'drive', rammed his foot down, shot forward. The ram on his vehicle was special steel. It hit the dark car, still stopped partly sideways. The collision was ferocious as the ram smashed into the other car's bonnet, destroying the engine. In his rear-view mirror Newman saw another dark car approaching from behind. He reversed at high speed.

His rear ram, also reinforced steel, hit the new target when it was half-turning into Bexford Street out of a side street. He had more space to do the job this time, therefore more speed. The impact was so violent the second black car was spun round in a half-circle, clearing the entrance to the side street. Newman turned the wheel, sped off.

'I have to get out of London before traffic builds,' he said to himself.

He had already decided where he would head for.