Cell

27

Martin Hogarth's bungalow was a luxurious establishment. The walls were partly made of stone and above this expensive pine planks faced the wall. The front door, massive, was made of heavy oak and had three Banham locks. Pinewood shutters were closed over slit-like windows. In the dark lights from inside filtered through the shutters. Marler hammered on the iron door knocker, continued hammering.

The sound of locks being turned. A blinding glare light over the door was switched on. The door opened and a man in his late thirties was framed in the light, a man holding a gun. A 7.63mm Mauser with a long barrel, magazine capable of holding ten rounds.

'Marler, SIS.'

He was holding up his identity folder open. It could be clearly seen in the glare light. The slim man wore a polo-necked sweater, green slacks. No shoes, his feet were clad in white socks.

'Could you please stop pointing that thing at me?' drawled Marler. 'Guns are dangerous.'

'Didn't you know,' the man sneered, 'we live in a dangerous world. You come making one helluva row knocking on my door after dark. I have no idea what may be waiting for me when I open the door.'

'You know now,' Marler said, tucking away his folder. 'So put the damned gun away. We need to talk.'

'By that,' the man continued sneering, 'you mean you need to talk. Doesn't mean I need any conversation.'

As he spoke he placed the Mauser on a table next to the door. He nodded, indicating Marler could come in – nodded as he might to a tradesman. His thick brown hair was carefully coiffeured and below a sharp nose he sported a trim moustache. Marler had already weighed him up as a con-man, consumed with his own vanity. He walked into an expensively furnished drawing-room. Shaded wall-lights. The walls were painted a pale green. There were framed pictures of girls wearing nothing except inviting smiles. It all fitted in with the personality of the owner.

There was another performance as all three locks on the door were closed. Marler took the opportunity to pick up the Mauser by the barrel, to extract the magazine, putting it in his pocket.

'Just in case we have a disagreement,' he explained, placing the weapon back on the table. 'You are Martin Hogarth?'

'You knew that before you started trying to kick the door down.'

'It could have been a neighbour.'

'Let's get one thing clear from the start. I've already had a visit from your lot. When I was with my brother, Billy, that tart you employ wormed her way in.'

Marler hit Martin. A hard swift blow on the meagre chin. Martin went over backwards, ended up on the deep pile carpet, one hand nursing the chin. His shifty eyes were full of venom as he slowly clambered to his feet.

'I'm reporting this to the Minister, Victor Warner,' he hissed. 'An unprovoked assault.'

'Do that. Waste of time. Don't come under his jurisdiction.' Marler's voice was calm, indifferent. 'But clean out that mouth of yours. Maybe a good job I emptied the Mauser? You look put out. While we're on the subject,

Miss Grey is a very professional woman, also a very decent one. Now, we'll talk.'

Marler perched himself on a silk-covered upright chair. As he did so Martin opened a cupboard, brought out a bottle of fine Scotch, poured himself a stiff one, swallowed it. He returned it to the cupboard without offering his guest a drink.

'You have motor-cycle couriers calling on you at dead of night,' Marler began. 'They bring large envelopes.'

'Nothing to do with me,' Martin snapped as he sprawled in an arm chair, legs splayed out on the carpet. 'They park their damned machines against my bungalow wall at the side. A ruddy nuisance.'

'So why not go out and tell them to park their machines in Carp Lake?'

'I read the newspapers. Britain is as dangerous a place today as Afghanistan. They carry knives, not fussy about using them.'

'You've been to Afghanistan then?'

The shifty eyes flickered. Wandered about the room. Martin reached for his glass, realized it was empty.

'Good Lord no,' Martin replied after a few moments. 'Africa and Asia are full of savages. Trouble is we're letting the blighters in here. They should beat them up when they crawl in here and send them straight back…'

'How did you come to buy this bungalow?'

'What? Oh, saw an ad in The Times. Rented it, wasn't for purchase. Got it for five years. Rent's extortionate…'

'You were vetted by Pecksniff then?'

'Vetted! Don't like that word at all. I did pay one visit to the Dickensian old clot's office in the sewers…'

'Your Dickensian old clot has disappeared, probably murdered. Why?'

'Hold on, Sweetie.' Martin got up, fetched the Scotch, poured himself another stiff one. 'Cheers!' he said, raising the glass.

Marler ignored the insult as Martin emptied the glass. He sat very still while Martin sprawled again in his armchair, clutching his glass. The silence continued and Martin felt compelled to speak.

'Was there anything else?'

'Yes, I'm wondering why you chose this quiet isolated spot to live in. Not that it's quiet any more – not with four murders to its credit.'

The shifty eyes again began scanning the room. Almost as though its occupant was checking up to make sure nothing was missing since his visitor's arrival. Martin was clutching his glass tightly.

'Four murders?' he enquired eventually. 'You've lost me.'

'Let me help you.' Marler began counting on his fingers. 'We have Mrs Warner, gone missing. Mrs Gobble, ditto. Jasper Buller, Chief of Special Branch, ditto. Now Pecksniff, ditto. Chief Superintendent Buchanan of the Yard, a most experienced officer, now thinks all four were murdered. Why? They knew too much. Maybe about the New Age Development organization?'

Marler's barrage of interrogation was getting to Martin. He shifted restlessly in his chair. Withdrawing his sprawled legs, he sat up straight.

'I never knew any of these people.'

'You knew Pecksniff. You've just told me you met him. And maybe,' Marler went on, remembering what Paula had told him, 'you were worried about Mrs Gobble's high-powered telescope observing what you did, who came here.'

'Telescope? Sweetie, you've lost me again.'

'I think,' Marler decided, standing up, 'I have obtained the information I came for. I'll leave now if you'll kindly go through unlocking all those Banhams again.'

'Information?'

Marler made no reply as Martin went to the door, unlocked it. Opening it, he glared at Marler. 'Information? What information?'

'People never seem to know when they've talked too much.' Marler turned on the doorstep outside and smiled. 'I don't think we'll be calling on you again. Unless, of course, we come with an arrest warrant.'

His last view of Martin was of all the colour draining from his face. Soon as he's barred and bolted the place he'll run for the whisky bottle, he said to himself. A really well-worthwhile interrogation.

The entire team – except for Marler – was assembled in Tweed's office. There was a tense atmosphere as Beaurain walked in. Outside it was a clear, cold night. Beaurain rubbed his finger across his moustache as he sat down, then spoke, his manner grim.

'I think we have very little time left…'

'My sentiments also,' agreed Tweed.

'So,' Beaurain continued, 'I am now convinced the brain base of al-Qa'eda is located in Carpford. You disagree, Tweed?'

'No. I have come to that conclusion. Some very suspect people in that strange village.'

'So we must establish our own base there for surveillance of the inhabitants. I have just returned from there – bringing with me Billy Hogarth. I have persuaded him to loan me his bungalow. I've settled him in a small hotel in Bloomsbury and I am going to drive up to his bungalow tonight where I shall settle myself in secretly and watch.'

'I agree,' said Tweed. 'We must go over on to the offensive now. The key is in Carpford…'

'I'll come with you,' called out Paula. 'It needs at least two people to mount the death watch.'

'Death watch?' queried Harry.

'Yes. Four people have now disappeared and I don't think any of them are alive.'

The door opened and Marler, just returned from Carpford, walked in. His expression was bleak. He told them of his experience with Martin Hogarth. His tone was more clipped than usual as he concluded.

'Something not right about Martin Hogarth. In fact, something very wrong about him.'

He listened while Tweed explained Beaurain's decision. He had only one question.

'Can we trust Billy Hogarth?'

'Yes, we can,' Paula assured him. 'I had a long talk with him and he's not involved, I'm certain. As Marler said, the rotten apple in the barrel could be his brother, Martin.'

'I think there is more than one rotten apple,' Beaurain rasped.

'We must still keep an eye on Billy,' Tweed decided. 'Make sure he stays in the hotel. Pete, Paula will describe Billy to you. Your mission is to watch the hotel, make sure he stays there.'

'He could still use the phone to call someone,' Newman warned.

'No, he couldn't,' Beaurain to him. 'When I left the hotel I cut the main phone wire outside.'

Paula was describing Billy's appearance to Pete while Beaurain stood up. He began striding up and down the office.

'Think better when I'm moving.'

Picking up a blank pad off Paula's desk, he wrote down the address of the hotel. He added brief instructions how to find it. As Paula ended her description he handed the sheet to Pete.

'Marler,' Tweed ordered, 'I want you to contact every informant you can tonight to spread a rumour. Within days the army is moving into London. Whoever the mastermind may be, I want to rattle his cage.'

Pete had already left the office. He was followed by Marler. Newman frowned. The atmosphere in the office was growing more electric by the minute. This was what they all wanted. Action.

'During the night will Marler be able to find his informants?' Newman wondered.

'Best time,' Harry assured him, grinning. 'He has a string of call girls who make a powerful grapevine. They operate at night, if you didn't know.'

Paula was opening her case, which she had hauled from a cupboard, its contents ready for instant departure. Monica had dashed out of the office earlier. She returned later with a large canvas satchel, handed it to Beaurain.

'You'll find a flask of coffee to keep you both going. Plus a batch of sandwiches. Hope you like ham or cheese. Too bad if you don't. Also plenty of fruit.'

'When I was in Billy's place,' Paula piped up, 'I peeped into his kitchen through the open door. He has a cafetiere, cans of coffee, cans of beans, bread, butter – all spread out on a shelf under cupboards. We won't starve.'

Harry had also left the office earlier. He came back holding two large violin cases. He opened one, stood aside so Beaurain could see the contents. Beaurain smiled again. He had just called Monica 'the most wonderful woman in the world^, had hugged her, the satchel slung over his shoulder.

'Might come in useful,' Harry remarked. 'The other case has the same. You never know.'

Beaurain stared at the Uzi sub-machine gun resting in the violin case. Stacked alongside it were spare magazines. He lifted the weapon out, made certain adjustments, aimed it at the ceiling, pulled the trigger.

'Feels good.' He slapped Harry on the back. 'Thanks.'

'Time to get moving,' Paula said impatiently. 'We've got what we need – enough for a small war. I'll carry the second violin case. You've got your own case you brought with you, your violin which you play so well, I'm sure, and your satchel. So, what are we waiting for?'

'Keep me in touch,' Tweed called out as they rushed from his office.

'That leaves me,' Harry said, disgruntled.

'No, it doesn't,' Tweed rapped back. 'Your informants are different from Marler's. Prowl London, spread the rumour Marler is circulating.'

'See you. Some time…'

Harry was gone. Newman stood up, went to the clothes cupboard, took out a long black coat. He put it on and it almost reached his ankles. He asked Monica to fetch him another 'violin' case. He peered out of the window.

'Paula and Jules have left in his car. I'll wait a few minutes before I drive after them up to Carpford. I'm going to be the mysterious figure lurking at the edge of Black Wood. Back-up for Paula and Jules. Even if you object I'm still going.'

'Mutiny!' Tweed threw up his hands. 'First Paula, now you. Get up there as fast as you can. Communicate with me on your mobile. When you can.'

Monica appeared. She handed Newman the Uzi inside the case. She pursed her lips.

'Don't go and shoot yourself.'

'What?'

Then he saw the smile on her face. He kissed her on the cheek. She then handed him a smaller satchel than the one provided for Beaurain and Paula.

'Coffee in a flask. Plus a bottle of mineral water. Still. The way you like it. You get thirsty, I know.'

'Bless you. I'm on my way…'

The office seemed strangely quiet with only Monica and Tweed left. It was the contrast with the frenetic activity which had taken place. Tweed asked Monica for her book with the list of phone numbers. He first called the Ministry of Security. The dull voice of a guard told him the Minister was not there.

Tweed called the penthouse number where Victor Warner lived in London. He was taken aback when a soft voice answered.

'Hello?'

'You sound like Eva. Tweed here.'

'Maybe it's because I am Eva,' the sultry voice replied. 'Hold on, don't go…' He heard her call out to Mrs Carson that this was a personal call and could she have some privacy. There was plenty to do in the kitchen. A door slammed. 'Old Nosy,' Eva whispered. 'Now what can I do for you? Always a dangerous question for a woman to ask a man.'

'Sometimes. Is his Lordship there?'

'If you mean Victor Wannabe, no he isn't. He drove up to Garda – his hideaway in Carpford. I can give you the number, but don't tell him how you got it. Ex-directory.'

'Thank you, but I won't bother.'

'I'm feeling lonely, restless. Could we meet somewhere? I'd suggest Marco's Love Nest in Lower Cheyne Street. It's off Walton Street.'

'I know it.'

'You do? I'm surprised at you. In an hour's time?'

'See you then…'

In a subtle way Eva had sounded seductive. There were many sides to Eva Brand. He phoned the Ministry of Security again, asked for Peregrine Palfry.

'He's not here. Didn't you phone a few minutes ago?' the same dull guard's voice asked.

'No. Good-night…'

His new call was to Martin Hogarth. He handled this carefully. A superior voice snapped.

'Yes. Who is it?'

'Martin?'

'Yes…'

Tweed hung up. His last call was to Drew Franklin at the Daily Nation. He was transferred from one person to another. Then a girl's voice answered.

'Drew?' she said. 'He's shoved off into his country place. Who is calling?'

'Charlie Wilson. Not urgent. Thank you…'

He broke the connection. Monica was gazing at him, intrigued.

He drank some cold coffee which had been in the mug for a long time. She pulled a face.

'Don't know how you can swallow that. You've been phoning all the suspects, haven't you? To find out where they are.'

'That's right. The only one I've left out is Margesson, whom Paula called the Priest. We haven't his number but it's probably ex-directory. Doesn't matter.'

'They do say that it's the one you've missed you should have called.'

Despite Monica's protests about lack of protection, Tweed drove himself to the bar off Walton Street. He was glad to be on his own. He could think better without company.

Marco's Love Nest was discreetly advertised. No flashing neon lights. The name simply engraved on a brass plate with a dim light above it. When he walked in he had to pause to get used to the dimness. A long thin room with the bar on his left. The only illumination was a series of wall sconces glowing with a shadowy light. Behind the bar was a thin man clad in a white apron decorated with the name Marco. He approached the bar.

'I was supposed to meet a lady here.'

'She is waiting for you at a table at the back. Arrived ten minutes ago.'

'How do you know she's waiting for me?'

Marco now had a secretive smile. Not a smirk but knowing. He put down the glass he was cleaning, leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

'She described you, sir. Medium height. Could be in his mid-forties. Wearing horn-rim glasses.'

'What is she drinking? Ready for another, you think?'

'Not yet. She just sips her drink. What will you have?'

'A glass of Chardonnay.'

'Two of a kind. Even like the same drink.'

'Marco, just give me the drink, then tell me the cost, including the lady's.'

'Didn't mean to be offensive. Sir.'

'Had you been, you'd have known about it…'

Having paid, Tweed made his way to the back of the bar. By now his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness and he could see her clearly. Sitting at a table in a secluded alcove, one hand slowly swivelling her glass by the stem as she watched him coming. He sat down, facing her.

'Cheers!' He raised his glass and she clinked hers with his. Her outfit surprised him. She was wearing a close-fitting white sleeveless dress, exposing her shapely arms and shoulders.

'Does he know you're here?' Tweed asked suddenly, abruptly.

'Victor? Certainly not. I keep my private life very private.'

'When was he first appointed Minister of Security?'

'Oh, about two years ago…' Eva replied.

'Why was he chosen?' Tweed asked.

'He was an MP and had been director of Medfords private security outfit. Obvious choice. The only one with the experience.'

'How did you come to work for him?' Tweed went on in a blank tone of voice.

'Thought you'd have realized that from what I told you when I slipped over secretly to your office. When he was with Medfords I was on the staff. It's a loose arrangement.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means,' said Eva, 'I'm not officially on his staff. So I'm not trapped in that idiotic Civil Service system. I'm paid out of his private income. Victor is a rich man.'

'How did that come about?'

'It came about, Mr Tweed, because it was the only way I would agree to work for him.'

'You have official office hours?' Tweed asked.

'I damned well don't. I come and go as I please. I thought this was going to be a fun evening.' She was still smiling as she had done since he'd sat down. 'Instead I find myself being interrogated. I did a lot of that myself at Medfords.'

Tweed sipped his wine. She waited, her large eyes glowing into his. He had the odd feeling she was penetrating inside his brain. An exceptionally intelligent lady with bewitching looks.

'Where were you born?' he asked suddenly.

'In a small village in Hampshire. Don't ask me the village's name because I won't tell you. My childhood is strictly my own affair.'

'You told me your mother was killed in a road accident. So what about your father?'

'You've hit a road-block. I don't want to talk about him. I will not talk about him.' Still smiling.

'You disliked him?'

'Didn't you hear what I just said?'

Eva lifted her almost full glass, swallowed the contents in two large gulps. She raised the empty glass to the barman, who came hurrying over.

'Same again,' she said.

'You left Medfords before Warner did?'

'As a matter of fact, I did. He contacted me two years later when he became a Minister, offered me the job.'

'And how did you spend those two years?'

'More interrogation.' She was still smiling. 'I was what they used to call a swinger, maybe still do. Cocktail bars and the best night clubs.'

'Miss Brand

'Eva, please.'

'Eva, I don't believe you. The swinger fairy-tale. Not your style.'

'Then that's your problem.' She waited until the barman, who had brought her a fresh glass of wine, went away. She drank half the glass at one go, then stretched out a hand and took hold of Tweed's resting on the table. 'We are friends, are we not?'

'I would hope so. I've just been doing my job.'

'Good. I asked you here to warn you. When the mandate from Downing Street arrived, appointing you Supremo in the present crisis, at first Victor was livid. Then he came to like the idea,' Eva explained.

'Why?'

'Because if al-Qa'eda launch a successful and devastating attack on London you get the blame, not Victor. He has always operated in this way – had a scapegoat tucked away in a cupboard, so to speak. After all, you are in charge of defeating al-Qa'eda – a point he has emphasized in the Cabinet.'

'So, secretly he's worried about an attack coming? Even though he pooh-poohs the idea in public?'

'Now you've caught on. Warnings about some terrible catastrophe being imminent are beginning to seep into the press. Our nice gossip writer, Drew Franklin, has seen to that. Sometimes I think Drew is not all he seems. He's suave, polite with women, natters them so he can get what he wants. Reminds me of a smokescreen.'

'You could be right,' Tweed agreed.

'He came after me. But I got the impression his main motive was not the bedroom. It was to pump me about Victor's security measures. I told him I couldn't talk about security- and I wasn't interested in having dinner with him. When he asked, "Why?" I said because I didn't trust him. You ought to pay attention to Drew Franklin.'

'I will. And I appreciate what you have told me. Scapegoat? Interesting.'

'He developed that technique at Medfords. If something didn't work out he had someone else ready to dump the blame on to. He is, in fact, your typical politician. Manipulation is the name of the game. He's an expert.'

'Then maybe,' Tweed suggested, 'you should watch your back.'

She squeezed Tweed's hand, which she was still holding. Leaning forward, she kissed him. Tweed smiled, squeezed her hand, then withdrew his.

'You know,' she said, 'I've come to prefer more mature men who have a lot of experience. I can't stand the young macho type who has only one thing in mind with a woman. Plus they're such a bloody bore.'

'I have enjoyed talking to you,' Tweed said amiably. 'But if someone we know comes in here tongues will start wagging and that might hurt your job with the Minister. Shouldn't we call it a night?'

'After I've had another drink.' She waved her empty glass. Marco hustled over. 'Same again,' she told him. 'What about you?' she asked Tweed.

'If you insist.'

'I do insist.'

'Ever been to the Middle East?' Tweed asked suddenly. 'Since one of your languages is Arabic.'

'Don't really fancy the place.' Her large eyes still gazing into his. 'I prefer Switzerland. Everything there works.'

'True.'

Tweed remained silent until Marco had brought the fresh drinks and left them alone. He sipped his wine as Eva swallowed half her glass. He could see no sign that she was getting tipsy. A hard head.

'Do you think you're going to defeat al-Qa'eda?' she asked.

'As the Duke of Wellington once said, a battle may be won or lost until it's over. Not an exact quotation, but it conveys his meaning. I have enjoyed your company, but do you mind if we go in a moment?'

'The man has a battle to be fought.' She drank the rest of her wine. 'I've got my Audi parked round the corner so you don't have to offer me a lift…'

'I have been seduced mentally,' Tweed told Monica as he sat behind his desk.

'Only mentally?' Monica was grinning. 'Shame!'

Tweed then told her about their conversation. With his power of recall he told her everything. Monica checked her bun of hair at the back of her head before she commented.

'So three questions arise. She cleverly evaded your asking her whether she'd ever been to the Middle East. She firmly evaded telling you anything about this mysterious father. Finally, the missing two years in her life worry me.'

'I agree. She has a very dominant – without being domineering – personality. Still on your list of suspects?'

'It's a long one. Victor Warner, Peregrine Palfry, Martin Hogarth, Margesson, Drew Franklin and Eva Brand.'

Tweed frowned. 'Come to think of it, we don't know all that much about Franklin.'

'So I'll work fast, put him under my microscope again using the contacts I've left out.'

'Good. You know I don't think you should have included Eva in your suspects list. The Arabs would never take orders from a woman, even one with her exceptional brainpower. '

'Unless they don't know their controller is a woman.'