Cell

30

Pete Nield shifted his position behind the wheel of his parked car. He was stiff. In the Bloomsbury district of London it was still dark. No streaks of another cold dawn appeared in the heavy sky.

For hours he had waited opposite the front entrance to the Pink Hat, a small hotel in a side street. Its frontage was narrow, four storeys high with steps leading up to the entrance, which had a light glowing over it. In front of grubby net curtains a notice hung hopefully. Vacancies.

The Pink Hat? Silly name for a building which had stood there since Victorian days. It was the obscure hotel Nield had, in the evening, escorted Billy Hogarth to. On arrival Pete had accompanied Billy to check his bedroom. On the second floor it had only one window which overlooked the street where Pete had parked. No fire escape. Pete had checked that. So the only way anyone could get into the place was up the front steps. Pete was a stickler for details.

He checked his Walther for the sixth time, slid the magazine back into the butt. Something to do, to keep him awake. He didn't expect any trouble but on their way there he thought he'd been followed down from Carpford. Nerves. He slumped down further so any passer-by would assume the vehicle was empty.

The two men appeared out of nowhere. Incredibly silent in their movements. A tall thin man in a grey overcoat, his companion short and tubby, wearing a shabby raincoat. They were too quiet. Reaching the foot of the steps to the Pink Hat, they turned suddenly, went up the steps, vanished inside like ghosts. Pete slipped out of the car, closed the door quietly, crept up the steps in time to hear what they said to the night clerk, a plump dopey-looking woman.

'Our brother, Billy Hogarth, is staying here. We bring bad news. His mother has just died.'

'How awful,' the woman said, not really interested.

'We want to go and wake him gently.' It was Tall Thin talking.

'It will be a shock, so we won't tell him until he's really woken up. Which room is he in?'

'Number 16…'

'Then if you loan us your master key we can be sure not to startle him too much. See what I mean.' Now it was Short Tubby speaking. 'He was very fond of his mother.'

'Not nice,' the dopey receptionist mumbled, reaching for the key, handing it to him. 'Up those stairs, to the second landing, then turn right.'

'We appreciate this,' Short Tubby said in his hoarse voice. He picked up the key.

'Gentlemen, I suggest we discuss this in the parlour -that door over there,' Pete said quietly. His Walther was pressed into the back of Tall Thin. 'This gun holds eight rounds – it will blow your pal's spine into two pieces.'

Tall Thin had frozen. Short Tubby slipped his hand inside his jacket. Pete shook his head at him, his eyes cold as ice.

'You have one second to show me that hand – without anything in it. I'm going to pull the trigger.'

Short Tubby's hand whipped out, empty, even faster than he had inserted it. The night clerk was staring, her mouth open, standing still as a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's.

'Now,' Pete continued in his deadly quiet tone, 'we'll all go into that parlour, sit down and discuss the situation. You go first, Fatty. Walk very slowly.'

'Call the Yard,' Pete said over his shoulder to the woman. 'Ask for Chief Superintendent Buchanan. Tell him where this place is, tell him to send armed men. Now,-gentlemen,' he went on, talking to the two men, 'do walk slowly, I beg you, if you want to see the dawn…'

Short Tubby kept both of his hands by his sides, palms outwards as he took slow steps into the parlour. Pete prodded the Walther harder into Tall Thin, who followed his partner.

Inside the small parlour, decorated with a palm plant in a pot, badly in need of water, and a few wicker chairs, Pete kicked the door shut behind him.

'No! Don't sit down,' he ordered in the same Siberian voice, as Short Tubby was about to occupy a chair. 'Walk slowly to that wall. Now press your face against it, then lift the hands high above your head, press them against the wall. If you look round I'll be the last person you ever see. You stand very still,' he ordered Tall Thin, his Walther still pressed into the thug's spine.

From behind he used his left hand to pat and feel over his body. Under his left armpit he found the gun, withdrew it from the shoulder holster. A Webley-Fosbery, fully loaded. He continued to search, felt something round and hard in his overcoat pocket. A silencer, ready to be screwed on to the weapon before it was used to kill the sleeping Billy.

Pete's expression became even grimmer. He slipped Tall Thin's gun and silencer into his pocket. Reversing his Walther, holding it by the barrel, he brought the weapon down with savage force on the back of his captive's head. Tall Thin fell forward, unconscious, landed in one of the wicker chairs.

'Don't look round!' he hissed at Short Tubby.

Approaching him quietly, he rammed the Walther into Short Tubby's spine. He proceeded swiftly to search him.

Another shoulder holster from which he extracted a Colt. 455, also fully loaded. Slipped that into his other pocket and continued searching. Nothing else, no silencer, but he hadn't expected one considering the weapon. He also now had two wallets shoved inside his pocket. They could be examined later. He also had the master key, which Short Tubby had put in his trouser pocket.

'Stay where you are. Quite still. I'm going to sit down and then we can…'

He was still speaking when he smashed his gun down on the fat man's head. He jumped back as Short Tubby slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He checked both men's carotid arteries, found them ticking over. He reckoned it would be an hour before they regained consciousness.

Leaving the parlour, he closed the door. The night clerk woman was sitting behind her counter, absorbed in looking at one of the cheaper women's magazines. She looked up, went back to her magazine.

'Did you call Superintendent Buchanan at the Yard?' Pete asked.

'Don't know the number.'

Pete raised his eyes towards the ceiling. She was no longer looking at him. He took a deep breath. There was 999.

'Give me a piece of paper.'

She scrabbled below the counter. Eventually she found a notebook with creased pages. He wrote down the number, Buchanan's name and rank, then his own name.

'This is serious,' he snapped. 'Here is the number, the name of the man you need to speak to, and my name, which he will want. Tell him to send two patrol, cars with armed men. Tell him I said it was urgent.' He added that word to the notepad, underlined it. 'Give him the name of this hotel, the address. The two men who came in are waiting in the parlour, don't wish to be disturbed. Do it now.' He took out a five-pound note, gave it to her. She woke up, grabbed the note. 'They will give you more money when they arrive,' he fibbed.

He ran upstairs, followed the instructions she had given the two killers. Billy Hogarth woke quickly, did not seem worried when Pete said he was moving him to another hotel. He dressed quickly, picked up the case he hadn't unpacked, fetched his shaving-kit bag from the bathroom, tucked it under his arm and they went downstairs.

Dopey Woman was talking on the phone. Pete listened. She'd garbled his instructions but given enough for Buchanan to react. Pete paid the bill with cash, hustled Billy down the steps and into his car. It was very cold and the first streaks of dawn, promising another unpleasant day, were now visible.

'What's up?' Billy asked, suppressing a yawn.

'I think we were followed here by some undesirable characters. I'm taking you to another hotel in a different area. You'll be safe… more comfortable there.'

'Lots more goin' on up at Carpford than round 'ere.'

'What do you mean?'

No reply. He glanced at Billy. His passenger had fallen asleep, his head drooped on his chest. Pete checked the rear-view mirror. No traffic at all. No one was following them this time. But what had Billy seen up at Carpford?