Blood Storm (20 page)

'How much?'

'What!'

'How much for me to come and haul you out? I'm a businessman. You should know that by now.'

'Five 'undred nicker. In cash. For Gawd's sake, Mugger!'

'I'm on me way. You 'ang on.'

Mugger chuckled as he put away the mobile. He rather liked the humour of his remark.

The barge's prow bumped the wharf. He manoeuvred it
alongside, switched off the engine, jumped ashore. Swiftly
he roped the barge safely to the bollards, looked round for
the dealer. Not here. He was always late and then he'd try
to lower the price. Frig him. He would go for the five
hundred nicker first.

He hurried along the crowded street. If he didn't get
there in time Fitch would go down the chute. That didn't
worry Mugger so much as the fact that he'd take the five
hundred pounds with him.

Mugger was a big man, six foot one tall, fifteen stone,
with a brutal face. He was in his forties: he had earned the
nickname Mugger in his teens, christened by the police who
had never brought him to justice. His technique in those
days had been to prowl Mayfair and Regent Street, looking for well-dressed women, snatch their handbags and scarper.
He'd made a lot of money that way, but gave it up when
police patrols began to walk those areas.

Buying himself a large barge, he'd entered the drugs
trade. He collected the cocaine packets from downriver,
sailed back to the East End and charged his dealer three times what he'd paid.

Arriving at the padlocked entrance to the warehouse he
took out a bunch of keys, which included a pick-lock. He
was inside the place in minutes. Opening the door into the
room where the chute was located, he bent down, grabbed
the handle, hauled off the lid. Sure enough there was
Fitch, a rope round his neck over a scarf. He'd agilely
managed to use his exceptional strength to manoeuvre
himself at right angles to the vertical shaft. Both his feet
were rammed into the side of the shaft, both hands
holding on to the rope. He knew he couldn't last out much
longer. He looked up.

'Reach down, grab the rope and haul me up,' he ordered.

'I'll need my five 'undred nicker before I do any work,' Mugger informed him with a hideous grin.

Bastard! Fitch muttered under his breath. He let go of the
rope with one hand. It was tricky, but he managed to feel
inside his pocket for a sheaf of twenty-pound notes held
together with an elastic band. He threw it up and sighed
with relief as it shot up through the hole, landing on the
warehouse
floor.

Mugger picked up the bundle, counted it quickly. Then he shouted down.

'Only two 'undred and forty here. We said five 'undred.'

'You get the rest in my pocket when I'm up there with
you. If you don't get me out fast I'm going down - with the
money.'

Mugger reacted quickly. He knelt down, stretched one long arm, grasped the rope. Despite the awkward position and Fitch's weight, he hauled him up. Fitch flopped on the
floor, worked his stiff legs, clambered to his feet.

He was wondering whether to catch Mugger off guard,
tip him down the chute. He changed his mind as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead and face.
He had thought that Mugger could be useful to him.

'Money. Now.'

Mugger was holding out a huge hand, working his fingers
in the money gesture. Fitch took a battered pack of
cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a jewelled lighter. He
stared at his saviour.

'Like to make a lot more? Say two thou?'

'Talk about that after the two 'undred and sixty you
owe.'

Fitch reached in his other pocket, took out another roll of
twenties. He gave it to Mugger, who counted it carefully.
While he was doing this Fitch replaced the lid over the
chute. He wouldn't send Mugger down to the pearly
depths. He could use him, he'd finally decided.

'What job?' Mugger demanded aggressively.

'To put away - permanently - a woman and a man. Use any method you like but they must both disappear.'

'For two thou? You must be jokin', mucker. For five thou
I'd consider it.'

'Four

'I said five!' Mugger roared.

'OK,' Fitch agreed, after a long pause. 'Five.'

'So who are the bodies?' Mugger asked.

'A man and a woman.'

'I could have fun with the woman before we finish
them . . .'

'No!' Fitch shouted.

He leapt forward, grabbed Mugger round the throat with
both his strong hands, pushed him over backwards, fell on
top of him, his hands still round the neck. Mugger was
stunned. He'd not realized before how strong Fitch was.
'NO!' Fitch yelled again. 'This has to be a quick job. You
can get up now.'

Fitch jumped to his feet. Mugger climbed upright more slowly. His hands were soothing his neck. He was scared
now. Fitch realized this and set about making him forget
what he'd done.

'Five thousand nicker,' Fitch repeated. 'How long would it take for you to earn that drug dealing?'

'A little while,' Mugger admitted. 'I only deal in small
packets. Then if I'm stopped by the river
patrol they'd never
find it even if they turned the barge upside down.' He
regained his toughness. 'Name of these parties?'

'Tweed and Paula Grey. I'll be with you when we grab
them. Take them in the back of my car - no, the boot.'

'Then dump them in the river? We'll need heavy chains.'

'No we won't.' Fitch grinned sadistically. 'Chloroform first to knock them out, then a trip to the burner.'

'The burner?'

'I have a pal further east who operates a metal foundry -
with a huge furnace. He clears out of the place for a con
sideration. He'll think I'm getting rid of dud banknotes.'

'I'm still not sure I know . . .'

'Stupid! We take the bodies and shove them into the furnace. You can watch them burn. Only takes a minute.
OK?'

'I guess so.'

17

Marler was 'prowling'. He had returned to Covent Garden,
and was standing on the opposite side of the street to the
building where he had seen the small woman with Paula say
goodbye and then enter her flat.

Earlier he had witnessed Newman's fiasco in his attempt
to get on with Coral, had seen him emerge and wave both
hands in frustration. Then Paula had entered Popsies.
Strolling past he had seen the back of Paula's head as she
had talked to the woman.

Marler was shrewd. He'd realized this must be Pete
Nield's secret informant. He was always suspicious of
informants, mistrusting half his own sources. He now
stood, watching the door to the flat, on the street under a
striped blind projecting from a bar entrance. In his hand he
held a mug of coffee. He sipped it occasionally. It gave him
a reason for hanging about.

It was dark when a tall woman, good figure, brown hair
neatly coiffeured, well dressed in a silk frock and expensive
shoes, pressed the bell to the flat. Marler perched the coffee
on a nearby ledge, took out a miniature camera which was
non-flash, pressed a button for bad light since by now it was dark.

Paula's friend from Popsies appeared, smiled, shook
hands with her visitor. As the visitor turned her head Marler
took three quick shots of both of them. He followed them
until they went into a good restaurant. He immediately
returned to the building, checked the bell he'd seen the
visitor push. A small card alongside had the owner's name.
C. Flenton.

Marler then continued his prowl. He hailed a cab, asked
to be dropped in the East End. He got out near a pub called
the Pig's Nest, not the most salubrious establishment in
London. Mixing with the crowd, he was strolling towards
the pub's entrance when he nearly stopped short. His
instinct and his training saved him. He continued to stroll.

Marler was startled. For him the immediate reaction was
rare. Its cause was hurrying towards him, then turned into the Pig's Nest. Before he did so Marler used his camera to
take two shots. His target
was Amos Fitch, the man
Newman had 'dealt with'.

At Park Crescent, Newman was still out with Pete Nield.
Monica thought they must really be knocking it back. Harry
had left, telling Monica he was on his way to Paradise.

'Some people call it the East End,' he added as he left.

Paula went over to Tweed, leant over his desk, whispered
a suggestion.

'I have info to pass on, just between us. Would your
house be the best place?'

'I'm leaving now, so it would be.'

She followed him in her car, stopping several times to
pick up some shopping. She arrived after dark to find two
new locks on the front door. A Banham and a Chubb.
Tweed appeared quickly when she'd pressed the bell three times, then twice.

Taking two of her three carrier bags he ran up the stairs.
Paula followed, noting the locks closed automatically when
she shut the door. Tweed was sitting at his desk, studying
files when she walked in, picked up the two bags.

'You haven't eaten today,' she told him. 'I'm cooking a meal for both of us. Liver, bacon, fried egg - followed by creme brulee.'

'Appreciate that,' he said not looking up.

She went into the kitchen, closed the door. She knew
where everything was. She donned an apron, set to work. He had laid the table when she returned with the meal. She
frowned.

'That's my job. Come and get it while it's hot. I can tell
you about my afternoon while we eat. . .'

Tweed ate voraciously, congratulated her on another
first-class meal. He fixed his eyes on hers as he posed the question.

'You have information?'

She told him. About following Newman and Nield. Their
meeting in Popsies with Coral Flenton. Newman,
frustrated, driving off with Nield. Her own meeting with Coral, their conversation.

'So Coral and Viola Vander-Browne were friends, went
back a long way - to their schooldays,' Tweed observed. 'A
strange twist. I find it odd.'

'I found something about Coral odd, but I can't put my
finger on what it was. And she emphasized how far away her
desk in the next room is from the Cabal's hideaway . . .'