Cell (44 page)

'I have a good man watching that place.'

'Then tell him to kill Martin Hogarth. Urgently . . .'

33

Tweed sat behind his desk, tapping his pen. Paula knew he
was bothered by something. When he continued tapping
the pen, gazing at the closed blind which masked the distant
view of Regent's Park, she felt sure.

'What's disturbing you?' she asked.

'I'm thinking of phoning the Minister and demanding
to know why there are no Special Branch men on the
Embankment.'

'Don't! You were right before. You decided not to arouse
any resentment. Let sleeping dogs lie.'

'I suppose you are right. I won't call him.'

Beaurain was pacing the office, restless, while Newman
sat at ease, reading the
Daily Nation.
Beaurain put on his
coat and Tweed looked up.

'Going somewhere?'

'I feel it would be wiser if we checked that Embankment
again. I can tell you're in two minds whether to contact
Warner or not. You'd look silly if there are camel-hair coats
patrolling now.'

'I'll come with you,' said Paula.

'Restless people,' Tweed commented.

'Yes,' snapped Paula, 'we're all restless, expecting some
thing terrible to happen and no idea what it is, where it
will take place. Jules, let's get out of this claustrophobic
atmosphere.'

It had stopped drizzling and was icily cold as they reached
her car. Beaurain asked if he could drive again and she agreed. He headed straight down Whitehall for Westminster Bridge. Traffic was still very heavy but he drove with great skill, slipping through gaps.

As he turned left along the Embankment he noticed cars
were still slow-moving on the bridge. He turned to Paula
with a smile, nodding towards the bridge.

'Does it go on like this much longer?'

'It can start in the late afternoon with people trying to
beat the rush. Then it can go on until nearly eight. It gets worse day by day.'

'Who would be a commuter?'

'Not me.'

Glancing at him, she saw his penetrating gaze was focused
on the Embankment walk by the river. She started studying
the same area. They had driven a short distance when she let out a gasp.

'Look. That's Martin Hogarth walking along the Embank
ment, away from us. I recognize his walk, his clothes. So
where the devil is Marler? He's suppose to be follow
ing him.'

'If you can see Marler he's doing a bad job. He'll be
nearby. Marler impresses me.'

'Don't see him anywhere . . .'

A dozen yards behind Hogarth a businessman was walk
ing in the same direction. He wore the conventional City
outfit. A black jacket and black trousers. His head was protected with a black hat and he was carrying a bulky
briefcase.

'That's the "uniform" the City gent wears these days,'
Paula explained to Beaurain. 'Black suit, which I think
looks so dreary, and the fat briefcase to emphasize how
important and busy he is. Hundreds of them dress just
like that. At one time they wore a variety of smart suits, now this ghastly outfit.'

A large barge was proceeding upriver. It was laden almost to the gunwales with powdered black coal. A distance behind it was another big barge, also carrying coal. Beaurain stared at them as Paula enlightened him.

'My guess is they're headed for that new power station
the lady with Pooh told us about. The tide is coming in but
it will rise much higher during the next two days.'

'First I've seen since leaving Belgium. They ply the river
near Liege. Much smaller jobs than those.'

'Still no sign of camel-hair coat types,' she said. 'That fool of a Minister is just asserting his authority.'

'Hogarth is still plodding along the promenade,' said the
Belgian, glancing in his rear.-view mirror. 'Wonder where
he's going? It's a cold night to be out.'

'Marler will find out,' she said confidently.

'Do you know how to get us to the East End? I'm looking
for a pub where the locals gather.'

'I'll guide you.'

She would like to have asked what Beaurain had in mind
but she desisted from speaking. He always seemed to know
what he was doing.

Marler, the businessman, was still following Hogarth. Ear
lier his quarry had gone into a pub for a drink. Marler
had slipped into the pub's cloakroom, locking himself in
a cubicle. Opening the briefcase, he had taken out the
crease-free black suit. Marler could change in less than
a minute. Stuffing the clothes he'd been wearing into the briefcase, he walked back into the crowded pub, ordered
a beer. Hogarth was still drinking further down the bar. When Hogarth left, heading for the embankment, Marler,
the businessman, walking in a different way from his usual stride, took up a position twenty yards behind him, his eyes
everywhere.

Halfway along the embankment Hogarth crossed the
road when the lights were in his favour. On the far side
he plunged uphill into a maze of quiet streets. Marler
crossed before the green light changed at the pedestrian
crossing.

After the muted roar of the traffic it was very silent
and dark. Very few street lights, and those there were
at long intervals. A walk in the shadows up the narrow
climbing street. Heading for the Strand, Marler decided. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand. Something about this area away from the world he didn't like. He
walked faster, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound as
he got closer to Hogarth.

His quarry turned another corner, slowing down as he
went on up the steep hill. Marler heard a vehicle crawling
up the street behind him. He dodged up some steps into
an entrance alcove. He waited.

A cab crept round the corner. No light up, showing he
could not take a fare. No passenger in the back. The window
on the far side from the driver open. Marler couldn't see the
number-plate but felt sure it was the same cab he'd passed
earlier, parked just beyond the end of Park Crescent.

The driver had his cabbie's cap pulled well down, increased speed a little. Marler ran after it. Round the
corner Hogarth was still plodding uphill. Marler arrived as
the cab stopped alongside Hogarth. Hogarth had paused,
tired by his exertions.

Marler raised the Walther he held in his right hand. The
cab driver was aiming a gun point-blank at Hogarth. Marler
fired one shot. The driver sagged, his hand losing his grip
on his gun. Hogarth, who had looked at the driver when
he stopped, was terrified.

'You!' he said, recognizing Marler.

'Keep quiet. Sit on those steps.'

'He was going to . . .'

'Shut up, for God's sake. Sit!'

Marler slipped gloves on to his hands after sliding the
Walther back inside his hip holster. While Hogarth sank on
the steps, Marler opened the cab's front door. His single
bullet had struck the hitman in the chest and blood covered his jacket.

Avoiding any contact with the blood of the dead man,
Marler searched his pockets. Nothing to identify him.
Figured - with a professional. He left the killer's automatic on the floor, used a folded coat by the side of the seat to
cover the blood-soaked corpse's front, climbed out, shut
the door. Then he grabbed Martin by the arm.

'Now we're walking back down the way you came. We
get out of here fast. On your feet!'

He hustled Martin back towards the Embankment. With
his hand gripping Hogarth's arm, he was half-carrying him.
As they walked he gave his captive instructions.

'Did you drive in from Carpford? You did. So where is your car parked?'

'In a multi-storey near Baker Street. . .'

'I'm taking you there. You will then drive straight back to Carpford and sit tight inside your bungalow. Have you any weapons in the place?'

'A shotgun. Use it to shoot rabbits . . .'

'Keep it by your bed when you go to sleep. Make sure
everything is locked up. If there's an alarm, call Tweed
at the number for General & Cumbria Assurance.
Do not
return to London.'

'Where is Billy?'

'In a safe place, I have been told. Two hitmen attempted
to kill him but they were thwarted. Billy is all right. . .'

They had reached the Embankment. Marler flagged
down a cab. As they climbed inside he whispered his last instruction.

'Give the cabbie the address of that multi-storey car
park.'

At Park Crescent Tweed was making notes, writing down a list of suspects. He was trying to link them up. Newman looked up from reading the
Daily Nation.

'This is the weirdest obituary I've ever read. A Captain Charles Hobart. The weird thing is he died - was killed -almost two years ago. The MoD must have put a D notice
on it. First time in history.'

He handed the paper to Tweed. Sighing, Tweed pushed
his note book aside, spread the page out, read it care
fully.

Captain Charles Hobart served with a well-known
regiment. He soon developed the reputation of being
a maverick, a quality overlooked by his superiors
since he always proved to be right in his unorthodox
views and behaviour. It is rumoured he worked closely with an Intelligence officer. Popular with
his men - unusual for a maverick - he trapped
large numbers of enemy troops. Serving in Yemen,
nearly two years ago, he left his headquarters to
locate another body of the enemy. He walked into an ambush and was killed instantly. There were
rumours that he had been betrayed - vehemently denied by the MoD. There are still soldiers who
insist he
must
have been betrayed by someone hold
ing authority.

Tweed studied the photograph of Hobart in uniform, A
handsome-looking man with shrewd eyes, he wore an Arab
head-dress.

'Sounds like a minor Lawrence of Arabia,' he com
mented. 'It also sounds as though the MoD really clamped down on this one. I've always regarded them as a bunch of
crooks, their first priority being to cover themselves . . .'

He looked up as Marler entered the office. Wiping his
hands, as though rid of something unpleasant, he leant
against a wall.

'That's got rid of Martin Hogarth . . .'

He gave them a terse account of the incident, as he
called it, near the Embankment. Tweed listened until he had completed his account, then jumped in.