No Mercy (18 page)

'Your car will be waiting outside, sir, in just a minute,' he told Tweed. 'Your Porsche,' he informed Lucinda, 'is parked
on the other side of the road. A waiter's kept an eye on it.
He's been feeding the meter.'

'Thank you,' she replied with a smile, handing him a large
tip.

They walked out into a bitterly cold night. Tweed's car
had not yet arrived. Lucinda told Tweed to follow her and skipped across the wide street. A large BMW with tinted
windows pulled up in front of her. It all happened so quickly.
The driver's door was thrown open and a big man dressed for dinner jumped out and accosted her.

'Hello, dearie. Just what I need. On my way to Scargo's, a super nightclub. Hop in.'

'Get lost!'she snapped.

He grabbed hold of her arm to drag her into the BMW.

'Come on,' he demanded. 'You all play hard to get.'

Tweed was halfway across the road, his right hand
clenched in a fist, when he witnessed an extraordinary
spectacle. Lucinda's movement was too swift for him to see
exactly what she did. She had hold of the big man, spun him
round, shoved him backwards. His head hit the top of the
open car doorway and he sagged. She lifted him bodily, pushed him face down inside, checked his pulse as he lay
inert, reached in, pulled out the ignition key and threw it along the gutter. It dropped down a drain.

'He'll live,' she told Tweed calmly. 'Pulse ticking over
nicely. Now, are you seeing me safely home?'

'Of course I am.'

He had been going to tell her he had to get back to Park
Crescent. Now he had no option. He got behind the wheel
of his car, now waiting outside Santorini's. He heard the purr of Lucinda's engine starting, was driving behind her when she got moving. No police about, he hoped.

Along the empty streets they soon moved up Park Lane
and turned off into Mayfair. Lucinda turned down a side street, used her remote to open the door into an underground garage and waved for him to hurry up before the
door closed. She swung into an empty space, and Tweed pulled up alongside her.

'You handled that big ape brilliantly,' he said when he
joined her.

'Jujitsu.' She grinned. 'No problem handling the ape.'

He followed her across to a bank of elevators. She
summoned the lift and the doors opened, she jumped inside,
pressed the 'hold' button and stood inside, facing him, her
arms folded.

'I'm gasping for that nightcap. Come on. Move your feet.'

Tweed was tempted. Every limb in his body urged him to
get into the elevator. He took a deep breath.

'I'd love to,' he said. 'I'd really love to. You're a truly
magnetic woman. But I have to get back to Park Crescent.
I'm expecting vital information about my murder case.'

'You and your bloody murder case.'

She ran out of the elevator, threw her arms round him, kissed him, lingering. He responded, clasping his hands
round her waist, and edged her gently back inside the
elevator. As he did so she produced a card from somewhere
and tucked it inside his coat pocket.

'Now you'll know where to find me. Thanks for a terrific
evening.'

He was about to take a step forward when she pressed two
buttons. As the doors closed she threw him a kiss with her
hand. He walked swiftly back to his car, wishing he had joined her. But among other things she was a suspect in a
hideous murder case. He couldn't get out of his mind the
efficient and speedy way she'd handled the ape.

15

Tweed had found his office empty when he returned -
except for Monica, who never seemed to leave the place. She
had been producing the long report Tweed had dictated to
her for Buchanan. It was an account of everything that had
happened so far, starting with his first visit to Arabella
Ashton, his first encounter with Michael. It concluded with the finding of the ghastly contents of the monster fridge at
Christine Barton's flat. Certain events he conveniently
omitted.
Monica showed him the note left for him by Paula.

Hope you had a wonderful evening. I had a good time
with Keith at the Ivy. Left at 10 p.m. Keith is still strug
gling to unlock the key to Christine Barton's sheet of
figures. Love, Paula.

He checked his watch: 1 a.m. Time to go home. Monica
warned him to take a taxi, said she was phoning for one. Walking the four miles to his flat was not a good idea. He
agreed.

The taxi took him to Drayford Street, well beyond
Holland Park. He forced himself to take a shower, which woke him up. He didn't sleep well. He kept seeing people
he'd met at distant Abbey Grange, then at Santorini's.
Lucinda's face kept coming back to him. He again
wondered whether he'd made a mistake not stepping into
the elevator with her in the underground garage. She was a
fascinating woman. Should he . . .? He then fell into a deep
sleep.

'Have you eaten?' Paula asked the moment Tweed walked in
the following morning.

'Well, no . . .'

She walked out, came back half an hour later from the
nearby deli. Removing the metal cover, she revealed a dish
of fried bacon and two eggs with grilled tomatoes.

His team watched him as he devoured the meal and drank the coffee Monica had made. He felt a new man as he wiped
his mouth with the paper napkin. He looked round the
room.

Newman was seated while he absorbed the morning's
Daily Nation.
Marler was standing against a wall while he smoked. Next to him Paula was compiling a list, lost in her concentration. Harry Butler was checking the mechanism of
a Walther automatic. Pete Nield was reading sheets as Paula
handed them to him.

Tweed stood up, put on his overcoat.

'Going somewhere?' asked Paula.

'You and I are doing just that. You remember a private
detective, John Jackson, whom Anne Barton hired? We're
going to pay his office a visit. One five nine Parson Street,
Shadwell.'

'Shadwell?' Butler slid the automatic into a hip holster. 'In
that case a lot of us are coming with you.
You travel with
Paula in your car. We follow close behind - Pete, myself and
Bob Newman.'

'Is that really necessary?'

'It's Shadwell. It's ruddy well vital.'

They left Marler with Monica to look after the office. It
was still February, dark clouds shrouding the sky, and
there was a miserable drizzle. As they drove off with Tweed
behind the wheel, Paula checked her .32 Browning, made
sure she could haul it out of the pocket in her shoulder
bag.

'I think Harry's overdoing it,' Tweed grumbled.

'I don't. Harry knows the area.'

They soon passed out of the West End and the
atmosphere changed. There were blocks of grimy terrace
houses with, here and there, a modern office building. They edged their way through a street market, stalls covered with
canvas to protect the varied goods for sale. Paula's mobile buzzed. She listened.

'That was Harry. This is Shadwell. He says watch our
backs.'

'They're still close behind us. Newman's car, Bob at the
wheel, Harry beside him and Nield in the back. Makes us
look like a convoy of gangsters heading in to take out a rival
gang.' Tweed spoke with a note of amusement.

'Harry usually knows what he's doing,' Paula rebuked
him. 'Slow down, turn left in a sec, I can see the entrance to
Parson Street.'

'Miserable-looking place,' Tweed remarked as he swung
the wheel round. 'Still, running a small detective agency, I imagine John Jackson had to watch his overheads.',

He parked in the narrow street by a crumbling kerb.
One hundred and fifty-nine was a shabby terrace building.
A plate screwed to the wall announced
john jackson
agency, private investigations.
The stained glass in the
upper half of the front door was surprisingly clean. As
Tweed alighted with Paula the door opened. Tweed
glanced back down the street, was relieved to see no sign of his escort.

A tall burly individual wearing an ancient overcoat, cap
pulled well down, appeared at Tweed's side. His rough voice
was a snarl.

'Mister, there's a fifty-pound charge for coming in this street. Protection is what they call—'

He stopped speaking as the metal muzzle of Harry's
Walther pressed into the back of his thick neck. He dropped
the knife from his right hand.

'Mate!' Harry's voice growled. 'Wrong place, wrong
street. Scarper back to the river. Now!'

The burly man began running fast to the end of the
street, vanished round a corner. Harry kicked the knife off
the kerb into a drain and slid his automatic back into his
hip holster.

Tweed turned to the door, which was now closed. He
pressed the bell, pressed it again when no one appeared. The
door was opened less than a foot on a heavy chain. Behind
it a frizzy-haired girl with intelligent eyes peered out. She
looked frightened.

'Saw a man with a knife . . .' she stuttered.

'He's gone,' Paula told her firmly. 'Mr Tweed has a bodyguard.'

'Mr Tweed?'

'That's me.' Tweed was holding up his folder. 'We need to
have a word with Mr Jackson, please.'

'You're police?'

'Something like that. If you were leaving for lunch it will
only take a few minutes.'

'I'm leavin' for good. I suppose you'd better come in. Both
of you,' she said, looking at Paula.

They entered a narrow hall with a desk in one corner on which sat an old typewriter. The girl, in her twenties, took
them into another larger office. Paula shivered. The place
was freezing.

'I need to see Mr Jackson,' Tweed repeated.

'He's gone. For good is my guess. I've stayed on since he
paid me a month's salary. Electricity's been turned off, so
has water. Unpaid bills are stacked in the clip. He was a nice
man, Mr Jackson. Didn't want to let 'im down, so I stayed longer than he'd paid me for. Can't understand it. He's just
gone.'

'Disappeared, you mean?' Tweed said quietly. 'How long ago since he was here?'

'Over twelve weeks ago. I stayed as long as I could but
I've run out of money. I managed to get another post
yesterday. I've left a note for him, giving details of the two
clients who wanted him.' She pointed to an envelope on
the desk. 'He's a nice man,' she repeated. 'Worked for 'im
for a year.'