No Mercy (2 page)

'No, not exactly like Michael. He's very odd.'

'Could Michael be faking amnesia?'

'Faking it?' She threw back her head and laughed. 'I
couldn't get one damned word out of him while he was here.
It was eerie.'

'So where is he now? Do you know?'

'Just round the corner. With the Yerevan Clinic. Seventy-
two Eadley Street. Gregor Saxon, another psychiatrist, is looking after him. You drive up Harley Street and take the
first on the left. It's hardly more than an alley.'

'Why is he there and not here? If I may enquire.'

'You just did. After two weeks here I felt it was time he was moved on. I was going nowhere with him.'

'Money,' Tweed said and paused. Mrs Ashton stiffened. 'I
am sure it costs a lot to keep someone here,' Tweed
suggested quietly.

'Two thousand a day.'

'That's pretty expensive. I appreciate, Mrs Ashton . . .'
Tweed began.

'It's Bella to my friends.' She leaned forward with another
engaging smile. 'You're impressing me, Tweed. Maybe we
could meet again, say one evening.'

'Let me think about it
...
Bella. So I do need to know
who was paying for Michael to stay here.'

'I don't know. It was rather peculiar. I had a phone call.
Funny voice. I thought they were speaking through a silk handkerchief. Could have been a man or a woman. When I told them how
much they said they would deliver the fee
weekly by courier. In cash. Which they did. After two weeks
they phoned again. Same person, I suspect. Asked me for
somewhere less expensive. I suggested Saxon, who charges rather less. Fifteen minutes later the same person calls back,
instructs me to have Michael ready when a cab calls to take
him to Dr Saxon. That is the last I see of Michael.'

'You said he was in your care for two weeks. How long has
he been with Dr Saxon?'

'Nine weeks. I phone occasionally to see how Michael is
progressing. He isn't.'

'In your experience, Bella, how long before he recovers his
memory?'

She lit a cigarette, waved a hand,
'If he
ever recovers it
maybe a week, a month, six months,' she rapped back.
'Quite impossible to predict.' She checked a diamond
encrusted wristwatch.

'I would like to thank you for giving us your time and for
what you have said. I think it's time we called on Dr Saxon.'

Tweed stood up with Paula. Bella fished in the drawer of
a small table. She brought out a visiting card. 'I've got a pile
of these things. I shan't warn Saxon you're coming. No
pleasure in talking to the man, but he's competent and
useful for taking patients I don't want to deal with.'

Tweed took the card. It was printed on cheaper material
than Bella's cards. Bella leaned forward, tucked one of her
own cards into Tweed's top suit pocket as he donned his overcoat. Paula noticed handwriting on the back.

'I'll show you out. I hope we can meet again. How would
I reach you?' The engaging smile was glowing.

Tweed extracted a card from his wallet. It was printed
with General & Cumbria Assurance Co., the cover name for
the SIS. Bella tucked it down the top of her dress, led them
back into the hall. She chatted as she strolled alongside Tweed while Paula brought up the rear.

'A word of warning before you meet Michael. His face
and head may startle you. He looks very strange. As to Dr
Saxon, I don't think that's his real name. Armenian, I'd
guess, or one of those mysterious little states east of Turkey.'
She opened the door and ice-cold air entered the hall. 'Mind the steps.' Bella called out cheerfully before closing the door
quickly.

Tweed flashed open the car doors, ran round to the
driver's seat as Paula dived into the passenger seat. Starting
the engine, he turned up the heater, then sat without
moving.

Paula pulled up the bottom of her jeans, exposing the small
holster strapped to her right leg. Inside nestled her Beretta automatic. She took out a Walther automatic and two spare
magazines, and handed them to Tweed. He thrust them into
his coat pocket and stared at her.

'We're just calling on Saxon., then returning to Park
Crescent. You think we're going to a war?'

'We were followed here all the way from Park Crescent.'

'I know. A big blue Volvo with amber tinted windows.
When I parked here it cruised past us. Several men inside,
I thought. It's gone now.'

'I know. I don't think this Michael case is going to be
straightforward. Don't laugh. My sixth sense. Nothing seems
normal. Almost sinister.'

'Have it your way . . .'

Eadley Street, hemmed in by old buildings on both sides, was just wide enough for two cars to pass. Paula thought it
would always be gloomy even on a sunny day. On the grimy
wall outside the door where Tweed had stopped a large
board proclaimed in elaborate curving letters
yerevan clinic.
Paula pursed her lips.

'Bella was right. Yerevan is the capital of Armenia.'

Below the large letters were the words
dr gregory saxon.
director.
Paula pointed, loath to leave the warmth of the car.

'Gregory. Bella called him Gregor, so I was expecting a
German.'

'She doesn't like him. She twisted the name out of malice.'

Paula peered past Tweed out of the window. 'The house
next to his place has bars over all the windows. Ground floor
and upwards. Part of the clinic?'

'I doubt it. The occupants are probably guarding against the burglars infesting London these days. We'd better go
inside now.'

'And have the same boring experience we had at Bella's.'
She nudged Tweed. 'Not that you were bored. Are you
going to have dinner with the attractive lady?' She was
grinning.

'There are some more questions I wish I'd asked her. Why
are we so reluctant to interrogate Saxon? Must be the
atmosphere of this street. On your feet.'

Paula could not have been more wrong when she had foreseen another boring experience.

Tweed's finger had hardly pressed the bell-push when the
door swung inward. Framed in the opening was a grotesque
figure. He would be almost six feet tall if he wasn't hunched
forward, a very large man with a protruding stomach, clad
in a dark business suit, overcoat slung over his left arm. His
unblinking eyes had pouches under them, his nose was wide
and plump. His shoulders were broad. On his head was crammed, at a tilted angle, a wide-brimmed trilby hat, as
though he didn't care how he looked.

'We have come to see Dr Saxon,' Tweed said, holding his
folder open.

After a pause: 'You are looking at him.'

'Since we wish to talk about a patient perhaps we had better come inside,' Tweed suggested.

'Perhaps you had . . .' After another pause.

Saxon then gazed straight at Paula. His lips twisted into a lascivious smile which she disliked. She stared straight back at him with a blank expression. He ushered them inside what
appeared to be a waiting room. Piles of pamphlets lay on
tables; wooden chairs stood against the walls. Tweed glanced
at several pamphlets.

As he did so Saxon closed the door with his foot, laid one outsize clammy hand on Paula's shoulder, touching her bare neck, which she disliked even more. 'This way, my dear,' he
whispered, guiding her into a larger room, kicking its door
shut.

She gathered she was in his consulting room. It was very
different from Bella Ashton's. A large leather chair stood in the
middle with spotlights beaming down when Saxon switched on illumination. Before she realized what was happening, he had lifted her, perched her on the chair. His movements were
surprisingly swift for a large man. Automatically she had rested
her arms along the arms of the chair.

'You've got this wrong,' she snapped.

Only then did she realize he had fastened handcuff-like
straps over her wrists. She couldn't move. Taking a deep
breath she yelled at him. 'Take these bloody things off my
wrists. You're out of your mind.'

'Hysteria,' he whispered. He was by a sink, pouring liquid
from a bottle into a plastic cup. 'This will quieten you down while I check your eyes—'

The door into the consulting room was flung open,
banged back against the wall. Tweed stormed in. He ran
forward, turned the leather straps round, found the chain
lock, his fingers fiddling with
each strap, and Paula was free.
She jumped out of the chair, glared at Saxon.

'What is the matter with you, you fat pig?'

'I'll take that for analysis,' Tweed growled, grabbing the plastic cup out of Saxon's hand. 'This should do.' He took an empty beaker off a shelf, poured the cup's contents into it and snapped the beaker lid shut.

'I do not understand this commotion.' Saxon stood as
though bewildered. 'That cup contained a mild dose of
Valium to quieten her down.'

'I'm not the bloody patient,' Paula shouted at him.

'Then who is?'

'You have a patient here called Michael,' Tweed rasped at
him. 'That is why we are here. Mrs Ashton passed him to
you.'

'A thousand apologies.' Saxon spread his hands. 'Surely
you understand . . .'

'Shut up!' snapped Tweed. As Saxon approached him he
took hold of the psychiatrist, shoved him into the chair that
Paula had occupied. 'Where is Michael?' he demanded.

'In his room. I have just returned from taking him for a
walk. Such a patient needs exercise.'

'What is your diagnosis of him?' Tweed continued in the
same demanding voice. 'You saw my SIS folder. You could
help us.'

'Anything concerning one of my patients is confidential.'

'Then we'll call the Yard and you'll be charged with obstruction - for withholding vital information. Paula, you
have the mobile?'

'Yes, you want Chief Superintendent Buchanan?'

'Please.'
Saxon, on his feet now, was at his most oily, smirking as he gestured to the couch. 'Ask your questions,' he pressed, settling his huge bulk into a large leather chair,
which groaned under the pressure. 'I really am at your
service, sir.'

'I've already asked,' Tweed said coldly. 'Your diagnosis of
Michael.'