No Mercy (3 page)

'An exceptional case of extreme amnesia.' He clasped his hands and twiddled fat fingers. 'Michael doesn't know where
he is, how he got into London, where he lives. He has a bump
on the right side of the head, probably due to a blow from a
heavy object. That, I believe, brought on the amnesia.'

'He has, perhaps, uttered a sentence or two?'

'Nothing, no things at all. No words. He can dress and get himself ready for bed.' He smirked at Paula. 'Excuse me, but
he is also capable of using facilities and eating. That is it.
You wish to see him?'

'Yes. Now.'

'Prepare yourselves . . .'

Paula glanced at Tweed. A similar warning to Bella's final
remark when they'd left her. What horror was about to
appear?

Saxon opened a door at the back, gestured to a tall slim
figure, in his thirties, Paula guessed. What gave her a shock
was the way he held his long head stiffly erect, even more the
bloodless pallor of his face and the pale eyes which passed
over her as though she didn't exist.

Michael wore an expensive grey suit jacket and well-
ironed trousers. His shirt was pale grey with a matching tie.
All grey, she thought. Like the man. She looked at his well-
shaped hands - she always checked hands.

Michael's hair was dark, thick, neatly trimmed.
Presumably Saxon brought in a hairdresser. Maybe he wasn't
completely the ogre she had thought. The psychiatrist took
Michael by the arm, guided him into the treatment chair,
swivelled it round so it faced Tweed and Paula.

Michael had walked stiff-legged, almost martial. In the
chair he sat erect, stared into the distance. This is eerie,
Paula thought, like watching a robot. Saxon opened a hand
and gestured.

'So now you have seen Michael.'

'A personal question,' Tweed said, waving Saxon well
away from the chair. 'Money. He's been here nine weeks, so who pays his fee?'

'I do not know.' Saxon's lips tightened as he observed
Tweed's expression. 'When he arrived from Mrs Ashton's someone phoned me, asked how much each week. I told
them and they said the fee would be delivered by courier. It
has arrived each week. The courier delivers a thick envelope.
Inside, well wrapped in thick blank notepaper around a
cellophane envelope, is the fee. In banknotes.'

'Which firm does the courier work for?'

'I have no idea. One of those motorcyclists. Different man
each time.'

'Was the person making the calls a man or a woman?'

'I couldn't tell. Sounded as though they talk through the
tissue paper.' He stared at Paula, who had joined them. 'No
need to be secret. Michael does not understand anything he
hears.'

'You're probably right,' Tweed agreed. 'But it is still an
assumption. I don't take chances. We'll be going now, Dr Saxon.' He walked past the front of the treatment chair to
fetch the overcoat, which he'd dropped on another chair. He
began to put it on in full view of Saxon's patient. Michael
climbed out of the chair, walked stiffly to his room, closing
the door.

'He can at least move,' Paula commented.

Almost at once the door opened again and Michael
walked out. He was wearing a grey overcoat with an
astrakhan collar. He then headed towards the exit door
leading to the outside world. Tweed looked quizzically at
Paula.

'He wants to leave with us.'

'No!'
thundered Saxon. 'He cannot do this. You cannot
take him with you. You hear me?'

'I can hardly avoid doing that when you start bellowing like a bull elephant.'

Tweed was thinking rapidly. Saxon was advancing on him,
shaking a clenched fist as he ranted on.

'It is illegal. I am responsible for him.'

'You have a letter from a close relative authorizing you?
Plus a letter from a doctor?' Tweed enquired genially.

'I do not need such a thing.'

'Which means you haven't. Also, you know little about the
law. He's here at his own wish. Now he's clearly sick to death
of you and your clinic. He can do what he likes.'

Pushing past Saxon, he headed for the door, which
Michael had already opened. 'Excuse me,' Paula said as she
gave the psychiatrist her most wintry smile.

When Tweed got to the outer door he saw Michael
standing on the pavement by the car. Tweed used his remote to unlock the doors. As soon as Michael saw the flash of the
lights, indicating the car was unlocked, he pulled open the
front passenger door, got inside and pulled the door shut.

'What's Michael up to?' Paula asked.

'We'll find out, won't we?' Tweed opened the rear door, Paula climbed inside, sat behind Michael. Tweed walked
round the back, stared at the rear bumper. Only his sharp
eyes would have detected the small silver disc attached to the
end of the bumper. He had to pull hard because it was
attached magnetically. He went back to Paula, who lowered
her window. He showed her the disc.

'That's how we came to be followed. It's an electronic
disc, which will show our location on a screen somewhere.
Special Branch were stupid enough to use a design I
recognize as one of theirs.'

He walked a few feet up the street, dropped the disc, used
the heel of his boot to crush it, then swept the debris down
a nearby drain.

He returned to the car, got behind the wheel, next to Michael. He switched on, turned up the heater. At the top
of the steps Saxon was waving his arms, shouting. Paula
lowered her window again.

'You've still got your hat on.'

Saxon raised a hand, felt the crumpled trilby, snatched it
off. His greasy black hair was streaked down the sides of his
head. Tweed completed a five-point turn and headed back towards Harley Street.

Neither Tweed nor Paula realized they were beginning
quite the strangest drive either had ever experienced.

3

'Where is Tweed now?' the rough-voiced man growled.

Abel Gallagher was sitting in a hard-backed chair on the
first floor of his office in an obscure street leading off Whitehall. The front door into the buildirig was made of reinforced steel, supposedly bombproof. This was the
headquarters of Special Branch, the government
organization concerned with security.

Gallagher was the newly appointed chief. A heavily built
man with a brutal face, he was held in fear by his
numerous staff. His cold blue eyes stared across the desk
at Jed Harper, his subordinate, a cruel-faced man, nervous
now as Gallagher waited for his reply and then lost
patience.

'I presume you did attach the advanced location disc to the rear of Tweed's car parked outside his HQ?'

'Attached it myself, Abel,' Harper assured his chief.

'Then why the hell isn't it on the screen?'

On a side wall two electronically controlled maps were
hanging. One of Britain and the other, in greater detail, of
London. The electronic disc Gallagher had referred to
should have shown up as a red dot, indicating exactly where
Tweed's car was, whether stationary or in motion. Harper wet his
lips, took a deep breath.

'
You said it was on the screen when Tweed parked in
Harley Street. In addition we followed him in the Volvo.
When he stopped we cruised past—'
'Anyone except an idiot like yourself would have parked
further up damned Harley Street.'

'That street is very quiet.'

'I know the street is quiet. Don't you realize Tweed is the
one man in the SIS standing in the way of my increasing the
influence of Special Branch? Well, you know now. You have
to locate Tweed. Use the camera checkpoints on all the
motorway exits from London. The camera will pick him up
if he's left town. Jed, you didn't think of that, did you?'

'No

'And when you address me you will never again use the name Abel. "Sir" is how you address me. We may have to
think of a way of stabilizing Tweed,' he remarked, lighting a
cigar.

'Stabilizing? He's the Deputy Director of the SIS.' Harper
sounded appalled.

'He's also on good terms with the Prime Minister, who
may well consult him about the plan for closer cooperation
between the Special Branch and the SIS. Tweed will
persuade him to veto the idea. Can't have that, can we?' Gallagher's tone became amiable. He even smiled.

'I'd better call on the checkpoints.' Harper couldn't wait to get out of the room.

'When you locate him, drive like hell to the checkpoint in
an unmarked car, then follow him wherever he's heading for.
Don't fall down the stairs on your way out. Follow the bastard.'

The moment Harper had left the room Gallagher reached under his desk, operated a lever. A tread halfway down the wooden stairs would slide forward when Harper stepped on
it. He waited, heard a yell, the sound of a body crashing down the staircase. He chuckled, got up, opened the door.

Harper was picking himself up painfully from the bottom of the stairs. His right shoulder was hurt. Gallagher stood at
the head of the staircase, puffing his cigar. The tread that had swivelled through ninety degrees when Harper's foot pressed
on it had automatically returned to its level position. A fat
man in a boiler suit stood near Harper, grinning.

'Jed,' Gallagher bawled, 'you're wasting time.'

'Slipped on the staircase . . .'

'Warned you, didn't I? Get cracking, for God's sake.'

He waited until Harper, nursing his injured shoulder, had
left the building. Then he called down to the man in the
boiler suit.

'Carson, change the mechanism to three treads higher up.'

'A long way down then, sir. Harper could break his neck.'

'So we replace him.'

4

When Tweed drove the car to the end of Eadley Street and
prepared to turn down Harley Street, Michael gestured
vigorously with his right hand. Turn right. Which was what
Tweed was going to do.
Paula stared, then decided Dr Saxon
probably had brought him this way for his exercise walk.

She was startled when they came to Oxford Street.
Normally Tweed would turn left here to head back to Park
Crescent. Michael gestured furiously. Turn
right.
Tweed
changed his signal and swung right. Paula was really startled
now — startled by their passenger's gesturing, by Tweed's
obedient turn away from Park Crescent. What was going on?