No Mercy (39 page)

Paula was driving west out of the City by a different route.
By her side, Tweed had put on latex gloves before opening
the book she'd dropped in his lap. No fingerprints. There
was more traffic already, so there were plenty of stops, which
gave Tweed the chance to examine the pages carefully.

The data was precise: client's name, date of purchase of
shares, name of company invested in, price they were
bought at, price when sold, profit - or loss - date of selling,
the initials of which broker handled the transaction,
commission earned by broker. He gave Paula some idea of
its contents.

'It's a gold mine,' she exulted.

'Not yet. It's alphabetical under client's surname. I've
tried V for Voles. Nothing. Now G for Greystoke. Nothing.'
He riffled through all the pages, surprised at some well-
known names who had used this broker. He started again at
the beginning. By driving through the backstreets of Covent
Garden she had made good progress when he grunted.

'Found something?' she asked eagerly.

He had reached X for client's name and there it was. An
investment of £400 million, bought at £500 per share in a
dotcom he remembered reading about, splashed in the
papers because it epitomized the scale of the dotcom crash.

'The client's name is X,' he told her.

'One hell of a lot of use,' she commented.

'Wait. The initials of the broker who handled it are AJK.
That has to be Jacko Kenwood, now a corpse. Four hundred
million was invested in Orlando Xanadu.'

'Doesn't mean a thing to me.'

'I remember reading it. Floated at three hundred pounds
a share, X shovelled in four hundred million at five hundred
pounds a share. Orlando soared to a max of eight thousand pounds per share. X, like so many other optimists, did not
sell. Orlando then nose-dived vertically to nothing. A
nominal price of two pence a share, but it ceased trading.'

'So X lost the lot. A mere four hundred million. I couldn't imagine how such a gigantic sum could have gone down the
drain.'

'Neither could I. There's a bit more data. Before X there's
an interesting reference. It reads AB200017 X.'

'That's the reference on the papers I found under a drawer
in Christine's flat, and then later on the document
photocopy I discovered behind Lee Greystoke's fridge at Ivy
Cottage.'

'Exactly. So we have advanced. It ties the transaction to
someone at Gantia. All this happened some time ago, but X
would need time to find a way of recouping four hundred mil to put it back into the reserves.'

'Smythe must have other records of their transactions. I'm
sure he must possess other documentation.'

'My thoughts too. Lend me your mobile.'

'You hate them but you're always borrowing mine.' She

246
reached down in her shoulder bag while the traffic was stationary and gave it to him.

'Lucky I noticed his phone number on a letterhead.' He
called the number. 'Mr Smythe? Tweed here. Sorry to
bother you again but have you by chance had your premises
ransacked at any time?'

'Yes, I bloody well have. Ages ago. Came in to find the
place a complete wreck. Clients' files strewn all over the
floor, cabinets jemmied open. Took me weeks to try and put
everything together again. I didn't know enough about
Kenwood's transactions to persist. Just jammed stuff back
and left it at that.' His annoyed voice changed, became
polite. 'Do you know something about this?'

'I'm afraid not. Thank you again for your cooperation.'

He disconnected while Smythe was still blathering and
gave the phone back to Paula with a sigh. She looked at him.

'Well?'

'Like the other places we've visited, including Jackson's houseboat, Smythe's offices were ransacked. For X's
documentation. And, thinking back, I fear the detective was
tortured before he was killed.'

'Ugh!' Paula shuddered. 'So we still don't know who this monster X is.'

'But we do now know for certain it's all focused on
Gantia, and Abbey Grange.'

Aboard the freighter, Abdul, who rarely slept, was on the
bridge. His vessel was now well west of the island of Ushant.
With triangular slim rods he was calculating distances. He
also checked his watch. It was essential he reach his
destination well after dark.

He began changing course. Soon the freighter was
heading slowly northwest. Walking to the other end of the
bridge, he looked down on the collection of Arabs who had
no duties concerning the movement of the vessel. He
shouted his instruction down in Arabic.

They had to lie down on their sleeping bags and get some
rest. He wanted them fresh for the arduous task of loading
up the freighter when it reached the destination known only
to him.

Abdul checked his chart again. He checked the
freighter's speed, estimated distances. The sea was rougher.
He should get there well after dark, at about 2200 hours. The vessel was now on course, would soon pass distant
Land's End, then proceed up the Bristol Channel off the northern coast of Devon.

24

'That tramp's still there,' Paula remarked as she swung into
Park Crescent. 'I'd better take him some more food from the
deli. And a container of hot tea.'

'No,' Tweed ordered. 'Get Monica to take him
something. She's clever at moving around without anyone
bothering to notice her.'

It had been raining heavily on their way back from the
City but now it had diminished to a faint drizzle. The streets
were clear of pedestrians. Tweed was out of the car the
moment Paula switched off the engine, rushing up the steps,
ringing the bell, dashing past George once the door was
open, running up the stairs. Paula and Harry followed,
marvelling at his new-found agility.

'I see everyone's here.' Tweed observed as he threw off his
overcoat and sat behind his desk. 'None of you are to leave
without my permission. Understood? Harry, Pete, I want
our two Land Rovers checked to make sure they're in perfect
working order - with full fuel tanks. Before the day's out they'll be driving over rough country.'

'They are,' Newman told him. 'I spent time today
checking all transport. Why the Land Rovers?'

'I've told you that,' Tweed said abruptly. 'Because they're perfect vehicles for crossing difficult country.'

'Where?' Newman persisted.

'The West Country. Now leave me alone while I make a
vital call. Two, in fact.'

Tweed was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Paula
approaching Monica, who was still on the phone arguing
with Chief Superintendent Buchanan. For the fifth time she
patiently said, 'Tweed is not available. He's on the second
phone. And, no, I have no information as to how the
investigation is proceeding.'

Paula had left, after scribbling a brief note: 'Gone to deli
to feed tramp.'

Tweed dialled the number he had automatically
memorized when he'd seen it on a letterhead in Smythe's
office.

'Not again,' Smythe rasped when Tweed had given his
name. 'I'm in the middle of a delicate transaction. Call
another day, if you must.'

'Smythe, your partner, Kenwood, who went missing, is
dead.'

'What! Where? When? How did he—'

'Had he any kind of physical disability?'

'Well . . . Yes. Years ago he broke his ankle skiing in the
Dolomites. A multiple fracture. It was a complicated op.'

'So how did he come out of it? Specifically. How did he
walk?'

'He limped. Some of his so-called pals nicknamed him
Limpy. But I want to know is—'

'Call you back. Other phone's ringing.'

He'd looked round for Paula, assumed she'd gone to the
loo. He made his announcement to
everyone with a certain
self-satisfaction.

'We've finally identified positively the fourth corpse. The
one Paula and I found on Dartmoor. A stockbroker called
Kenwood. That is also the final link I was missing from the
pattern of catastrophic events I've been building in my mind.
Harry, we are all on the move before it gets dark. I foresee
a savage battle with ruthless opponents. We need to travel
heavily armed.'

'Enough said.' Harry was on his feet, heading for the door.

'Can I put the weapons aboard the Land Rovers, providing I stay with them on guard? It'll be an arsenal.'

'That's what we may need. Yes, stay on guard at the back.'

'It would help,' Marler drawled, 'if we had just a few more details.'

'Later. Another phone call to make now.' He used the
second line - Monica was still arguing with Buchanan on her
line. Again he dialled a number from memory, the number
of Abbey Grange. Lucinda answered.

'Tweed here.'

'Surprise, surprise! Checking up on me?' Her tone was
sarcastic.

'You sound tense.'

'Long drive. A ton of traffic all the way down. A macho
fool cut me off. I had to do an emergency stop. With a
cement mixer on my tail. Driver stopped just in time.' Her
voice softened. 'How can I help?'

'First, I did want to make sure you'd arrived safely. And
how is Michael?'

'Behaving strangely. Apart from meals, he's locked in his
room. I banged on the door, he let me in. On one of those
sloping drawing boards he was copying diagrams from
Gray's Anatomy,
if you please. Gruesome.'

'Any other developments? Oh, I assume Michael hasn't
spoken?'

'Not one word. Developments? Larry's on his way down
here, should arrive soon. And, to top it all, Aubrey's coming
by himself.'

'Greystoke? What on earth could he want down there? Is
this usual?'

'Not really. He does come occasionally. I assumed they
were holding a meeting. But Larry's secretary said she'd no news of any meeting when I spoke to her.'

'She called you - to say Larry was coming?'

A pause. 'No, she damned well didn't. I called her about
an important delivery I'd forgotten to warn them about.