No Mercy (40 page)

Told her to stay all night if necessary until it arrived. She wasn't pleased - has a new boyfriend. I ordered her to stay. When I get back to town can we meet, have a chat over a
drink? At my apartment, say?'

'Thank you. I'm sure we'll catch each other soon.'

He put the phone down and sat back, realizing he'd been
sitting ramrod upright. He gazed round the room.
' 'That's odd. All four suspects will be at Abbey Grange this evening.'

'All four?' Newman queried.

'Larry Voles, Lucinda, Michael and the accountant,
Aubrey Greystoke. Odd. Very odd.'

'Monica's still trapped, holding off Buchanan,' Nield
remarked, nodding to where Monica was still battling on the
phone.

'What on earth for?'

'Probably about this.' Newman waved the latest copy of
the
Daily Nation.
'Their star reporter, Drew Franklin, has
really gone to town in his usual eccentric style.'

He handed Tweed the paper, folded open at the main
page. The headline was disturbing, as it was meant to be.

FOURTH SKELETON KILLER MURDER

Police baffled

Discovery of two mauled skeletons on Dartmoor has been followed by a third skeleton on a houseboat at
Wensford, off the M3 . . . London now at risk . . .
Skeleton body of woman forensic accountant found at
her flat in Fulham area . . . Baffled police hand over case to Tweed, Deputy Director of SIS, and warned: Lock all windows and doors. Do not answer callers
after dark. You could be Skeleton No. 5.

'Franklin should be shot,' Tweed exploded. 'He's causing
panic everywhere. And he's muddled up the sequence of our
finding the victims. Fulham came third.'

'Oh, that's deliberate,' Newman said cynically. 'Makes for
a better story. All London will now be terrified. Drew knows
a good story, even if it means twisting-the facts.'

'Where's Paula?' Tweed said, suddenly aware he hadn't seen her for quite some time.

'She went out to the deli to get food for the tramp,'
Monica told him. 'I couldn't go because I was fencing with
Buchanan, who wanted to talk to you. He—'

'How long ago?' Tweed demanded, rising up from behind his desk.

'It must be quite a while ago now,' Monica reported, now worried herself. 'Well over three-quarters of an hour. Could be longer.'

'Get out on the streets and find her,'
Tweed shouted with
mounting anxiety. 'The lot of you. Now! I'll handle the phone.'

25

Earlier Paula had left the building on her way to the deli in
the direction of Baker Street. She glanced round, saw no one
except the inert figure of the tramp across the main road. The heavy rain had driven people indoors temporarily.

Her shoulder bag hung loosely as she turned the corner. Walking briskly, she had reached up to haul the shoulder
bag's strap more securely up her shoulder as she reached a cul-de-sac on her left.

It happened so quickly she had no time to react. A hand
had reached out, grabbed her left arm,
hauled her off the
main street. Her shoulder bag slipped off the shoulder and
flopped on to the pavement. She caught a whiff of
chloroform, jerked her head away from it, sucked in a deep
breath. A cloth was pressed over her nose. The grip on her
left arm was very strong.

Goddamn Browning was inside the shoulder bag
somewhere on the pavement. A large thick white cloth
enveloped her like a tent. Something hard struck her on the
head, slid off the side. She was struggling to get out of the
all-enveloping cloth, partially dazed by the blow to her head.

A rope was wrapped swiftly round the cloth several times.
It pinioned her arms to her sides. Then it was wrapped
round her legs and pulled tight. She was lifted up, thrown on
to the back seat of a car through the already open door. A
body fell on hers.

Hands felt under the cloth up her legs. She thought this
was rape. The hands grabbed both of hers, forced them
together. Plastic handcuffs closed over her wrists, clicked as
they locked. Hands grasped her body, rolled her off the seat
on to the floor. She lay still, hoping her attacker would
believe the chloroform had worked. Hands reached her face.
She opened her mouth to scream. A mistake. A cloth gag was forced between her lips, tied behind her neck. She
couldn't call out now.

Finally, something that felt like a duvet was pressed down
on her. She guessed this was to conceal her if anyone saw into the car. The weight of the man's body hauled itself off
her. A car.door slammed. In no time the car's engine started
and the vehicle was moving. She sensed it turn towards
Baker Street. Instead of futilely trying to struggle, she eased
her head sideways, so she could breathe easily.

As the car picked up speed she realized how
unfortunate was the timing. It was not yet rush hour. The
driver could keep the car moving at a reasonable speed.
She struggled with her locked wrists. The handcuffs held her tightly. She knew plastic handcuffs, a comparatively
recent invention, were impossible to break, to ease her
wrists free.

Half an hour later Newman returned to the office, holding
something that made Tweed feel sick. Paula's shoulder bag.

'Where did you find it?' Tweed asked quietly.

'Nearby. Go out of the Crescent, turn left, then you pass
on your left a quiet residential cul-de-sac. It was on the pavement close to the entrance to the main road.'

'Anyone see what happened?' Tweed asked in a voice that
seemed too self-controlled.

'No. I checked at the houses close to the entrance. Got no
answer from one. Crossed the road. An ancient lady opened
the door. Said she'd earlier seen a blue car parked. Asked her
the make. No idea. Knows nothing about cars.'

'And, of course, she didn't get a plate number?'

'No, she didn't. Paula's been kidnapped. Doesn't take a
lot of imagination to guess who the kidnapper is.' 'Charmian,' said Marler, who had just come back. 'Oh, God,' said Tweed. 'What does he want?'
'You, probably,' Marler said grimly. 'Wait for the call.'

The evening before, Charmian had called M as arranged.
He had not told his unknown employer about the Ivy
Cottage fiasco. He was always careful to engender
confidence, to avoid any mention of assassination attempts
that failed.

'M speaking,' the man-woman voice had answered his
call.

Charmian had given up trying to identify the gender of his
employer. He assumed M spoke through a silk handkerchief
wrapped round the receiver.

'M?' he queried.

'M for mosque. What is it?'

'What is it Tweed values more than his own success?'

'His close assistant, Paula Grey. Slim, jet-black hair, five
feet six or so in height. She—'

'I know now,' Charmian interrupted. 'I have seen her. I
will report in a few days.'

So far his attempts to kill Tweed had misfired. The shot into his car from the field bordering the A303. His attempt
to cause an accident when he'd driven the Volvo in front of
him. The bomb at Gantia. His bombardment of Ivy Cottage.
Time to change tactics.

Now he might have the answer. Kidnap this Paula Grey.
He had spent miserable hours hidden in shrubberies not far
from where the tramp was, keeping watch. It had rained but
Charmian was wearing a heavy waterproof raincoat and a
fisherman's hat.

Charmian had infinite patience. He could wait in one
position, however uncomfortable, for his target to appear.
Then, on the afternoon of the following day, she had
appeared, walking alone. Throwing off the raincoat and hat,
he had grasped the bin liner containing the thick sheet and had moved.

The atmosphere inside Tweed's office was almost
unbearably tense as they waited for Charmian to call. Marler
had no doubt the assassin
would
call. He had kidnapped Paula as bait to lure Tweed to his destruction.

Tweed himself outwardly seemed the most composed. He
sat at his desk with his hands clasped. His expression,
difficult to read, reminded Marler of a stone face. Earlier,
despite the awful anxiety gnawing at him, Tweed had given
his team their instructions.

'When it gets dark - or dusk - you all leave in the Land Rovers heading for the West Country. I've shown you the route on the map, the same one Paula and I followed when we visited Abbey Grange. Until you approach Exeter . . .'

He waited while Marler with Newman unfolded the map
again and bent over it. Marler used a small steel pointer,
tracing the route as he spoke.

'Down the M3 until we reach Junction 8. There we turn
off along the A303, heading straight for the West Country.'

'You've got it,' Tweed told him. 'Near Exeter it gets
complicated, but I'll navigate for you.'

If you're with us, if you're alive, Marler thought, but kept
the thought to himself.

'I assume,' Tweed continued calmly, 'that the Land Rovers
are now equipped with all the weapons we're likely to need.'

'You asked that before,' Harry told him.

'So I did, and the answer was yes.'

The phone rang. Everyone except Tweed stiffened. They all had a deep affection for Paula. Monica listened, handed
the phone to Tweed.

'It's for you,' she said grimly.

'Who?'

'It's him. I'm sure of it.'

'Tweed speaking.'

'As you probably know by now, I have Paula.'

'Put her on the phone to say a few words. Then I know
she's—'

'Shut the face and listen.' the voice hissed. It had a trace
of French accent and was unnervingly menacing. 'You will
come to get her yourself. In your normal car. If anyone is
with you or near you she dies instantly. The barrel of my gun
inserted in her mouth.'

'If she's harmed in any way I promise you a lingering death.'

'Don't threaten me!'
the voice screamed. 'You will drive
alone to the destination. Stonehenge. You know where that
is?'

'Yes.'

'You will leave immediately in your own car.
Alone.
I see any of your team, she will die in seconds.' The voice became
sarcastic. 'Do you not think you waste the time? Come on. You come in by main entrance.'