Vorpal Blade

COLIN FORBES

THE VORPAL
BLADE

SIMON & SCHUSTER

A V I A C OM C O M P A NY

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2002

An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

A Viacom Company

Copyright © Colin Forbes, 2002

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved

Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of

Simon & Schuster Inc

The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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Hardback ISBN 0-7432-2052-8
Trade Paperback ISBN 0-7432-2085-4

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Author's Note

All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's
imagination and bear no relationship to any living person.
The same principle of pure invention applies to all
residences, villages and apartments in both the USA and Europe. Also to companies.

Prologue

'How do you know the body was Adam Holgate's - if the
head was missing?' Tweed asked.

It was a misty night in London. December was being ushered in with normal weather. Tweed sat beside Chief Superintendent Roy Buchanan, who drove the unmarked police Volvo expertly through the almost deserted streets. The windscreen wipers went whip-whap, keeping the view clear.
Seated in the back, Paula Grey, Tweed's trusted assistant, wanted to ask questions but kept quiet.

'Simple,' Buchanan replied. 'I unzipped the body bag
wide enough to feel inside his jacket. He was carrying his
security pass with photo for ACTIL, the huge organization
he worked for after he walked out on you.'

'Holgate didn't take much vital information from us,'
Paula commented. 'He never entered our building in Park
Crescent. Howard at least had sufficient sense to post
him inside the Communications section further along the
Crescent.'

'Bray, where the body was discovered, is close to the
Thames,' Tweed remarked. 'What the devil was Holgate
doing out in such a remote spot? Dragged out of the river,
I gather. Is that right?'

'Not exactly. The corpse had been swept into a shallow
creek. Chap walking his dog found him, used his mobile
to call the Yard.'

'And you arranged for it to be sent to Professor Saafeld's place in Holland Park. Presumably because he is the most distinguished pathologist we have.'

'I did.' Buchanan's voice was grim. 'It was a particularly
brutal murder and I wanted the best man to do the autopsy.
I phoned you, picked you up on my way. Holgate was
yours once.'

'Doesn't make sense,' remarked Bob Newman, inter
national correspondent, who sat beside Paula. 'Removing
the head suggests an attempt to delay identification. Yet
the
killer leaves the security pass inside his pocket.'

'No sense at all,' Buchanan agreed. 'This one worries
me.'

He glanced at Tweed, who was a man of uncertain age
and medium height, sturdily built inside his dark overcoat.
His thick hair was dark, his face clean-shaven, with a strong
nose on which he perched his horn-rim glasses. Couldn't tell anything from his expression and you could pass him
in the street without noticing him, a trait which he found
helpful in his capacity as Deputy Director of the SIS.

Buchanan was taller, lean and lanky, and in his forties.
He sported a trim moustache and a stern look which disconcerted his many subordinates. In Tweed's shrewd
opinion he was the most competent policeman in the country. The two men trusted each other completely.

'Nearly there,' Buchanan remarked. 'Holland Park is
a nice area with some good houses.' He swung off into
a side road, pulled up in front of an entrance with tall
wrought-iron gates. The mansion was concealed behind
dark evergreen trees and shrubs bordering the short drive.
Tweed jumped out and went to the speakphone, a metal
grille let into one of the stone pillars, and pressed a
button.

'Tweed here with Roy Buchanan.'

'About time,' a gruff voice replied as the gates swung
open. On either side new eight-foot-high railings spanned a
low wall. London these days had become a jungle of crime
and its inhabitants had installed every form of protection -
glare lights which illuminated as soon as you approached
a doorway, strong grilles over lower windows, the most
sophisticated burglar alarms. It was as though the great
city was under siege. Which in a way it was.

They walked up the drive, Buchanan's long legs striding
ahead of them. Saafeld's home and workplace was a handsome square house built of stone and three storeys high. Tweed noticed the basement windows had been
bricked up since his last visit. What have we come to?
he thought as one of the double doors opened when the
glare light came on, almost blinding Paula, who shielded
her eyes.

'Come inside,' growled Saafeld. 'Don't just stand there.'

He's in a bad mood, Paula thought. Never known him
to be like this before. Saafeld was a short, powerfully built
man in his late fifties. His hair was turning white but
his complexion was ruddy, his movements swift. They entered a large hall with a wood-block floor and various
doors leading off it.

Saafeld's expression became amiable as he greeted Paula
with a hug. He held her at length. Five feet six tall,
she had long well-coiffured dark hair which touched her
shoulders, well-shaped bone structure, a chin which hinted
at stubbornness. Her blue eyes missed nothing, and when
she smiled many men would do anything for her. Slim,
with a good figure, she wore a dark two-piece suit and
a silk scarf round her long neck. Releasing her, Saafeld
turned and glared from under bushy eyes at the men.

'For God's sake, you won't believe it. I've been raided.
Come into the morgue . . .'

Crossing the hall he produced a code card and descended
stone steps to a heavy door, in which he inserted the card.
They walked into a small room protected by armoured glass from floor to ceiling. Once inside, Saafeld closed
the outer door, inserted his card into another slot, and
they followed him into a large room below ground. The
morgue.

Paula's nostrils were immediately assailed by a familiar
odour. Formalin. Used for preserving specimens and
bodies. Along one wall were rows of large metal drawers
where the bodies were stored. A large metal-topped table in the middle of the room was empty. Above it hung cameras
suspended from telescopic arms. Saafeld pointed at the
empty table.

'The body was there when they came and took it away
- the body from Bray,' he rasped.

'Who took it away?' Tweed asked quietly.

'A delegation led by your friend, Tweed, Mr Nathan Bloody Morgan of Special Branch.'

'On what authority?' Tweed asked, still quietly.

'He had an official document from the local Chief
Constable authorizing the body's immediate return to
Maidenhead. On top of that,' he fumed, 'there was a brief
letter from the Home Secretary confirming the order. I had to let them walk off with the body immediately. I said they
came with a delegation: Nathan Morgan had arrived with a team of paramedics, an ambulance, plus two thuggish
Special Branch officers to back him up. It's outrageous.'

'It's also sinister. Why is the government involved? The
whole operation reeks of a cover-up. Had you time to start
the autopsy?'

'No. I had examined the body for fibres and other debris.
I omitted to tell Morgan about this. He was aggressive in checking whether I had taken any photographs.' Saafeld smiled grimly. 'I told him no, although I have two sets of
colour prints. Then I shouted at him, told him to get the
hell out of my house, that I was going to complain, nail
his hide to the wall. He didn't like that. Tried to take back
the documents but I refused to let him have them.'

'You had finished the photography?'

'Yes. Luckily my assistants had gone home so I took the
photos myself. No witnesses. Here they are, with a set you
can take with you, but keep them out of sight.'

Tweed began pacing round the spacious room, thinking.
Saafeld unlocked a drawer, took out a large cardboard-
backed envelope. Paula held out her hand. 'May I?'

Saafeld hesitated. 'They're pretty grisly.'

She smiled. 'If I faint you can catch me, but I don't
think I'll give you the pleasure,' she teased.

First she put on the latex gloves he handed her to avoid
her fingerprints appearing on them. Then, very carefully,
she extracted the colour prints, arranged them on the metal
table top. Newman moved close to her shoulder
and sucked in his breath.

Holgate's headless body had been laid out on a white plastic sheet covering the table, arms and hands stretched
close to his sides. He was still clothed in a crumpled blue
suit and Paula realized why. Saafeld had wanted the first
photos taken to avoid the risk of disturbing the top of
the body.

Above the collar and tie protruded the thick stump
of most of his neck. Surprisingly the flesh was hardly
ragged where the body had been decapitated, coated with brownish-coloured dried blood. His head had been cut off
just below the chin, she surmised.

She examined the other colour prints. Saafeld had taken pictures from every angle. Looking at the first print she had
felt slightly queasy: she had known Holgate as a distant
acquaintance. Bending forward she swallowed to avoid
the others detecting her reaction. She was aware that Buchanan was standing close to her.

'Like a glass of water?' he whispered.

She shook her head, went back to the first print she had
looked at. It was the most detailed version. She frowned,
stood up straight, still staring at the print.