Blood Storm

'In any case,' Nelson interjected, 'first, who is the informant Miss Partridge used who is capable of penetrating Tweed's fortress?'

'That's restricted info,' Noel replied. 'Not to be told to anyone under any circumstances.'

'I see.' Benton pressed on. 'Had you anyone in mind to carry out this dangerous folly?'

'As a matter of fact,' Noel continued in the same smug way, 'I have the perfect operator for the job.'

'Who is? This time you tell me,' Benton demanded.

'Amos Fitch.'

He was not able to proceed any further. Benton's full face became red, red as a man with high blood pressure.

'Oh, my God!' He lifted a hand, ran it through his thick greying hair. 'Amos Fitch. You've lost your mind. We can't be involved with a brute like that. About eight years ago he was charged with knifing a man to death. The not guilty verdict was due to his brilliant lawyer discrediting the circumstantial evidence.'

'Just a thought,' Noel said, smiling. 'Forget it. And no one has noticed that all the time we've been talking the door to the next room has been left open a few inches. Who left us last?'

'Actually,' Nelson observed airily, 'it was Miss Partridge.'

'I'm checking,' Noel whispered.

He crept over to the door, moved it slightly. Well-oiled hinges. He closed it quietly, testing the latch. He pulled at it quietly. It was firmly closed. He looked at the other two.

'I'm going to see if anyone is there.'

Again he opened the door, slipped into the next room, closing the door carefully. On their own now, Benton looked at Nelson.

'That was a bad slip, using the name Horlick. You saw the effect it had on him.'

'My mistake, but I have apologized.'

Noel surveyed the spacious room next door. No sign of Partridge at her large desk. The only occupant was her assistant, Coral Flenton, seated with her back to him at a corner desk as she worked at a word-processor. Noel crept up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Oh, please! Don't do that.' She had moved her mirror and she had nearly jumped out of her chair, which amused Noel. She swung round in her swivel chair, her large hazel eyes glaring at him. She put up a hand to push back a lock of red hair. 'What is it?' she snapped.

'No "sir"? I am a junior minister,' Noel said genially and gave her a wide smile. He perched himself on a nearby desk, looming over her small neat figure.

He had a winning smile and she responded with a faint smile of her own, but ignored the reference to 'sir'. He folded his arms. He still looked youthful and she had mixed feelings about him.

'The door to our sanctum was open, not properly closed,' he began. 'Not that I'm suggesting it has anything to do with you. Has Miss Partridge been lingering near that door?'

'I doubt it. In any case,' she went on, emboldened, 'with my back to it how would I know who comes and goes?'

'Of course you wouldn't. When you leave the office tonight maybe you would join me for coffee or a drink?'

'That's very nice of you,' she replied in a neutral tone, 'but I'm attending a girlfriend's birthday party.'

'Pity.' He stood up, still smiling. 'Maybe some other time.'

He walked slowly back across the wide room to the door and voiced his thoughts to himself, barely muttering.

'Paula is the key. And Amos Fitch is the man for the job.'

Amos Fitch was at the greyhound races. He kept at the back of the crowd, always remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Five feet eight inches tall, he wore a brown overcoat and as usual he also wore a large trilby hat, the brim pulled well down, exposing only the lower half of his face. Which, unintentionally, was kinder to the rest of the world. His restless brown eyes hardly ever stopped moving while they checked his surroundings. The thick upper lids were frequently half-closed so only part of the searching eyes were seen. His bent nose above a thin twisted mouth added to the cunning look, almost his trademark. His mouth was little more than a slit with a heavy jaw below. He was known in certain not-so-law-abiding circles as Sly. He was pondering the brief message on his mobile inviting him to meet Canal at 9.30 p.m. in an East End pub called the Pig's Nest.

Tony Canal was a dubious go-between who never revealed the identity of his employer. This habit had caused Sly to follow Canal on an earlier occasion. Canal was an old Etonian who had gone to the bad, as they said at the Yard. So Sly knew that the real employer was a toff. A real toff, called Noel Macomber.

10

Tweed was driving slowly in the country near the border of Surrey and Sussex. He was searching for Peckham Mallet, where General Lucius Macomber, father of the three Cabal brothers, had a cottage. He'd decided it was time he met the General, had a chat with him.

It was early afternoon, the sky was a clear blue, sunlight illuminated the forested area. He had been driving for over an hour, searching for this tiny village. He hadn't found it on the map back at Park Crescent. It was only when Monica suggested checking the index that he'd located it. Should have thought of that first. Was that drug still fogging his system? Percodin, Saafeld had called it.

There were no houses in the forested area, no pubs, no one he could ask for directions. He drove slowly on and almost missed an ancient signpost at the entrance to a turning. He reversed to read it, barely able to make out the words on the worn signpost. Peckham Mallet.

He proceeded slowly down the narrow lane. After about half a mile he saw an old codger, dressed in working-man's clothes, scything the grass verge. He stopped, got out, smiled as he approached the man. His shoulders were permanently bent, probably due to the nature of his work. About seventy, Tweed assessed. His face was lined, his chin was shrunken and he'd not had a shave for days.

'Can you help me, please?' Tweed began. 'I've been asked to give General Macomber some information. I need to speak to him urgently.'

'Who might you be?'

Tweed produced his folder, held it under the old boy's nose. The workman studied it. He attempted to straighten up but the shoulders stayed bent. He gazed at the folder, then gazed at Tweed.

'SIS? That wouldn't be Secret Service, would it?'

'It would be and is. I'm asking for your help, please.'

'Won't find the General round 'ere. Comes up to the cottage on his way to Lunnon. Spends a few days up there and then goes back 'ome. On his way up he calls 'ere to pay me wages, checks the cottage back there.'

He waved with the scythe he was still holding. Tweed stepped back quickly to stay clear of the deadly blade. He looked up a pathway to a cottage set in the fields as he spoke.

'Would you mind putting down that scythe while we chat for a moment?'

'Means I'll 'ave to bend over to lift it again. If I'm able to manage that…'

'I'll pick it up for you,' Tweed said quickly.

Without bending, the workman threw the scythe a foot or so away from them. What a dreadful way to spend the later years of your life, Tweed thought as he looked up the pathway at the cottage. Built of brick with a renewed tiled roof and a brilliantly polished brass knob on the freshly painted wooden front door that gleamed in the sun. The General was obviously a stickler for appearances.

'Stays there overnight sometimes. Just sleeps there, then buzzes off to Lunnon.'

'When was he last here – and in London?' Tweed asked in an off-hand tone.

'A week ago. Stayed up in the Smoke a few days, then came back here this morning on his way 'ome.'

That places General Lucius Macomber in town at the time of the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. Interesting, Tweed thought. He bent down, picked up the scythe carefully, handed it to its owner.

'Where is his real home, then?' Tweed asked. 'The MoD had lost his permanent address,' he concluded, making it up as he went along.