'I'm on the phone to Chief Inspector Hammerhead.' He removed his hand, continued. 'Yes, a photo of the murderer…'
'What!' Everyone in the room heard the policeman's explosive outburst.
'You heard me correctly,' Tweed replied calmly. 'I'm sending it over to the Yard for your attention by courier. No, I've no idea who pushed the envelope containing it through my letterbox. The lettering on both envelope and back of the photo is in deliberately crude block lettering. Yes, I've had both items checked for fingerprints. None at all, as you'd expect. I must go now. Sorry. Goodbye.'
'Is it the original?' Paula asked. 'And why send it to him anyway?'
'Because as well as me he's investigating the case. I don't like the man but I play fair, when necessary. You never know, he might just stumble over something.'
'The only thing he'll stumble over will be his own feet,' she replied.
'And how did you get on?' Tweed asked, looking at Newman.
'I made a complete and utter balls-up,' Newman began bluntly. 'Pete introduced me to the informant and I couldn't get a word out of them. I think I went about talking to the person concerned in one hundred per cent the wrong way. I've apologized to Pete.'
Paula admired Newman's frankness about his failure. She also noticed he'd made no reference which could even vaguely identify Coral. Tweed must have read her mind, which he often did, as she frequently read his.
'Man or woman?' Tweed demanded.
'I don't remember,' Newman replied, staring hard at his chief.
'A washout, then,' Tweed suggested.
'Absolutely. I think it's done me good. Brought my big feet back on the ground. I'm taking Pete out for a drink in a minute.'
'I've had a thought,' Paula began. All eyes turned to her. She stood up, walked to the far side of Tweed's desk, folded her arms.
'I can't get out of my mind that cat with its neck screwed round the wrong way. It was an act of sadistic cruelty – done by the sort of person who in later years could chop Viola into pieces for the fun of it.'
'Interesting.' Tweed frowned. 'I think you have detected a significant pointer to the killer. Trouble is, we don't know which of the three teenagers maltreated the cat in such a beastly fashion.'
'Unless it was the General himself,' she remarked.
'Oh, my Lord.' Tweed clasped both hands behind his neck. 'That would be a very strange twist in the plot.'
'And,' Paula went on, 'we know from Frank that the General makes three-day trips up to London. Frank called him "virile". Just a thought which crept into my head.'
'I could phone every decent hotel in London and persuade them to tell me if he stayed there – and if so when,' volunteered Monica.
'Do it,' said Tweed.
Except, Paula thought as she returned to her desk and not voicing the idea aloud, he's clever. He'd probably stay at some rundown boarding house, giving a false name, and never the same place twice.
When Tweed had started talking to Chief Inspector Hammer, Marler had glided into the room. The Invisible Man, as he was nicknamed in the office, had followed Paula, parked his car in Covent Garden, had seen everyone who had entered and left Popsies.
Now he announced, 'I'm going out on the prowl. Never know what I might see.'
'You've just been out somewhere,' Paula said with a smile.
He squeezed her shoulder. 'And I'm just going out again. Toodle-pip.'
He saw no point in revealing that his destination was Covent Garden.
16
On the Thames, Mugger Morgan was steering his barge in close to the dock. He was the only crew aboard his huge vessel but that was because of what he was carrying in his pocket – a large packet of cocaine which would bring him a load of money when he handed it over to the waiting dealer.
He swore when his mobile phone started buzzing. The last diversion he wanted at this moment was someone asking him to do a job. Knowing he'd wonder all the time who had called, he kept one hand on the wheel, used the other to take out the mobile and answer the call.
'Yes,' he growled.
'It's Fitch, Mugger. Need your help bloody fast or I'm a goner.. .'
'What is this crap?'
'Mugger, I've been shoved down the chute at the warehouse. I'm 'angin' with a rope round me bleedin' neck. I've got me feet propped against the side of the chute but they won't hold much longer. For Christ's sake…'
'How much?'
'What!'
'How much for me to come and haul you out? I'm a businessman. You should know that by now.'
'Five 'undred nicker. In cash. For Gawd's sake, Mugger!'
'I'm on me way. You 'ang on.'
Mugger chuckled as he put away the mobile. He rather liked the humour of his remark.
The barge's prow bumped the wharf. He manoeuvred it alongside, switched off the engine, jumped ashore. Swiftly he roped the barge safely to the bollards, looked round for the dealer. Not here. He was always late and then he'd try to lower the price. Frig him. He would go for the five hundred nicker first.
He hurried along the crowded street. If he didn't get there in time Fitch would go down the chute. That didn't worry Mugger so much as the fact that he'd take the five hundred pounds with him.
Mugger was a big man, six foot one tall, fifteen stone, with a brutal face. He was in his forties: he had earned the nickname Mugger in his teens, christened by the police who had never brought him to justice. His technique in those days had been to prowl Mayfair and Regent Street, looking for well-dressed women, snatch their handbags and scarper. He'd made a lot of money that way, but gave it up when police patrols began to walk those areas.
Buying himself a large barge, he'd entered the drugs trade. He collected the cocaine packets from downriver, sailed back to the East End and charged his dealer three times what he'd paid.
Arriving at the padlocked entrance to the warehouse he took out a bunch of keys, which included a pick-lock. He was inside the place in minutes. Opening the door into the room where the chute was located, he bent down, grabbed the handle, hauled off the lid. Sure enough there was Fitch, a rope round his neck over a scarf. He'd agilely managed to use his exceptional strength to manoeuvre himself at right angles to the vertical shaft. Both his feet were rammed into the side of the shaft, both hands holding on to the rope. He knew he couldn't last out much longer. He looked up.
'Reach down, grab the rope and haul me up,' he ordered.
'I'll need my five 'undred nicker before I do any work,' Mugger informed him with a hideous grin.
Bastard! Fitch muttered under his breath. He let go of the rope with one hand. It was tricky, but he managed to feel inside his pocket for a sheaf of twenty-pound notes held together with an elastic band. He threw it up and sighed with relief as it shot up through the hole, landing on the warehouse floor.
Mugger picked up the bundle, counted it quickly. Then he shouted down.
'Only two 'undred and forty here. We said five 'undred.'
'You get the rest in my pocket when I'm up there with you. If you don't get me out fast I'm going down – with the money.'
Mugger reacted quickly. He knelt down, stretched one long arm, grasped the rope. Despite the awkward position and Fitch's weight, he hauled him up. Fitch flopped on the floor, worked his stiff legs, clambered to his feet.
He was wondering whether to catch Mugger off guard, tip him down the chute. He changed his mind as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead and face. He had thought that Mugger could be useful to him.
'Money. Now.'
Mugger was holding out a huge hand, working his fingers in the money gesture. Fitch took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a jewelled lighter. He stared at his saviour.
'Like to make a lot more? Say two thou?'
'Talk about that after the two 'undred and sixty you owe.'