Cell

'With such appreciation next time I'll buy the whole shop.'

'Yes,' growled Tweed. He swivelled the sheet round. 'Have I got Carpford reasonably accurate?'

Paula leaned over Beaurain to study the drawing. She was amazed at how quickly Tweed had worked. Carp Lake was the centre piece. Around it he had drawn Garda, Warner's strange Italianate property; Drew Franklin's concrete blockhouse; Agatha Gobble's Cotswold cottage; Peregrine Palfry's round house and Margesson's Georgian horror.

'You missed your vocation,' Beaurain told him. 'You should have been an artist. Incredibly accurate. Now draw in two bungalows, well spaced apart, here, south of Margesson's house.'

Tweed drew two small oblongs where Beaurain's fingers had indicated. He looked up at Paula.

'I remember passing these before we met Buchanan again. I thought that, like every other dwelling, they were out of place.'

'In the first one lives a man called Billy Hogarth, like the painter. In the last one resides Martin Hogarth, the brother of Billy. They hate each other. Understandably.'

'What are they like then?'

'Billy is the black sheep. Half the time he's roaring drunk – when he's not driving off somewhere. Then he's sober. Bit of a thug. Ask him the time of the day and he's likely to throw a heavy clock at you.'

'And Martin?'

'English gentleman. Tall, in his fifties. Well-spoken. Good-looking. Polite. Master of chatting and telling you nothing.'

'And these two are brothers? Martin and Billy?'

'They are. And there's more to relationships up there than you might think. Both Martin and Billy – wait for it – are cousins of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'

'They are?' Tweed was taken aback. 'Do they communicate with each other? I'd have thought it likely.'

'Not according to Martin when I asked that same question. His reply, mind you, was vague as usual. He said, "We all live our own lives. Haven't you heard that old saying -'the bloodiest battlefield is the family arena'.'"

'Doesn't tell us much.'

'Which seems to be Martin's way of conducting a conversation. He'll chat for ages, but give you no information at all.'

'Talking about relationships,' Paula began, 'maybe we ought to tell Jules about our strange visitor this morning. Eva Brand.'

Tweed then gave Beaurain a full report of everything Eva had said – including the fact that she was a niece of Drew Franklin. When he had concluded, Tweed took out of his top drawer the drawing in ink of the cathedral the motor-cyclist had delivered. Beaurain studied it for a moment, threw it back on Tweed's desk.

'St Paul's Cathedral.'

'Exactly,' Tweed replied. 'Could it be significant?'

'Decoy,' Beaurain said dismissively.

7

'Is that Ali?' asked the voice on the phone.

Spoken in English, it was impossible to tell whether the caller was a man or a woman. The use of a voice-distorter made the speaker impossible to identify.

'It is Ali from Finsbury Park,' the man inside the public phone-box replied.

'Abdullah speaking. Is the consignment on its way. All five of the transporters.'

'They are coming. On schedule. They arrive at their destination at eight o'clock tonight.'

'I will call again, using the other number you gave, at seven.. .'

Ali left the phone-box quickly. Located in a carefully chosen quiet area of London, it was rarely used, a fact confirmed by constant observation.

The transporters referred to were milk wagons, each driving south on a different road, the route they used every day at this time. Innocent enough cargoes, on this occasion they carried more than milk.

At the bottom of each load was a larger container, swathed thickly in waterproof cloth. There was also a thick cable wrapped round the container very securely. The end of the cable had a handle attached to a strong hook concealed just below the surface of the milk at the rear of the vehicle.

Later, arriving at a farm with a large barn, purchased weeks before, they would drive in. Once inside the barn the wagon would be opened, a gloved hand would feel for the handle, grasp it, hauling the metal container to the surface. Inside the barn it would be transferred to a small van with the words Fresh Fruit inscribed on its outer bodywork. All five vans, refrigerated, had also been purchased weeks before. To bolster the supplier's confidence, a cheque on a London bank had been paid in advance. It was the supplier's understanding that a new company was entering the business of providing fruit to larger supermarkets at highly competitive prices.

The organizer of the operation, who used the name Abdullah, was confident that if the milk wagons were found, eventually, it would be too late. The spectacular and catastrophic attack would have occurred. Abdullah had no doubt the casualties would run into thousands, the dead casualties.

Inside each concealed container was a new weapon, the warhead armed with an explosive of devastating power.

8

When Beaurain left Park Crescent both Tweed and Paula escorted him downstairs. At the bottom he paused, spoke very quietly to them so George, the guard, could not hear what he was saying.

'Is there somewhere I could have a private word with both of you?'

'Visitors' room,' said Tweed, crossing the hall and opening a door into a barely furnished room. He closed the door as Beaurain looked round with a cynical smile.

'Don't make your visitors very comfortable, do you? Wooden table, hard-backed chairs, nothing to read.'

'There are visitors I feel I should see but don't want them to linger. What is it, Jules?'

'I want you to know that I'm flying to Brussels – there and back in a day. I have made an appointment to see the top Director of the Banque de Bruxelles et Liege. The place where you told me a dubious lawyer in London sends the rent money collected from Carpford. I want him to tell me where it is forwarded to – I'm convinced it doesn't just sit in Brussels.'

'But,' Paula objected, 'you did say Belgian banks are even more security-conscious than Swiss banks.'

'True,' said Beaurain. 'Clever girl. Luckily I know this man and I don't think he is aware I am no longer Commissioner of Police. It was kept quiet, my resignation – maybe because I am popular with the people for putting certain corrupt fat cats behind bars. I know certain illegalities the man I am going to see has engaged in. Blackmail is a powerful weapon.'

'You're wicked,' Paula said with a smile. 'One more thing. I was going to ask you if you know what lies behind that tall brick wall extending from Victor Warner's property. It's pure curiosity, I admit.'

'I imagine it's security,' Beaurain replied. 'Remember what his position is. As for behind it, the ground slopes down steeply and there's a lime pit and an old abandoned quarry.'

'How are you for time?' Tweed enquired.

'I must leave at once or I'll miss my flight. The bad news is I'll be back.'

He hugged Paula, shook Tweed's hand, opened the door and before they could leave the room he was gone.

'I'm going back to Carpford when I can,' Paula said as they climbed the stairs. 'I want to talk to those brothers -Billy and Martin. Something odd about them.'

'Then you won't go on your own. If I'm tied up, Newman can come with you.'

Newman looked up as they came in. He was grinning sardonically. He spoke to Paula.

'I think you've made a conquest. Jules has really taken a fancy to you.'

'Don't be so stupid,' she snapped. Sitting at her desk she glared at him. 'Instead of making foolish remarks you might as well help me. When I can I'm going back to Carpford. To see those two brothers, Martin and Billy. While I'm up there I'd also like to call on Drew Franklin, your favourite columnist. But when is he there?'