Cell

…'

'You do realize you must not put it on the road until after dark. Get something right.'

'We are being very careful. All the team has arrived…'

Ali slammed down the phone and swore. Abdullah had broken the connection. As he walked out into the drizzle he again wondered: was the voice that of a man or a woman? Impossible to tell.

Pecksniff amp; Co., Solicitors, were situated in Bermondsey down a narrow side street. Not the best part of Bermondsey, the old three-storey buildings had seen no renovation for years. Loose bricks, fallen from walls, littered the pavement. The windows had not seen a cleaner for ages. The miserable street was littered with rubbish. A dirty brass plate attached to the wall located the place. The Peck had been ripped away so the sign now read sniff amp; Co, Solicit.

'Not the best part of town,' Harry observed. 'Not even for the East End. Not safe either. Get mugged here for a box of matches.'

'We'll leave you to guard the car,' Tweed decided.

The moment Tweed and Paula left the car Harry locked the doors. Reaching down under his seat, he grasped a canister of Mace gas, perched it on his lap.

Tweed pressed the bell beside the door with stained-glass windows in the upper half. 'Stained' described it well – impossible to guess the original colours. No one came. He shoved his thumb into the bell and kept it there. When the door opened a strange apparition appeared.

Clad in a shabby black jacket which reached his knees, he wore an equally old-fashioned collar with the tips protruding. He was living up to his Dickensian name -even had an ancient gold watch chain draped across his waistcoat. Stooped, his hair was the colour of dirty mustard, his pinched face lined and his little eyes were cunning.

'We have an appointment,' Tweed said.

'I don't think so. I made no appointments.'

'I did.' Tweed held his SIS folder close to the face. 'Now let us in. This street smells.'

'I can only give you a few minutes.. -.'

'You'll give us as long as it takes.'

Tweed was inside the poorly furnished office with Paula at his heels. The apparition closed and locked the door. Shuffling, he led them into another office which startled Paula. The furniture was expensive antiques with a large Regency desk. Unlike the outer office the room had been dusted, she noted. The solicitor sat down behind the desk in an antique high-backed chair. Paula caught a whiff of whisky.

'You are Mr Peck Sniff?' Tweed began.

'Pecksniff, if you please,' their host snapped.

'The New Age Development Company which built Carpford high up in the North Downs,' Tweed plunged on. 'You act for them.'

'Never heard of them.' Pecksniff's false teeth rattled.

'You handle collection of their rents – and other monies. The inhabitants have told us this. Stop lying.'

'I beg your pardon.'

Pecksniff straightened up, glared at Tweed. A picture of indignation and innocence. He clasped his bony fingers on his desk. The teeth rattled again.

'I must ask you both to leave.'

'You deny that you're connected with New Age?'

'Never heard of them.'

'Maybe,' Paula suggested nastily, 'another drop of Scotch would refresh your memory. We can always come back with a warrant and rip this dump to pieces.'

'I shall call a judge for an injunction.'

'Don't be silly,' Tweed told him mildly. 'You're probably in serious trouble.'

'The door is there.' Pecksniff had stood up. He pointed a quavering finger. 'This interview is concluded.'

'We tried to do it the easy way.' Tweed sighed as he stood up. 'We can find our own way out.'

They left the building. Harry unlocked the doors, slipped the Mace canister under his seat. Seated behind the driving seat, he turned round.

'Any luck? You've been very quick.'

'He won't talk.'

'Paula,' Harry suggested. 'While I'm away lock the doors. Get into this seat. I may be a while.'

Stepping out, he waited until Paula was behind the wheel, closed the door. Standing in front of the solicitor's door he stretched, widening his hefty shoulders. His thick thumb pressed the bell, held it pressed. He had his folder in his hand as the door opened. Swiftly he thrust it into Pecksniff's face, giving him little chance to examine it.

'Special Branch. I'm coming in…'

Harry pushed past Pecksniff, grabbed him by the arm, kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, hauled his captive into the inner office, used his foot again to kick the inner door shut, then pushed the solicitor towards the chair behind his desk.

'That looks like where you hold court.'

'I'm a solicitor…'

'Sit down.'

Harry pushed one of the hard chairs closer to the desk, sat. Pecksniff, looking dazed, resumed his normal seat on his throne. He was looking more normal. Which would never do. Harry leaned both meaty forearms on the desk.

'That filing cabinet over there will have the papers. Get them out.'

'What papers?' A vague hint of indignation.

'The New Age development gang!'

'I have already told the man who came in before you…'

Harry half stood up. His right hand whipped out, grabbed Pecksniff by the wing collar, tightened it. He hauled him out of his tall chair so he was stretched halfway across the desk, his own face close to the solicitor's. His voice was quiet and, like his expression, menacing.

'Now listen to me, Peckysniff. I have a short fuse. This ain't just about a property development. We'll have you for obstruction for starters. But there's more. You could go down as accomplice in two murders. So open the cabinet before I loses my temper.'

'Two murders…'

Pecksniff's voice was garbled, half-choking on Butler's grip. Butler sniffed again. Thought he'd caught the fumes of whisky when he'd entered. He relaxed his hold, jumped up, brought back a smeared glass from a side table, planted it in front of Pecksniff.

'Where's the bottle? Have a tot. Settle your nerves.'

Pecksniff, ashen-faced, tried to adjust his collar, then opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk, brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He removed the top and was on the verge of drinking from the bottle when Harry stopped him.

'Don't do it like that. You'll choke. Pour it into the glass first. That's what the damned thing's for.'

A lot of rattling. Harry, arms crossed, watched as Pecksniff poured a strong tot into the glass, held the shaking glass, looked at his visitor. Harry shook his head. Earlier he had used a handkerchief to pick up the glass. No fingerprints.

Pecksniff drank the whisky in two swallows. He sighed. Pale colour was coming back into his face. He put the glass down next to the bottle where he could reach it. His voice was hoarse.

'Two murders?'

'Yes. Mrs Gobble at the shop in Carpford. The other one will make you think. Mrs Warner. Linda Warner. Wife of the Minister for Home Security. You could be in line for both – unless we get cooperation.'

Pecksniff sighed again. Standing up, staggering a little, he took a ring of keys from his pocket, made his way to the cabinet. Unlocking it, he stooped, hauled out a fat green folder, placed it on the desk.

'It's all in there. Records of money transmissions, monies concerning Carpford.'

'There are some very large amounts here,' Harry said after riffling through the sheets. 'One for?200,000. Another, quite recently, for?400,000. All this for rents? Come on.'

'He said they were for renovations at Carpford.'

'Who said that?'

'Gerald Hanover. The man who organized the creation of New Age, who supervised the building of the village. He also checked the credentials of the tenants. Except for one. He wanted an unmarried woman – or a widow – to take charge of the shop. She was to keep an eye on the other tenants. A simple soul, he said. I interviewed those who answered an ad in The Times. I thought Mrs Gobble fitted the bill. A simple soul. It did strike me as odd, but Hanover paid me generous fees.'