He described tersely their experiences at Belles in Soho, including his confrontation with the Afghan. Paula was frowning as he came to the end of his story. She turned round in the car.
'Taliban? I think your imagination is running away with you.'
'You'd have said the same thing if I could have predicted the attack on the World Trade Center in New York.'
'But you didn't predict it.'
'When you two have finished arguing,' Tweed interjected, 'is there a deadline for this meeting with Eddie?'
'Yes, midnight at the latest. Tweed, you can travel in my car. Marler will follow in his own transport. Paula, I suggest you wait upstairs with Monica until we get back. Monk's Alley off Covent Garden is a dangerous lonely place at this hour.'
Tweed jumped out of his car, ran over to the front passenger seat in Newman's car. He waved to Marler. Before Newman could switch on the engine Paula had darted over and climbed in the rear seat behind Tweed. She didn't mince her words.
'Bob Newman, I'm a big girl now. Dangerous? What do you think it was like in that underground mine when I found out who was the murderer who had killed five people? So, from now on…' she leaned forward and punched his shoulder '… no more lectures from you, thank you very much.'
Newman, uncertain, glanced at Tweed, who smiled.
'She's perfectly right. Let's get moving…'
London on a bitter night in February was deserted. There was hardly any other traffic and no pedestrians had ventured out. As they approached the labyrinth of small streets near Covent Garden Paula was checking her. 32 Browning by feel. Satisfied, she unbuttoned her overcoat so she could reach the weapon swiftly.
Suddenly Marler overtook them, one hand waving Newman down through his open window. Engines were switched off and Marler jumped out and ran back to them. He spoke to Newman, who had lowered his window.
'You wait here while I check the situation. Eddie might be alarmed if three of us appear. Back in a tick…'
It was a long tick. Paula saw Marler move silently in his rubber-soled shoes, then disappear down to the right. Presumably he had reached Monk's Alley. She felt impatient but this was Marler's exercise.
There were no street lights at this point. Both Marler and Newman had turned off their headlights. Paula kept looking back, gazing out of the side windows, unable to sit still. Tweed, though, was motionless, but she could tell from the angle of his head that he was keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror.
'Maybe Eddie has changed his mind,' she remarked for something to say. She didn't like the heavy silence, the lack of anyone else about.
'Relax,' was Tweed's only reply.
'You're better at sitting still, waiting.'
'You're just as good if you're on your own.'
'I've got a funny feeling about this.'
'The atmosphere round here encourages funny feelings,' Newman reassured her.
'It's more than the atmosphere. Marler is taking too long coming back to us. Maybe we'd better explore.'
'Stay exactly where you are,' Tweed ordered.
'Well, here comes Marler, moving quickly,' Newman reported. 'Probably had to reassure Eddie that he really did have Tweed waiting here.'
Marler opened the front passenger door, looked swiftly at Tweed and Newman, then glanced at Paula. He spoke quietly, without his usual jaunty drawl.
'It's not good. In fact, it's pretty bad. Eddie is dead in the alley. Not a pretty sight. Paula, wait here, lock all the doors.'
'Now you're starting it,' Paula fumed.
She opened her door and was outside almost as quickly as Tweed and Newman. She was glad she was wearing sensible shoes – the street was cobbled, an ankle-breaker. She called out.
'Isn't anyone going to lock the car doors?'
'Sorry…'
Newman and Marler used their remotes to lock the cars. With Marler leading, they hurried down the street until he stopped at the entrance to a cobbled opening only wide enough for one person to walk down. Paula noticed the ancient plaque. Monk's Alley. The figure of a monk was engraved below the name. Marler had switched on his powerful torch, beamed it just inside.
Eddie's crumpled figure lay on the cobbles, his right arm outstretched, the fingers of the hand tightly clenched. Lying on his back, he was soaked with blood. Pools of blood were spreading over the cobbles. His eyes gazed up at the sky, lifeless. Paula thought she had never before seen so much blood.
'I reckon he was stabbed more than twenty times,' Marler informed them. 'My guess is someone went on stabbing well after he was dead. An atrocious assault. Whoever did it searched his clothes. Everything has gone. No indication of his identity. And his wallet was taken. I've checked him thoroughly. He was stripped.'
'You missed nothing?' Tweed queried.
'Excuse me,' Marler said indignantly.
'Mind if I just check? Hold your torch steady.'
'Suit yourself.'
Tweed crouched down. He looked for a long time, then he put latex gloves on his hands. Gently he prised open the fingers of the clenched hand. No sign of rigor mortis. This had happened fairly recently. Inside the palm was a screwed-up piece of paper. Paula was already holding a transparent evidence bag. Tweed dropped the screwed-up piece of paper inside. Then he carefully lifted the side of the body. A piece of dark cloth was protruding. He hauled out a long length of black cloth, crumpled as though it had at one time been folded.
'Jesus!' exclaimed Newman. 'Taliban. A turban.'
Paula had her mobile ready and Tweed agreed she should call Buchanan. He looked up quickly.
'Don't let him see that bit of paper…'
It was after one in the morning when they sat down in Tweed's office. Buchanan had arrived quickly with an ambulance. Marler gave him a brief resume of events leading up to the hideous killing. Buchanan said he'd take a full statement later in the day.
Marler leant against a wall, lit a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was cold, as though suppressing strong emotion.
'Eddie was my best informant. He had contacts everywhere – even in Italy. Milan, I think. The poor devil deserved a better fate.'
'I think hell has come to London,' Tweed said quietly as Paula handed him the evidence bag.
Wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, Tweed carefully began unrolling the tightly screwed piece of paper. Then he took a lot of trouble smoothing it out on his desk.
'Doesn't mean a thing to me,' he commented.
'It's drawn in charcoal,' Marler said, peering over Tweed's shoulder. 'Eddie used charcoal to write anything. Kept a stick of it in his top breast pocket. The killer took that too.'
'Some kind of symbol,' Paula said, peering over the other shoulder. 'Could be anything.'
'Yet Eddie,' Tweed pointed out, 'thought it was so important he screwed it up inside his hand even when he was being stabbed to death. And it tells us nothing.' He stared down at what Eddie had scrawled on the sheet of paper.
5
At 8 a.m. the next morning, bitterly cold with a bleak overcast, Tweed arrived at his office. He was surprised to see all his staff waiting. Newman, relaxing in an armchair; Marler in his usual stance, leaning against a wall; Paula seated at her corner desk; Pete Nield and Harry Butler.
The last two were very tough and experienced legmen. They often worked together, a formidable team. The contrast between the two men could not be more marked. Nield, as usual, was smartly dressed, his grey business suit perfectly fitting his lean frame. In his thirties, his brown hair was well brushed, his small moustache neatly trimmed. He had come to Tweed from Oxford University and spoke well so was able to mix in any society. He was quiet, thoughtful.