Cell

Harry Butler was clad in a worn pair of jeans, a creased shirt which had seen better days. More heavily built than Nield, he was a dangerous opponent in a street brawl, his happy hunting ground the East End. He merged into that type of area well. Muggers took one look at his wide shoulders, his ham-like fists, his dark glaring eyes, and kept well away.

'Why is everyone so early?' Tweed enquired, removing his camel-hair coat and sitting behind the antique desk bought for him by his staff. He was becoming fond of it.

'I phoned everyone when I got home,' Marler explained. 'To tell them about Eddie. They take a grim view.'

'If I ever meet that Afghan killer,' Harry said forcefully, 'I'll kick him between the legs, then stamp on his face so his wretched mother wouldn't recognize him. That for starters. We're going to have to play this one very rough.'

Unlike Nield, perched on an arm of Newman's chair, Harry was sitting on the floor, stocky legs crossed. Tweed noticed he was wearing boots with metal rims. The phone rang, Monica answered, looked at Tweed.

'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Says the Minister, Victor Warner, wants to see you in his office.'

'Tell Palfry I'm very busy – and that if the Minister wants to see me will he do me the courtesy of calling himself.'

Monica kept repeating the same message, then broke the connection. She sighed.

'I think he's one of those,' she remarked. 'He's up in the clouds and tried to treat me like a serf. I think I got under his skin when I kept repeating exactly the same words.'

Paula was smiling at Tweed. 'The Minister of Security is going to love you.'

'It's a tactic,' Tweed told her. 'If he really does have a reason for seeing me he'll swallow his pride, call me back.'

'You really are a devil,' she said.

Within five minutes the phone was ringing again. Monica listened, clamped a hand over the speaker. She was grinning.

'It's him, his lordship. He sounded very upper-crust but he was polite to me…'

'Tweed here. Is there a problem?'

'My dear Tweed, I really would appreciate it if you could pop over here. Can't explain why over the phone. I also appreciate a man in your position must be overwhelmed at times, but this is rather urgent. What time would suit you?'

'Now? I can be there in thirty minutes.'

'Splendid! I really would be most grateful for your cooperation. I look forward very much to seeing you…'

'Smooth as silk,' Tweed told them as he put on his coat. 'Paula, I'd like you to come with me. Don't expect to like him. Very upper-crust, I've heard. A cog from the old boys' network.'

'Can't wait,' she told him.

'Wearing that coat you look like a member of Special Branch,' Paula teased Tweed as they arrived at the tall doors closed at the entrance to the Ministry of Security. 'Nowadays a camel-hair coat is their uniform.'

'I like the coat,' Tweed replied as he pressed the bell.

One massive door was opened almost at once and Peregrine Palfry stood there to greet them with a smile. He shook hands with both of them as he ushered them into a vast hall.

'It's very good of you to traipse all this way to see the Minister. Strictly between us I think he might have asked to visit you.'

Tweed was surprised at the firmness of his hand clasp. Paula was surprised by his warm welcome. His face was pale, his hair jet black. Clean-shaven, he would be in his thirties and he struck her as athletic. Not at all what she had expected.

Walking swiftly, he led them up a wide flight of stairs, along a hallway, and paused before a door. He pulled a face, as much as to say, 'Here we go!' He had knocked once when a voice beyond the door called out loudly.

'Enter!'

The office beyond was spacious and the Minister stood up from behind a long imposing antique desk. He strode round to greet them. Very tall and thin, he carried himself very erect and the thinness extended to his long face. On the bridge of a strong nose were perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his cold blue eyes scanned his visitors swiftly. His mouth was wide and again thin, his chin suggested a touch of aggression.

He was dressed in country clothes, a smart hunter's jacket and polo trousers tucked inside gleaming knee-length boots. Smiling, he ushered them to an enormously wide couch and sat next to Paula with Tweed beyond her.

'I am so sorry to drag you down here but I do have a Cabinet meeting soon. Pure waste of time. Bores me stiff listening to gabble-gabble. Now, what would you like to quench your thirst? Tea, coffee – maybe something a little stronger?'

Tweed refused anything and Paula followed suit. Warner looked over at the open door where Palfry stood waiting to bring refreshment, shook his head. Palfry dipped his head, withdrew, closing the door.

'Good chap, Perry,' Warner remarked. 'Member of MENSA – not that it impresses me. But he's so reliable and has the memory of an elephant.' He was addressing his remarks to Paula. 'I have heard of the legendary Paula Grey. Makes me wonder whether I should talk to her rather than you, Tweed.' He said it with a smile.

'If I am regarded anywhere as legendary it is exaggerated wildly,' she told him. 'Mr Tweed is the power.'

'Then I will talk to both of you.' He looked across at Tweed. 'I hope you will not take what I say as personal.'

'Depends what you say, Minister.'

Paula was startled. Minister? Then she realized Tweed was using softening up tactics, something he rarely did.

'It has come to my shell-like ear,' Warner began gravely, 'that you two have been poking about up at Carpford. I regard that as my private sanctuary.'

'Surely you are worried about the mysterious disappearance of your wife,' Tweed replied bluntly.

'I am worried sick. It is so unlike Linda to take off into the wild blue yonder. And the police are hopeless. That chap Buchanan simply says he has no news yet. After three weeks. I ask you.'

'Superintendent Buchanan is the cleverest and most determined policeman in this country. The car your wife was driving, which was found abandoned, has been subjected to the most thorough lab search. No clues at all found inside it. Have you yet had any kind of message demanding a ransom? If you have you must tell me – even if the caller told you that was the last thing you must do.'

'No one has called.' Warner's voice had changed, was rasping. He was leaning against Paula to speak to Tweed and she caught a whiff of after-shave lotion. She knew he was quite unaware he was pressing against her as he continued vehemently. 'I have received no ransom demand. Dammit, man, if I had I would have told Buchanan. And, once again, why were you poking about down at Carpford?'

'Because, at Buchanan's urgent request, I've reverted for the moment to my old role of detective. You should be grateful.'

'Oh, I see.' He sat back. 'Someone told me you were once the star turn at the old Scotland Yard. Find anything? See any of the people up there?'

'Olaf Margesson for one. He's a fanatic on religion. Do you know him?'

'He's invited me over for the occasional glass of sherry. Don't understand your reference to religion. We talked mostly about cricket. Anyone else?'

'Mrs Gobble.'

'She's potty. Quite harmless though. So you got nowhere?'

'I didn't say that. There are rumours that al-Qa'eda has arrived over here…"

The effect of Tweed's words was electric. Warner jumped up from the couch, marched back to his desk, sat in the high chair behind it. Paula was astonished at the change in his personality. He looked choleric, his voice grim.

'Now listen to me, Tweed. I know you have in your outfit that foreign correspondent reporter, Robert Newman. If he tries to write about those rumours we'll put out a D notice, stop him in his tracks. It's an absurd idea. I will tell you some criminal organization from abroad may be trying to establish some system in Britain with the drug cartel in Colombia. That's absolutely off the record. Muzzle that wild dog, Newman. Do you understand me?'