Blood Storm (14 page)

He picked up a coil of rope from the floor. One end was
twisted into a loop, but without a slip knot. Fitch pointed
this out to Canal, who was looking worried. 'With that
round her neck,' he explained with a sadistic smile.

'When we get 'er 'ere, we wrap a scarf round 'er neck,
then we slip this rope loop over the scarf. With that round 'er neck we lower 'er into the chute, then fasten one end of
the rope over the 'ook sticking out from the side of the
tube.'

'I don't understand, I'm afraid,' Canal protested.

'No, you wouldn't. You've noticed the loop goin' round
'er neck is frayed, have you? Good. Miracles 'appen. She's
suspended down in the tube. She'll try to remove the rope.
When she keeps tryin' to do that the frayed part gives way. Down goes Tweed's pet into the water and gets carried into
the river. End of the lady.'

'Sounds horrible - and strangely complex.'

'Heaven give us strength. Don't you see? The body will
be carried down the river towards the barrage. At some
point the body will be seen and dragged out - or she'll get
washed up on the river edge. The police autopsy will check
her. No sign of strangulation. The scarf has protected her
neck against the grazin' of the rope. Rope and scarf will
have got washed away. She'll have lungs full of water. Verdict? She drowned. No risk of it lookin' like murder.
See?'

'I think so. Do we have to do this?'
'Monkey, we're being paid good money to kidnap Miss
Paula Grey. To hit Tweed hard. Imagine how much harder
it'll hit him when she's dragged out dead. Get it?'
'I guess so. I'm not happy about her dying.'
'Who asked you to be 'appy? This is business. Now we've
got to go out and grab 'er. You've nicked a car, fitted it with
stolen plates?'

'Of course I have. It's parked out of sight at the back of
the warehouse here.'

'Good. We'll grab 'er tonight. Bring 'er back 'ere.'
'You're not going to put her down that awful shaft?'
'Listen, mate,' Fitch snarled, 'your job is to do what I tell
you to do. And yes, she'll be food
for the fishes in the river
before the night is out. I've done my 'omework. She often
arrives back at 'er Fulham Road pad at about 9 p.m. So we
get there early, park further down the Fulham Road, chew the fat until she arrives.'

12

Newman insisted on escorting Paula home despite her
protests. She was not best pleased when Tweed ordered
her to drive home while Newman followed her in his own
car.

'You've got your dinner with Roma,' she protested as
they went down the stairs.

'I've phoned her, made a later appointment.'

'Great, she must have loved that.'

'She knows I'm very busy and said she'd phone the restaurant to warn them to keep the table. She's very
amenable.'

'I still don't like it.'

As she pulled up outside the entrance to the large yard where she'd park her car outside her apartment she didn't
notice the battered Ford parked further behind her. Inside
it Fitch grunted with satisfaction, lifted a tin off the floor,
took out the airtight bag containing a cloth soaked in
chloroform.

'Got 'er,' he gloated.

Then he stared as another car pulled up behind her
Saab. A man jumped out, walked alongside the Saab as
she drove it inside the yard. Fitch rammed the bag back
inside the tin.

'Friggin' 'ell,' he said to Canal beside him. 'That's
Newman going in with 'er. He's a tough bastard.' He
started his engine. 'We'll 'ave to come back about 4 a.m.

What 'e's goin' to do with her could take a while,' he
commented coarsely. 'We'd better make ourselves
scarce.'

He drove at moderate speed past Newman's car and
continued along the Fulham Road.

Newman searched her flat on the first floor thoroughly.
Paula, feeling guilty, offered him a drink. He was in the
main corridor, staring up at a flat panel let into the ceiling.
He called out to Paula, who was hanging up her
windcheater. He pointed.

'What's up there?'

'Just a loft. I never use it. Some people put all their junk up there. I don't. Now, have a nice evening with Roma. I'm
sure you will.'

He'd refused the drink. She kissed him on the cheek, then
hugged him, smiling as she let him go. She'd seen no point in mentioning there was a large skylight in the loft.

'I do appreciate your looking after me. Go wild
tonight.'

'It's early days with her.'

He met Roma at Santorini's, a luxurious restaurant with a
section projecting over the Thames. No
one was using that
area tonight - it was too cold.

Roma was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with
perfectly coiffeured black hair. She had large blue eyes, a
well-shaped profile and a wicked sense of humour with a habit of laughing a lot, a low husky laugh.

Her father was rich, owning a large chain of retail stores
he'd inherited from his father. She'd been to private school
at Benenden but had no airs and graces. He had no trouble talking to her.

'You're in insurance, I gather,' she remarked later in the
evening over coffee and the rest of the wine. 'A special sort,
I've heard.'

'The General & Cumbria Insurance,' Newman said,
quoting the name on the plate outside SIS headquarters in
Park Crescent. It was a cover for the real activities they
engaged in. 'It is a bit special. We only insure wealthy men
and their families against being kidnapped. The ransom
demand.'

'You just pay up, Bob? I can't quite imagine that's how
you always operate.'

'Shrewd lady.' He smiled again. 'We have been known to
track down the kidnappers. It can get a bit hairy
sometimes.'

'You lead a dangerous life . . .'

'I suppose I do, now and then.'

Her remark made him check his watch under the
tablecloth. It was 4 a.m. Roma had just suppressed a
yawn.

After escorting Roma to her apartment nearby Newman sat
for a moment in the car. He remembered the battered old Citroen parked further along the Fulham Road when he'd
arrived with Paula. Automatically he'd swung round,
caught a glimpse of the driver. He'd seemed familiar. Alarm
bells began ringing now inside his head.

Fitch. He'd seen police photos of the brutal villain. He drove as fast as he dared back to the Fulham Road. A few
yards beyond the entrance to Paula's place the same
battered Ford was parked. One man inside, in the front
passenger seat.

Newman pulled up, switched off the engine, dived out on
to the pavement. He then walked casually up to the Ford.
The driver's window was lowered. Newman tested the door
handle. It opened. He leaned inside.

The passenger had slipped something into the side
pocket of his jacket. He looked at Newman nervously.
Didn't say anything. Which was odd.

'Why are you parked here in the middle of the night?'
Newman demanded in an unfriendly tone.

'I've . . . had too much
...
to drink. Waiting till it's safe
...
to drive.'

'Really?' Newman had leaned in closer. No smell of any
liquor on his breath. 'Where's the driver?' he snapped.

'He had to . . .'

'You kidded me up you were the driver. What's going
on?'

'Nothing. I told you . . .'

Newman jumped inside, sat in the driver's seat, grasped his captive round the neck. He pressed a thumb against the
windpipe. Canal's eyes bulged, he began to choke.

'Who is the driver?' Newman demanded in an unpleasant
voice. 'And where is he now?'

With the hands removed from his throat Canal started
talking. Newman listened. Canal admitted that they were
going to kidnap Paula. The moment he heard this
Newman hit him on the jaw, hard enough to knock him
out. He left Canal, who had given his name, slumped half on the floor.

Newman ran back towards Paula's flat. No sign of Fitch.
He walked quietly on his rubber-soled shoes over the
cobbles, glanced at Paula's window. No light. He walked round the side. A strong-looking drainpipe was attached to the wall. Fitch was nearly at the top. Newman recalled that
on his crime sheet among many other more villainous
crimes Fitch had been a cat burglar.

'Come on down, pal,' he called up loudly. He had his
Smith & Wesson in his right hand. 'Unless you'd prefer a
bullet up the rear end.'

Fitch, startled, nearly lost his grip. He regained it as he
glared viciously down at Newman, his eyes like those of a
snake, then descended quickly when he saw the revolver.
Newman had holstered his gun when Fitch landed expertly on the cobbles, bending his knees. He was swinging round
when Newman grabbed both his shoulders, hauled him
across the yard, slammed him forcefully into a wall. Fitch's
head met the wall with a loud crunch. He was tough. He
pretended to be winded, crouched down, grasped a knife from a sheath strapped to his leg.

Newman raised his right foot, kicked Fitch hard between
the legs. Fitch groaned, dropped his knife, used both hands
to clutch the injury. Newman grasped his hair, hauled him
out of the yard and along the deserted pavement to the car.
Before opening the rear door he slammed Fitch's head hard
against the car's roof. Fitch was unconscious as he heaved
him on to the floor in the rear of the Ford.

As Newman had hoped, Canal was sitting up, staring as
though he couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. Newman
climbed into the back of the car, placed his feet on Fitch's
face.

'Canal,' he said grimly, 'you can drive now, can't
you?'

'I guess so.'

'Don't guess, just do it. Slide behind the wheel. Then you
drive to that warehouse you told me about. . .'

It was still dark. Canal made a better job of driving than
Newman had expected. The East End was still quiet as
they pulled up in front of the warehouse entrance. On
Newman's ferocious order Canal got out, opened the
padlock, went inside. Newman followed, Fitch's unconscious body looped over his shoulder. They entered the
large bare room. Newman saw the handle to the round lid
let into the dirty wooden floor. He dumped Fitch, then
turned on Canal.