Blood Storm (2 page)

With a supreme effort of will he fitted the key into the ignition, started the engine. He looked everywhere before
moving. No traffic in sight, no sound of it. He had lowered his window and cold March air swept inside. He took deep
breaths, felt a little better. He began moving. Slowly.

Arriving at the entrance to the narrow cul-de-sac, he cautiously reversed into it. Once he had the car concealed
inside he switched off the engine. It was absolutely silent
inside the alcove-like street.

He began to shiver, closed the window, locked all the
doors. He was feeling worse now, on the verge of falling
asleep. He checked his watch. The illuminated hands
showed 10.30 p.m. His last thought was to think about
Viola. Was she safely home in Fox Street? Why was he so
worried about her? Then he lost consciousness, falling into
a deep sleep.

1

Thud . ..

Brief pause.

Thud . . .

Pause.

Thud . . .

Inside the bedroom of her flat in Fox Street, Viola lay
naked on the floor, a gag tied round her mouth. She had been attacked the moment she entered the bedroom and
switched on the light. A handkerchief lightly soaked in
chloroform had been pressed over her face from behind.
Her unseen assailant had carried her half-limp figure to the far side of the bed. She was dumped on the floor, began to regain consciousness. A latex-covered hand had lifted her
head, slammed it down - not too hard. The towel gag had been applied to her mouth. She was vaguely aware of
something awful happening to her, then the weight lifted off
her. She opened her eyes.

A weird figure stood over her. Clad in a surgeon's white
gown, white cap, white mask over the face, huge goggles
clamped over the eyes. She couldn't tell whether it was a
man or a woman. Terror gripped her as she saw the gloved
hand lift a meat cleaver.

Lifted high, the cleaver descended. Thud
...
It severed
her left arm just below the elbow. She almost fainted, but
the pain was so excruciating she stayed conscious. The
lower arm slid a few inches free of the elbow.

The cleaver descended again, swiftly and with immense force. It sliced off the right arm below the elbow. So great
was the force the blade cut straight through bone and
muscle, embedded itself into the floorboard. The wielder of
the blade had to wrench it strongly to release it from the
wood.

Thud . . .

The left leg was severed cleanly below the knee. Viola's
upper body was now shuddering. Her sharp teeth were
tearing at the gag, now only a reflex action.

Thud . . .

The right leg below the knee was parted from the rest of
the body. A lake of blood slithered over the floor. The figure
clad in white also wore outsize thick white canvas covers
over its normal shoes.

Viola's teeth ripped open the gag. Her mouth opened
wide on the verge of a terrible yell.

Time to complete the exercise.

Thud . . .

The cleaver descended through her neck, separating head from body, just before Viola let out a yell of hell. The blow
had severed the carotid arteries. An enormous spurt of
blood jetted across the room, splashed all over the frosted-
glass window overlooking the street.

The white-clad figure sighed aloud, pulled up a sleeve,
checked the time. 11.15 p.m. Time to make the
arrangement, then leave quickly.

2

Slumped behind the wheel of his stationary car, Tweed
stirred. Where was he? Memory of the dinner with Viola
flooded back, then feeling so strange as they left
Mungano's. He straightened up, worked his arms, found he
felt normal. Almost normal enough to drive. He checked the time: 6 a.m. God!

He could hardly credit it - he'd slept seven and a half
hours. He drove very slowly, emerging from the cul-de-sac.
The street was empty. He knew he could now drive safely.
Even so he crawled back
to the mews near his flat where he
had hired a garage for a small fortune.

Locking the door, he paused to glance everywhere. No
sign of a soul. He felt better. The cold early morning air was
welcome. He began to stride quickly across the cobbled
mews to the exit. A mistake. He still felt wobbly.

Arriving in Bexford Street, lined with tall old terraced
houses, he climbed the steps to his heavy wooden front
door. A street lamp on the deserted pavement provided
illumination to find the Banham lock.

As he wrestled his keys from an inner pocket he stared at
the lock. There were gouge marks round it. Someone had
tried to get inside during the night. He had trouble turning the key. Someone had entered his flat. Twiddling with his
key he managed to turn it. He opened the door silently.

Once inside, he closed the door without switching on any
lights, stood listening. Not a sound. He moved slowly along
the hall, his hand counting the panels in the wall to his right.
Reaching number four he
paused, pressed his thumb three
times against a corner, waited, pressed twice, then three
times again. The panel slid back. He reached in, grasped
the loaded Walther automatic, closed the coded panel, felt
his way past the drawing-room door, began to climb the
stairs cautiously. Although it was called a flat he owned the
entire four storeys. He avoided stepping on the stair tread
which creaked, reached the first floor. His bedroom door
was not quite closed. After dressing for his dinner with
Viola he had been in a hurry, but he still took precautions.
Standing to one side of the door he reached inside, turned on the main light. He went inside quickly, gripping his Walther, stared all round. Nothing. His head was playing
tricks on him again. He cursed, closed the door, staggered
over to his bed, jerked off the top cover on to the floor. He was on the verge of collapse.

Making a great effort, he pulled off his shoes, threw off
his overcoat, slipped the Walther under the pillow. Tearing
off his tie, opening his collar, he sank on to the bed,
switched off the light, lost consciousness.

Paula, determined to start work early, was driving down the short cut which was Bexford Street. She parked outside Tweed's home. She'd leave him a note through the letterbox to tell him what she was doing.

Climbing the steps, her alert eyes instantly noticed gouge
marks round the lock. Someone must have tried to break in
while Tweed was dining with Viola. She took out the
duplicate key he had
given her, had trouble turning it in
the lock. Before she entered quietly she hauled out the
Browning .32 automatic from the holster beneath her thigh-
length raincoat.

She closed the front door carefully, walked noiselessly along the hall. Reaching the living-room door, she listened,
then stood to one side as she threw it wide open. Her other
hand found the switch and she was inside, swivelling her
Browning in all directions. No one. No sign the intruder
had been in here.

She mounted the stairs, stepping over the creaking tread.
Pressing an ear against Tweed's bedroom door, she heard
the sound of loud snoring. He never snored. Extracting her
powerful torch from her coat pocket, she opened the door,
swept her beam quickly. Tweed was lying on his back, eyes
closed, which was not normal. His breathing was regular,
which was reassuring. She aimed the beam over the front
part of the bedroom, froze. Perched on a side table a silver
candlestick lay on its side, resting on a folded duster - which
would have cushioned the sound. One drawer of a chest of drawers was not fully closed.

Paula knew that Tweed was fastidiously neat in his
housekeeping. He would never have left the candlestick like
that if he had caught it with his arm. He would never have
left one of the drawers partially open. She made her way
across to the front of the room, turned on a shaded table lamp, turned off her torch, set to work.

Seven drawers, the deepest at the bottom. She began
with the top one, opened it, searched carefully through piles
of handkerchiefs and scarves. Nothing. The partly closed
drawer also contained nothing unusual. It was only when
she opened the large drawer at the bottom that she found
under a pile of shirts what had been planted.

A large old briefcase, not one of Tweed's, was stuffed full
- it bulged. Paula put on latex gloves, lifted out the brief
case, unfastened the catch. She sucked in her breath. Inside was a large transparent envelope containing a meat cleaver,
the blade coated with a reddish tinge which she knew was
dried blood. Inside a smaller transparent envelope were
small pieces of dried flesh, also stained with blood.

She reacted quickly. After rechecking the drawer, she
carried the briefcase to the window. She heard a car pull up
outside. Scared stiff, she doused the table lamp and peered
out. Bob Newman's Range Rover was parked. He was half
out of the front door, peering up. She grabbed her torch,
switched it on, held it under her chin, then flashed it
urgently. He was jumping out of the car as she headed for
the stairs.

'I was just passing and Tweed is often up early—'
Newman began.

'Someone is trying to frame Tweed for some crime I
don't like the look of one little bit,'
she interrupted him. 'Evidence is inside this thing . . .'

She handed him the briefcase, which he took from her without question. He ran back to his car as she closed the
door and hurried upstairs, worried in case Tweed had
woken, was wondering what was going on. Arriving back in
the bedroom she found Tweed still fast asleep. She hurried
to the window in time to see Newman was trapped.

Newman shoved the briefcase under his seat as a dark car came round the corner, its lights on full beam focused on him. It stopped, barring his way. A tall man clad in a long
black coat ran up to him. Round the left arm of his coat which he perched on Newman's open window was a wide
armlet with two words in white embroidered on it: State
Security.

'Out of the car. Now! Hands on your shoulders,' he
ordered savagely.

His hat was pulled well down over his face, but not
low enough to conceal a hooked nose, a thin grim mouth,
a V-shaped chin. His other hand was reaching inside the
coat.

'Don't do that,' Newman told him, his Smith & Wesson aimed point-blank at the thug.

Newman ripped off the armlet. Evidence. He thrust the
long barrel of the Smith & Wesson through the window and
struck the thug hard across the side of the face, probably
breaking a cheekbone. The thug screamed, moved back,
tripped over the kerb. He fell backwards on to the
pavement.