Blood Storm (44 page)

'Quite a long time ago,' Monica explained, 'she left to
join you and the team. But there was something odd about
what she did . . .'

'For Heaven's sake, what was odd?'

'I watched her drive off from the window. I'd expected
her to turn left towards Baker Street but instead she turned
right to the east. I couldn't understand why she'd—'

'Thank you. I must go now.'

Inside the cab Tweed sat stunned, fearful. But only for a
few seconds. From memory he pressed numbers as fast as
he could, giving each member of his team the desperately
urgent order.

'Emergency! Forget the present assignment. Head as fast
as you can, full speed. Emergency! Head for Govern Garden.'

41

Inside the closet at Coral's flat Paula was feeling the strain
of her vigil. Coral's visitor had still not made an appearance.
Paula had remained standing up and still for ages.

She dared not check her watch in case any movement caught one of the coats and dragged it along the rail. She
dared not sit down for the same reason, so she remained
standing like a statue. Her legs were aching from staying in
the same position for so long. At least she wore sensible
shoes with rubber soles, so occasionally and with great care
she eased her feet inside them.

In the bedroom Coral had not helped when she had put
on a CD of Louis Armstrong's 'What A Wonderful World'
on repeat. By now Paula was sick of the melody, sick of
Louis Armstrong, whom at one time she had liked. There
was the occasional clink of a glass and Paula assumed Coral
was drinking more of her champagne. The sound made
Paula feel thirstier and thirstier. It was getting intolerably warm inside the closet.

The one plus for Paula was she able to sip water from the
bottle she had brought with her. By choosing the times
when the CD was playing she hadn't the worry that her
swallowing the water would be heard.

Another problem was she felt it vital to hold the butt of
her Browning in her right hand. Her hand kept getting
clammy and this problem had to be dealt with. Trying to
aim and fire a handgun with a slippery palm was not a good
idea. So, at increasing intervals, she tucked the gun inside
her windcheater pocket and with her left hand used a handkerchief to dry the palm. Every time she took this essential precaution she was worried the automatic would slip out of the pocket and crash on the wooden floor.

The endless waiting was pure hell. Paula wished she had
thought to balance her aching back against the rear wall.
She dared not move now. Those bloody coats. Knowing the time would have helped psychologically, knowing how long
she had been inside her self-imposed cell. She had lost all
track of time. She could have been in the closet for two
hours, an hour, even for only half an hour. She just had no
idea.

To counter the heat, to keep her mind alert, she dug her
nails into the palm of her left hand. She was beginning to
hate the lights which had come on, stayed on, when she had
first entered the closet. Would it have been more comfort
able to stand in the dark? She couldn't make up her mind.
She knew now how punishing it must be in prison when inmates were thrown into solitary with lights on to keep
them awake.

She had just once more wiped the palm of her right hand dry, then carefully grasped the Browning, when she heard a muffled voice in the hall.

She couldn't hear what it said, whether it was a man's or
a woman's. But she heard clearly Coral's response when she
stopped the CD.

'Welcome. I know it's been raining. Take off your wet
stuff. Hang it on the hooks in the wall down there. No
hurry. You'll find a towel on one hook so you can dry
yourself.'

She could hear Coral moving about. The click-clack of
spiked heels on the floor. She might have nothing else on
but she was wearing shoes. Very sexy, Paula thought
savagely.

Very slowly and cautiously she moved closer to the shut
door of the closet. She was convinced there might not be
much time to save Coral if the murderer had arrived. She
might have very little time to react. On the other hand she
must not appear too quickly. If she did so whoever would be coming up the stairs might, unseen, have time to dart
down into the hall, through the open door, vanish in the
streets. She remembered that both Viola's and Marina's
front doors had been found left open.

There was the sound of heavy feet padding up the stairs.
Saafeld had said something about the murderer wearing
canvas shoes, large size, probably padded inside with cloth
to give the impression of a killer with large feet, in case the
feet stepped in blood, left marks . . .

'Like to start with a drink?'

Paula had heard Coral filling glasses with champagne.
She would be waiting with a glass in each hand . . .

'Oh, my God! No! No! No!'

Coral shrieking as the padding steps reached the
bedroom.

Shrieking with pure terror.

Paula pushed at the closet door. Oh, God, it was sticking.
The click-clack of Coral's shoes rushing to the far side of
the low bed. Paula used her shoulder, the full power of her body against the door. It flew outwards. She nearly lost her
balance, recovered. She heard the thud of Coral being
pushed over backwards, sprawling, the back of her head
striking the wooden floor.

Paula nearly went into shock when she saw the white
apparition. A long surgeon's gown, surgeon's cap over the
whole head, surgeon's mask from the bridge of the nose
downwards, enormous goggles, dead eyes staring through them at her, in the right hand a large meat cleaver. Lord, it had been quick. Over Coral's mouth a scarf tied as a gag. Coral's eyes open.

The white apparition saw Paula, darted quickly round
the bed towards her, meat cleaver raised high to strike, to
slice down the middle of her skull. She held her ground,
Browning held steady, both hands gripping it. She fired
once, twice. It was still coming. Maybe had body armour.
She elevated the angle of the muzzle, fired three times at the
head. It stopped, stood still for seconds, fell towards her,
cleaver still in its hand as the body crashed to the floor.

The cleaver blade thudded an inch into the floor. People
rushed into the room. Tweed first, then Buchanan and the
team, headed by Newman.

Paula was still standing, the muzzle of her Browning now
shuddering. Gently, Tweed removed the weapon from her
and dropped it into an evidence bag.

Stooping down, he used a latex-gloved hand to wrench
off the mask and the goggles in one careful movement. The
head and face of Nelson Macomber stared up, lifeless, its complexion red as the setting sun after a summer's day.

Paula ran to the far side of the bed where Coral was
stirring. She grabbed a dressing-gown off a
chair, helped
Coral to her feet, helped her to don the dressing-gown,
removed the gag. Despite protests she guided her out of
the bedroom, into the living room and closed the door.
She handed Coral some underwear, then outer clothes. She
stopped Coral reaching for a full glass of champagne.

'Plenty of water first. Then coffee . . .'

Epilogue

Four weeks later

Tweed was in his office with Paula and Bob Newman. A general election had taken place. There was an air of relief
at Park Crescent. The government had fallen, the
opposition had taken over power.

'What was the main reason for their defeat?' Paula
wondered.

'This.'

Tweed held up a month-old copy of the Daily Nation.
The headline above the first of many stories by Drew
Franklin was enormous.

NEWLY APPOINTED CABINE'I MINISTER MASS MURDERER

Below it the text described vividly the scene in Coral
Flenton's flat when Paula had shot Nelson Macomber dead
as he was about to carve Coral up. This attempt was linked
with the horrific killings of Viola and Marina Vander-Browne. A police report from Commander Buchanan left little doubt Nelson Macomber was the murderer of both
women.

'And this,' said Tweed, holding up another copy of the paper printed two days later.

NELSON MACOMBER'S 'CABAL' PLANNED
PRISON STATE, GB

The text described in detail the prisons built on Black
Island with photos of the torture chamber. The smuggling in of the Tatra mountains Slovaks was also described, illustrated with a photograph of their brutal chief, Radek.

A few days later the same paper, with Drew Franklin's
by-line, printed the devastating report Tweed's Director, Howard, had handed to the now resigned Prime Minister.
Also there was a copy of the draft bill proposing the creation
of State Security. A draft which had been destroyed.

'I do wonder,' Newman said with a cynical smile, 'how Drew obtained all this information, including photos Paula
took.'

'I really have no idea,' said Tweed as he gazed at the
ceiling.

'You know,' Newman went on, 'when you're telling a
whopping great lie you always gaze up at the ceiling.'

'I was watching a spider.' Tweed looked at Paula. 'How
is Coral now?'

After the shooting of Nelson, Paula had taken Coral back
to her flat. There she had called Professor Saafeld who,
after examining the body of Nelson Macomber, had rushed
to the flat.

After checking Coral carefully he had suggested moving
her to a private clinic where she could stay until she had
recovered.

'Bloody hell! No clinic, thank you,' Coral had burst out.

'She could stay here with me,' Paula suggested firmly. 'I
can watch over her.'

'Might be a much better idea,' Saafeld had agreed. 'She
is only in a mild state of shock. The young can recover
quickly from almost anything. I leave her in your safe

hands, Paula.'

*

As if on cue, as Paula recalled this scene, Coral walked into the office with a springy step. She wore a new close-fitting
white jumper and a white skirt. The outfit emphasized her
blaze of red hair. She was smiling nervously as she looked at
Tweed.

'Is it all right if I go on a short holiday with Pete Nield?
He's such a nice man and wants to take me to a fabulous hotel by the sea in Dorset.'

'He's practically been living at my flat,' Paula said drily.