No Mercy

Prologue

If Tweed had not been at a loose end - a rare event - it is likely he would never have got involved in what became known as the notorious Volkanian Case - and the horrific developments that followed.

Seated behind his desk in his office on the first floor of
Park Crescent, with tall windows overlooking Regent's Park in the distance, he doodled on a pad. Leaning against a wall,
Marler, a key member of his SIS team, stared out of a
window. Close to him Paula Grey, the right hand of the
Deputy Director, sat behind her desk as she watched Tweed.
He is so bored, she thought, now he's solved that espionage
case. Someone knocked urgently on the door.

'Come in,' Tweed called out, turning over the pad. He was a man of uncertain age, sturdily built, wearing horn-rimmed
glasses. His eyes were penetrating, his reflexes swift.

His old friend, Chief Superintendent Roy Buchanan of
Scotland Yard, appeared quickly, smiled at Paula, stood in
front of Tweed's desk. A tall lanky man exuding energy, the
Yard chief was in his forties with dark hair, a trim
moustache, wearing a smart blue business suit.

'Welcome. Sit down, Roy,' Tweed invited.

'No time. Bumped into your colleague Bob Newman when I was running for my car in Victoria Street. He told me you were taking a rest. You owe me one.'

'What's this leading up to?'

'I've got a weird problem. Like you to take it over. You
may have heard I've temporarily been put in charge of the
Anti-Terrorist Squad. Up to my neck. Now I've—'

'What is the problem?' Tweed interjected.

'Found this strange chap sitting on a step in Whitehall a
while ago. All he said was, "I've witnessed murder." Nothing else. He's suffering from amnesia. Memory completely gone.
Never said one more word. Took him back to the Yard for
interrogation. No good. Never repeated that worrying
statement. I took him to Bella Ashton, the top psychiatrist, left him with her for testing—'

'Roy,' Tweed interjected again, 'where is all this leading to?'

'I want you to take over this fellow Michael, see what you
make of him.'

'Have you forgotten,' Tweed protested, 'that I'm Deputy Director of the SIS?'

'Last year, on that grim case involving the Vice-President
of the States, you acted as a detective. Proved you hadn't lost
your flair, hadn't forgotten your days at the old Scotland
Yard before you took up this job.'

'And,' Paula called out, 'you were their star turn, solving
three major murder mysteries while there.'

'Paula,' Tweed snapped, 'you have so many talents. One
of them is
not
keeping quiet at the right moment.'

'Leave Michael in your hands, then,' Buchanan said. He
took an envelope and a printed card from his pocket,
dropped both on Tweed's desk. 'That's all you need.'

'How do you know his name is Michael if he never said
another word?'

'I don't. We had to call him something and he looks like
a Michael to me. Oh, no means of identification on him. No
wallet, no nothing. Labels cut out of his expensive clothes.
Must go.'

'I'll be damned,' said Tweed, his clenched fist hitting his
desk as the door closed.

'Dumped that one on you skilfully,' said Monica, seated

by the door behind her computer. She was in her fifties and
had been with Tweed for ever. She wore her brown hair tied
back in a bun.

Tweed had opened the unsealed envelope Buchanan had dropped on his desk. Inside was a brief letter introducing him to Mrs Arabella Ashton. Her card giving the Harley
Street address was gold-rimmed. Tweed sighed and the door
opened briefly. Buchanan reappeared.

'Should have told you. Michael's face is unusual. Just so
you're prepared . . .'

'Thanks a lot,' said Tweed, but Buchanan had gone again.
He showed the letter and card to Paula, who had walked
briskly to his desk. She read out the Harley Street address.

'I suppose we'd better phone this Arabella Ashton before
we go round and see her,' she said.

'No, we'll just turn up,' Tweed replied. 'A perfect day for
a trip out.'

He was looking out of the window. Mid-February was
living up to its reputation. A heavy grey sky shrouded
London and it was bitterly cold. Paula was dressed for the
weather, clad in ankle boots, a warm fur-lined overcoat and
jeans. As Tweed struggled into a heavy topcoat, Paula gave
Monica details of their destination, found she'd already
written them down when she'd spoken aloud.

Paula, Tweed's long-time assistant, was in her thirties,
slim and five foot six tall. Attractive, she had jet-black hair
falling to her shoulders, alert blue eyes, well-shaped features
with a determined chin. Round the organization her vitality
was a legend.

She ran over to a cupboard, hauled out two small cases
containing night clothes, a change of underwear and
toiletries for herself and her chief. Tweed frowned.

'We don't need those.'

'Who knows where we'll end up?'

1

Tweed parked the car near the far end of Harley Street.
Their destination was one of many old terrace houses which
cost a fortune these days. Built of stone, it was four storeys high with a short flight of steps up to the heavy front door. Harley Street was deserted as Tweed and Paula left the car.
Before driving off from Park Crescent, Paula had dumped
their suitcases in the boot.

'Waste of time,' Tweed had commented.

'Maybe . . .'

At the top of the steps Tweed paused and looked at the
polished chrome plate attached to the wall by the front door.
He grunted.

arabella ashton,
then an incredible string of letters
denoting her qualifications. Paula peered at the plate.

'Buchanan once said she was at the top of her field.'

Tweed pressed the highly polished bell-push. A young woman clad in a maid's outfit opened the door. 'Can I help
you?'

'Mrs Ashton is expecting us,' Tweed bluffed.

He showed her his SIS folder, which obviously meant
nothing to the maid but impressed her. She
invited them in
and they followed her down a long narrow hall fitted with a
white wall-to-wall carpet. A narrow antique table was perched
against one wall, supporting a large Swedish glass vase full of
artificial roses, which looked real. Paula smelled money.

They were ushered into a small kitchen full of the latest
equipment. A tall blonde-haired woman, early forties, was
chopping carrots with great speed. The knife she held had a
razor-sharp blade on one side, a serrated edge on the other
side.

'These visitors say you are expecting them,' the maid
explained in a shaky voice.

'I damned well am not. Who the hell are you?'
Arabella Ashton finished chopping another carrot at the same dizzying speed, turned to face them, the large knife held by her side. She was clad in an apron patterned with
roses. Her blonde hair was trimmed short and her dark
penetrating eyes, which gazed at Tweed and ignored
Paula, were her most striking feature. Her cheekbones were prominent, her nose Roman and below it the lips
were sensuous. Not at all what Tweed had expected. He handed her the letter from Buchanan, showed her his SIS
folder.

'I see. Like Roy, another of these government officials.'
'He is the Deputy Director,' Paula told her. 'I can read, dear.'

'This is Paula Grey,' Tweed snapped, 'my most trusted
assistant.'

'So why are you here?' Mrs Ashton snapped back. 'I want to ask you a few questions about Michael.'
'Then we'd better repair to my consulting room.'
She turned sideways to take off the apron. Underneath
she was wearing a dress revealing her slim figure. As if for
Tweed's benefit, thought Paula. We have a case and a half
here. Mrs Ashton led the way into the hall, walking
very
upright towards the back of the house. Opening a door, she
ushered them inside.

Paula took in the consulting room with swift glances. At
the rear were windows heavily masked with net curtains,
presumably so patients were not distracted by the view.
Their hostess pointed towards a long leather couch with a
sloping end. The patients' couch?

'Perch yourselves there. Fancy a drink? Anything you like.'

Her voice was now soft and soothing, attractive. Tweed refused her offer and Paula also declined as they sat down.

'I need a Scotch.' she said. 'Up at five a.m.' Opening a
cupboard fixed to the wall, the shelves stacked with every
kind of drink, she poured herself a stiff tot, drank it down in two quick gulps. 'That's better.' She sat down in an armchair
facing them, and crossed her legs.

The white close-fitting dress ended at her knees and she
had very shapely legs. She leaned forward, staring at Tweed
with an engaging smile.

'My friends call me Bella. Can't stand Arabella. Never
stopped shouting at my mother when she used that version.
Tamed her in the end. She's dead now, so is my father. Now,
Tweed, what do you want to know?'

'I'd first like your impression of Michael. Then I would
much appreciate seeing him.'

'I'll give you my impression, but you can't see him. He's
not here any more. Explain that later.' She leaned back in her
chair, glanced at Paula, then fixed her gaze on Tweed. 'Michael is suffering from complete, total amnesia. Can't
recall anything. Who he really is, where he comes from. How
he came to be sitting on that doorstep in Whitehall when
Roy spotted him. Mind a blank. Did Roy tell you about the
bump on the right-hand side of his head?'

'No, he didn't.'

'His dark hair hides it. The police doctor at the Yard said
that it could be the result of someone hitting him or he may
just have fallen down on something hard. I've little doubt that caused the amnesia.'

'What about physical movements? Getting himself dressed
when he gets up? Eating a meal? Everyday things like that?'

'He can do all those. You probably find that strange but a
habit is often not damaged by amnesia. I've known other
cases like that.'

'Like Michael?'

Her thick eyebrows compressed. Paula had the feeling she
was anxious to give a precise answer.