No Mercy (12 page)

The elevator glided smoothly to the first floor. Lucinda
stepped out briskly, escorted Tweed to her office. The room
overlooking the front was tastefully furnished but still had
the atmosphere of a working office. On the walls were colour
prints of paintings by Gauguin, Matisse and other French
artists. She gestured to a large couch, suggested coffee,
which he refused.

'I'm a caffeine addict,' she remarked as she filled a cup
from a pot, adding milk. The chinaware was Wedgwood. She settled down beside him, put the cup and saucer on a table, turned to him and smiled warmly.

'Fire away. I presume this is an interrogation.'

'I prefer the word "conversation". First, could you tell me
the present location of Drago Volkanian? I had hoped to meet him at Abbey Grange.'

'New Orleans. At least he was. When he gets back he's
going to want to see you. He pounces on any new
development - if that isn't too callous considering someone's
skeleton was found on the moor. Oh, I went up to see Michael
in his room. A disturbing experience. He didn't recognize me.
Also never said a word. His eyes look strange, so does his face.
How long will this amnesia last?'

She spoke at speed, her mind embracing several topics.
Her articulation was perfect and Tweed again liked her soft
voice. She had turned on the couch so she faced him, her
knee almost touching his thigh.

'As regards the amnesia, two psychiatrists have had him
under their care. The first — and best - one is a Bella Ashton.'
He reached into his top pocket, took out Ashton's card, gave
it to her. 'You can mention my name. It might help.'

Lucinda reached for a notepad and Mont Blanc pen on
the table. She wrote down the details swiftly in an elegant
script, gave him back the card and thanked him.

'As regards how long his condition will last, Ashton will
confirm it's impossible to say. Incidentally, under his hair on
the right side of his head there's an old wound. It's been
suggested he was either struck a heavy blow or even fell
down in London. Which might just be the cause of his
complete loss of memory.'

'A doctor.' she said briskly. 'Even a specialist. Should we
contact one?'

'Up to you. I suspect it will be a waste of time. He was
checked by a doctor in London. Time - duration unknown -will be the healer.'

'My uncle, Drago, will want to hear all this from you.'

'You could tell him what I've explained.'

'No way.' She tucked back a blonde curl from her face.
'Drago will want it straight from the horse's mouth.' She grinned. 'If you'll excuse the phrase. Drago won't accept second-hand data. Even from me.' She removed her scarf,
revealing a string of coloured beads which she took off,
dropped them on the table. 'My worry beads.'

'So you do worry? Even though you never show signs of
it?'

'Only occasionally. When under very heavy pressure. You
will find Drago,' she went on, 'a very formidable personality.'
She laid a hand on his and squeezed it. 'But you'll cope.'

'Well, this is the food depot. Where is the armaments
factory located?'

'Ah!' She smiled again. 'That's a secret I can't tell you. If
I did I'd be sacked overnight by Drago. Really.'

'I gather it's Larry who runs this outfit.'

'Managing director. Since two years ago. It was a toss-up
between him and Michael. But Michael said he didn't want the job. He likes being sales director, travelling abroad.'

'How long is he away on these sales trips?'

'Anything up to three months, even longer. Drago
complains at times because Michael won't send any reports back. He waits until he has at least two big deals sewn up
tightly. Often more. He insists that's the only way he can work.'

'So,' Tweed said slowly, 'when you didn't hear from him for just about three months you assumed he was abroad. Is
that right?'

'Absolutely.' Her hand pressed his again. 'You know I'm
getting the impression this is a subtle interrogation. You're
very good at it, Mr Tweed. I hope we can meet for dinner in
town.'

'What about Santorini's tomorrow night?' Tweed
suggested. 'Say eight p.m.? Do you know the place?'

'It is a wonderful restaurant projecting out over the
Thames. You are going to town on me. I'll be there. Eight
p.m. will give me time to get myself togged up to be a credit
to you.' Her tone was ironic.

'I'll look forward to your company in relaxed
surroundings.' He paused. 'Just before I go, have you had
any unusual visitors here during the past three or four
months? A visitor you've never seen before or since?'

'Let me think, we get so many people calling. Oh, I meant
to ask you earlier. A grisly subject. How is your
investigation going into that skeleton you found on the
moor? Who on earth was it?'

'Too early to say. May be a long time before I break it. If I do.'

'You will,' said Lucinda confidently. Tweed had stood up
and she also did so. 'I have remembered an odd case of a
one-time visitor. She called on the phone, turned up late one
afternoon. She had a letter from Drago, signed by him
personally. It gave her permission to examine the company accounts. Give her every cooperation, the letter demanded.
"Every" was underlined heavily. So I did. Left her alone and
thought I'd be here all night, but she was amazingly quick.
She left at seven just after the plant closed.' Lucinda grabbed
her notebook, went to her desk and whisked through a Rolodex. 'Here she is.' She scribbled data down. 'Funny
thing was I had a phone call from her sister, Anne. I
remember the name because it was the same as my late
mother's. Anne wanted to know if her sister had been here,
when she left. She'd expected her back and was getting
worried. Gave me her address and phone number. I'm
writing that down too.'

She gave him a folded sheet of paper and tucked her arm under his as she led him to the door and out to the elevator.
She kissed him on the cheek and excused herself. Waiting for
the elevator, Tweed glanced at the names on the sheet and
stiffened.

The visitor was a
Christine
Barton. Her sister was Anne
Barton. Both addresses in London.

The third name on the list found inside Michael's pocket?

He waited until he was settled behind the wheel of the car with Paula by his side before he told her. Paula studied the
sheet of paper Lucinda had given to Tweed. He began
driving through the gates that Ken, the guard, had opened
for him, and then back along the motorway towards
London.

'The trouble is,' Paula commented, 'Barton is a
common name.'

'The intriguing fact is, according to her sister, Anne, the
lady was never seen again.'

'Christine lives at Yelland Street. That's off the Fulham
Road. Anne is in Champton Place. I'm sure that's near
Victoria Station.'

'So we'll try Yelland Street first, then move on to
Champton Place.'

'It's a long shot.'

'When I was at the Yard years ago it was the long shots
that turned up trumps.'

12

They turned into Yelland Street off Fulham Road. It was an area of prosperous terrace houses, all well painted, and was
probably built before the First World War. Unlike the traffic-
choked streets they had passed through to get there, it was
quiet. A Rolls-Royce was parked outside one house. No one
seemed to be about until they reached No. 158, Christine
Barton's dwelling. Just beyond the flight of steps leading up
to the front door a blue Ford was parked, a man smoking
behind the wheel.

Tweed pulled in to the kerb, got out with Paula. He had just mounted the steps when the man in the parked car got
out and ran up to them as Paula followed Tweed. In his
forties, he wore a dark suit, a rather grubby white shirt and
a blazing yellow tie.

'Identification,' he shouted up.

Paula took an instant dislike to him. He had a bony face,
a broken nose and aggressive lips, which matched the tone
he'd used to shout up. Tweed descended swiftly to the
pavement with Paula at his heels.

'Who the hell are you?' Tweed barked.

Paula was intrigued. Tweed's personality since his training
trip down to the mansion in Surrey had become more
ferocious. He glared at the intruder.

'You show some identification now without more
jabbering.' the man demanded in a coarse voice.

'No, you show me,' Tweed barked again.

Broken Nose produced a folder, shoved it in Tweed's face.
Tweed grabbed it to check it more closely. The photo was
poor but close enough to be Harper.

'And who,' sneered the man, 'is the bit with you? Charge a lot for her services, does she?'

Tweed's elbow jerked forward, hit Broken Nose in the
ribs. Then he scraped his shoe down the shin bone. Broken
Nose screamed, staggered back, almost fell over. Tweed
went after him, shoved the identity folder inside his jacket.
He pointed to the parked Ford.

'Get into that and drive away. People high up are going to hear about how Gallagher's staff
behave. Including how you
accused a senior member of my staff of being a prostitute.'

'I'm reporting . . .' Harper began as he stumbled, bent
over, back to the vehicle.

They waited until he managed to open the driver's door
and ease himself inside. He sat very still. Tweed waved his
hand, indicating he should leave immediately. The engine was started and the Ford moved slowly past them towards Fulham Road. Paula sighed.

'What trash Special Branch employs these days. I imagine
that's the type Gallagher feels comfortable with.'

'Forget it.'

They mounted the steps again. A chromium plate on the
wall carried the words
christine barton, fca.
Paula stared at it.

'Hmm. Fellow of Chartered Accountants,' mused
Tweed. 'She was very well qualified for her work. So well
paid. Hence living in this street.'

'You just used the past tense,' Paula said quietly. '"Was".'

'A slip. I hope. The plate's been polished quite recently.
Let's see what happens.'

He pressed the bell. No reaction. When he pressed it
again Paula bent down to peer through the letterbox. Her
expression was serious as she stood up.