No Mercy (34 page)

'How do you know that?' Tweed asked sceptically.
'Probably several people use motorbikes in this neck of the
woods.'

'It had a souped-up engine which made a faint clicking noise. So did the machine that's come back.'

'It might be safer inside if we can get in.' Tweed suggested.

Paula turned round, lifted the rusty iron latch and
realized the door had been slightly open as she pushed the heavy slab of old wood. Cautiously, she stepped inside on to a wooden plank floor. No luxury here. Tweed swiftly followed, closed the door almost shut, leaving it about a
foot's width open. He didn't want the door to stick when
they had to leave.

A musty smell greeted them as they walked over a pile of
envelopes which had been pushed through the iron
letterbox. Paula switched on her torch, shielding it with her
hand. She warned Tweed not to switch on any lights yet.

Feeling her way round wooden chairs and tables, she went
from window to window, closing the curtains, which needed
a gentle tug. Then she called out to Tweed to find the light switch. To his surprise the lights came on, old workmen's
lamps slung round the walls from hooks, the kind once used
to warn motorists at night of obstacles.

They cast a red glow over the interior. When Tweed
checked them he found a continuous cable attached to each of them. At the moment he had operated the switch he hard
the sound of a portable generator purring softly.

'Lee was very clever,' he said. 'She realized she wouldn't be coming here for long periods, that the
utilities would be
cut off, so what does she do? She buys these old lamps and a portable generator, then fixes up cable linking the lamps and the generator. She must have been a technical wizard.'

'You've seen the state the place is in?'

Tweed had already observed that. The ground floor was
one large room, a small kitchen let into an alcove. Old
wooden cupboards standing against the walls had all their drawers pulled out, their contents spread on the floor. Tins
and glass jars had been opened and emptied below the
cooking area. Pushed against a side wall was a single bed, its
mattress on the floor, slashed open.

'Ransacked, just like that houseboat detective's place,'
Tweed remarked. 'Now, a woman lived here for short
periods. So where would she hide something important?'

'You ask me that after someone wrecked the place?' Paula exclaimed indignantly.

'I'm assuming the ransacker didn't find what he - or she -
was looking for. Meantime, I'm going outside to make sure
the lights don't show.'

He slipped quickly out of the front door, toured the
cottage, watching his footing to avoid brambles. Lee had been clever. The curtains were thick, so the glow from the
red lamps didn't show from the outside. Lee had been
something else again. He wished he could have met her.

He arrived back at the front entrance, stumbled over the
wooden ledge and sprawled into the room as the first bullet swept past him, shattering a mullion pane at the back of the
cottage.

Tweed hugged the floor as more bullets came through the
door opening above him. He already had the Walther in his
hand, had now seen die muzzle flash. He began firing at
where the assassin must be lying behind a tall fir. Already
Paula was flat on her stomach beside him, after crawling along
the floor. She also saw the muzzle flash, waited until Tweed had emptied his magazine, then she aimed and fired, first to
the right, then the left, then back again to the right and the left
of the tree. She had worked out that the gunman would move
to one side or the other of the fir to continue his fusillade.

She was sliding in another magazine when she realized no
more shots had been fired at the cottage. She waited. So did
Tweed, thinking as she had done. Dead silence. No more
shots.

They remained perfectly still alongside each other. A few
minutes later they heard the sound of the motorcycle
starting up, the souped-up whine of speed. It was travelling
away from them, heading back down the lane for the road to
Beaconsfield, or wherever.

'That was a close one.' Paula said as they stood up. 'I'm
continuing my search.'

'I wish you luck.'

After a few minutes she arrived in front of a small fridge
standing next to the kitchen, contents littering the floor. She
opened the fridge, bent down, peered inside its emptiness.
A truly foul odour of rotting food assailed her. She ignored
it, then reached in with her bare hands and clawed at the back. The fridge colour was cream, but the rear struck her
as lighter in colour.

Her persistent fingers removed a slim panel glued to the
rear wall. Behind it was a cream-coloured envelope. She took it out, stood up, called out to Tweed.

'Could this be what you're looking for?'

Putting on latex gloves, he opened the flap and took out
a sheet covered with computer figures. He looked at Paula
and grinned.

'This is the key document which confirms the pattern for murder I've slowly built up in my mind. It confirms four
hundred million pounds have been sent by electronic transmission from Bone in
Angora to someone in Britain. The reference number's the same as the one on the sheets
Keith Kent decyphered for me. This must be the printout of
the transaction, sent by post or courier to whomever
received the four hundred million.'

'Why?'

'To reassure whoever mastered the deal with Angora.'

'But whoever received this vast sum must have known
they'd now got their hands on it,' Paula objected.

'The sender in Bone must have been anxious to be certain
that was the case, so they followed it up with confirmation.
This is what Lee, searching the executive offices down at
Gantia, must have found. A clever lady. Frightened that the
killer would try to get it back, she hid it here in this cottage -
ready to hand to Drago when he came back from abroad.'

'So X, let's call the recipient of this fortune, found a way to become fabulously wealthy by supplying something of great value to Angora?'

'Yes,' Tweed said. 'But I sense it wasn't that simple. Before
any of this happened I believe X had in some way rifled the Gantia till, so to speak, to the tune of four hundred million.
Then he lost the whole lot - or she did. So to put it back in
Gantia's reserves - before Drago discovered it was missing -
X, in a desperate state - worked out this deal with Angora.'

'X had rifled the till of four hundred million, lost it, had
to find a way of getting the same sum back to put it back in
the till.'

'You've got it, Paula,' Tweed agreed.

'So you now know who the killer is?'

'No, I don't. Because I don't know who the reference
number belongs to.'

There was a creak of wood under foot pressure near the
front door. Paula had her Browning gripped in both hands
as she took aim.

'Don't shoot the guard, although maybe I deserve it,' said
the voice of Harry Butler.

He stood just inside the front door, both hands above his
head, a small Uzi machine gun looped over his back. He had a downcast expression as he lowered his hands, walked up to
them.

'What are you talking about?' Paula asked. 'Saying you deserve it.'

'I followed you from Park Crescent, keeping one car
between us. Then, on the way to Beaconsfield, a car cut me
off. I stopped just in time. By the time I drove on to the
A355 I was well behind you, didn't see where you'd turned off. I was almost in Amersham when I turned back. I found
Heel Lane. Just before I reached it a motorcyclist came out like a shell from a gun, raced back towards London.' He
paused suddenly, staring past them. 'Hey, what's been going
on? Those are bullet holes in the rear windows.'

Tweed tersely related their recent experience. Butler's reaction was to rush back to the front door, close it, then to grab a tall, heavy, overturned chair and jam it against the
door. He came back.

'You know something? That motorcyclist thug must have followed me after he'd seen you leave Park Crescent. And I
never spotted him in the dense traffic. Not doing very well,
ami?'

'Stop it!' Paula hugged Harry. 'Remember you saved our lives on the M3 when you found that bomb, I nearly missed
Heel Lane on the way out.'

'Strikes me,' Harry mused, 'Newman, Marler and Pete are
wasting their time. Trawling Soho, the East
End and wherever
Pete is traipsing around looking for what's-his-name.'

'Charmian,' said Paula.

'First,' Harry explained, 'I heard a motorcyclist down on
the M3 when this Frenchie placed a bomb in your car.
Second, it was a motorcyclist who tried to gun you down
here. Right? I thought so. This hasn't been thought out. The
assassin has been watching the office, probably hides his machine in the greenery across the main road beyond Park
Crescent.'

'Sounds plausible,' Tweed agreed. 'Now Paula's found what I need, we'll get back there.'

'The others will never find this Frenchie,' Harry said as
they left.

Marler was a walking machine. It was well after midnight
and he was still prowling Soho. He'd accosted over a dozen
of his lady informants, but had got nowhere. Charmian
was either nowhere near Soho or had found a secret
hideaway.

He walked into yet another sleazy 'club'. Hard to see
inside through the clouds of smoke. Professional girls sat at
cheap Formica-covered tables, pretending to sip at a drink of coloured water, arguing the price with a man.

A burly individual in shirtsleeves and braces grasped him
by the arm. His expression was unpleasant, threatening.

'Cost you fifty nicker to come 'ere, mate.'

'I don't think so,' Marler said quietly, shoving his folder
under the man's pockmarked nose. 'Any trouble from you
and the hygiene inspectors will be coming.'

He walked on into the haze, spotted a girl with blonde
hair who looked half intelligent. He sat down opposite her.
She was checking him out, his clothes, his expression, before
she spoke.

'You're not the fuzz. I can tell. You could be Special Branch is my guess. And you're not 'ere for me.'

'You could be right. I'm looking for a man I can't
describe. He's not been over here long and keeps to himself. He'll speak English, probably with a French accent. He does
have a motorbike, probably a good one. Ring any bells?'

'Info costs money. I like you. Don't get me wrong. Info
still costs money.'