Vorpal Blade (11 page)

'Agreed. And thank you, Roy, for trying to help. You're
at home?'

'Yes. If I called from the Yard there's a good chance my
call would be monitored.'

'What? I'm beginning to find this incredible considering
who you are.'

'Oh, there's more.' Buchanan chuckled without any hint
of humour. 'Came home to my flat and noticed there
were small scratches on both Banham locks on the front
door. Alerted me, so I checked this phone I'm calling on.
Someone had inserted a bug, no larger than a pinhead,
glued in. Took it out before I called you. A friendly visit
from Special Branch, I'm sure. I "flashed" the rest of the
place and found it clean.'

'This is iniquitous. Shouldn't you inform the Com
missioner?'

'What would be the good? The Home Secretary, the
man he'd approach if he agreed, which I doubt, is the evil genius behind the net they've drawn round me. Probably
round you too. Sorry to bother you so late - or early.'

'Again, Roy, my grateful thanks for your help.'

'Watch your back. Sleep well. I hope . . .'

Tweed put down the phone, told Newman and Paula
about the two people who would be coming to see him. Newman exploded.

'Oh God! That's all we need. A spiritualist woman and
a profiler. You don't like them.'

'No,' said Tweed, 'I'm not happy about so-called
profilers. They tell you the murderer is between the ages of twenty-five and forty, that it's a male and a
white man who probably has a menial job. All of which gets me nowhere.'

'I once attended a lecture by Dr Abraham Scale,' Paula
commented. 'I went in a sceptical frame of mind but
found he impressed me. He's shrewd and sensible, even
if a bit odd.'

'Can't wait,' snapped Newman.

Tweed went on to tell them about Buchanan's experi
ence in his flat. Paula looked stunned. Newman detonated
again.

'They're turning Britain into a police state. But it isn't
the police who are doing it. I have the stench of Special
Branch in my nostrils.'

Marler walked in as he said this, still dressed in his smart
outfit. He never seems to sleep, Tweed thought as Marler
leaned against a wall close to Paula, lit one of his long
cigarettes.

'You could be right, Bob,' he remarked in his clipped
tone. 'I've been roaming round contacting my informants. They won't talk for any amount of money. Not that Bob's
Special Branch friends know my people, except for one. He
told the thug in the grey suit who approached him to get
stuffed. A cockney, of course. Same chap told me the news
has been spread on the grapevine that anyone who opens
his mouth will go behind bars for possession of drugs.'

'All of which,' Tweed observed, 'confirms my suspicion
that someone very high up is involved - at the very least
concerned - about the Holgate murder. Now, we have a
lot to do tomorrow.'

'And I have my evening appointment for drinks at
Marino's with Black Jack tomorrow,' Paula reminded
him.

'Not on your own?' asked Marler.

'Just little me.'

'I'll come with you,' Marler said. 'By which I mean
I'll be there discreetly, watching. Black Jack is known
to subject women to cruelty, both mental and physi
cal.'

Tweed caught her expression. Outright disapproval. She
rightly regarded herself as a senior officer, capable of taking
care of herself. She did not want a babysitter.

'Thank you, Marler, for the suggestion,' Tweed told him. 'But I think Paula would sooner go on her own. Monica, you're leaving with us.'

'I feel fresh, have a ton to get through.'

'It will be there when you come in after a good night's
sleep. That is an order.'

Paula had stood up, was peering out into the night
between two curtains she had pulled a fraction apart. She
closed the curtains, turned round.

'Thought you might like to know there's a man behind the wheel of a big grey Ford. He was gazing over here
through a pair of field glasses.'

Newman jumped up, clapped his hands. 'Feel like a bit
of exercise, so we can shift him before we all leave. You go
out the back way, I'll use the front door.'

Back inside her bedroom in her flat Paula fell into a deep
sleep. She had another
nightmare. Roman Arbogast was
advancing towards her, his face twisted into a hideous mask like the second picture Marienetta had painted.

She was backing away from him but stayed in the same
place. She felt for her .32 Browning in the special pocket inside her handbag looped over her shoulder, realized the
weapon wasn't there. He was elevating the axe in his right
hand when she woke up, screaming, her body covered in perspiration. She checked the time by her illuminated
wristwatch. 3 a.m. She got up.

'Hell and damnation, I had a shower before going to
bed. Now I need another . . .'

Tweed didn't try to sleep. Leaning against the pillows,
arms behind his head, he checked over facts. No theories.
Stick to the facts. He felt he was returning to his long
ago role of Chief of Homicide at Scotland Yard. The two
horrific beheadings - Hank Foley's in Maine and Adam
Holgate's near Bray - had been committed with the same weapon, probably an axe. The photographs and X-rays
Saafeld had sent him proved that. So logically the same killer had wielded the axe.

The Arbogasts were a strange family. Roman seemed
stable but tough. Sophie did not seem to have inherited
his stability. She was subject to mood swings. Sometimes
a sullen aggressiveness, then the buoyant vitality she had
shown at the birthday party.

Marienetta. Brilliant, with Roman's brains. Sophisticated.
Different interests - painting, sculpture, administering the
giant ACTIL. He had the impression she was taking to
Paula, that the friendship was reciprocated. Funny if a
woman solved this complex mystery.

Black Jack Diamond. Where did he fit in? A rich man's
son, often the black sheep in a family. But he'd struck
out on his own. An unbalanced man where women were
concerned - was this an important factor? Yet the two victims so far had both been men.

A random serial killer on the loose? Tweed rejected the
idea out of court. All his instincts told him there was a
link between the two murders. On the surface that seemed
implausible. A caretaker in Maine, a security expert in
London. He clung to his insistence that there was a link.

Russell Straub. The vicious look he'd given Tweed when
confronted across the table at the party. A dangerous man
to cross. Of course! Tweed sat up straighter. The Vice-
President was
frightened
of something, someone. What?
Who? Why?

Broden. He didn't know enough about him. Broden
kept his thoughts mostly to himself. What was his history
before he took on the big job at ACTIL? I must find that
out, he said to himself. More than once, years ago, he'd
found that it was the character who submerged himself
who should be investigated. Sometimes with surprising
results.

Sam Snyder. A difficult man to read. As a reporter a wily fox. But when he'd gone over to look at the Turner painting on the wall at the office he'd treated Paula with
a gentlemanly courtesy. His hawk-like visage had melted
into an expression of kindness, his voice had softened. In
a brief minute he had become a different personality. Men
and women are so complex, Tweed thought.

Now who had he missed out in his review of the charac
ters involved in the unfolding grim drama? He couldn't
think who it was as he sank into a deep undisturbed
slumber.

As he descended the steps into the street, slippery and
wet, the next day, his new neighbour, an attractive and
intelligent widow called Mrs Champion, came out of her doorway. She looked across and gave him a warm smile.

'Isn't it a pity, Mr Tweed, that we never get time to have a chat. About the world situation or something a little less
ponderous. Now I'm rushing off to my work.'

'Yes, it is a pity. Perhaps one evening . . .'

He stopped speaking as a free taxi came along and he
hailed it for her. She thanked him with another warm
smile, got inside, closed the door. He stood, watching the cab retreating swiftly. He'd been on the verge of inviting
her out to dinner, then he saw another taxi coming,
hailed it, jumped inside, asked the driver to take him to
Park Crescent. He'd suddenly remembered he had two unknown people coming to visit him, the thoughts he'd
had in bed before falling asleep. Mrs Champion became
only a forgotten encounter.

'More trouble,' Newman announced as he walked into
his office.

'Thanks a lot,' said Tweed, as Monica helped him off
with his coat. He sat at his desk, glanced at Paula seated
behind her desk. 'What is it, then?' he asked.

'We've had Professor Saafeld on the line. I took the
call. He's fuming. A car was parked just beyond his house
all night. One man behind the wheel. He stormed out in the morning to ask the driver what the hell he was
up to. When he threatened to call the police the driver reluctantly produced a folder identifying himself as an officer of Special Branch. Then he drove off.'

'They really are closing a net round all of us,' Tweed
replied with an expression of satisfaction. 'They keep
giving themselves away. Something very big is worrying
the government. Sleep well, Paula?'

She hesitated, then gave a brief version of the nightmare
which had woken her up. She said the trouble was that her
mind was too active at the moment.

'It was that ghastly painting in Marienetta's studio which
triggered that off. It really was quite horrible. Something
else I thought off while I was taking my second shower.
That episode when Sophie made her speech—'

'Half-seas over,' Newman interjected.

'No,' said Paula. 'That's the point. I had a good view
of her and she drank almost nothing. Except water.'

'Come off it,' Newman protested. 'She was drinking
glass after glass.'

'She appeared to be,' Paula insisted. 'But when no one
at her table was looking she
emptied nearly all the wine into
that huge tub beside her - the one with the tree creeper in
it. She's clever. Then she pretends to be tiddly when she makes her speech. Why?'