Colin Forbes - Cell

'Before I came here,' Paula went on as Martin dragged a chair next to hers, 'I called on Margesson. Wouldn't let me in – raved on about not having a woman in after dark, slammed the door in my face.'

'He's potty,' Billy said and laughed. 'You wouldn't think he was once a housemaster at Eton. Heaven help his pupils. He wasn't a religious maniac when he arrived here. All this ranting on about Allah

…'

'About God,' Martin corrected.

'All right, about the Messiah. He's just repeating what someone has brainwashed him with. Thinks it makes him seem important. A real gasbag.'

'Billy,' Martin interjected again, 'I don't think Miss Grey wants to hear about the parochial goings-on in Carpford.'

'I noticed you used the present tense when referring to Mrs Warner. You said Linda Warner is a lady. So you feel she is still alive?'

'Jolly well hope so. Not so many like her about these days. Incidentally, Martin, that darned motor-cyclist must still be about. Heard his machine but haven't heard it shove off.' He looked at Paula. 'They park their machines between our bungalows. Never been able to get hold of one of them to tell him to stop it.'

'They?' Paula queried.

'Yes. Recently instead of one of them we get two during the evening, coming up separately. Don't know where they go to.'

'Probably just delivering pizzas,' Martin suggested.

'What, in a large white slim envelope?' Billy protested. 'I don't think you'd get a pizza as thin as that. I know you wouldn't.'

'Billy isn't much of a detective,' Martin sneered unpleasantly.

'I think,' Paula said emphatically, 'he'd make rather a good one.'

She had her left hand perched on the arm of her chair. Martin had placed his hand over hers. She slipped her hand free, careful not to look at him. He seemed to treat it as a challenge.

'Not much fun here,' he started, smiling invitingly. 'Come and have a drink at my place. It's just next door.'

'I wouldn't if I were you,' Billy warned.

'I'd better go now,' Paula remarked after openly checking her watch.

Martin was on his feet in a flash. He disappeared in the direction where he had taken her windcheater. Paula leaned forward, lowered her voice.

'Did you know Mrs Gobble, who has also disappeared? Her telescope, a big job, has gone. I found out the police didn't take it after they'd searched her place.'

'A nice old lady. Very independent. I worry about her.

She was not the type to push off without saying something to me. She was lonely. The telescope was her friend…'

He stopped talking as Martin appeared with the windcheater. She tried to slip it on quickly but he made a ceremony of it, his hands clutching her arms. She pulled herself away, thanked him formally, then turned to Billy who had stood up.

'I want to thank you for a most enjoyable evening. You are the perfect host.'

'I'm not a bad cook either. What's your favourite dish?'

'Shepherd's pie.'

'Next time you come up here call me first.' He handed her a card. 'Shepherd's pie is my speciality.'

Martin accompanied her out into the long hall. They were standing by the door and he was making a performance of opening it when he spoke to her with a sneering smile.

'My boozy brother.'

'I heard that!' shouted Billy. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him standing in the hall outside the entrance to the living-room. 'What Martin won't tell you is that the only reason he can afford the rent for his bungalow and a load of expensive clothes is he was left a legacy by his uncle. I worked for my nest-egg. You'd better go now, Miss Grey. He has crawly hands.'

'Goodnight to both of you.'

Paula stepped out into the fog and the door closed behind her. Boozy brother? She'd noticed that as Martin brought in the coffee Billy took another sip of his beer and banged the glass down on the table. It was his defence mechanism against his brother. Why was it necessary?

Several yards away from both bungalows, she paused. The mist swirled round her. As she had passed the gap between them she had glanced up the opening. A large motor-cycle was leaning against a wall. A Harley-Davidson she thought. So the mysterious messenger was still here.

'I learned a lot from Billy,' she said to herself. 'So what do I do now?'

She decided to walk round the end of Carp Lake to call on Drew Franklin. Since lights were on in the house of concrete cubes it might be a unique chance to talk to him. She again had trouble finding the front door. It was set into the concrete under an overhanging cube. She pressed the square bell, heard nothing inside. She was just about to walk away when the door opened swiftly. A slim man of medium height with a good-looking but cynical face stared at her.

'Yes, Miss Grey. What is it? Oh, come on in. You look as though you might be entertaining.'

She stepped into a living-room tastefully furnished with antiques. Franklin wore a white polo-necked sweater which matched his white slacks. His neatly brushed hair was brown and intelligent eyes swept over her. His jaw was firm but not aggressive, his mouth smiling. Closing the door, he waved towards a large sofa near a desk with a word-processor.

'I'll take your windcheater. You'll need it whenever you happen to leave.'

She decided to go over on the attack. She'd heard stories about his many conquests with women, some married. Taking off the windcheater, she folded it over her left arm, leaving her right hand free.

'Thank you, but I shan't be here long. And I'm not here to entertain, whatever that implied.'

'Tough lady. I've heard that too.'

'How did you know who I was?' she asked.

'It's my job to know all the key people in our crumbling society. Do sit down.'

'I prefer to stand. I've been sitting too long.'

'Please yourself,' he replied amiably, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. 'What do you want to know?'

He was attractive, she was thinking. She'd been wise to be on her guard. Get to the point, she thought. He was a man who disliked small talk.

'Did you know the missing Mrs Warner?' 'Come straight out with it, don't you? Yes, I knew her slightly. She didn't like me, but I liked her. She has been gone for three weeks. I find that ominous. I have decided to provoke her fool of a husband. You might like to read the bit in my article for tomorrow's Daily Nation.'

He walked over to his desk, took out a red pen, ringed round one short para. She went over to read it. Above and below the para were snippets which were not complimentary about well-known people on the society circuit.

Have the police considered Linda Warner may have gone off with a friend? Just one of other more draconian possibilities. The Minister seems concerned about St Paul's Cathedral. Does he really think September 11 could be repeated here? A quite different form of attack seems more likely. Al-Qa'eda are a very cunning organization.

'Isn't the first sentence libellous?' she wondered.

'Just checked it with our lawyer. He says it's all right.'

'Warner will go potty when he reads the reference to al-Qa'eda. He's trying to keep any reference to them in the press under wraps.'

'May wake up the PM at the eleventh hour. I am a responsible journalist, Miss Grey.'

'You don't think Warner can handle the crisis then?'

'I don't think Warner is handling the situation. That para will hit the Cabinet like a bombshell. Which is my motive.'

'You'll drive back to London with this copy in time to get it into tomorrow's edition?'

'You think I'm clueless, Miss Grey?' he said sarcastically. 'I shall transmit it to the editor over the phone tonight. Never missed a deadline yet. Is Tweed beginning to get a grip on his widespread investigation? The energy of your chief.'

'He's pursuing all leads,' she said cautiously.