Colin Forbes - Cell

She crawled down the tunnel as fast as she could. Sooner than she'd expected she reached the opening. Icy cold. A dense fog. As she crawled into the open air a shaft of sunlight penetrated the fog. She saw the trolley bumping its way down a shallower slope. Below it was a gleaming lime pit. She was just in time to see the trolley plunge into the large pit, its rear wheels upended, sinking out of sight.

Move! Where was she? Instinct told her to turn left. She stumbled over a branch. Picking it up, she used it to test the ground in front of her, walking parallel to where she thought the lime pit was located. The ground was rough but her boots helped her to keep her balance.

She could see nothing beyond the fog. Then a broad beam of sunlight penetrated the fog below her, illuminating a huge abandoned quarry. She heard a rattle at the top of the quarry. Someone up there? She paused, watched as a large boulder slowly toppled from the summit, falling down to join a heap of large rocks at the quarry's base. No sign of anyone. The quarry was unstable.

She plodded on, always using the branch to test the ground ahead. After a while she decided to move up the slope very cautiously. The fog was thinning, was soon a trailing mist. She saw an ancient one-storey building ahead. It seemed familiar. She climbed more quickly, paused, gasped with relief. It was the rear of Mrs Gobble's shed. She was still in Carpford.

In her haste to reach the front she nearly stumbled, recovered her balance. Taking out the padlock, she threw open both doors, praying. Parked inside was her car. She nearly wept.

The car started first time. She drove out and turned left, the quickest way to leave Carpford. The mist had cleared from the plateau. If anyone tried to stop her she would drive straight over them. Between Mrs Gobble's shop and Drew Franklin's concrete cubes she saw two figures walking along the road towards her. Tweed, shoulders sagging, behind him Beaurain, erect. She jammed on the brakes, jumped out.

Tweed was already rushing towards her, relief written all over his face. They met and he threw his arms round her. They stood there, hugging each other, her face buried against his chest. She was crying now as he stroked her hair.

'Tweed,' Beaurain told her, 'has almost been out of his mind with anxiety.'

She eased herself out of Tweed's grip and flung her arms round the Belgian. 'God! Am I glad to see you two.' Tweed produced a handkerchief. She released Beaurain and mopped her eyes, her face. She was shaking with relief.

'How are you?' Tweed asked gently. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm bloody hungry. Starving!'

'That calls for a full breakfast at the Peacock,' Beaurain decided. 'I'll drive. You sit in the back with Tweed.'

She had her arm round Tweed as Beaurain drove them in her car out of Carpford. At one point Newman, standing by the road, grinning, waved, one thumb up. She waved back and managed to smile. A few feet away Marler, smiling, gave her a little salute as they passed.

Beyond Marler she saw Harry and Pete, who also waved and grinned. She was startled but waved back. Then they were out of Carpford, descending the hill and past the obtruding rock where Mrs Warner had disappeared.

'How many of you were up here?' she asked.

'Everyone.' Tweed was calmer now. 'When I got back from dinner with Eva Brand and read your note I sent up a rocket. I called Buchanan and he's up there, calling on people. I was going to rip the place apart.'

'I'd better call Buchanan,' Beaurain suggested, 'and give him the good news…'

Driving with one hand, he hauled his mobile out of his pocket, called the Scotland Yard man, gave him the news. He finished the call and spoke over his shoulder.

'Buchanan is so relieved. Sends you his love, Paula. He said he'd need to question you, but I told him that could wait for later.'

'He's such a nice man,' she said. 'And I've so much to tell you. .. I've found out things… Don't have the faintest idea where I was held after they grabbed me… I'd just left Drew Franklin's place

…'

'Later,' said Tweed. 'After you've had breakfast. Had any sleep?'

'Only when I was drugged.' She pulled up the sleeve of her windcheater to show the patch. Beaurain was watching in his rear-view mirror.

'After breakfast,' he said crisply, 'we'll take you to a top-flight consultant, a friend of mine who only recently retired. That needs checking.'

'I feel OK. Just so hungry.'

'Even so,' Beaurain insisted, 'when you've eaten we're taking you to see Mr Manderson. He lives near the Peacock. He can find out what they pumped into you. Don't argue.'

'I won't. I think a minute ago I nearly got hysterical. Sorry.'

'Concentrate on what you'd like to eat,' Tweed ordered.

'Forget about Mr Manderson,' she said firmly. 'I'm OK. When we get back to Park Crescent, instead of burbling on I'm going to type a report about everything.'

'That,' Tweed agreed, 'is a good idea. Then I can quietly read whoever you interviewed. But type your report only after you've had a good sleep.'

'Don't want sleep. While they are fresh in my mind I need to type the record. Sleep can come later. I had a long conversation with Peregrin Palfry, an encounter with that "priest", Margesson, then a pleasant talk with Billy Hogarth, despite the presence of his nasty brother, Martin. My last conversation was with Drew Franklin. It was soon after leaving his house that someone clubbed me on the head. I'll elaborate later.'

'So,' Beaurain said thoughtfully, 'the last person you saw before the attack was Drew Franklin. Interesting.'

'No more,' Tweed ordered. 'Breakfast is the first item on the menu.'

'Ali speaking,' the occupant of a quiet public phone-box answered as the phone had rung. He made a point of never using the same call-box twice. He carried a list of the numbers and addresses of the phone-boxes, a list the caller also held.

'Abdullah here. We are running out of time on this business operation. Report!' the distorted voice demanded.

'The consignments are ready to be transferred to the transporters.'

The bombs are ready to be moved to their final destination.

'Are the teams ready to be linked up with the consignments?'

'They are in place. They are ready to be moved to handle the consignments when I give the order.'

'You have decided the best time for the consignments to be delivered?' Abdullah rasped.

'Five thirty in the evening is a perfect time. The conditions we require will be at a maximum.'

The British casualties will run into thousands.

'And zero hour is when?'

'Three days from now I expect. Height is a factor.'

Ali listened. Again the connection had been abruptly broken. He swore, left the phone-box. His car was parked just outside the sleepy village. He drove back to the farm.

Behind her desk at Park Crescent Paula was operating her word-processor at top speed, preparing her reports for Tweed. She was surprised at how even small details of conversation came back easily. Not knowing what he would regard as important, she included every small item. Her ample breakfast at the Peacock had powered her up again. She looked up suddenly.

'How long was I away?' she asked Tweed. 'I've no idea.'

'About twelve hours.'

'Seems like twelve days. I have ready folders with reports on my interviews with Peregrine Palfry and Margesson. Plus a brief description of my visit first to Mrs Gobble's.'

'Please let me have them. I can start reading. I get the impression of Palfry that he starts talking with caution, then his tongue runs away with him. Right?'

'My impression too,' she agreed as she placed the folders on his desk.

Monica was enjoying one of her rare five-minute 'breaks' reading the newspaper. She grunted, folded a page to a small item, took it over to Tweed.