Colin Forbes - Cell

'We shot a burglar…' Newman began.

'Burglar my foot.' His headlights were beamed on the body. 'Native clothes and a black turban? That's al-Qa'eda come to town. The lot of you could have been murdered.'

'Yes, we were lucky,' Beaurain said with a smile.

'That will light a fire under Victor Warner. I've called my editor, told him to delay my column twenty-four hours. The headline? Al-Qa'eda Strike in North Downs. How many of 'em?'

'You only see one body,' Beaurain pointed out.

'How many?' Drew demanded again. 'All that gunfire.'

'Four bodies – like that one,' Newman admitted.

'Bigger headline. Massacre of al-Qa'eda near London. The Minister will love that. None of you were hit?'

'We hit them,' Paula said.

'Good for you.' He put his arm round her. 'And I'll bet this lady scored a bull.'

'It was a bull – in every sense of the word,' Beaurain replied.

'I'm off. To rewrite my article. Might just bully the editor into reworking the paper so it will hit today's edition.'

He leapt back behind the wheel of his MG. The car roared off towards London and was gone. Beaurain looked thoughtful.

'That Drew Franklin could be the brightest brain up here. I think someone should interrogate him for a long time.'

'I could do that,' Newman said. 'We're both reporters…'

Paula packed quickly, remade the bed in her room, checked the interior of the bungalow to make sure it looked neat. Swift as she was, two ambulances arrived before dawn. Buchanan jumped out, listened while Beaurain and Newman gave him a quick description of what had happened, where the bodies were. Within twenty minutes, under Buchanan's urging, both ambulances were occupied with their cargo.

'I want to get these bodies out of this village, heading back to London before the inhabitants appear. I know they've been up once but from what you've told me they don't know all that much.'

'Except Drew Franklin,' Beaurain reminded him.

'That's great,' Buchanan said, smiling. 'He'll splash what has happened up here. Finally wake up people to the grim threat al-Qa'eda poses to London.'

'Tweed will be rubbing his hands,' Paula commented.

'And that idiot, Victor Warner, will be wringing his. You will all be leaving, I hope,' Buchanan went on, turning to get aboard one of the ambulances. 'You've done the trick. Rattled al-Qa'eda's cage – and that of the master planner…'

They were leaving. Beaurain locked the front door of Billy's bungalow. He paused, his satchel and 'violin' case looped over his shoulder, his case in his other hand.

'You going back to the Peacock?' Newman asked.

'No, I want to get to London. Paula's car is inside Mrs Goggle's shed. What about you?'

'I left my car at the triangle at the other end of what Paula calls the rabbit warren.'

'Then we'll all drive there in my car so you can pick up your car,' Paula decided. 'I wonder how Billy is getting on in some hotel in town?'

Pete Nield shifted his position behind the wheel of his parked car. He was stiff. In the Bloomsbury district of London it was still dark. No streaks of another cold dawn appeared in the heavy sky.

For hours he had waited opposite the front entrance to the Pink Hat, a small hotel in a side street. Its frontage was narrow, four storeys high with steps leading up to the entrance, which had a light glowing over it. In front of grubby net curtains a notice hung hopefully. Vacancies.

The Pink Hat? Silly name for a building which had stood there since Victorian days. It was the obscure hotel Nield had, in the evening, escorted Billy Hogarth to. On arrival Pete had accompanied Billy to check his bedroom. On the second floor it had only one window which overlooked the street where Pete had parked. No fire escape. Pete had checked that. So the only way anyone could get into the place was up the front steps. Pete was a stickler for details.

He checked his Walther for the sixth time, slid the magazine back into the butt. Something to do, to keep him awake. He didn't expect any trouble but on their way there he thought he'd been followed down from Carpford. Nerves. He slumped down further so any passer-by would assume the vehicle was empty.

The two men appeared out of nowhere. Incredibly silent in their movements. A tall thin man in a grey overcoat, his companion short and tubby, wearing a shabby raincoat. They were too quiet. Reaching the foot of the steps to the Pink Hat, they turned suddenly, went up the steps, vanished inside like ghosts. Pete slipped out of the car, closed the door quietly, crept up the steps in time to hear what they said to the night clerk, a plump dopey-looking woman.

'Our brother, Billy Hogarth, is staying here. We bring bad news. His mother has just died.'

'How awful,' the woman said, not really interested.

'We want to go and wake him gently.' It was Tall Thin talking.

'It will be a shock, so we won't tell him until he's really woken up. Which room is he in?'

'Number 16…'

'Then if you loan us your master key we can be sure not to startle him too much. See what I mean.' Now it was Short Tubby speaking. 'He was very fond of his mother.'

'Not nice,' the dopey receptionist mumbled, reaching for the key, handing it to him. 'Up those stairs, to the second landing, then turn right.'

'We appreciate this,' Short Tubby said in his hoarse voice. He picked up the key.

'Gentlemen, I suggest we discuss this in the parlour -that door over there,' Pete said quietly. His Walther was pressed into the back of Tall Thin. 'This gun holds eight rounds – it will blow your pal's spine into two pieces.'

Tall Thin had frozen. Short Tubby slipped his hand inside his jacket. Pete shook his head at him, his eyes cold as ice.

'You have one second to show me that hand – without anything in it. I'm going to pull the trigger.'

Short Tubby's hand whipped out, empty, even faster than he had inserted it. The night clerk was staring, her mouth open, standing still as a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's.

'Now,' Pete continued in his deadly quiet tone, 'we'll all go into that parlour, sit down and discuss the situation. You go first, Fatty. Walk very slowly.'

'Call the Yard,' Pete said over his shoulder to the woman. 'Ask for Chief Superintendent Buchanan. Tell him where this place is, tell him to send armed men. Now,-gentlemen,' he went on, talking to the two men, 'do walk slowly, I beg you, if you want to see the dawn…'

Short Tubby kept both of his hands by his sides, palms outwards as he took slow steps into the parlour. Pete prodded the Walther harder into Tall Thin, who followed his partner.

Inside the small parlour, decorated with a palm plant in a pot, badly in need of water, and a few wicker chairs, Pete kicked the door shut behind him.

'No! Don't sit down,' he ordered in the same Siberian voice, as Short Tubby was about to occupy a chair. 'Walk slowly to that wall. Now press your face against it, then lift the hands high above your head, press them against the wall. If you look round I'll be the last person you ever see. You stand very still,' he ordered Tall Thin, his Walther still pressed into the thug's spine.

From behind he used his left hand to pat and feel over his body. Under his left armpit he found the gun, withdrew it from the shoulder holster. A Webley-Fosbery, fully loaded. He continued to search, felt something round and hard in his overcoat pocket. A silencer, ready to be screwed on to the weapon before it was used to kill the sleeping Billy.

Pete's expression became even grimmer. He slipped Tall Thin's gun and silencer into his pocket. Reversing his Walther, holding it by the barrel, he brought the weapon down with savage force on the back of his captive's head. Tall Thin fell forward, unconscious, landed in one of the wicker chairs.