Colin Forbes - Cell

'Don't look round!' he hissed at Short Tubby.

Approaching him quietly, he rammed the Walther into Short Tubby's spine. He proceeded swiftly to search him.

Another shoulder holster from which he extracted a Colt. 455, also fully loaded. Slipped that into his other pocket and continued searching. Nothing else, no silencer, but he hadn't expected one considering the weapon. He also now had two wallets shoved inside his pocket. They could be examined later. He also had the master key, which Short Tubby had put in his trouser pocket.

'Stay where you are. Quite still. I'm going to sit down and then we can…'

He was still speaking when he smashed his gun down on the fat man's head. He jumped back as Short Tubby slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He checked both men's carotid arteries, found them ticking over. He reckoned it would be an hour before they regained consciousness.

Leaving the parlour, he closed the door. The night clerk woman was sitting behind her counter, absorbed in looking at one of the cheaper women's magazines. She looked up, went back to her magazine.

'Did you call Superintendent Buchanan at the Yard?' Pete asked.

'Don't know the number.'

Pete raised his eyes towards the ceiling. She was no longer looking at him. He took a deep breath. There was 999.

'Give me a piece of paper.'

She scrabbled below the counter. Eventually she found a notebook with creased pages. He wrote down the number, Buchanan's name and rank, then his own name.

'This is serious,' he snapped. 'Here is the number, the name of the man you need to speak to, and my name, which he will want. Tell him to send two patrol, cars with armed men. Tell him I said it was urgent.' He added that word to the notepad, underlined it. 'Give him the name of this hotel, the address. The two men who came in are waiting in the parlour, don't wish to be disturbed. Do it now.' He took out a five-pound note, gave it to her. She woke up, grabbed the note. 'They will give you more money when they arrive,' he fibbed.

He ran upstairs, followed the instructions she had given the two killers. Billy Hogarth woke quickly, did not seem worried when Pete said he was moving him to another hotel. He dressed quickly, picked up the case he hadn't unpacked, fetched his shaving-kit bag from the bathroom, tucked it under his arm and they went downstairs.

Dopey Woman was talking on the phone. Pete listened. She'd garbled his instructions but given enough for Buchanan to react. Pete paid the bill with cash, hustled Billy down the steps and into his car. It was very cold and the first streaks of dawn, promising another unpleasant day, were now visible.

'What's up?' Billy asked, suppressing a yawn.

'I think we were followed here by some undesirable characters. I'm taking you to another hotel in a different area. You'll be safe… more comfortable there.'

'Lots more goin' on up at Carpford than round 'ere.'

'What do you mean?'

No reply. He glanced at Billy. His passenger had fallen asleep, his head drooped on his chest. Pete checked the rear-view mirror. No traffic at all. No one was following them this time. But what had Billy seen up at Carpford?

Beaurain., with Paula by his side, was driving down the narrow, steep curving lane, descending from the Downs to the main road. Paula had gratefully accepted his offer to drive – she was feeling shaky, a reaction to the violent events at Carpford. They had dropped Newman where he had left his car. Beaurain had let Newman, anxious to get back to Park Crescent, go ahead of him.

It was daylight, of a sort. Murky grey clouds drifted above them and the wind was cold. Beaurain was driving well within the speed limit, cautious as to what might lie round the next corner – in this section there was only room for one car.

A violent honking started behind them, continued non-stop. Paula looked back. She recognized the aggressive driver in his Alfa-Romeo. Martin Hogarth, wearing a baseball cap. The honking of the horn went on, sending the message: Get out of my way.

'This is ridiculous,' Paula protested. 'It's Martin, Billy's brother. How can he possibly hope to pass here?'

'He wants me to speed up,' Beaurain said with a smile. 'How old is he?'

'At least forty and he's wearing one of those stupid baseball caps.'

They turned yet another corner and the road widened. As the honking was maintained, Beaurain steered into the middle of the road, making it impossible for their harasser to pass. Beaurain waved a hand out of his window, indicating he was slowing down, which he did, then stopped.

'Won't take a minute,' he said, still smiling.

Martin slammed on his brakes, left his engine running as he dived out to confront the Belgian. Beaurain stood with his arms folded, smiling. Martin came up close to him, his tone sneering.

'Think you own the bloody road? Time you read the Highway Code. Of course, you're a foreigner.'

Paula had left her car. She stood beside it, watching.

'Actually,' Beaurain said mildly, 'I have read the Highway Code from cover to cover.'

'Didn't do you much good, did it? You're a slob. You need a lesson.'

Martin bunched his right fist, aimed it at the other man's jaw. Beaurain moved his head, the punch went past him, then he did something, the movement so swift Paula couldn't follow what happened. Beaurain now had Martin's right arm gripped in a peculiar angle, pushed him back over the bonnet over his Alfa.

'Watch it!' Martin yelled. 'You'll break my arm.'

'Just keep quiet and listen,' Beaurain said calmly. 'What is your job? That is, if you've got one.'

'I'm… a stockbroker… if you must know.'

'I pity the people you advise. Doubtless they all lose money. Now I'm going to release you. Don't move until I tell you.'

Martin remained bent backwards over the car. He glanced to his right, saw Paula, averted his gaze quickly. Beaurain had walked round to the open driver's door. Leaning inside, he switched off the engine, took out the ignition key, then threw it into the grass verge, which had not been cut for ages.

'You can get up now,' he called out as he walked back and got behind the wheel as Paula sat again in the passenger seat. He began driving downhill.

'It will take him ages to find that key,' Paula said with a touch of malice.

'Not too long. I could have thrown it into the field, but I don't like overdoing things. London, here we come.'

'Tweed will have been up all night,' she predicted. 'Maybe he has found something important.'

When they walked into the office at Park Crescent it was crowded with members of the team. Newman occupied one armchair facing Buchanan, who sat in the other one. Marler was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. Pete Nield was perched against the edge of Paula's desk, and was speaking. He stopped when Paula walked in with Beaurain. The only one not present was Harry Butler. Nield moved away from the desk as Paula went to sit behind it. Monica, Beaurain observed, was seated behind her word-processor. Paula stared at Newman and her tone was sharp when she spoke.

'Bob, has that Airsight friend of yours flown over Carpford to take pictures? If I could study them I'm sure I can work out which house has the cellar I was imprisoned in.'

'Soon now,' Newman assured her. 'He's taking longer over his holiday than expected. He's the best.'

'He shouldn't take holidays if he's the best,' she grumbled.

There was a knock on the door and Monica jumped up to open it. A middle-aged grey-haired lady, wearing a spotless white apron, pushed a trolley in. Monica gestured.

'Breakfast for anyone who's interested. Fried eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, coffee. Hands up.'

Every hand went up instantly. Nellie, as Monica called the woman, was going to serve Tweed first but he waved her away, pointed at Beaurain, Paula, then Newman and Nield.