Colin Forbes - Cell

'Sounds like a minor Lawrence of Arabia,' he commented. 'It also sounds as though the MoD really clamped down on this one. I've always regarded them as a bunch of crooks, their first priority being to cover themselves…'

He looked up as Marler entered the office. Wiping his hands, as though rid of something unpleasant, he leant against a wall.

'That's got rid of Martin Hogarth…'

He gave them a terse account of the incident, as he called it, near the Embankment. Tweed listened until he had completed his account, then jumped in.

'That Walther used to kill the hitman. Are you still carrying it?'

'Of course not. The police have a very good Ballistics Department. So I went into the basement before I came up here. Gave them the Walther, watched while they crushed it with their machine into nothing. The remnants are now on their way to our training mansion in Surrey for total disposal. I also collected this from their weapons store.' He produced a Walther.

'Not brand new?' Tweed checked.

'Does it look it? They worked on it while I watched. Looks just like the one I carried for months.'

'The police will find the body,' Tweed explained. 'So just in case someone saw you on the Embankment – a patrol car with an officer who knows you – what were you doing down there?'

'What you asked me to. Checking for Special Branch men. Not a single one.'

'You said the hitman cab driver was originally parked near the end of the Crescent here. Wake up, Newman. Those two new men who may join us – Wilson and Walker, the twins. They are still along the road at our Communications Branch learning discreet ways of communicating?'

'They are,' Newman agreed.

'Get along there now. Instruct them to patrol the area outside, looking for anyone watching this building. I wonder what on earth has happened to Paula and Jules?'

'Charming district,' Beaurain commented. 'Streets hardly wider than alleys, not a coat of paint for years on these shabby buildings. And women clearing stuff off stalls, then folding the stalls up. At this hour, in this cold. Who on earth would be out buying in this cold?'

'This is Wapping,' Paula told him, amused. 'Deep in the East End, which is what you wanted. As to the stalls, men who work the river get back late and buy on their way home. I thought this is what you wanted.'

'It is. And there's a pub. The Pig's Snout. So tasteful, but it's the sort of place I want to go into. I can't leave you in the car, but taking you in there…'

She punched him on the shoulder. 'Stop being so protective. I've been in worse places than that.'

'Where do I park? Safely?'

He was looking at a gang of boys, ages from ten to sixteen, Paula estimated. They were quite well-dressed but they were watching him as he parked, his front tyres squelching over discarded fish. He turned away from them, took out his wallet, extracted three five pound notes, shoved the wallet back, carefully buttoned up the pocket.

'You know what you're doing,' Paula said, surprised.

'Certain areas of Brussels, all Liege and Antwerp. I can sense where I am. Why that ten-pound note tucked in your glove? I'll be paying.'

'Jules, leave this to me.'

She got out, followed by Jules, who had run round the car to join her. The tallest, tough-looking lad, stood in her way, his bare hands on his hips. She showed him the ten-pound note which he reached out to grab. She snatched it out of reach.

'What's your name?'

'Jem. What's yours?'

'I'm giving you this ten-pound note to make sure no one gets near this car. I've got one more tenner, then I'm out of cash. You get that if the car is untouched when we come out.'

'You're on, lady. Toffs come down 'ere to see 'ow the other 'alf lives. They leave without their wallets. Watch it in there. A redhair called Sammy.'

'It should be OK,' Beaurain said as they approached the pub.

'Any of them approach the car and Jem will smash them to pulp.'

It was crowded inside, a babble of voices, the air filled with smoke. Beaurain noted a number of the men wore oilskin coats. Seamen. This was the right place. His arm round Paula, he shoved his way to the bar. He was so tall, his face so weathered, people let him through. He hoisted Paula on to a stool, sat on the one beside her. On his right sat a man wearing an oilskin. He studied the bottles behind the bar.

'What's yours, mate?' a burly man asked.

'Have you any wine?' Paula asked.

'You look like Chardonnay. French. The good stuff.'

'My favourite drink.'

'Had it before?' the barman asked Paula, looking Beaurain up and down.

'I like to experiment.'

'Then you'll end up on the floor…'

The barman brought the drinks, took the notes Beaurain produced from his trouser pocket, slapped down the change, headed for another customer.

A red-haired lad pushed his way between Beaurain and the seaman. He had a cunning smile as he slapped down an envelope, grubby all over.

'Interesting photos. Girls doing different things. You'd never believe it.'

'Shove off.'

Beaurain swept the envelope off the bar on to the floor. It burst open, spilling lewd photos. Redhair swore, using filthy language.

'Shouldna 'ave done that.'

His hand reached inside his soiled windcheater, came out with a knife. Beaurain grabbed his wrist, twisted. Redhair let out a scream. Beaurain released his grip and the hand was limp, the wrist at an unnatural angle. Broken. The barman appeared, holding a large leather-covered sap. He leaned over the counter.

'Get out of 'ere, scumbag, before I break the other wrist.'

Redhair used his shoulder to push his way through the crowd, out of the pub. The seaman got off his stool, picked up the photos, crammed them inside the envelope, pushed it over the counter to the barman.

'Dustbin.' He turned to Beaurain. 'You 'andled that well. He's dangerous.' He grinned. 'Was.'

'You're off the river?' Beaurain asked with a smile.

'That's right. I've worked freighters, ferries, barges, the lot.'

'I'm thinking of buying a barge for my business,' Beaurain continued. 'Saw what I need going upriver laden with coal dust.'

'They'd be goin' to the new powerhouse, other side of the river. Built by Dixon, Harrington and Mosley. We calls it the Dick powerhouse. Got a plant next to it for makin' machine tools. New design. And new design of barges. Made to order.'

'Could you do me a rough drawing of the design? Then I can get one for myself?'

Paula, who had sipped cautiously at her wine, surprised to find how good it was, pushed a fresh notebook along the counter to Beaurain. The seaman reached for it, took out a small stub of pencil, began drawing, talking as he worked.

'There's a sort of lid made of metal you can unroll to cover your cargo. From bow to stern. In the middle, 'ere, is a very big hatch you can open so a crane can lower bales into the 'old. A smaller hatch near both bow and stern. Like this. Control bridge is perched up at stern, of course. The skipper then 'as a good view of where 'e's goin', which is rather important.' He chuckled.

'Does the Dick director use the roll-over metal cover?'

'No. They needs as much coal as they can pile in.'

'Have I got this right?' Beaurain queried. 'Dick had both the powerhouse and the barges built?'

'Yes, 'e did. To keep down cost 'e gets a firm in Austria to build the barges. You could find out the name easy – name of the firm.'

'Austria makes sense. They have a lot of barge traffic on the Danube.'

'You're right there. I've taken barges all the way to the Black Sea.' He pushed the notebook with the barge plan over to Beaurain. 'Makes sense?' Beaurain nodded. 'I think the lady is interested,' the seaman said, pushing it further along the counter.

'Thank you,' said Paula. 'I'm Paula.'