'It's a wonder their car didn't burst into flames – or did it?'
'No, it didn't. My father had quick reflexes. He'd obviously turned off the engine as they went over. I asked Briscoe about that and he confirmed the engine had been switched off.'
'Have you got Briscoe's present phone number?'
'No, I haven't. But the new man said he'd retired to a house in the same town. The unpronounceable one I've written down. I've also written down the name of the new sheriff and his phone number. Probably you can't do anything.'
'Don't be so sure about that.' Marler had had a bright idea. 'Give me the notebook and I might just find out what really happened. Something about what you've told me stinks.'
'I'm putting you to a lot of trouble,' she said, handing him back his notebook. 'I've also written down the address of my apartment in Belgravia – next to Sharon's. And a private phone number I've had installed. Ex- directory. On the quiet; I think the Embassy listens in to my calls on the phone that was there when I arrived.' She smiled again. 'Really, you must think I'm nuts.'
'I think you may have every reason to be worried. I'll see what I can do.'
'Let's talk about something else. This can't be entertaining conversation for you.'
'Actually, I'm intrigued.' She had checked her watch. 'You don't have to go yet, do you?'
'I really should. The limo driver who brought me must have been waiting outside for half an hour already…'
When they had put their coats on he accompanied her outside to the waiting limo. Before she got into the car she turned, kissed him gently full on the mouth. She gave him a very warm smile.
'Thank you for a really wonderful evening. I'd love it if we could keep in touch.'
'We'll do that.' He handed her a sheet from his notepad, kept his voice to a whisper. 'That's the phone number of my flat. There's an answer-phone if I'm out. Just say Denise called and I'll call you back at the private number until I get you.'
'Take care of yourself, Alec. It's a dangerous world we're living in.'
16
Paula didn't sleep that night. She tried to but sleep wouldn't come. The briefcase stuffed with a fortune in dollars kept coming back into her mind. She had a long bath and that didn't help.
As she made coffee, knowing she would not get any rest that night; she kept recalling what Chief Inspector Buchanan had told them. How key figures in Britain were being bought with huge bribes. The technique used. How the Anti-Terrorist Squad officers, watching the Embassy, had seen Americans leaving, carrying executive cases, had followed them, seen them in pubs meeting their 'target'. Strictly speaking, in the episode inside the Raging Stag, it had been a briefcase Osborne must have propped against Tweed's chair leg.
Her mind moved in circles. Had Tweed decided they couldn't win? Had he gone over to the other side? It didn't seem to be possible when she recalled the years she had known him. It was far more likely there was another explanation – but she couldn't think of one.
'I'm bloody wrong. I have to be,' she said aloud.
But she was not convinced. Tweed had trained her always to deal in facts. And she had personally witnessed the 'transaction'. Edgy, she threw away half the cup of coffee, made herself some tea. Pacing round the living room, she smoked another of her rare cigarettes.
'I give up,' she said, again aloud.
She arrived very early at Park Crescent, was relieved to find she was alone. The briefcase with the dollars had disappeared. On Monica's desk a name was scribbled on a pad. Keith Kent. Basel.
She was seated behind her desk when they all arrived almost together. Monica came in first, settled herself behind her desk. She looked across at Paula.
'While you were down at Romney Marsh yesterday Keith Kent, the money tracer, called Tweed from Basel. Said he'd cracked the Zurcher Kredit account, wanted assistance urgently.'
'How did Tweed react?'
'Ask him yourself when he comes in.'
Paula welcomed the suggestion. It gave her something to say to Tweed. If she just sat like a dummy he'd quickly notice her silence. Newman came in. He was cheerful, positively buoyant. He grinned at Paula.
'Top of the morning. Isn't it a nice day.'
'It's a terrible day,' Paula replied. 'The temperature has gone even lower.'
'Helps to keep your wits about you,' he said with another grin, plonking himself into a chair.
Marler arrived, faultlessly dressed as always. He was wearing a new grey suit. He gave everyone a little wave. At that moment Tweed walked in, his step brisk, his manner businesslike as he settled behind his desk. He looked round the room.
'Monica has told me,' Paula began, 'that Keith Kent called you from Basel yesterday, said that he'd cracked the Zurcher Kredit account, whatever that means.'
'True. Everything is beginning to fit. Bob, how did you get on with Sharon Mandeville?'
'Fine. You know, she has no hint of an American accent. She struck me as a demure English lady.'
Paula stared at him, her lips pursed. Was Newman falling for Sharon? It certainly sounded so – from his manner and what he had just said. She lowered her eyes before he looked at her.
'Really?' Tweed paused. 'So you're getting on with her well. Any chance of a second meeting?'
'I would hope so. Yes, a good chance, I'd say.'
'Then you'll have another chance to try to extract information from her as to what is going on. If she has any, which she may not.'
'The lady asked me to write an article. Not her idea. Comes from someone higher up she couldn't name.' 'What kind of an article?'
'A plea for a much closer version of the special relationship between Britain and America.'
'Really?' A brief smile flickered across Tweed's face. 'The pattern is taking shape. Are you going to do it?'
'Haven't decided. If I do, I'll show you a draft first, of course.'
'And now we come to you, Marler,' Tweed went on. 'Did you enjoy your evening with Denise Chatel?'
'Very much. She's nice. She told me a very strange story. There's quite a bit to tell. It concerns the death of her parents…'
Marler had Tweed's full attention as the story began to unfold. From his excellent memory he reported every word Denise had said to him. Monica stopped using the phone and listened. Near the conclusion Marler waved a characteristic dismissive hand.
'I thought Cord Dillon was the man to make enquiries – that I could feed him the data and later he could phone America from the Bunker. Or you might think this is a diversion of energy.'
'On the contrary.' Tweed paused again. 'What I'm going to say is very confidential. Rene Lasalle of the DST in Paris told me recently – when I asked him – that Denise's father was officially sent out as an attache to the French Embassy in Washington. Actually he was a member of the Secret Service. He was trying to uncover details of some major operation Washington was planning. Before he could report back he was killed, with his wife, in a car crash. Sharon's mother and father were also killed in a car crash. As I said earlier, I don't believe in coincidences.'
'So I can get Cord to check this out?' Marler asked.
'You most certainly can. Tell him I want to know.' He leant back in his chair. 'Years ago, when I was at Scotland Yard…'
'As the youngest superintendent in Homicide up to that time,' Paula added.
'What I was going to say was – in more than one murder case I investigated I stumbled across the identity of the murderer by pure chance. But at. least I recognized the significance of what I'd stumbled over. I think Marler
