'I was called away on a very urgent matter.'
Thunder was in his most amiable mood. He had a habit of stroking people he wished to use, stroking them verbally.
'Of course. You have so much responsibility. As you wanted, Buchanan asked for – and obtained – an adjournment, pending further investigation. Or have you now decided it was suicide and therefore the case is closed?'
'No. And it wasn't suicide. It was murder.' Was it Tweed's imagination or had he detected a flicker of disappointment in Thunder's large dark eyes? 'In fact,' he continued, 'I suspect Mordaunt's murder was part of a far larger picture which may well have international implications.'
'International?' Thunder's long foxy face went blank. 'How do you make that out?'
'Because the same man who killed Mordaunt had earlier murdered Jason Schulz in Washington. Now we hear Louis Lospin has been assassinated in Paris.'
'I see.' Thunder took out a gold cigarette case, lit a menthol. 'This is so startling I can hardly believe it.'
'You'd better,' Tweed went on relentlessly. 'Exactly the same modus operandi was used in all the murders.
I won't bore you with the details. Take my word for it.'
'Of course, if you say so.'
There was a long pause. Then Tweed continued.
'Furthermore, another strange matter I'm investigating has led me to think it could be linked with the three murders.'
'And…?' Thunder reached for a crystal ashtray, stubbed out his cigarette. '… Can you give me a hint of what you referred to as another strange matter?'
'Only when I have solved the whole mystery. Then I will be able to give you a full report.'
'I see…' The gold case appeared again, another menthol was lit. 'Have you any idea when that will be?'
'You never can tell. But I expect you'll be here if it is solved quickly.'
'I could be away.' Thunder was choosing his words carefully. 'Not for more than a week, I expect. A visit to a country interested in negotiating a big arms deal with us. A lot of money could be at stake for Britain. If that happened I'd call you when I got back.'
He was stubbing out his second cigarette, hardly smoked, as though the interview was nearing its conclusion.
'Are you prepared for the second – and much more dangerous – outbreak of riots?' Tweed asked suddenly.
Thunder's right hand went towards the pocket containing the gold cigarette case. He changed his mind, relaxed, folded both hands behind his neck.
'You really think this is on the cards?'
'Don't you?'
'I was going to tell you, Tweed. When we had those riots weeks and weeks ago I had a small SAS team ready. We did not need to call on their services.' He smiled. 'It was based not five hundred yards from where we're sitting.'
It would be, Tweed thought, so it could protect Downing Street and the Ministries, including your own. He looked at his watch.
'I think I should go now. Thank you for your time.' 'And you will keep me informed of your investigationinto what you called another strange matter?' Thunder said as he followed Tweed to the door, opened it for him. 'Only when I have solved a very complex mystery…' As Tweed left the building he was satisfied that he had left behind a thoroughly rattled Gavin Thunder.
'Bad news, Tweed. I'm furious.'
The phone call from Roy Buchanan had come through within five minutes of Tweed returning to Park Crescent.
'What is it, Roy?' Tweed enquired. 'You do sound livid.'
'I am. You recall those two thugs who were going to kill Helga Trent's sister, Lisa? Barton and Panko?'
'Yes.'
'Well, they've escaped from custody already and they're on the loose. I had given strict instructions they were to be held in a top-security prison, Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight. Some idiot ignored my orders, sent them to a certain prison in London noted for its insecurity.'
'When did this happen? How did they manage it?'
'Last night. They put a warder in hospital – seriously injured and recovery unlikely. How? The old trick – they smuggled themselves inside the laundry truck just before it was leaving. The driver ran into traffic, had to stop several times, so obviously they left the truck during one of those stops and vanished. I have put out an alert – armed and dangerous.'
'Armed with what, Roy?'
'A knife. They stabbed the warder seventeen times. Some of the thrusts were because they enjoyed it, I suspect.'
'We're leaving the country tomorrow. I'd sooner not say where at the moment. May phone you from abroad,' Tweed suggested.
'Care to tell me how many of you are going?'
'Sooner not, if you don't mind.'
'Secret is the appropriate word for your lot. You take care. Are you still feeling all right?' Buchanan asked.
'Fresh as a daisy.'
'Take good care of Daisy…'
No one in Tweed's team who had encountered Delgado would have dreamt of his living conditions. On the fourth floor of one of the old warehouses in Reefers Wharf his living room was expensively furnished with tasteful sofas and armchairs. The old floorboards were covered with a pearl grey wall-to-wall fitted carpet. A large TV set was hidden inside a mahogany cabinet.
His kitchen was equipped with the latest dishwasher, a modern oven and cupboards. A large American fridge stood against one wall. His bedroom was lavishly furnished, as was his bathroom.
And no one in Tweed's team would have easily recognized the giant. Clad in a lightweight suit from Aquascutum, he gave the impression of being a successful businessman. He had visited a barber he had never patronized before, remarking he had just returned from a safari in Africa. Hence his long greasy hair. The barber had transformed his appearance. His hair was now trimmed neat and short.
He had also purchased a rubber-tipped stick and practised stooping when he walked, which made him seem a shorter man. It was the following day when he received the expected phone call from Heathrow at lunchtime.
'Donau here. I can tell you where they're going – flying from Heathrow.'
Donau, the German name for Danube, was the code name Delgado had given him. A short man, thirty years old and frisky in his movements, Donau had watched Park Crescent with a pair of field glasses while he crouched in a shrubbery on the edge of Regent's Park.
Seeing the cars leave before eleven in the morning, with Tweed inside one of them, he had jumped into his car parked nearby at a meter. He had followed them to the long-stay car park at Heathrow.
Carrying his case, which contained nothing but a selection of his clothes, Donau followed Tweed and his team with his frisky walk. Arriving in the concourse, he had bought a ticket to Paris because there were no passengers at the Air France counter. He had told the check-in girl he would carry his small case onto the plane.
Walking more slowly – you always changed your way of walking when tailing a target – he was just in time to see Tweed's team moving through the formalities. It was holiday time so when he held up his passport in the name of Donaldson he was waved through.
His only discomfort was the heat. The sun had glared down on him all the time he'd hidden behind the shrubbery. He was sweating profusely when eventually he followed his target to the departure gate. Hamburg.
He retreated immediately the way he had come. In a toilet cubicle he smeared white chalk over his face. He was trudging when he explained to officials near the exit that he was feeling very ill, had decided to go home. A ghastly stomach upset, but he had eaten lobster which had tasted odd late the previous evening. After checking his
