closing on her. Lisa realized the train was a lethal trap. He only had to wait until it reached the next station before he slid his knife into her and left the carriage.
She tensed her right leg. The train was pulling into Tottenham Court Road. She knew the area well. Skinny reached her as the doors opened. She lifted her leg, ground her hard shoe down his shin. He yelped. She was leaving the train as Eyebrows grabbed hold of Skinny, who couldn't move.
'Make way,' he called out, holding Skinny under the armpits. 'My friend has a bad leg.'
He was heaving Skinny out of the train when Lisa vanished up a flight of steps. She got on an escalator and just before stepping off at the top glanced back. Eyebrows and Skinny were staring up at her from the bottom.
It was a relief for her to get out into the cold fresh air. She half-ran up Tottenham Court Road, then down a side street, then into Bedford Square. Slowing down, she took in deep breaths of air. The square, enclosed with fine old houses, was empty as she made her way round the miniature park in the centre.
'I've had about as much as I can take,' Lisa said to herself.
She looked back to check again. Between the trees she saw the two men entering the square. Skinny was walking normally, seemed to have recovered from his injured leg. She had to find somewhere to hide. Where on earth could she go? She was confident that so far the thugs hadn't seen her since she'd left the Underground.
Then she noticed what she should have remembered. Each of the terraced mansions had a basement area with steps leading down to it beyond open railed gates. She looked back once more, saw they were still coming, dived down the metal treads into an open basement area.
Only then did she realize it was occupied. An old tramp, holding a bottle of whisky, was seated in a corner. He tipped his cap to her.
'Like a nip of the good stuff, lady?' he suggested, lifting the bottle towards her.
His accent was Cockney. His face was lined with age but his eyes were bright with intelligence. She had to trust someone. She spoke slowly, making her voice tremble -not a difficult task.
'Two men are coming after me, trying to hurt me.'
She had avoided using the word 'kill' – too dramatic and she was desperate for him to believe her. He used the neck of the bottle to point to an alcove under the pavement.
'Get you under there, lady. They stores the rubbish bags there, but it's the only 'idin' place.'
Lisa crouched down, went under the pavement, sat with her back to a wall. There was a smell of decay that she was hardly aware of. She felt sure the two thugs would come this way.
'I do have my Beretta,' she said to herself. 'Don't show it. The tramp will be scared out of his wits. Like me…'
The heavy clump of feet walking along the pavement above came closer. She froze when they stopped above her head. The tramp lifted the bottle, swallowed, pulled his cap lower as though going to sleep.
'You down there. Seen a girl with red 'air comin' along 'ere?'
The tramp opened his eyes, pushed up his cap. Then he did what she had feared he would do after the reference to red hair. He looked across at her. She knew a curl of her hair had slipped below the scarf. They'd come down the steps and she had no escape route.
Tweed, with Paula and Newman, had mounted the steps to the stately old house in Eaton Square, part of a terrace, when the front door opened. A man wearing a suit which would have been fashionable thirty years earlier emerged. Peering at Tweed, he descended the steps, swinging his silver-topped cane, and walked away. Tweed still held the door open while he read the names and numbers on a plate screwed to the side wall, then walked inside.
'I'll do the talking,' he told Newman.
'So I'll be the silent partner.'
The trees in the park outside beyond the road were black stark skeletons. A raw wind blew round the square. Once inside the hall Tweed found the right number, pressed the bell. They heard a lock turned, a chain removed. The door opened.
'Yes?'
'I'm Tweed. These are my assistants, Paula Grey and Robert Newman. Are you Mrs Mordaunt?'
'Yes.'
She was a brunette, attractive up to a point, her coiffeured hair trimmed short. Wearing a black dress with a white lace collar, she had a long sharp nose, a full mouth, pencilled eyebrows and cold dark eyes. Tweed cleared his throat.
'I'm very sorry to trouble you but I'm here regarding the investigation into the tragic business of your husband's death. My condolences, although words are meaningless.'
'You'd better come in.'
She ushered them into a large drawing room with tall windows, tasteful and comfortable furnishings – sofas and armchairs covered with chintz, matched by long curtains draped to the floor. Several Sheraton antiques, an unfinished piece of embroidery draped over the back of a sofa.
'Please sit down.'
'Thank you. We won't be long.'
'That's good. I have to go out soon. Would you like a glass of sherry?' she asked in her cultured voice when they were seated in armchairs.
'Only if you will join us.'
Tweed had expected her to ask for identification but she had omitted to make the request. In grief you are not the same person. He had noticed a large bottle of sherry, half empty, on a coffee table, an ashtray beside it full of used stubs. Almost as though she had been waiting for them. A water glass with a little sherry in it was also perched on the table. They all detested sherry but Tweed thought it might help to relax her.
'How unsightly,' she remarked and removed the water glass. 'I'll get the right glasses.'
She went over to a large cupboard, opened it and exposed shelves of leather-bound books. She swore, slammed the doors shut. 'Hardly know what I'm doing.' She walked to the only other large cupboard by the wall, a contrast in style to the cupboard she had first opened. Pulling back the doors, she revealed a collection of expensive glassware. Selecting four sherry glasses, she brought them to the table. Paula glanced at Tweed. He was watching her closely.
'I'm feeling better now,' she said as she poured from the bottle. 'Now, how can I help you?' she asked after sitting down, crossing her legs and sipping her sherry.
'Do you know whether your husband was under any kind of pressure recently?' Tweed enquired.
'Pressure isn't the word for it.' As she spoke she seemed to be looking at something beyond Tweed's left shoulder. 'I have been worried. Very. That beast Gavin Thunder is a slave-driver. Jeremy had very little sleep for weeks on end. And I never knew when he'd arrive home.'
'Mrs Mordaunt.' Paula had leant towards her. 'We understand you had a pet name for your husband. What was it?'
'I beg your pardon?'
Tweed, annoyed at the interruption, began cleaning his glasses with a clean handkerchief. During an interrogation a diversion could ruin the whole process. Paula persisted.
'A pet name – used between you and maybe at times when you had close friends with you. Not unusual with couples who are married.'
'I don't want to talk about that.'
'So,' Tweed intervened firmly, 'perhaps he was depressed?'
'Yes, he was,' she replied eagerly. 'Very depressed.'
'Did Gavin Thunder ever visit you here?'
'I've never met that man. Don't want to. I'm sure that his demanding personality didn't help the situation at all.'
'A delicate question,' Tweed said carefully. 'It would have been understandable in such a situation if Jeremy drank quite a lot…'
'Emptied whisky bottle after whisky bottle.' She had been answering questions more quickly after Paula's one query. She looked at her wristwatch, encrusted with diamonds. 'I hope you don't mind, but is there much more? I have a car calling for me and an urgent appointment to keep.'
Tweed stood up and Paula and Newman joined him. Paula stared round the room and then at their hostess
