he could follow him home. No good telling him. He'd blow up.
'I'm off too,' Tweed decided. 'Let's hope we have a quiet night.'
It was a statement he later regretted.
11
That afternoon Fitch had used his mobile to contact his accomplice, Tony Canal. They had arranged to meet at 9.30 p.m. at the Pig's Nest in the East End but Fitch had used this tactic before. It was important to show who was boss, to throw his henchmen off balance. He called Canal again in an hour.
'Meet me at the warehouse now!' he snarled.
He switched off before Canal could reply. Fitch was inside the abandoned warehouse. The old wooden floor was still solid but the skylights were missing several panes of glass. The large room, once used by a shipping company for storage, had been rented by Fitch for a song. In a fictitious name.
While he waited his booted feet clunked up and down the floorboards, pacing impatiently. He was smoking a cigar, a Havana. Only the best was good enough for Amos Fitch, and he had a nice balance in a small bank, the fruits of his criminal exploits.
When Canal entered after climbing the rickety staircase Fitch blew smoke in his weird face. Tony Canal was an ex-prize-fighter in matches held in private houses where no holds were barred. A broken nose and a lopsided jaw were the earnings from his underworld life.
'Show you something,' Fitch growled at him.
Bending down, he lifted a handle set into the floor, raised a thick wooden lid about two feet in diameter. Canal heard the gurgle of rushing water a long way down. Roughly, Fitch grabbed his arm, used the other hand to point a torch.
'Take a look, thickhead.'
Canal peered down. The torch beam lit up a steel shaft with a large hook about a foot down. The beam was just strong enough to illuminate rushing black water at the very bottom. Canal didn't like it. He stepped back as Fitch replaced the lid, spoke.
'That's where we'll put 'er when we've grabbed 'er.'
'Put who, may I ask?' Canal enquired.
'You may ask, dear boy,' Fitch told him, mimicking Canal's public-school accent. 'You just damned well did,' he rasped in normal coarse voice. 'Miss Paula Grey goes down the chute.'
He picked up a coil of rope from the floor. One end was twisted into a loop, but without a slip knot. Fitch pointed this out to Canal, who was looking worried. 'With that round her neck,' he explained with a sadistic smile.
'When we get 'er 'ere, we wrap a scarf round 'er neck, then we slip this rope loop over the scarf. With that round 'er neck we lower 'er into the chute, then fasten one end of the rope over the 'ook sticking out from the side of the tube.'
'I don't understand, I'm afraid,' Canal protested.
'No, you wouldn't. You've noticed the loop goin' round 'er neck is frayed, have you? Good. Miracles 'appen. She's suspended down in the tube. She'll try to remove the rope. When she keeps tryin' to do that the frayed part gives way. Down goes Tweed's pet into the water and gets carried into the river. End of the lady.'
'Sounds horrible – and strangely complex.'
'Heaven give us strength. Don't you see? The body will be carried down the river towards the barrage. At some point the body will be seen and dragged out – or she'll get washed up on the river edge. The police autopsy will check her. No sign of strangulation. The scarf has protected her neck against the grazin' of the rope. Rope and scarf will have got washed away. She'll have lungs full of water. Verdict? She drowned. No risk of it lookin' like murder. See?'
'I think so. Do we have to do this?' 'Monkey, we're being paid good money to kidnap Miss Paula Grey. To hit Tweed hard. Imagine how much harder it'll hit him when she's dragged out dead. Get it?' 'I guess so. I'm not happy about her dying.' 'Who asked you to be 'appy? This is business. Now we've got to go out and grab 'er. You've nicked a car, fitted it with stolen plates?'
'Of course I have. It's parked out of sight at the back of the warehouse here.'
'Good. We'll grab 'er tonight. Bring 'er back 'ere.' 'You're not going to put her down that awful shaft?' 'Listen, mate,' Fitch snarled, 'your job is to do what I tell you to do. And yes, she'll be food for the fishes in the river before the night is out. I've done my 'omework. She often arrives back at 'er Fulham Road pad at about 9 p.m. So we get there early, park further down the Fulham Road, chew the fat until she arrives.'
12
Newman insisted on escorting Paula home despite her protests. She was not best pleased when Tweed ordered her to drive home while Newman followed her in his own car.
'You've got your dinner with Roma,' she protested as they went down the stairs.
'I've phoned her, made a later appointment.'
'Great, she must have loved that.'
'She knows I'm very busy and said she'd phone the restaurant to warn them to keep the table. She's very amenable.'
'I still don't like it.'
As she pulled up outside the entrance to the large yard where she'd park her car outside her apartment she didn't notice the battered Ford parked further behind her. Inside it Fitch grunted with satisfaction, lifted a tin off the floor, took out the airtight bag containing a cloth soaked in chloroform.
'Got 'er,' he gloated.
Then he stared as another car pulled up behind her Saab. A man jumped out, walked alongside the Saab as she drove it inside the yard. Fitch rammed the bag back inside the tin.
'Friggin' 'ell,' he said to Canal beside him. 'That's Newman going in with 'er. He's a tough bastard.' He started his engine. 'We'll 'ave to come back about 4 a.m.
What 'e's goin' to do with her could take a while,' he commented coarsely. 'We'd better make ourselves scarce.'
He drove at moderate speed past Newman's car and continued along the Fulham Road.
Newman searched her flat on the first floor thoroughly. Paula, feeling guilty, offered him a drink. He was in the main corridor, staring up at a flat panel let into the ceiling. He called out to Paula, who was hanging up her windcheater. He pointed.
'What's up there?'
'Just a loft. I never use it. Some people put all their junk up there. I don't. Now, have a nice evening with Roma. I'm sure you will.'
He'd refused the drink. She kissed him on the cheek, then hugged him, smiling as she let him go. She'd seen no point in mentioning there was a large skylight in the loft.
'I do appreciate your looking after me. Go wild tonight.'
'It's early days with her.'
He met Roma at Santorini's, a luxurious restaurant with a section projecting over the Thames. No one was using that area tonight – it was too cold.
Roma was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with perfectly coiffeured black hair. She had large blue eyes, a well-shaped profile and a wicked sense of humour with a habit of laughing a lot, a low husky laugh.
Her father was rich, owning a large chain of retail stores he'd inherited from his father. She'd been to private school at Benenden but had no airs and graces. He had no trouble talking to her.
'You're in insurance, I gather,' she remarked later in the evening over coffee and the rest of the wine. 'A
