when Harry's jumbo-size grenade landed inside it. Instead she found her imagination filled with visions of the Crooked Village, then the amazing garden at the back of the General's house.
They had quick refreshment in the bar of the Monk's Head and settled themselves in the Bentley. The sun was still blazing as Newman pressed his foot down. He called out to Marler, who had stayed in Tolhaven. 'You missed some extraordinary experiences.' 'I was chatting to the barman. They're often funds of info. He's counted fifty of those infernal Special Branch -beg their pardon, State Security – men coming in and heading for the ferry. So they have a small army to build those appalling prisons I saw in the photos Paula took.'
'As many as that?' Paula exclaimed. 'They're breeding like ants.'
'That's valuable information,' Tweed commented. 'Now we know what we're up against. They have to be stopped and quickly.'
'But how?' Paula asked.
'I'll think of something.' Newman assured her with a wide smile.
They were approaching Park Crescent, crawling through a jungle of traffic, when Paula voiced her thought to Tweed.
'Did you notice the General never mentioned that you are in charge of the murder investigation? I thought it odd.'
'I did notice,' he replied. 'I thought it very odd too. I am sure he knows.'
She opened the day's copy of the Daily Nation Newman had just bought. She stared at the article by Drew Franklin, splashed on the front page.
HORRIFIC MURDER IN LONDON
Only two days ago Viola Vander-Browne, society beauty, was raped, then her body chopped up into pieces like a butcher using his cleaver to chop meat. No photos are available from the police, on the grounds they are too horrible for circulation. It is understood this case, exceptionally, has been put in the hands of a top SIS officer, a man who previously was an ace detective at Scotland Yard, solving three murder cases which baffled everyone else at the Yard. Londoners, do not go out after dark. Check your windows and doors. This psycho may well strike again. He has a liking for women victims.
She sighed, handed the paper to Tweed as she reacted to what she had read.
'Drew has really gone to town this time. The General seemed to know so much about many things, including us, I'd have thought he'd have caught on as to who the chief investigator was. You.'
'I'd have thought so too,' Tweed replied as he rapidly read the lurid article. 'He does everything except print my name.'
'I'm going to see Drew as soon as I can. He'll talk, if I have to put my hands round his throat,' said Newman.
Paula, seated beside him, glanced at his expression. It confirmed her earlier opinion that Newman was in the most ferocious and determined mood she had ever seen.
Arriving back in the office they found only two occupants: Monica, as ever, behind her machine, and Pete Nield pacing up and down with a worried expression.
'Something wrong?' Tweed asked him.
'Just turning things over in my mind.'
As soon as Tweed had settled behind the desk, Monica jumped up, a large white envelope in her hand. She wore gloves as she placed the envelope on his desk.
'That was pushed through our letterbox at lunchtime.'
'By whom?'
'We don't know. I was out collecting my lunch from the deli. I was only away about twenty minutes. I think someone chose their time carefully.'
'What about George?' Tweed asked, referring to the ex-army GSM who was their guard behind a desk near the front door. It would take someone very strong and agile to mix it with George.
'He was in the loo for about five minutes. Came back and this was on the floor below the letterbox. George opened the door and couldn't see anyone in particular among the lunchtime pedestrians on the main road. He handled it with gloves.'
'So will I.'
Tweed put on latex gloves, weighed the envelope in his hand. Not much inside. A good-class envelope which could be purchased at any decent stationer's. The flap was tucked inside the envelope, in spite of the fact that it had glue which most people would lick. So no saliva, no DNA. He carefully pulled out the flap, then what was inside.
A large colour photograph, taken at night, showing a man from the rear, wearing a coat with the collar turned up, which concealed whether the neck was thick or slim. No more than a silhouette of a heavily built figure in a narrow cobbled street, a first-floor window on the left covered with bright red. An ancient street lamp attached on an arm protruding from a wall gave some illumination.
Tweed looked at Paula.
'What is it?' she called out as she hurried across to him, holding a magnifying glass she had been using to check a map of Black Island. He looked up at her as she stooped over his shoulder.
'You tell me.'
'I'm sure that's Fox Street,' she said. 'Oh, my God, that looks like blood spread all over the first-floor frosted-glass window.'
She used her magnifying glass to examine the window. She looked at Tweed with a grim expression. 'It's recent blood, hasn't had time to turn brown. Didn't Saafeld say when the killer of Viola chopped off her head he severed the main arteries, which would have sent a powerful jet of blood across the room? It hit the window and covered it with solid streaks. This must be where Viola lived. In Fox Street.'
'Turn it over,' he said.
She did so. In crude block lettering were the words Portrait of a Murderer. Tweed showed her the envelope, addressed to Mista Tweed, again in crude block letters.
'Can't spell,' she said without thinking.
'You think not? I'd say whoever wrote the wording and delivered it here is well educated. The spelling and the crude lettering is to cover up that fact.'
'It was a big man, difficult to tell his height.'
'Not necessarily big, not necessarily a man, as you keep reminding me. Someone wearing three raincoats and then an overcoat could bulk out their figure. It could be a man or a woman. The key question is who took the photo – and how did they come to be there at just the right moment?'
'The killer was followed earlier.'
'And the motive?'
'I take your point,' she admitted. 'Jealousy?'
'So all we have to do is to identify the photographer,' he said ironically.
'The Parrot would be my best guess,' she told him.
'During an investigation we don't rely on guesses. And I was under the impression the Parrot was at the head of your list of murder suspects.'
'It's confusing…'
'So take this photo down to the basement when you can. I want three copies and the original.'
During this conversation Newman had marched up to Pete Nield. He jerked his head towards the door.
'A quiet word in your shell-like ear. Visitors' room downstairs would be best.'
Paula had the unusual ability to carry on a conversation and at the same time overhear someone else's. She dashed down to the basement ahead of Newman and Nield.
Inside the visitors' room, a spartanly furnished room opposite George's post, Newman sat Nield down, then sat down himself, facing him across the table. His tone was grim.
'I need to speak to your informant urgently, which means as quickly as possible. Not tonight – now!'
'I don't like it,' Nield protested strongly. 'It's an iron rule that none of us ever reveal to any of the team-'
'In the diabolical situation Tweed finds himself in – and so do the rest of us – the rules go out of the window.' His tone became sarcastic, which was out of character. 'Unless you look forward to wearing a long black coat and cap, with an armlet carrying the legend State Security. Secret police would be a better description. Knocking on
