THREE
'They're all lying, the people we've met – either delib erately or by omission. Not telling us what they know.'
'Who are they?' asked Paula.
Tweed had turned off the main road, and was head ing north. His expression was determined. He listed who 'they' were.
'First, I'll check when Lisa anonymously phoned the Yard reporting the presence of the two bodies.'
'You really think it was her?'
'Who else? All the occupants of the other houses would be on holiday. Well off, they go abroad early to avoid the mobs on the beaches in July and August. Most of their curtains were closed.'
'Lisa is a very nervous person…'
'Not nervous enough to imply she didn't know either of the victims, living on either side of her. This is a very mysterious case. I know Sergeant Peabody and he's a good searcher. Yet he has reported no trace in either house of the victim's identity. No sign of ransacking by someone removing identity traces. Most mysterious.'
'Falkirk seemed straight enough.'
'No, he didn't. Just happened to be strolling along such a quiet street with two bodies lying on the steps. Coincidence? Don't believe in them.'
'I'm not thinking clearly,' she admitted.
'You were thrown by the extraordinary likeness of yourself Hector produced for my benefit.'
'Your benefit?'
'Mine,' Tweed replied. 'He sensed my scepticism about his work so he gave me a demonstration to impress me. Must say, I was very impressed.'
'Where are we going now? This looks like the street where the murders were committed.'
'It is. I'm going to put Miss Lisa Clancy through the verbal wringer.'
'Tweed here,' he said using Lisa's speakphone. 'Open the door. I have questions to ask you.'
Tm very tired…'
'So am I. You have two options. Open the door or I'll call the police to open it. Then I'll escort you to Scotland Yard.'
'You sound so different.'
'The door.'
Within a minute they heard chains being removed, two locks turned. Lisa was wearing a velvet jacket and trousers. Expensive. She gave Tweed a flashing smile, ignored Paula as though she did not welcome her presence. She led them along a hall with a blue fitted carpet to a staircase. On one side of the hall was an antique refectory table on which was perched a Ming vase. Paula smelt money.
At the top of the staircase they entered a living room overlooking the street. Heavy net curtains covered the windows and heavy red floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn back. Lisa asked them to sit down on a couch close to an antique table, then seated herself in a tall carver chair opposite. Casually she took off her jacket, exposing a low-cut blouse.
Paula waited to see how Tweed would handle her. It was obvious that Lisa was trying to soften him up.
'The first thing for you to do,' Tweed barked, 'is to put on your jacket again and button it to the neck. The first question is how well did you know the two victims – living on either side of you?'
'Hardly knew them at all,' she replied sullenly as she put on her jacket and buttoned it up.
'You're expecting me to believe you never spoke to them once?'
'I didn't say that. Once I was coming back late from work in the dark. Well ahead of me, the one round the corner was walking home by herself. When I reached her she was still outside struggling to open her door. I stopped, asked if she had a problem. She said, without turning round, her lock sticks, that it was the recent wet weather and the door had dropped. She got the key to turn at that moment, went inside without a word to me.'
'Did she know the other victim?'
'I think so. I saw them coming home together late one evening. Probably been to the theatre…'
'And you maintain you were friendly with neither of them?'
'I thought I'd made that perfectly clear,' she snapped.
Her whole personality had changed. Her face was hard, her voice hostile. She began to tremble, twisting her hands clasped together in her lap.
'Do your parents live nearby?' he persisted.
'Hardly,' she snapped again. 'Both were killed in a traffic accident three years ago…'
'Where did you spend your childhood? Where were you born?'
'Cutwick, a small village in Hampshire,' she said quickly as though she'd been waiting for this question.
'I see you've had the locks changed on your front door. A Banham and a Chubb.'
'Wouldn't you! – if you'd had the experience I've had?' She stood up, her expression murderous. 'And, Mr Tweed, I've had just about enough of you.'
Tweed stood up and Paula followed suit. His manner also changed; he was smiling and his voice was sympathetic.
'It's just that I'm worried about you. Do you have to go to work today?'
'I've phoned Rumble, Crowther and Nicholas, told them I'm not well, that I think I'm coming down with the flu.'
'Do you have to go out to shop? If not, may I sug gest that you stay in the house if possible.'
Til show you my fridge. It's stacked with enough food to last me ten days.' Her voice became sarcastic. 'I wouldn't want you to worry about me. Now, I'll show you both out.'
'If there's a development, we might have to come back.'
'Don't bother…'
She led the way down the staircase, said not another word as they left and stood on the street. They heard her dealing with both new locks. Paula sighed.
'I think you were pretty tough on her.'
'She's still lying. I hoped to break her down.'
As he spoke, a Rolls-Royce glided round a distant corner, drove slowly towards them in the stately fash ion a Rolls should be driven. The uniformed chauffeur slowed down even more as he cruised past them, and Lisa's house. The rear windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see the pas senger, who appeared to be peering at them. Reaching the corner beyond which the second victim's house was located it continued its leisurely cruise, vanished.
'That was curious,' Paula commented. 'I memo rized the plate number. I'll phone Swansea, find out who owns it.'
'We'll get back to Park Crescent,' Tweed decided.
'I didn't like the way that Rolls behaved, I want to know who that passenger was – the one who prefers no one can identify him. Another mystery, I suspect.'
FOUR
Arriving back at Park Crescent, they found Tweed's spacious office occupied by all the members of his team, with the exception of Harry Butler. Bob Newman, once the most famous international reporter on the planet, sat the wrong way round on a wooden chair, arms folded on the back. Tallish and well built, in his early forties, he was good-looking, was often glanced at by elegant women in the street. He slapped Paula on the arm as she hurried to her corner desk.
