'Busy, busy lady,' he chaffed her.
Leaning against the wall by Paula's desk, his normal position, a very tall lean man was smoking a cigarette in a holder. He wore an Armani suit; his smile was cynical, his hair dark, well brushed. This was Marler, reputed to be the deadliest marksman in Europe. He was in his late thirties.
Pete Nield, Butler's 'partner in crime', was also smartly clad in a white suit and shirt, wearing a Chanel tie. Amiable, as always, his hair was flaxen with a neatly trimmed moustache. Almost as good a 'shadow' as his partner, he was also in his late thirties.
Tweed wasted no time. Seating himself behind his desk he told everyone what had happened so far. It was his policy that all of them should know what the case was about, starting with the discovery of the two women's murders, and ending with the peculiar appearance of the Rolls.
'So where are we?' drawled Marler.
'Nowhere,' Tweed said bluntly. 'As yet no connec tions, no leads.'
'Can't imagine you letting us all just sit here,' Marler observed shrewdly.
'Wait a minute,' Paula called out.
She had been huddled over her phone, one hand in an ear to block out Tweed's powerful voice.
'Everyone shut up. I may have something…'
'Well,' said Monica from her desk behind the door, 'I've just had an urgent phone call from Harry. No time to switch it to you, Tweed. He is following Falkirk's car miles away. He reports Falkirk's car broke down, Falkirk called the AA, who have just arrived. Harry drove into a nearby field to get into cover.'
'But where is he?' Tweed asked irritably.
'In the middle of nowhere, then he ended the call.'
'Very helpful. Could be Devon, Norfolk, any where…'
'Harry knows what he's doing,' Pete Nield said qui etly. 'He sounds close to Falkirk at the moment. Probably because that car broke down. You've always said leave decisions to the man in the field – he knows the situation better than you do.'
'Absolutely right. I'd just hoped we had a break. Sorry.'
'Anyone want to listen to me?' Paula enquired sharply.
'Go ahead,' Tweed urged, placing a hand close to one ear.
'First,' Paula began, 'I phoned Swansea with the index number. The Rolls we saw is a company car. Belongs to Otranto Oil. Doesn't get us far. So I phoned your pet accountant and friend, Keith Kent. Asked him about Otranto.'
'That was smart,' Tweed said quickly.
'Keith knows a lot about them. The owner is Neville Guile, a ruthless man who has built up Otranto into a major powerful complex – by buying up small oil companies. Methods he's used are very open to question, including blackmail and worse. Has three Rolls, two company and one his own. Now, listen, his HQ is in Finden Square…'
'Where?' asked Tweed.
'I know it. Finden Square is small, hidden away not so far from Bexford Street and Lynton Avenue, where the murders took place. It's an oasis of peace amid the turmoil of London. I'd like to check it out.'
'Come with you,' offered Marler. 'This Neville
Guile sounds a dangerous character. And he may have seen you if he was in the back of that Rolls.'
'I'd welcome your company,' Paula said. 'Let's get moving.'
As soon as they had left Tweed stared at Newman from behind a fresh pile of red files containing more overseas agents' reports just delivered from Communications. Newman smiled back at Tweed's glare.
'Anything for me to do?'
'Yes. Put on that shabby mac you keep for the East End. Go down there, meet your contacts. Ask if there are rumours about any imminent operation.'
'What sort of operation?'
'How do I know?'
'What's the matter with him?' Newman whispered to Monica as he took his shabby raincoat from a cup board. 'He's like a bear with a sore head.'
'Won't last long,' Monica said soothingly. 'He's frustrated because he's no lead, no connection established with this murder investigation.'
'Then let's hope something breaks soon,' Newman said as he left the office to pursue what he regarded as a futile task.
Marler stared as they entered Finden Square. All four sides were occupied by a stately block of Adam-style terraced houses. Steps led up to each artistically designed front door. At each corner the blocks were separated by a side street to the outside world. In the middle was an oblong garden with evergreen trees and shrubs, surrounded with a high railing.
'And I never knew this existed,' he marvelled.
'You don't walk, exploring, like I do in quiet times,' Paula remarked. 'You spend your spare time sitting in pubs, pretending to listen for information,' she chaffed him.
'It's so incredibly quiet. No one about.'
'That's our target,' she said, pointing through a gap in the foliage to a corner building directly opposite them. 'See the huge letter O poised on a mast on the roof? Looks to be made of perspex – probably illumi nated by night.'
She had just spoken when the front door opened. Marler put a hand on her shoulder, pressed her down into a crouch while he joined her, now concealed by shrubbery. She peered through a small gap, whispered a running commentary.
'Uniformed servant emerging from front door, car rying costly leather luggage. A Rolls-Royce has pulled up at bottom of the steps. Heavily tinted windows in back. Sophisticated radio system on roof. Mr Neville Guile is well organized. Luggage stacks in boot. Chauffeur behind wheel now gazing at front door. Probably waiting… Yes, I was right. A tall slim man in perfectly cut suit walking down to door which the chauffeur has opened for him, standing to attention.'
'What does Guile look like?' Marler whispered.
'Too far away for precise description. Long, lean, could be in his forties. He's stopped to speak to the chauffeur.'
To her astonishment they could hear every word the passenger said. The voice was high-pitched, cultured.
'Jordon, we will stop halfway there until we have more news. Find a good hotel in Oaks-ford. A rea sonable halfway house.'
'Oaks-ford,' repeated Marler. 'Where's that?'
'Oxford. It's the way he talks. Rolls about to leave…'
'Then so are we. He could drive this way and see us. No, not by the side road we entered.' He grasped her arm. 'Down the alley behind us…'
He hustled her across the road into a narrow alley, the like of which Paula had never seen before. The floor was tiled with clean blue slabs. No sign of rub bish, of the unpleasant objects found in so many London alleys. Finden Square extended its air of exclusivity to the main street. As they emerged from the alley, Marler took Paula by the arm, hustled her to the parked Saab he'd borrowed from Pete Nield.
'What's the rush for?' she protested.
'So we can be clear of this main street in case that Rolls is coming this way…'
Without opening the door for her he slid behind the wheel. It was fortunate he'd parked with the car pointed away from the exit out of Finden Square. Paula, seated beside him, turned round as Marler accelerated.
They had reached the end of the main road when, turning a corner and plunging into an inferno of traf fic, Marler cut off a cab. The driver yelled at him, honked his horn.
'Cab drivers think they own London streets, which they do,' Marler commented. 'But no one cuts me off.'
'You were so right,' Paula told him. 'Just before we turned I caught a glimpse of that Rolls. It was turning this way.'
'So where to now?'
