'Back to Park Crescent. I want to tell Tweed what we saw.'
Meanwhile, Newman was on the move, heading for the East End. Despite the traffic he reached the dis trict quickly.
He was noted for his fast and skilful driving, sliding through gaps other drivers would hesitate to tackle. He struck lucky, finding his four informants quickly in the pubs where they spent their afternoons.
The third informant, small and tubby as a barrel from the beer he consumed, shook his head, gave the same answer as the previous two contacts.
'I ain't 'card nothing on the go – and nothing planned. It's very quiet round these parts…'
Newman thanked Tubby and gave him a ten-pound note to keep him sweet. He had only one more con tact, just along the street, if he was there. This was the most astute of all his network of informants.
He bought an apple off a stall, and was chewing it when he walked into the Pig's Trotters. His informant was a tall thin man with sleepy eyes which missed nothing. Newman put the same question to him.
'Your timing is uncanny,' said Mr Merton, as he liked to be known, 'and I'd advise you not to look at the bar yet. Someone just came in. Munch that apple slowly – gives you a reason for sitting 'ere.'
Merton was comparatively well educated, but could talk cockney like a native. He sipped his glass of brandy, his favourite, then spoke again.
'Something is up – and the something is ordering champagne at the bar. Name of Lepard – father was French, mother English. Committed at least two mur ders already – one here, t'other in Paris. Escaped conviction both times on a technicality. Word is, he's been hired for a potential end job.' 'End job' was the new slang for a murder assignment.
'Any idea of the target, Mr Merton?' Newman enquired.
'Not a whisper. He's contacted some pretty ugly thugs to stand by for detailed instructions. A load of money has changed hands to keep them ready. May I suggest you shove off – Lepard is about to bring his champagne over to the table near us which just became available.'
Newman slipped Mr Merton a folded twenty- pound note, stood up, walked towards the door, still munching his apple. He didn't like the look of Lepard at all. The killer, wearing an expensive leather jacket and corduroy slacks, moved with a certain agility. His yellow eyes darted everywhere, scanning the whole room. A cadaverous face was softened by his well-shaped chin and a pleasant smile as he nearly knocked over a seated customer's glass of beer. His right hand grabbed the glass, prevented it spilling as he apologized.
Newman had seen all this in a wall mirror as, hunched down in his ancient raincoat, he padded slowly to the door and into the street. He was having trouble assessing Lepard. Outside he hailed a cab, asked to be taken to Huston Road. No point in men tioning Park Crescent in this area.
Dusk was falling as Paula and Marler entered Tweed's office. Paula immediately gave Tweed a brief description of what they had witnessed in Finden Square. Her chief liked terse reports.
'You're thinking of the Rolls which cruised past us when we were standing outside the double murder location,' he suggested.
'Yes, I am.'
'Did you get the plate number of the Rolls driving away from Otranto's HQ?'
'No, I couldn't. Only saw the car's side parked.'
'Then it's a guess, not evidence?'
'My instinct rather than a guess,' she countered.
'And,' Marler intervened, 'in the past Paula's instinct has so often proved to be right.'
'True,' Tweed agreed. He lit one of his rare ciga rettes. 'We have several threads but none of them ties with the others…'
He stopped speaking as Newman opened the door, walked across the room, perched on the edge of Paula's desk next to Marler. He opened both hands in a negative gesture, then reported his experience inside the Pig's Trotters. He concluded with a shrug.
'Doesn't get us any further, does it?'
'You sound confused about this character Lepard,' Tweed told him.
'Well, if he is a killer he has good manners, which doesn't add up.'
'I've remarked before,' Tweed said amiably, 'that I never cease to be fascinated by the complexity of human nature, the mixture of good and evil in one man – or woman. You explained he was of mixed parentage. Some of these professional killers have egos as big as the Ritz. The strange name has sinister undertones. Le could be part of a French name, Pard might be short for Pardoe – might be his mother's maiden name.' He placed his hands behind his neck. 'It's another thread, floating in the wind.'
'So where do we go from here?' asked Paula.
'First, I suggest we all go home early, get a good night's sleep. Who knows? I need a very positive lead. Could come tomorrow.'
Tweed had no idea that the following morning the investigation would explode in their faces.
FIVE
Tweed arrived early at Park Crescent the next day, to find his whole team in his office, again with the excep tion of Harry Butler. As he hung up his camel-hair coat he glanced through the windows towards Regent's Park, which was bathed in sunlight. Another glorious May day. Monica leaned forward as he sat at his desk.
'You have a visitor in the waiting room downstairs. A Hector Humble.'
'Why park him in that dreary room?'
'He preferred not to invade your office until you arrived. He was quite firm about it.'
'Invite him up immediately.' Tweed sighed. 'He's come to warn me the photos of the two murdered women won't be ready for weeks.'
A clatter of feet on the stairs, the door opened,
Hector bounced into the room. His jacket was open and underneath he was clad in a waistcoat of many colours, all tasteful.
'Love your waistcoat,' Paula called out. 'Really unique.'
'Got it in the Old Kent Road. Half price – it had been displayed for weeks.'
Under his right arm he clutched two cardboard- backed envelopes. He was still blushing at Paula's praise, shyly accepted Monica's offer of coffee. He eased his rounded body into the chair Tweed, stand ing up, had gestured towards after shaking hands.
'Done it,' he said with an air of triumph. 'Worked dirough the night. Got absorbed. Knew you needed them urgently.'
Diving into the thicker envelope he produced a batch of photos. He spread two copies in front of Tweed, who stared in disbelief. He knew he was looking at glossy prints of the two murdered women as they had appeared alive. Even their long hair falling to their shoulders looked real.
The whole team gathered round the desk. Paula peered over his shoulder. She pursed her lips as she made her remark.
'They were both beautiful. We've got to get the swine who ruined them.'
'You have seven copies,' Hector went on. 'Don't look now inside this envelope. It will upset you. They're copies of how they looked before I rebuilt their faces. Just for your files.'
'But eventually,' Newman said fiercely, 'to show the jury when we've dragged the killer into court by his heels.'
The door opened and Howard, the Director, strolled in. He was a tall man with the beginnings of a stout stomach. He was perfectly dressed in a new grey Armani suit, pristine white shirt, cuffs shot beyond the sleeves, exposing gold cufflinks. An Hermes tie decorated the shirt front. Normally ami able, he had a serious expression as Tweed showed him the photos.
'Hector has performed a miracle. I told you about him before I went home last night.'
'Well, write out Mr Humble the cheque I approved.'
Tweed already had his chequebook out, was filling it in for ten thousand pounds. Hector protested.
