Cell

'I am so sorry to drag you down here but I do have a Cabinet meeting soon. Pure waste of time. Bores me stiff listening to gabble-gabble. Now, what would you like to quench your thirst? Tea, coffee – maybe something a little stronger?'

Tweed refused anything and Paula followed suit. Warner looked over at the open door where Palfry stood waiting to bring refreshment, shook his head. Palfry dipped his head, withdrew, closing the door.

'Good chap, Perry,' Warner remarked. 'Member of MENSA – not that it impresses me. But he's so reliable and has the memory of an elephant.' He was addressing his remarks to Paula. 'I have heard of the legendary Paula Grey. Makes me wonder whether I should talk to her rather than you, Tweed.' He said it with a smile.

'If I am regarded anywhere as legendary it is exaggerated wildly,' she told him. 'Mr Tweed is the power.'

'Then I will talk to both of you.' He looked across at Tweed. 'I hope you will not take what I say as personal.'

'Depends what you say, Minister.'

Paula was startled. Minister? Then she realized Tweed was using softening up tactics, something he rarely did.

'It has come to my shell-like ear,' Warner began gravely, 'that you two have been poking about up at Carpford. I regard that as my private sanctuary.'

'Surely you are worried about the mysterious disappearance of your wife,' Tweed replied bluntly.

'I am worried sick. It is so unlike Linda to take off into the wild blue yonder. And the police are hopeless. That chap Buchanan simply says he has no news yet. After three weeks. I ask you.'

'Superintendent Buchanan is the cleverest and most determined policeman in this country. The car your wife was driving, which was found abandoned, has been subjected to the most thorough lab search. No clues at all found inside it. Have you yet had any kind of message demanding a ransom? If you have you must tell me – even if the caller told you that was the last thing you must do.'

'No one has called.' Warner's voice had changed, was rasping. He was leaning against Paula to speak to Tweed and she caught a whiff of after-shave lotion. She knew he was quite unaware he was pressing against her as he continued vehemently. 'I have received no ransom demand. Dammit, man, if I had I would have told Buchanan. And, once again, why were you poking about down at Carpford?'

'Because, at Buchanan's urgent request, I've reverted for the moment to my old role of detective. You should be grateful.'

'Oh, I see.' He sat back. 'Someone told me you were once the star turn at the old Scotland Yard. Find anything? See any of the people up there?'

'Olaf Margesson for one. He's a fanatic on religion. Do you know him?'

'He's invited me over for the occasional glass of sherry. Don't understand your reference to religion. We talked mostly about cricket. Anyone else?'

'Mrs Gobble.'

'She's potty. Quite harmless though. So you got nowhere?'

'I didn't say that. There are rumours that al-Qa'eda has arrived over here…'

The effect of Tweed's words was electric. Warner jumped up from the couch, marched back to his desk, sat in the high chair behind it. Paula was astonished at the change in his personality. He looked choleric, his voice grim.

'Now listen to me, Tweed. I know you have in your outfit that foreign correspondent reporter, Robert Newman. If he tries to write about those rumours we'll put out a D notice, stop him in his tracks. It's an absurd idea. I will tell you some criminal organization from abroad may be trying to establish some system in Britain with the drug cartel in Colombia. That's absolutely off the record. Muzzle that wild dog, Newman. Do you understand me?'

The couch they sat on faced the elevated desk. Paula was staring at Victor Warner's expression, hardly able to credit a man's face could undergo such a change. The long bony face was a picture of violent rage, mouth open, exposing teeth like those of a small shark.

'I gather,' Tweed said slowly, calmly, 'that you don't want Newman reporting the possible arrival of a drug cartel operating out of Colombia. Like me, I'm sure he hasn't heard a whiff of such an event. So he's hardly likely to write about it.'

'I was talking about this al-Qa'eda nonsense. For God's sake don't you realize the panic such an idiotic rumour would cause in London? After the World Trade Center atrocity in New York. Panic, panic, PANIC!'

'So there's not an atom of truth in those rumours?'

Warner threw both arms in the air. He looked up at the ceiling as though seeking salvation.

'Haven't you yet grasped it's all rubbish? Do I have to say all over again what I have already explained to you so absolutely clearly? Don't you think we would know if there was even the merest hint of truth in such a crazy idea? You really are sorely trying my patience.'

'And,' Tweed said, standing up, 'you are absolutely sure you have received no word from anyone since your wife vanished into thin air? Even a few words from the lady herself?'

'Nothing, as I have already told you once. Tweed, you really are an extraordinary fellow – you need everything repeated to you twice. I'm even beginning to doubt that you should hold the position you do.'

'But that decision…' Tweed smiled '… doesn't come within your province, does it? I hope you soon receive better news about Linda.'

'Linda?'

'I met her at one or two parties. If I have any news I'll let you know.'

Tweed had reached the door with Paula by his side. When he spoke they both looked back. The Minister was standing now behind his desk, leaning forward, penetrating eyes observing them over his pince-nez. He was a striking-looking man, Paula thought.

'We will keep in touch,' Warner called out, smiling.

Tweed opened the door and Palfry was standing just out of sight by the wall. Above his head was a ventilator. He had obviously been listening. So much for security at the Ministry. Tweed closed the door and Palfry joined them as they walked towards the staircase, whispering.

'Miss Grey, if you ever find yourself in Carpford do come and have a cup of tea with me. Mine is the Round House.'

'Thank you, Mr Palfry. I'll be glad to do that if ever the opportunity arises.'

'The Minister gets like that sometimes,' Palfry continued. 'You should hear him in the House when he's lashing the Opposition.'

'I don't think I'd want to,' Tweed replied.

She was tall and slim, even seated in the armchair facing Newman, who leant forward in his own chair, their knees almost touching. Clad in a black trouser suit, her jacket was tight enough to reveal her good figure. Her mane of jet-black hair draped over her shoulders. Newman looked up, interrupting his animated conversation with the visitor. He was standing up and the striking girl joined him, inches taller than Paula.

'George told me a lady had brushed past him and come up after leaving a box of Fortnum amp; Mason chocolates on his desk,' Tweed said gruffly.

'This is Eva Brand,' Newman said hastily. 'The niece of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'

'Mr Tweed,' Eva Brand explained, her voice soft but with an underlying stronger timbre, 'you were pointed out to me by Drew at a party. He said you were the only man who could save Britain one day in a time of great peril.'

'Did he?' Like Paula, Tweed was stripping off his coat. 'Anything he says – or writes – usually has a snide touch. I expect he was mocking me.'

'No, he was very serious.' Paula was watching her warily. Eva's large dark eyes seemed to look through her as she assessed her. Eva extended her hand and Paula shook it, noting the strength in her shapely fingers. Tweed also accepted her handshake, but briefly, then went to sit behind his desk, gesturing for her to sit down. The stranger crossed