'Isn't the first sentence libellous?' she wondered.
'Just checked it with our lawyer. He says it's all right.'
'Warner will go potty when he reads the reference to al-Qa'eda. He's trying to keep any reference to them in the press under wraps.'
'May wake up the PM at the eleventh hour. I am a responsible journalist, Miss Grey.'
'You don't think Warner can handle the crisis then?'
'I don't think Warner is handling the situation. That para will hit the Cabinet like a bombshell. Which is my motive.'
'You'll drive back to London with this copy in time to get it into tomorrow's edition?'
'You think I'm clueless, Miss Grey?' he said sarcastically. 'I shall transmit it to the editor over the phone tonight. Never missed a deadline yet. Is Tweed beginning to get a grip on his widespread investigation? The energy of your chief.'
'He's pursuing all leads,' she said cautiously.
'Oh, come on, Miss Grey! That's the kind of nonsense statement the police issue when they don't know what they're doing.'
His tone dripped sarcasm. He folded his arms, walked away and sat on the sofa. At no time since she had arrived had he stood close to her, let alone touched her. He crossed his legs.
'Do give me credit for knowing what's going on, Miss Grey. Instead of wasting time in London, examining the mutilated body of an informant called Eddie in Covent Garden, he'd do better to come up here, grill everyone of the sinister lot who live here. Tweed should be here,' he snapped. 'At least you have come. Seen anyone else?'
'Yes, I have. Peregrine Palfry, then Margesson, who slammed the door in my face. After that Billy Hogarth, who happened to have his brother, Martin, with him.'
'Martin? You're on the right track. You've done well so far. Can't remember when I said that to anyone else.'
'I'd better go now.' She was putting on her windcheater. 'I would like to thank you for giving me so much time. You'll want to transmit your latest commentary.'
'Yes, true.' He stood up, a lean athletic figure. 'How are you going to get back to London? It's late.'
'I have my car parked safely away.'
He had accompanied her to the door which he opened. He was close to her as he whispered in her ear.
'There's no safety up here…'
She started walking back to the shed where her car was parked. Drew Franklin had a powerful personality. She was almost sorry to leave him. If anything the fog seemed denser, an opaque cloud which swirled slowly round her. Made her feel nervous. She was still close to Drew Franklin's house when she sensed someone was behind her. She was turning her head when she was struck with a ferocious blow. She fell forward, diving into an endless abyss of darkness.
24
She woke slowly, had trouble thinking, felt as though she had been drugged. Her eyes were closed. She kept them closed, hoping her head would clear, her brain would start functioning.
Gradually she realized she was stretched out on her back and lying on a bed of hard boards. Feeling was returning. She listened for a long time, eyes still closed. Her arms were stretched out, lying on her body. Something was pinioning her wrists together. She was listening to check whether a guard was with her. She heard nothing. A tomb-like silence.
It was cold. Gently she twiddled her toes. She was still wearing her boots. Where the hell was she? She risked opening her eyes quickly. What she saw was not reassuring. The room was square, the floor paved with stone slabs, no windows. Over to her right a heavy wooden door, a barred window in its upper half, a cover over the window on the other side. She eased herself up, felt terribly stiff. How long had she been lying here?
Her left arm ached, the sleeves of the windcheater had been pulled up. In her forearm where it hurt a plaster had been attached. She was drugged. She raised her aching arms, saw the rope binding her wrists together, with about a foot of slack between the rope round her wrists. They had also roped her ankles round the boots. Her legs had swollen. Maybe they'd had trouble trying to take off the boots, had given up trying.
With a great effort, she sat up, twisted her head to see behind her. A stone wall with a peculiar plaque, a large circle set into the wall. The plaque carried a symbol she didn't recognize. She made no attempt to read the brief Arabic wording.
She realized they had left her watch on her wrist. She checked the time. Eight o'clock. In the night or in the morning? She had no idea. She lay back in her original position, exhausted. She was hungry. A wave of her helplessness swept over her. No good. She bit her tongue carefully. The pain brought about sudden recovery. She began to think.
She realized for the first time her prison was illuminated by a light in the ceiling, a light protected by a glass box with thin wire bars. Presumably so it wouldn't be smashed by the prisoner. She heard the cover over the window in the door opening, closed her eyes, sagged back. Someone was coming to see her.
Another sound. The turning of a rusty key in a lock. As the door swung inwards she peered quickly through almost closed eyes. The man who entered was hampered, carrying a large-plastic container, a glass protected with clingfilm or something similar.
She saw a tall slim man in his late twenties, his face and arms brown, hair cut short. She closed her eyes as he re-locked the door, leaving the key on the inside of the lock. The ceiling light went out. Most reassuring. She heard him approaching the wide bed, putting what he'd been carrying on the stone floor. He was close to her now. He slapped the side of her face, spoke in English.
'Wake up! It must have worn off now.'
Another slap to the other side of her face. She opened her eyes. He held a large flashlight beamed on her head. She groaned, said something deliberately unintelligible. Her next words were clear but hoarse.
'Put on the friggin' light… Dopey…'
To her surprise he went back to the door, pressed a switch. The ceiling light came on. Returning, he switched off the flashlight, laid it on the floor. She heard it rolling away under the bed. He rasped out his annoyance in a language she didn't understand. She made a great effort to divert his attention.
'You'll… go to prison… for this. For a long time.'
'You are the one in prison. Whether you ever leave it is dependent on yourself.'
She was staring at him now. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of blue slacks. The forearms exposed by the half- sleeved T-shirt exposed more brown skin. His young face was smooth-skinned, the eyes dark, soulless. He stared at her without expression. Egyptian was her best guess about his nationality. His arms looked strong, wiry. Difficult to tackle. She deliberately exaggerated the hoarseness of her voice.
'I'm thirsty… Water… I need… water.'
He nodded. Took the glass out of its protective covering, poured liquid which looked like water from the canister. He handed her the glass. She snarled at him.
'I've… been drugged… you drink first.'
'But of course.' He lifted the large container, drank from it. She still held on to the glass without drinking. 'You see,' he continued, 'just water. Nothing in it.'
Her throat was crying out with thirst. She forced herself to drink slowly. When the glass was empty, she shoved it at him. Her movements were difficult with her hands tied together.
'More… more,' she croaked.
He refilled the glass, seated on the edge of the bed. She took it from him. Again she compelled herself to drink slowly. She was feeling half-alive now. Her brain ticked over. How to handle him. Every time he spoke his face had the awful blank expression. No emotion whatsoever.
'Now you answer questions,' he told her. 'Information is what I need. What does Tweed know? How far has he got with his ridiculous investigation?'
She stopped herself protesting at 'ridiculous'. Instead she sagged back. She moved slowly, as though
