Cell

No. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane was secreted inside a short cul-de-sac of small houses. As they drove in Paula quickly realized they were all conversions.

'They used to be garages,' she told Beaurain. 'Now they're nice little houses which probably cost a fortune. I think she must be at the end – even numbers on our right, odd ones on our left.'

Beaurain drove very slowly, bumping over the cobbled lane. He pulled up at the end where No. 50 was on the right. Two storeys high, the frontage was slim and painted white. The front door was blue. It was a neat, well- cared-for house.

Paula jumped out, followed by Beaurain, and pressed the brass doorbell, which gleamed. Inside they heard a dog start barking its head off. Paula smiled. Pooh was on guard. She pulled the collar of her windcheater up. It was almost dusk and the temperature was falling rapidly.

Mrs Wharton opened the door and Beaurain bent down to stroke Pooh who, recognizing them, stood up on his rear portion, with his front legs dangling. He was panting, hopefully with pleasure.

'Sorry to bother you,' Paula began, 'but Jules has something vital he needs to know urgently.'

'How nice to see you again. Do come in…'

Closing the door, she led them down a short narrow hall into a very small room, tastefully furnished. Space was clearly at a premium. She invited them to sit down on tapestry-covered chairs, offered them tea, which they both refused.

'Time is now against us,' Beaurain explained. 'I wonder if you could describe again that machine carried from the white van to the motorized trolley?' He took out a sketchpad Paula had handed to him in the car.

Mrs Wharton carried over another chair to sit alongside her guest. Paula produced from her satchel a fold-up ruler which she unfolded. Intuitively she had guessed what Jules was after. He smiled wrily at her.

'Reading my mind? As I suspect you do with Tweed.'

'Sometimes.'

'Measurements are important,' Beaurain explained, turning his attention back to Mrs Wharton.

'I'm not much good at them, I'm afraid.'

'I think we'll get there,' he assured her. 'It took six men to carry this machine. How wide would you say the support base was – the base the machine was perched on?'

'Show me by stretching your hands apart,' Paula suggested.

'Yes. I think I could do that.'

She stretched her hands wide apart. Paula leant forward, used the ruler to measure the distance. She whistled. 'At least two feet wide.' Beaurain began drawing, starting with the base support.

'Now,' Beaurain continued, 'how tall would you say the machine was – from the base to the tip of the shell or vertical torpedo, as you described it, that it was supporting?' Mrs Wharton held one hand close to the floor, stretched the other hand as high as she could into the air. Again Paula measured. 'About two and a half feet at least.' Beaurain drew the outline of a monster shell, tapering to detonation tip, writing in the measurement once more. He showed her his drawing. 'Anything like that?'

'The body of the shell was fatter. 5 She held out her hands apart. 'About so much.'

Paula measured the distance. 'Lordy, the main diameter of the shell was over a foot wide.'

Beaurain re-drew the main body of the shell, increasing its size, then showed it to their hostess. She stared for a short time.

'You know,' she said, 'I think you've got it perfectly. Evil-looking thing.'

'We are dealing with evil men,' Beaurain told her as he wrote in the measurement in his neat hand. He then swivelled the sketchpad so she could see it clearly.

'Yes, that's the thing,' she said with a hint of vehemence.

'Mrs Wharton,' Paula said, 'we can't thank you enough for all the help you've given us. This is top classified data…'

'Don't worry.' Mrs Wharton smiled, 'I can keep my mouth shut. And I will. I do think you've got what you need. I do have a good visual memory. Won't you stay for tea?'

'Love to,' said Beaurain, standing up with Paula. 'But we have to get back quickly. Thank you again.'

As she led them back to the door Beaurain remembered to bend down and stroke Pooh, trotting happily along beside him. As she opened the door grey mist seeped in. It was going to be a foggy night.

'What do you think?' Paula asked, as Beaurain three-point turned their car ready to drive out of the cul-de- sac.

'I don't like it, don't like it at all. I just wonder how many of those things, as Mrs Wharton called them, al- Qa'eda have.'

Inside the power station Ali stood close to Proctor, the guard. He held an automatic close to his forehead, touched him with the tip of the weapon.

'You told me your chief, Mr Dixon, calls you once in the evening to make sure everything is all right here. Now when he does call I want you to remember your wife. Her life is in your hands. If you sound nervous, or in any way make Dixon suspicious, you'll only see your wife when they ask you to go to the morgue to identify her.'

'I can do it,' Proctor said hoarsely. 'But not if you're holding that bloody gun at my forehead.'

'That was not quite your natural voice, Mr Proctor. Try again,' he ordered, holding the gun behind his back.

'I can do it.' The hoarseness was now absent.

'Much better. Imagine you are talking to your wife when the time comes.'

Within minutes the phone rang. Proctor didn't move. Angrily Ali gestured for him to pick it up. Proctor shook his head, stared at Ali.

'He wouldn't expect me to be sitting next to the phone. Why don't you shut your filthy mouth and let me handle this?'

After a minute had passed, during which Ali had trouble not waving the gun at-him, Proctor picked up the phone.

'Mr Dixon?'

'Yes, it's me, Vince. Is everything all right down there?'

Ali was leaning close to Proctor, so he could monitor what was said.

'Everything is tickety-boo, sir. The three engineers are down with the plant, just keeping an eye on things, although it is automatic.'

'Good. Get plenty of sleep when you come off duty tomorrow. Good night.'

'Good night, sir…'

'What was that friggin' business about the engineers?' Ali demanded in a fury. 'A secret warning?'

'Don't be stupid!' Proctor shouted. 'I always mention them. They're just a stand-by. Not really needed since the system is automatic. But I always mention them. He'd have thought it odd if I hadn't friggin' mentioned them. Satisfied?'

'Don't yell at me. Your meal is being prepared by Mehmet so you can eat soon.' Ali smiled. 'You're being fed in case Dixon makes an unprecedented extra call later.'

Ali didn't feel it necessary to inform Proctor the three engineers had earlier had their throats cut, the bodies then weighted with chains and thrown into the river.

At Park Crescent Tweed had drawn up a list of suspects living in Carpford. He read out the list to Newman.

'Victor Warner

Drew Franklin

Peregrine Palfry

Billy Hogarth

Martin Hogarth.'

'You've left out Margesson,' Newman commented.

'If you say so.' He added Margesson's name.

'And Eva Brand,' Newman told him.

'She doesn't live up at Carpford,' Tweed objected.

'No, but I'll bet she visits Warner at his house up there with work.'

'All right, if you insist.'