stabbing well after he was dead. An atrocious assault. Whoever did it searched his clothes. Everything has gone. No indication of his identity. And his wallet was taken. I've checked him thoroughly. He was stripped.'
'You missed nothing?' Tweed queried.
'Excuse me,' Marler said indignantly.
'Mind if I just check? Hold your torch steady.'
'Suit yourself.'
Tweed crouched down. He looked for a long time, then he put latex gloves on his hands. Gently he prised open the fingers of the clenched hand. No sign of rigor mortis. This had happened fairly recently. Inside the palm was a screwed-up piece of paper. Paula was already holding a transparent evidence bag. Tweed dropped the screwed-up piece of paper inside. Then he carefully lifted the side of the body. A piece of dark cloth was protruding. He hauled out a long length of black cloth, crumpled as though it had at one time been folded.
'Jesus!' exclaimed Newman. 'Taliban. A turban.'
Paula had her mobile ready and Tweed agreed she should call Buchanan. He looked up quickly.
'Don't let him see that bit of paper…'
It was after one in the morning when they sat down in Tweed's office. Buchanan had arrived quickly with an ambulance. Marler gave him a brief resume of events leading up to the hideous killing. Buchanan said he'd take a full statement later in the day.
Marler leant against a wall, lit a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was cold, as though suppressing strong emotion.
'Eddie was my best informant. He had contacts everywhere – even in Italy. Milan, I think. The poor devil deserved a better fate.'
'I think hell has come to London,' Tweed said quietly as Paula handed him the evidence bag.
Wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, Tweed carefully began unrolling the tightly screwed piece of paper. Then he took a lot of trouble smoothing it out on his desk.
'Doesn't mean a thing to me,' he commented.
'It's drawn in charcoal,' Marler said, peering over Tweed's shoulder. 'Eddie used charcoal to write anything. Kept a stick of it in his top breast pocket. The killer took that too.'
'Some kind of symbol,' Paula said, peering over the other shoulder. 'Could be anything.'
'Yet Eddie,' Tweed pointed out, 'thought it was so important he screwed it up inside his hand even when he was being stabbed to death. And it tells us nothing.' He stared down at what Eddie had scrawled on the sheet of paper.
5
At 8 a.m. the next morning, bitterly cold with a bleak overcast, Tweed arrived at his office. He was surprised to see all his staff waiting. Newman, relaxing in an armchair; Marler in his usual stance, leaning against a wall; Paula seated at her corner desk; Pete Nield and Harry Butler.
The last two were very tough and experienced legmen. They often worked together, a formidable team. The contrast between the two men could not be more marked. Nield, as usual, was smartly dressed, his grey business suit perfectly fitting his lean frame. In his thirties, his brown hair was well brushed, his small moustache neatly trimmed. He had come to Tweed from Oxford University and spoke well so was able to mix in any society. He was quiet, thoughtful.
Harry Butler was clad in a worn pair of jeans, a creased shirt which had seen better days. More heavily built than Nield, he was a dangerous opponent in a street brawl, his happy hunting ground the East End. He merged into that type of area well. Muggers took one look at his wide shoulders, his ham-like fists, his dark glaring eyes, and kept well away.
'Why is everyone so early?' Tweed enquired, removing his camel-hair coat and sitting behind the antique desk bought for him by his staff. He was becoming fond of it.
'I phoned everyone when I got home,' Marler explained. 'To tell them about Eddie. They take a grim view.'
'If I ever meet that Afghan killer,' Harry said forcefully, 'I'll kick him between the legs, then stamp on his face so his wretched mother wouldn't recognize him. That for starters. We're going to have to play this one very rough.'
Unlike Nield, perched on an arm of Newman's chair, Harry was sitting on the floor, stocky legs crossed. Tweed noticed he was wearing boots with metal rims. The phone rang, Monica answered, looked at Tweed.
'There's a Peregrine Palfry on the line. Says the Minister, Victor Warner, wants to see you in his office.'
'Tell Palfry I'm very busy – and that if the Minister wants to see me will he do me the courtesy of calling himself.'
Monica kept repeating the same message, then broke the connection. She sighed.
'I think he's one of those,' she remarked. 'He's up in the clouds and tried to treat me like a serf. I think I got under his skin when I kept repeating exactly the same words.'
Paula was smiling at Tweed. 'The Minister of Security is going to love you.'
'It's a tactic,' Tweed told her. 'If he really does have a reason for seeing me he'll swallow his pride, call me back.'
'You really are a devil,' she said.
Within five minutes the phone was ringing again. Monica listened, clamped a hand over the speaker. She was grinning.
'It's him, his lordship. He sounded very upper-crust but he was polite to me…'
'Tweed here. Is there a problem?'
'My dear Tweed, I really would appreciate it if you could pop over here. Can't explain why over the phone. I also appreciate a man in your position must be overwhelmed at times, but this is rather urgent. What time would suit you?'
'Now? I can be there in thirty minutes.'
'Splendid! I really would be most grateful for your cooperation. I look forward very much to seeing you…'
'Smooth as silk,' Tweed told them as he put on his coat. 'Paula, I'd like you to come with me. Don't expect to like him. Very upper-crust, I've heard. A cog from the old boys' network.'
'Can't wait,' she told him.
'Wearing that coat you look like a member of Special Branch,' Paula teased Tweed as they arrived at the tall doors closed at the entrance to the Ministry of Security. 'Nowadays a camel-hair coat is their uniform.'
'I like the coat,' Tweed replied as he pressed the bell.
One massive door was opened almost at once and Peregrine Palfry stood there to greet them with a smile. He shook hands with both of them as he ushered them into a vast hall.
'It's very good of you to traipse all this way to see the Minister. Strictly between us I think he might have asked to visit you.'
Tweed was surprised at the firmness of his hand clasp. Paula was surprised by his warm welcome. His face was pale, his hair jet black. Clean-shaven, he would be in his thirties and he struck her as athletic. Not at all what she had expected.
Walking swiftly, he led them up a wide flight of stairs, along a hallway, and paused before a door. He pulled a face, as much as to say, 'Here we go!' He had knocked once when a voice beyond the door called out loudly.
'Enter!'
The office beyond was spacious and the Minister stood up from behind a long imposing antique desk. He strode round to greet them. Very tall and thin, he carried himself very erect and the thinness extended to his long face. On the bridge of a strong nose were perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, and his cold blue eyes scanned his visitors swiftly. His mouth was wide and again thin, his chin suggested a touch of aggression.
He was dressed in country clothes, a smart hunter's jacket and polo trousers tucked inside gleaming knee- length boots. Smiling, he ushered them to an enormously wide couch and sat next to Paula with Tweed beyond her.
