Rhinoceros (7 page)

Then she noticed what she should have remembered.
Each of the terraced mansions had a basement area with
steps leading down to it beyond open railed gates. She
looked back once more, saw they were still coming, dived
down the metal treads into an open basement area.

Only then did she realize it was occupied. An old tramp,
holding a bottle of whisky, was seated in a corner. He
tipped his cap to her.

'Like a nip of the good stuff, lady?' he suggested, lifting
the bottle towards her.

His accent was Cockney. His face was lined with age
but his eyes were bright with intelligence.
She had to trust
someone. She spoke slowly, making her voice tremble -not a difficult task.

'Two men are coming after me, trying to hurt me.'

She had avoided using the word 'kill' - too dramatic and she was desperate for him to believe her. He used the neck
of the bottle to point to an alcove under the pavement.

'Get you under there, lady. They stores the rubbish bags
there, but it's the only 'idin' place.'

Lisa crouched down, went under the pavement, sat with
her back to a wall. There was a smell of decay that she was
hardly aware of. She felt sure the two thugs would come
this way.

'I do have my Beretta,' she said to herself. 'Don't show
it. The tramp will be scared out of his wits. Like me . . .'

The heavy clump of feet walking along the pavement
above came closer. She froze when they stopped above her head. The tramp lifted the bottle, swallowed, pulled
his cap lower as though going to sleep.

'You down there. Seen a girl with red 'air comin'
along 'ere?'

The tramp opened his eyes, pushed up his cap. Then he did what she had feared he would do after the reference to
red hair. He looked across at her. She knew a curl of her
hair had slipped below the scarf. They'd come down the steps and she had no escape route.

Tweed, with Paula and Newman, had mounted the steps
to the stately old house in Eaton Square, part of a terrace,
when the front door opened. A man wearing a suit which
would have been fashionable thirty years earlier emerged.
Peering at Tweed, he descended the steps, swinging his
silver-topped cane, and walked away. Tweed still held the door open while he read the names and numbers on a plate
screwed to the side wall, then walked inside.

'I'll do the talking,' he told Newman.

'So I'll be the silent partner.'

The trees in the park outside beyond the road were black
stark skeletons. A raw wind blew round the square. Once inside the hall Tweed found the right number, pressed the bell. They heard a lock turned, a chain removed. The door opened.

'Yes?'

'I'm Tweed. These are my assistants, Paula Grey and
Robert Newman. Are you Mrs Mordaunt?'

'Yes.'

She was a brunette, attractive up to a point, her coif
feured hair trimmed short. Wearing a black dress with
a white lace collar, she had a long sharp nose, a full
mouth, pencilled eyebrows and cold dark eyes. Tweed cleared his throat.

'I'm very sorry to trouble you but I'm here regarding
the investigation into the tragic business of your husband's death. My condolences, although words are meaningless.'

'You'd better come in.'

She ushered them into a large drawing room with tall
windows, tasteful and comfortable furnishings - sofas
and armchairs covered with chintz, matched by long curtains draped to the floor. Several Sheraton antiques,
an unfinished piece of embroidery draped over the back
of a sofa.

'Please sit down.'

'Thank you. We won't be long.'

'That's good. I have to go out soon. Would you like a
glass of sherry?' she asked in her cultured voice when they
were seated in armchairs.

'Only if you will join us.'

Tweed had expected her to ask for identification but she
had omitted to make the request. In grief you are not the
same person. He had noticed a large bottle of sherry, half
empty, on a coffee table, an ashtray beside it full of used
stubs. Almost as though she had been waiting for them.
A water glass with a little sherry in it was also perched on
the table. They all detested sherry but Tweed thought it might help to relax her.

'How unsightly,' she remarked and removed the water
glass. 'I'll get the right glasses.'

She went over to a large cupboard, opened it and exposed
shelves of leather-bound books. She swore, slammed the
doors shut. 'Hardly know what I'm doing.' She walked to
the only other large cupboard by the wall, a contrast in style to the cupboard she had first opened. Pulling back
the doors, she revealed a collection of expensive glassware. Selecting four sherry glasses, she brought them to the table.
Paula glanced at Tweed. He was watching her closely.

'I'm feeling better now,' she said as she poured from the
bottle. 'Now, how can I help you?' she asked after sitting down, crossing her legs and sipping her sherry.

'Do you know whether your husband was under any
kind of pressure recently?' Tweed enquired.

'Pressure isn't the word for it.' As she spoke she seemed to be looking at something beyond Tweed's left shoulder. 'I have been worried. Very. That beast Gavin Thunder is a
slave-driver. Jeremy had very little sleep for weeks on end.
And I never knew when he'd arrive home.'

'Mrs Mordaunt.' Paula had leant towards her. 'We
understand you had a pet name for your husband. What
was it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

Tweed, annoyed at the interruption, began cleaning his
glasses with a clean handkerchief. During an interrogation a diversion could ruin the whole process. Paula persisted.

'A pet name - used between you and maybe at times when you had close friends with you. Not unusual with couples who are married.'

'I don't want to talk about that.'

'So,' Tweed intervened firmly, 'perhaps he was depressed?'

'Yes, he was,' she replied eagerly. 'Very depressed.'

'Did Gavin Thunder ever visit you here?'

'I've never met that man. Don't want to. I'm sure that
his demanding personality didn't help the
situation at
all.'

'A delicate question,' Tweed said carefully. 'It would have been understandable in such a situation if Jeremy
drank quite a lot
..."

'Emptied whisky bottle after whisky bottle.' She had
been answering questions more quickly after Paula's one query. She looked at her wristwatch, encrusted with dia
monds. 'I hope you don't mind, but is there much more?
I have a car calling for me and an urgent appointment
to keep.'

Tweed stood up and Paula and Newman joined him.
Paula stared round the room and then at their hostess who
was reaching for a sable coat flung over the back of a couch.
Tweed thanked her for her time as she led the way to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, producing a ring of keys. Attempting to insert a key she swore again.

'All these damned keys. I never remember which is
which.' As she inserted another key she spoke over her
shoulder. 'I will just say goodbye . . .' She had opened
the door and a limo was parked outside. A uniformed
chauffeur was striding up and down the pavement. 'Joseph
knows I am late . . .'

Her shoes click-clacked down the steps. She had left
Tweed to close the front door. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car, closed it, hurried to get behind the
wheel. Paula noted the limo's plate number.

Tweed held the front
door open. A tall woman in a fur
coat, beak-nosed, probably over seventy but with refined
features, had begun to ascend the steps in a stately manner.
Tweed opened-the door wider.

'We've just been to see Mrs Mordaunt,' he explained.
'The lady you passed as you arrived and got into the
limo.'

'I beg your pardon, young man.' Her manner was
imperious. 'That was
not
Mrs Jeremy Mordaunt. A com
plete stranger.'

'Excuse me, are you sure?'

'Am I sure?' Her manner was indignant. 'I have been living here for over ten years. Don't you think I should
recognize my neighbours by now?'

Having said which, she sailed into the building like a galleon about to open fire on the enemy.

CHAPTER 3

'Tweed is dead.'

The man, known as Mr Blue to a very few top officers
in certain security circles, relaxed while he spoke to the
aggressive man at the other end of the line. He sat at the
back of the Mayfair bar. It had a long counter running
along the opposite side. He was the only customer and the notice displayed on his table bothered him not at all.
Use
of mobile phones is forbidden.

Arriving in the exclusive establishment, he had asked the barman for the most expensive brandy he could see. He had tipped the barman generously so he knew no complaint would be made.

Earlier, after placing his glass on the table, he had walked into the cloakroom at the rear. Alongside the entrance the words FIRE EXI'I were prominently attached to the wall. Walking to the fire door he lifted the steel bar, pushed the door open, peered out. He was looking into a deserted mews. A few yards to his right it led into a busy street.

Satisfied that he had an escape route
-
a precaution
he never neglected - he returned to the table, drank
some brandy and made his call. His voice was prudently low. The voice at the other end challenged his statement
rudely.

'How can you be certain he is dead?'

Mr Blue paused, lit a menthol cigarette. He took his
time answering. He had realized long ago that people swal
lowed everything he said if they had to extract information
bit by bit.

'Two bullets hit the target, I was told. Tweed slumped down. The car apparently ran into a wall. No one left the
car while it was visible to the two men who accomplished their task. If that isn't enough for you then there is nothing
more to say.'

He rang off before the other man could react in his normal blustering manner.

Stop looking at me, for God's sake,
Lisa said to herself,
willing the tramp to transfer his gaze anywhere else.

It seemed to work. The tramp looked at his whisky
bottle, capped it. He shifted his position so he was sitting
more upright. He burped, then looked up at the railings
along the pavement.