the phone number for Monica's second telephone for outside calls.
'Make it seven o'clock the day after tomorrow,' Paula decided. 'At Marino's.'
'Give you a buzz,' he said, and walked off into the drizzle with long strides.
Newman had hailed a cab and they all piled inside. Tweed gave the driver the address of Park Crescent and then closed the glass panel so he couldn't hear what they were saying. He had seen the expression on Paula's face. She had perched on the folding seat facing him.
'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' she began. 'All right, just before he pushed off Black Jack was the soul of good manners, but you didn't see him when we were dancing together.'
'No, I didn't,' Tweed admitted quietly.
'He was drunk, behaving like an animal. Now you ask me to go and have a drink with him on my own in a bar. His story about knowing something about Adam Holgate is probably just that. A story, a fairytale.'
'I'm inclined to agree,' said Newman. 'He's the biggest liar in town. Then there was that tripe about someone offering him ten thousand to rough up Tweed. He said that to get your attention. Comes outside and he's as nice as pie.'
'My turn?' Tweed enquired quietly. 'I was watching him when he said he knew something about Holgate. I am supposed to be good at spotting when someone is lying. I don't think he was. He might just have information of a vital nature. He's the sort of chap who gets around. Paula, if you don't like the idea we'll drop it. You don't take any calls from him.'
The cab driver was aware a row was going on. Newman saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror, glared at him. The driver looked away. Paula had quietened down, was staring at Tweed thoughtfully.
'I suppose I could come with her to Marino's,' Newman suggested.
'Won't work,' said Paula. 'He wants a girl he can have a drink with. Then - and only then - he might talk.'
'Both of you think about it,' Tweed suggested. 'And I've just realized I stupidly gave the driver Park Crescent as our destination. Our first stopping point is Paula's flat in Fulham.' As he reached forward to slide back the glass to speak to the driver Paula's mobile phone buzzed.
He waited while she answered it. Her conversation was short. She put away the mobile, looked at Tweed. 'You gave the right address. That was Monica asking us to go to the office. Something has happened but she wouldn't say what - not over a mobile phone.'
Newman sighed, grinned wrily. 'Sounds like another crisis. Something tells me this is going to be a long night.'
'Professor Saafeld called,' Monica told Tweed the moment he entered his office with the others at his heels. 'Asked you to contact him no matter what time of night it was.'
'Get him on the line,' Tweed said as Paula took his coat.
'Tweed here,' he began as he heard Saafeld's deep voice.
'You know I occasionally attend a conference of pathologists in America?'
'Yes.'
'I take the International Herald Tribune, It has a long article in one issue on the murder at Pinedale in Maine . . .'
'I know. Newman was talking about it this morning. I've read it.'
'Then you may have noticed the autopsy on the victim, a man called Hank Foley, was carried about by a top medical examiner brought up from Boston. Dr Ramsey. We happen to be chums. All this goes back a few days ago. I called Ramsey and we compared notes. The upshot is he's sent me copies of the photos he took, plus X-rays. They came by Fed-Ex this evening. In return I've sent Ramsey copies of my photographs.'
'So?'
'I wouldn't be adamant. I didn't do the autopsy on Hank Foley. But, having studied all Ramsey sent me, compared his photos with mine, I'm pretty sure an axe was used to behead him. One very strong slicing blow just beneath the chin, and at the same angle.'
'But is that conclusive?' Tweed persisted.
'The razor-sharp blade used has a notch in it - same shape, same place as the blade used on Holgate. Have you a strong magnifier?'
'Yes. One very like the one we
'Make it seven o'clock the day after tomorrow,' Paula decided. 'At Marino's.'
'Give you a buzz,' he said, and walked off into the drizzle with long strides.
Newman had hailed a cab and they all piled inside. Tweed gave the driver the address of Park Crescent and then closed the glass panel so he couldn't hear what they were saying. He had seen the expression on Paula's face. She had perched on the folding seat facing him.
'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' she began. 'All right, just before he pushed off Black Jack was the soul of good manners, but you didn't see him when we were dancing together.'
'No, I didn't,' Tweed admitted quietly.
'He was drunk, behaving like an animal. Now you ask me to go and have a drink with him on my own in a bar. His story about knowing something about Adam Holgate is probably just that. A story, a fairytale.'
'I'm inclined to agree,' said Newman. 'He's the biggest liar in town. Then there was that tripe about someone offering him ten thousand to rough up Tweed. He said that to get your attention. Comes outside and he's as nice as pie.'
'My turn?' Tweed enquired quietly. 'I was watching him when he said he knew something about Holgate. I am supposed to be good at spotting when someone is lying. I don't think he was. He might just have information of a vital nature. He's the sort of chap who gets around. Paula, if you don't like the idea we'll drop it. You don't take any calls from him.'
The cab driver was aware a row was going on. Newman saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror, glared at him. The driver looked away. Paula had quietened down, was staring at Tweed thoughtfully.
'I suppose I could come with her to Marino's,' Newman suggested.
'Won't work,' said Paula. 'He wants a girl he can have a drink with. Then - and only then - he might talk.'
'Both of you think about it,' Tweed suggested. 'And I've just realized I stupidly gave the driver Park Crescent as our destination. Our first stopping point is Paula's flat in Fulham.' As he reached forward to slide back the glass to speak to the driver Paula's mobile phone buzzed.
He waited while she answered it. Her conversation was short. She put away the mobile, looked at Tweed. 'You gave the right address. That was Monica asking us to go to the office. Something has happened but she wouldn't say what - not over a mobile phone.'
Newman sighed, grinned wrily. 'Sounds like another crisis. Something tells me this is going to be a long night.'
'Professor Saafeld called,' Monica told Tweed the moment he entered his office with the others at his heels. 'Asked you to contact him no matter what time of night it was.'
'Get him on the line,' Tweed said as Paula took his coat.
'Tweed here,' he began as he heard Saafeld's deep voice.
'You know I occasionally attend a conference of pathologists in America?'
'Yes.'
'I take the International Herald Tribune, It has a long article in one issue on the murder at Pinedale in Maine . . .'
'I know. Newman was talking about it this morning. I've read it.'
'Then you may have noticed the autopsy on the victim, a man called Hank Foley, was carried about by a top medical examiner brought up from Boston. Dr Ramsey. We happen to be chums. All this goes back a few days ago. I called Ramsey and we compared notes. The upshot is he's sent me copies of the photos he took, plus X-rays. They came by Fed-Ex this evening. In return I've sent Ramsey copies of my photographs.'
'So?'
'I wouldn't be adamant. I didn't do the autopsy on Hank Foley. But, having studied all Ramsey sent me, compared his photos with mine, I'm pretty sure an axe was used to behead him. One very strong slicing blow just beneath the chin, and at the same angle.'
'But is that conclusive?' Tweed persisted.
'The razor-sharp blade used has a notch in it - same shape, same place as the blade used on Holgate. Have you a strong magnifier?'
'Yes. One very like the one we
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