Free The Main Chance by Colin Forbes

into Tweed's bedroom.
    She ran to the door. Tweed, who woke swiftly, was already out of bed. He had automatically switched on his bedside lamp. By its illumination she saw an object on the carpet shaped like a massive pine cone. A grenade.
    ` Get back into the bloody living room! '
    She was frozen still. Frozen with terror for Tweed's life. He rushed forward, bent down, grabbed the object, hurled it out through the window. They both waited for the detonation. The silence was only broken by the sound of the brown Ford racing away up the street.
    `I'm calling Harry,' Tweed said. 'He's the explosives expert.'
    `What actually happened?' Paula wondered.
    `Harry will tell us. After that I'm getting dressed.
    Won't sleep tonight.'
    `Neither will I.'
    She fetched a dustpan and brush while Tweed was phoning. She swept up the broken glass, including tiny shards.
    When she entered the kitchen, Tweed, fully dressed, was preparing toast, boiled eggs, orange juice and coffee for an early breakfast.
    During their meal they heard Harry's square steel- plated truck arrive. Paula got up, rushed to the window. Tweed followed at a steady pace. Looking out, they saw the truck parked and Harry, carrying a metal box in one hand, a powerful torch in the other, walk towards the object lying in the road.
    He picked it up after shining his torch on it, raised it to his ear, shook it, placed it inside the metal box. Paula never ceased to be amazed by Harry's insouciance in such situations. Looking up he saw them peering out, walked to the front door which Paula had darted down to open. Tweed followed at his normal deliberate pace.
    `Morning folks,' Harry greeted them. 'Grenade? It was a dud. No hole to pull out the pin. A frightener. See you later...'
    `They knew which window to throw it through,' Tweed commented. 'They know too much,' he concluded as they went back up to the first floor.
    `I saw who threw the thing,' Paula told him, producing her charcoal sketch. 'I saw him. Evelyn-Ashton. Here he is.'
    `When we get to Park Crescent have a photocopy made for all the members of the team so they'll know who they're looking for.'
    The time bomb at Hengistbury predicted by Tweed had detonated within minutes of their arrival at Park Crescent.

    9

    Paula just had time to obtain photocopies of her sketch of Evelyn-Ashton, then distribute one to every member of the team. Tweed had explained to them tersely the significance of Evelyn-Ashton. 'Very much doubt that's his real name...'
    `Commander Roy Buchanan needs to see you very urgently,' Monica broke in after answering the phone. `On the phone, you mean?'
    `No, he's just arrived, waiting downstairs.'
    `Ask him to come up.'
    Paula stood up from her corner desk. Marler, leaning against the wall near her, was by her side when she looked out of the window. An unmarked police car was parked below. Behind it stood a gleaming Rolls-Royce.
    `That Rolls belongs to Professor Saafeld, the eminent pathologist,' she whispered. 'I don't like this a bit.'
    Commander Buchanan came into the office. Tall and lanky, in his late forties, he was an old friend of Tweed's. Paula had expected him to be wearing his uniform as Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. Instead he wore a dark grey business suit. Normally his expression was amiable but now it had a grim set to it. He ignored an armchair, picked up a hard-backed chair, planted it in front of Tweed's desk, folded his arms.
    `I am the bearer of grim tidings,' he warned as he placed his briefcase by the chair.
    `Then tell me,' Tweed said calmly.
    `Mrs Bella Main has been murdered in her study at Hengistbury Manor. The method used is strange and quite horrific.'

    A rare and heavy silence descended on the office. They were all staring at Tweed. He had been told about a number of hideous events and his expression had always been impassive. Not this time.
    He sat very still, almost like a statue. Brief flashes of different emotions crossed his face. Something akin to grief. Fury.