felt her feet move off grass onto paving. She jerked her head up. The hood slipped back and she had a glimpse of the outside world.
She was looking up at a tiled cottage roof. A crooked chimney tilted down towards her. She knew where she was. Marsh rammed the hood back over her head. His tone was vicious.
'Don't get clever on me. We'll be longer on the bed.'
She knew where she was. She remembered seeing the tilted chimney across the bowl, the cottage almost hidden inside a copse of trees on the edge. Was this where Guile had remained out of sight for days? With Lord Bullerton's permission.
'Lift your clumsy feet,' Marsh ordered. 'We're going inside somewhere. Won't be long before you're flat on the bed. You lookin' forward to it? Be the last time you'll be with a man.'
She stumbled over a step and it was cooler. She was inside the cottage, being pushed along a wooden floor she assumed was the hall.
'Now you climb the stairs,' Marsh informed her. 'Slowly. Step by step, with me 'oldin' on to you. Nearly there for your last experience . . .'
Normally, whatever the danger, Paula remained calm and alert. For the first time in her life she was in a cold murderous fury. She remembered Neville Guile's words. Use her as a man likes to use a woman. She was incensed, in a killing mood.
She climbed the staircase carefully, feeling for the
next step before lifting a foot. Arriving at the top, Marsh guided her into a room, removed the hood, flung her onto the double bed. She was careful to fall on her back, sprawling her legs along the sheet. Marsh had made one fatal mistake.
He stood at the end of the bed, stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He was grinning evilly. She lay with her cuffed hands and the long metal chain between them over the lower part of her body.
'You can stretch your arms,' he said with a leer. 'They're in the way.'
She raised both arms behind her head as he sprawled on top of her. Her hands whipped down, over his head, round his neck, were winding the chain, long enough, thank God, to encircle his throat. She crossed her hands within seconds, pulled them outwards. The chain bit deep into his windpipe. She increased the pressure. The chain dug deeper.
He was choking. His hands, which might otherwise have been used to beat at her body, flew up to his throat, fingers desperately trying to insert themselves under the chain but the metal links were buried too tightly. Coldly, she watched him fighting for breath which couldn't enter the windpipe. She felt his feet and legs hammering on the bed. He opened his mouth but no words emerged. She pulled the chain a fraction tighter and his face was changing colour. Then the hammering of feet and legs ceased. His hands, which had been clawing at the chain, fell to his sides. He was very still. She held
on. To be sure. His body had slumped, lifeless, on hers.
She eased herself from beneath him after lifting the chain. She rubbed her hands to bring back circulation, rolled his body to the edge of the bed, dipped her hand into the pocket of his shirt on the floor where she had seen him tuck the handcuff key.
Her hands trembled but she managed to unlock the cuffs, which she dropped on the floor, kicking them under the bed. As a final precaution she checked his carotid artery. No pulse. Pushing the body off the bed, she shoved it underneath.
She found a small bathroom, turned the cold-water tap, soaked her face and hands. She wiped her fingerprints off the tap, collected from the stairs the motoring gloves she had surreptitiously dropped, left the cottage and started walking across the bowl on stiffish legs to where she had parked the Audi. Vaguely, seeing lights in Hobart House, she wondered whether Tweed was still dining with Lord Bullerton.
'My God, where have you been?'
It was MacBlade's voice, but she nearly jumped out of her skin. He told her Harry had turned up on foot out of nowhere and was guarding the vehicle. Arriving at the parked Audi she told both of them in short sentences what had happened. Harry reacted immediately, turning to MacBlade.
'Give me a hand to remove the body from the cottage?'
'Sure thing. You OK to drive back to the hotel, Paula?'
'What I could do with. A nice quiet drive back to the hotel.'
Arriving back at the hotel, she parked the Audi, was surprised to realize she was ravenously hungry. She took off her smeared tunic and jeans, washed, brushed her hair and went downstairs.
She dined alone. The food was excellent and she devoured a three-course meal. Arriving back at her suite she forced herself to take a quick shower. Afterwards she couldn't be bothered to get into her night attire. Her last thought before she fell into a deep sleep was how Tweed had fared during his dinner with Lord Bullerton.
FOURTEEN
Earlier in the evening, Tweed was driven to Hobart House by Harry in his Fiat. Harry left his chief at the foot of the steps, drove the car round the back
Tweed had adopted a tactic he'd used before, catching people on the wrong foot by arriving early. The door was opened for him by an elegantly dressed Mrs Shipton. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head. He thought he detected fairish strands. Her shapely body was encased firmly in a green dress with a wide gold belt emphasizing her narrow waist.
'You are early,' she greeted him with an inviting smile. 'We could have time for a drink. Lord Bullerton is ensconced in his study. Shall we use the library?'
Intrigued by the warmth of her approach, Tweed
followed her into the library. The lights were dim so he chose a couch as the nearest place to sit. She must
have used the dimmer because the lights came on more strongly.
'Wine?' she enquired. 'Red or white. Or maybe Scotch?'
'White wine, please.'
Standing by the wine cabinet her face was in profile. Tweed wondered where he had seen that Roman nose before. With the drinks on a silver tray she returned, placed the tray on a coffee table, sat on the couch close to him. She crossed her legs and raised her glass.
'To success.'
'I’ll drink to that,' Tweed agreed. He sipped his wine and placed his glass on the table. 'I'm curious as to what part of the world you come from.'
'That's something I never discuss. I was glad to get away.'
'You have a good position here?'
'I see to it that it is. Lord Bullerton may not be the easiest man to work for but I make sure that the relationship works. After his wife, Myra, fell from the falls he had no one to look after this place. A friend of mine in Gunners Gorge, who has gone abroad, tipped me off. So I came to see him.'
'Was it an easy encounter?'
'Not for him.' She chuckled. 'Said he'd pay me the earth when I expressed doubt. I asked him how much the earth cost.'
'And his reaction?'
'He bellowed with laughter, then offered me the generous sum which I wanted.'
Tweed stood up, walked over to a wall where a gilt-framed picture was turned to the wall. He reversed it. The painting was of a woman with her back turned while her face peered over her shoulder where two large substantial wings were attached.
'Would this be his late wife, Myra?' he enquired.
'Yes.'
'I noticed last time I was here the painting was turned to face the wall. Why?'
'It gets dusty on the glass,' she said quickly.
He smeared a finger over the whole of the glass, showed it to her as she shuffled her feet. He smiled.
'Not a trace of dust,' he commented. He studied the profile, turned to face her. 'Seems a bit odd.'
'Well,' she said, approaching, her voice harder, 'do you think it would be a good thing for him to brood over memories of the past?'
'I suppose not. He doesn't mind it facing the wall?'
'He leaves me to run the house in my own way. That was one of the conditions I imposed when accepting the post. Your drink is waiting for you.'
Tweed walked back to the coffee table, picked up his drink and avoided the couch. Instead he sat in an armchair in front of an antique refectory table. Mrs Shipton came back, stood up. He gat
hered she was not pleased.
The door opened and Lance strolled in, a striking figure in a dinner jacket. Tweed glanced over his shoulder. The painting of Myra had been turned round again, her face to the wall.
'Mrs Shipton,' Lance said in his most lofty tone, 'Cook is in trouble with the souffle. She's worried it's going to collapse.'
'Oh, hell, everything in this place goes to pieces if I'm not on hand . . .'
Without a word to Tweed, Mrs Shipton hurried from the library. Lance walked forward, sat in a hard-backed chair opposite Tweed. He touched the lapel of his dinner jacket.
'If you don't object I'd like to join the dinner. I'm hoping my father won't mind.'
'Up to you. I'm only a guest, and Miss Grey was unable to come,' Tweed replied.
As he said this he reached down for the slim executive case he always carried with him. For the first time he extracted the photographs Hector Humble had produced after building up the faces of the two women murdered in London. Face down he pushed them over the table.
'Can you tell me who these two people are?'
Lance turned them over, stared at the photos. His face turned ashen. For a moment he slumped in his chair, then made an effort and straightened up again. He gazed at Tweed, his almond eyes glazed. He tapped one photo, then the other.
'This is Nancy, this is Petra, two of my missing sisters. When were these pictures taken?'
'After they had been brutally murdered in London, both faces horribly gouged with some unknown instrument.'
'I don't understand,' Lance said aggressively. 'There's no sign of mutilation on these photos.'
'Taken,' Tweed said mildly, 'after a brilliant man had built them up again.'
'Sounds macabre to—'
He never completed his sentence. The door was flung open and Lord Bullerton, dressed in a business suit, burst into the room. He stared at Lance and his voice boomed.
'You can take off the penguin suit, Lance. This dinner will be between me and Air Tweed. So may I suggest you shove off.'
'You see how it is,' Lance muttered, stood up and left. At the door he had to wait as Mrs Shipton reappeared. Staring at Lance's dinner jacket, she frowned. He heard what she said as he pushed rudely past her.
'On Lord Bullerton's instructions I have prepared dinner for two persons.'
'Is it ready?' demanded Bullerton.
'Yes. That is, it will be in ten minutes' time.'
While all this was going on Tweed retrieved the two photos. He slipped them carefully inside, closed the zip. Only then, case under his arm, did he stand up to greet his host.
'Excuse me, Tweed,' Bullerton said, 'my obsession is chess. I am trying to crack this game. Would you like another drink?'
Til wait for dinner, thank you.'
He watched as Bullerton hurried over to a table where a chess game was half-played. Seating himself,
he picked up the Queen, turning to Tweed as he fondled the piece. He shook his head.
'She's the one I'm after. I play against myself. Unless you care to oppose me. Dinner will take longer than Mrs Shipton implied. She won't bring in the food until all the guests have taken their places. Shipton rules.'
'I prefer to start a fresh game, if you don't mind,' said Tweed, standing up. He extracted the two photos and again placed them upside down on the edge of the chess table.
'I thought, Lord Bullerton, these might be familiar to you.'
The effect on his host was even more electrifying than it had been on Lance. Bullerton casually turned them over, bent his large head forward, then jumped up, staggering as though he might fall down. Tweed grabbed him by one arm, had his grip brusquely removed. Bullerton toppled backwards into the armchair behind him and slumped. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
'Large Scotch, for God's sake!'
Tweed darted over to the drinks cupboard, grabbed a glass and a bottle of the most expensive Scotch. He filled the large glass, took it to Bullerton, watched carefully as his host took the glass, swallowed half the contents at one gulp. He waited as Bullerton sat up stiffly, drank the rest.
'One is Petra,' he mumbled, 'the other is Nancy. Where are they now?'
'In London.' Tweed paused. 'The news is very bad, I should warn you . . .'
'You bastard!' Bullerton roared. 'How long have you had those?'
'Only a day,' Tweed admitted, 'I was waiting for the right opportunity to tell you - when we were alone. The news is bad,' he repeated.
'Well, spit it out, man,' Bullerton demanded, some of his normal fire returning.
'They are both dead,' Tweed said quietly, 'murdered outside the homes they rented in central London. Worse still, their faces had been badly mutilated by the killer.'
'Mutilated?' Bullerton pointed to the photos Tweed was collecting to put back inside his case. 'No sign of mutilation there.'
'The photos have been retouched,' said Tweed, who saw no point in explaining the genius of Hector Humble.
'Sounds like a serial killer.'
As he spoke Bullerton bent down to pick up the chess Queen he had knocked off the board when he jumped up. He stroked the piece as he muttered half to himself.
'She knows I'm after seducing her. Just like I do when I visit certain high-class ladies in Mayfair. They charge the earth. Still much cheaper than the expense of getting married. This Queen seems to get heavier. Ready for my assault. And you're a fake, Tweed. You come up here on a murder investigation but you take
your time telling me the victims are my missing daughters.'
'I have my methods,' Tweed said calmly. 'And I do not believe the killer is a serial murderer . . .'
'Obviously you haven't heard that Hartland Trent, living, or lived, off the High Street has been found stabbed to death. Whole district is abuzz with the crime, but the chief investigator hasn't heard about it,' Bullerton sneered. 'An eccentric. The place swarms with them.'
Tweed was used to the minds of relatives of murder victims wandering all over the place in their shock.
'Another eccentric, the chief one, is Mrs Grout in the Village. A few years ago a crazy man bought a farm well north of the River Lyne, converted it into a zoo! Had a huge gorilla, a king cobra, a tiger and Lord knows what else. Oh, a crocodile too. I got the correct lot up from London and they closed him down. What helped was the local horsey aristocrats living in that area protested violently, saying one of the creatures in the zoo could escape and kill someone. The owner was venomous, swore vengeance, but sent his stock to Africa and India. Mrs Grout made a meal of it.'
'How did she do that?'
'She still tells some crazy story that she saw the zoo owner one moonlit night drive a truck to the edge of the river north of the bridge, open the doors, slide out a chute with the baby crocodile inside and dump it in the river. She's mad.'
'How long ago did this happen?'
'About three years, except it's just one of her stories.'
'So by now it would be fully grown,' Tweed remarked.
'Suppose so, wherever it is in India . . .'
The door opened and Mrs Shipton stood there, glaring. Her arms were folded. She barked.
'If you like cold food you can stay here chattering. It will be served in the dining room within five minutes.'
Bullerton hauled his bulk out of the armchair as the door was slammed shut. They walked to the dining room, which was tastefully illuminated by a magnificent chandelier that might have come from Versailles. They ate in silence, which suited Tweed, so he could enjoy the excellent dinner. He waited until they were sipping a first-class claret before he put the question.
'I had wondered whether Neville Guile might be another guest.'
'Told me he was going to race back to London. That the countryside bored him. Typical view of the average Londoner.'
'You like him? He seems to have achieved a lot.'
'Like so many London businessmen he's a crook. But in business you have to deal with all types.'
'I do know a number of busine
ssmen who are trustworthy,' Tweed corrected him.
'Then don't count Neville among them.'
'Do you mind if I ask the nature of your dealings with him?'
'Sorry, but our negotiations are confidential. I do assure you, Mr Tweed, that it can have nothing to do with these awful murders.' He paused, embarrassed. 'One thing I will tell you. Neville had consumed a lot of brandy at eleven in the morning. I think he let his tongue slip. Told me he was going back to Finden Square to clear up the mess he knew he'd find. Then he was flying off to what he calls his sanctuary, the island of Noak.' He spelt out the name. 'Sounds like Noah's Ark. It's somewhere not a million miles from the Channel Islands. Not under the jurisdiction of either Britain or France. When he told me he laughed - that weird giggle which passes for a laugh.'
'I think it's time I left. Thank you for the most glorious dinner. As good as the Ritz in London,' Tweed said, pushing back his chair.
'I suppose,' Bullerton remarked as they strolled towards the door, 'as chief investigator you'll be involved in the Trent murder here. With my two eldest daughters as victims the serial killer has moved up to Hobartshire. Not a pleasant thought.'
The Savage Gorge Page 10
