'I know,' Tweed responded dismissively. 'Lots of light aircraft about. The countryside is bespattered with private airfields. All those planes look alike.'
'If you say so.'
She gave up until they paused near Honiton to get a quick meal at a rather awful chain cafe. Paula made herself eat a floppy poached egg on toast. For Michael Tweed had ordered two fried eggs, bacon and tomatoes, together with a generous supply of toast. Michael devoured everything on his plate, drank three mugs of tea, then got up to disappear behind the door marked toilets. Paula seized her chance.
'Tweed, what do you think we're doing? This is crazy.'
'You remember what Buchanan said? The only sentence Michael had uttered was "I witnessed murder.'" He stressed the words. 'Now Buchanan is very clever. He'd be looking at Michael when he uttered that single sentence. Sufficiently impressed to take him to a psychiatrist, a good one. Buchanan had obviously believed what Michael said.'
'I've been thinking about that. Maybe Michael said instead, "I witnessed a murder.'"
'I think you're wrong. You know Buchanan well. He is very precise when he reports anything. And we're driving to find out where Michael takes us to. We need a link.'
'But if he's a complete amnesiac how come he can remember the, route we're following? I'm suspicious.'
'It's not beyond the realm of possibility that in the past he has driven over this very route so many times it's the one thing still imprinted on his mind. Quiet now, he's coming back.'
'Good job we left when we did,' she whispered. 'It will start to get dark soon.'
For much of their journey they had driven with dull green fields on both sides. Here and there a stretch of brown soil where ploughs had been at work preparing for spring.
'We've left the snow behind.' Paula called out as they approached Exeter.
Overhead a sea of grey cloud seemed in places almost to touch the landscape. More complex navigation by Michael took them on to the A38, bypassing the city of Exeter. It was not quite dark and to the north Paula gazed at the massive endless hulk that was Dartmoor. Covered with snow, it was white, appeared to dominate everything.
'I should have kept my big mouth shut,' Paula commented. 'I think that looks like a heavy fall.'
'Can be deceptive,' Tweed replied. 'When I was a detective and took a holiday with my wife we used to walk over Dartmoor. Away from the hell of London I could think!
Tweed continued driving along the A38 until, to his surprise, Michael gestured again to their right. Tweed turned off the busy highway north heading directly for Dartmoor. He had turned into a wide lane hemmed in on both sides by gorse hedges. He looked at Paula in the rear-view mirror.
'This leads to only one place. Post Lacey. A small village on the edge of Dartmoor. I doubt if it's changed much since I was last here.'
'What's beyond it?'
'Dartmoor.'
To Paula it sounded like the knell of doom.
5
Post Lacey was a small village with cottages built of granite on either side of the main street. The only street, so far as Paula could see. The clouds had vanished and illumination came from the moon as dusk fell. They had passed the ancient cottages, which had lights in their windows, when they saw a pub, the Little Tor. Michael tapped the wheel for Tweed to stop.
A short man with a bald head and a warm smile came out of the pub. He reached out a gnarled hand to Tweed, then stared at Michael, who had alighted, standing while he stretched his arms, flexed his hands.
'Alf Garner at yer service.' the publican greeted Tweed. 'I bet you didn't expect a Cockney to walk out of 'ere. The wife and me came down 'ere ten years back. To get away from the mess Lunnon has become. Called the pub the Brown Owl but the locals didn't like that. Not one bit. So I changed the sign to the little tor. A name they could live with.'
Tweed was now watching Michael, who had started to walk further up the street to a point where it ended as a wide track.
'Where does that lead to?' he asked.
'On to the moor,' Garner replied.
'So to nowhere in particular?'
'Dunna say that, did I? Years ago, centuries back, there was tin, lead and copper mines on the moor. The rich lot used to bring that stuff down on horse-drawn wagons. Track's still there.'
'So it doesn't lead anywhere really?'
'Yes, it does. At the top of the moor, end of the track, a very rich man lives in his marvellous house. Used to be a monastery going to ruin. He turned it into a great mansion. Called Abbey Grange.'
'The rich man has a name?'
'Difficult. Can never get that one right. "Volcano" is the nearest I can come to.'
'Drago Volkanian?'
'Yes.' Garner slapped the side of his leather jerkin. 'You got it. I've seen that chap before a while back.'
He was looking at Michael, who was now striding, stiff-legged, up the track. Paula pulled at Tweed's sleeve. 'We're going to lose him.'
'Mr Garner, we have to go. Don't want him to vanish.'
'And 'e could do that. You going after him? Keep to the track. Move away from it and you're up to your neck in a lake of green slime. Treacherous marshes on the moor. Walk into one and you'll not be seen again. Ever.'
'I think we'd better hurry,' Paula said impatiently.
'Do excuse us, Mr Garner,' Tweed said, shaking his hand again.
'Molly - that's my better half standin' in the door - would 'ave given you something hot to drink, to eat. . .'
'Give her our thanks. That chap is inclined to lose his way.'
'Keep on the track. Watch out for marshes. Green slime, they are. Here, take this . . .'
He handed Tweed a walking stick. Tweed thanked him and followed Paula who was following Michael. Garner ran after Tweed, caught him by the sleeve.
'One more thing. It's rained buckets for days before the snow fell. The ground could shake under your feet. Moor sinks and you'll think it's a small earthquake.'
'Thanks again,' Tweed called back.
It was bitterly cold, Siberian. Tweed saw Paula clapping her gloved hands together. She was thanking heaven she was wearing leather boots and her fur-lined overcoat. Michael was a silhouette ahead of her, striding out like a soldier, keeping to the wide track.
Soon they had left Post Lacey behind. The loneliness of the moor was sinister as the track climbed and climbed.
Paula looked all round as she strode briskly to keep up with Michael. He never once looked back and she had the impression he no longer cared whether they were with him or not. By the light of the moon she saw that the track they were following mounted steadily. Dartmoor seemed to incline from south to north. The wilderness on both sides was covered with gorse and clumps of heather, partially draped in snow. Tweed caught up with her.
'I think the snow is melting,' she remarked. 'It doesn't seem so Arctic now. I think the temperature went up.'
'My impression, too. No sigh of Volkanian's Abbey Grange yet.'
'You think that's where Michael's making for?'
'Old Garner said it was at the end of this track.'
'You said Drago Volkanian was an Armenian. So, according to Mrs Ashton, is that wretch Dr Saxon. Could there be a connection?'
'No idea. We're nearly coming to the end of the part of Dartmoor I used to walk over with my wife when I was with the Yard. I told you she'd run off with a millionaire, a Greek shipping magnate. Time goes by.'
'Haven't you ever thought of divorcing her?' Paula asked gently.
'Too much fuss. No idea where she is now. Haven't heard of her for years. Originally they sailed off in one of the Greek's motor yachts to Buenos Aires. End of story.'
They crested a high ridge. Beyond, the track sloped down before climbing again in the distance. Tweed pointed to their right.
'There's a valley down there. Valleys are called combes, old Devonian word.'
'Look, there's a snowman by the side of the track. And Michael walked past it without a glance. I wouldn't have thought children
came as far as this.'
As they reached the large snowman Tweed flicked at the head with the walking stick. A large slab of snow fell from the head, exposing a skull.
'Oh, my Lord!' Paula gasped, horrified.
The skull was attached to the neck. The ground trembled under their feet. The skull appeared to sit up higher, grinning at them. What increased its hideousness was that on the right side sodden brown hair was clinging to it. Tweed took a torch from his pocket, beamed it on the macabre sight.
Tweed tapped again at the figure, dislodging more snow to reveal the torso. Frozen flesh clung to one side of the breast, which struck Tweed as very odd. He leaned forward, pursed his lips, then stood up.
'What is it?' asked Paula.
'Some instrument has been used to hack halfway through to the spine. That's why the skull remained attached. It needs a pathologist to confirm my impression. That means it's . . .'
'Murder,' whispered Paula.
'I need to use your mobile phone urgently.'
'Here you are,' she said impatiently.
'We need a bright marker that can be seen from the air.'
Paula unwrapped her long red scarf, almost the size of a flag. Tweed tucked the mobile in his pocket, spread the scarf across the track, anchoring it with rocks he collected from the' track's edge. He looked at Paula before pressing numbers.
'I'm calling Buchanan. Getting him to fly down with a team. You keep after Michael, otherwise we'll lose him. Are you armed?' he asked suddenly. 'Yes. Of course you are.'
She withdrew her right hand from her shoulder bag. It was gripping her .32 Browning she kept in a special pocket for easy access. Returning the automatic to its pocket, she took out a camera.
'One more thing to do. This horror may have collapsed by the time Buchanan makes it here.'
She clicked the special non-flash camera invented by the boffins in the basement of Park Crescent. Clicking it ten times, not liking what she saw through the viewfinder, she returned the camera to her shoulder bag as Tweed started making the call. She hurried after Michael, now no more than a tiny figure climbing a slope.
Before she caught up with him she checked the photos, her pocket torch clenched between her teeth. One print made her feel sick. She had placed a hand over one side so she saw only the side of the head. The side where frozen flesh fell over the skull with a glimpse of grinning teeth. She slipped them back into an evidence envelope, took a deep breath and began running after Michael.
The atmosphere of the moor seemed unnerving as snow melted rapidly, revealing its menacing sweeps, which she felt were closing in round her. Rocks appeared, jutting up like dragons' teeth. It was almost a relief to have company when she slowed to a swift walk ten yards or so behind Michael. She knew he must have heard the thud of her approaching feet. He never looked round once, continuing his erect march like a soldier.
She looked back, saw Tweed approaching, running at quite a pace. Separately and recently, both of them had travelled down to the training mansion in remote Surrey. A younger head of training called Nick had taken over from the older Sarge, who had gone on holiday.
'I'm going to kill you,' he had yelled at her as his first greeting.
He hadn't been joking. She'd been hauled out of bed at seven, hustled along to the showers, allowed five minutes to get dressed and permitted ten minutes for breakfast. With a fresh training outfit he'd led her out to the acres of training area.
'You have one hour to complete the course with me on your heels all the way,' Nick had announced. 'Now run a mile and then keep moving on the obstacle course.'
It had been a diabolical experience but she'd returned to Park Crescent feeling much fitter. The extraordinary sequel to this event was Tweed, travelling down a week later, completing the same.
No wonder he was hurtling up behind her. She looked down a steep slope, saw a wide stream at the bottom crossed by a three-span bridge built of large stone slabs perched on granite pillars. She paused as Tweed stood beside her.
'What they call a clapper bridge,' he said. 'Constructed ages ago of enormous granite blocks.'
Michael had walked swiftly across the bridge despite the fact that the slabs looked slippery in the moonlight. It did not fill her with confidence. She glanced to her right, pointed.
'There's that aircraft again. It's still following us.'
'I told you this part of the world is full of that type of plane.'
'Tweed!' she snapped. 'I'm sure I saw the same plane cruising in the distance well before Exeter - and after we'd left that place behind.' She gripped Tweed's arm. 'My God! It's going to hit the huge rock perched on that ridge.'
They paused, standing very still.
'He's going to crash,' Paula whispered.
'Looks rather dicey,' Tweed agreed. 'I hope the pilot isn't. . .'
The plane flew on, disappeared behind the massive rock. He had obviously seen it from his height. Paula walked on, gazing at the clapper bridge. Don't like that, she was thinking. Gritting her teeth, she walked on to the first slab.
She crossed the bridge, turned to watch Tweed, her heart in her mouth. He crossed it calmly. He talked as they followed Michael, who had slowed down.
'Buchanan's flying down in a chopper with a technical team. He's bringing the pathologist Professor Saafeld with him. Said there's something he forgot to give me, so he's bringing that too.'
'He's talking as though you're in charge of this case. And now it's murder.'
'I'm becoming intrigued. And I suspect that's Abbey Grange.'
He pointed into the near distance, where a final ridge was silhouetted in the moonlight. Perched on top of it, Paula could vaguely make out a large, long, two-storey house which was very old and had a mansard roof. Volkanian's retreat. Tweed pointed to their right.
'Hook-Nose Tor. Eighteen hundred feet high. The view from the summit must be magnificent.'
Well, you can climb that, Paula said to herself. She didn't like it. -Glancing round across the endless sweeps of moorland, rolling, dipping, then rising again, she shivered inwardly.
The further they went, the more Dartmoor seemed to close round them. Nor could she get out of her mind the skeleton, the photo of the poor man at the edge of the track. She was pretty sure it was a man.
Abbey Grange was built of granite, probably using some of the original monastery walls. Lights shone behind the leaded panes. A wide flight of steps led up to a terrace, which ran the length of the Grange. From what she could see, the mansion was well maintained and above them, at the top of the steps, tubs stood on either side, each containing a trim evergreen shrub shaped like an exclamation mark.
Michael had run up the steps and was hammering an iron ring on the massive front door. Tweed hurried after him, Paula by his side. From below she had seen to the left of the mansion the silhouette of a tall church bell tower. The massive door opened inwards.
Framed against a blaze of lights from ancient wall lamps inside stood the figure of a tall young man. He had neatly brushed dark hair and was smiling. Paula liked the look of him at first sight. The smile vanished and was replaced by a look of astonishment.
'Michael,' he said, 'what the devil happened to you? Been away over three months this time.'
6
Tweed stood stock still. He gazed intently into the spacious hall with an oak-beamed ceiling and wall-to-wall fitted carpet. Michael walked straight past the man who had opened the door and headed for a wide straight staircase with wooden steps which climbed up to a landing.
At the foot of the stairs Michael paused. He placed his right hand on the top of a wooden upright carved with a man's head. After standing still for a short time he marched up the stairs, reached the top, turned right and vanished. They heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, the creak of a door opening, closing, being relocked. The younger man - younger-looking than Michael — shrugged, smiled.
'He's gone straight up to his bedroom, locked himself in. He always locks himself inside. Never s
aid one damned word to me.' He looked at Paula. 'Excuse me. Come inside, both of you. This is a surprise. Let me take your coat.'
As Paula started to remove her coat he came behind her and took hold of it. She waited for his hands to touch her, a trick of so many men. The hands never touched her. Then he was taking Tweed's coat, putting them away in a deep cupboard.
'I fear we're intruding . . .' Tweed began.
'Not at all. I'm Larry Voles. Maybe you can tell me something about Michael, that is if you want to.'
No Mercy Page 3
