'I'm coming with you,' Paula said in a tone that brooked no contradiction.
Yelland Street was as quiet as when they had last visited it. As Tweed was pulling in to the kerb, Paula produced a camera.
'I'm going to photo that pic of Christine, then we can give it back to Anne on the way back. I know she said she had another but I'm sure she treasures it.'
Once inside, Tweed led Butler to the kitchen at the back of the house. Paula nipped into the living room. Tweed had perched the framed picture on top of the piano. With her hi-tech, non-flash camera she quickly took three shots, tucked the framed original under her arm and went to join the other two.
'Banham's are good at making locks,' Butler commented as he operated a small machine, inserted a key he had brought with him, opened both locks. He then stood back and gestured to Paula to open the cupboard.
She opened the door slowly, peered inside, then she froze. Piled on top of one another were racks she recognized as trays from the fridge. Rows of neatly piled packs of food were stacked on the floor. She took a step back. The smell was distinctly unpleasant.
'This fridge isn't stuck,' Butler called out. 'The handle has to be pushed down, then lifted.'
He stood back again. She wiped her clammy hands on her jeans and approached the handle. Tweed had been double-checking cupboards. She forced herself to follow Butler's instructions. She pressed the handle down, then paused. She took a deep breath, then she lifted the handle, grasped it with the latex gloves she'd put on. She heaved the huge door open. The unique smell drifted immediately into the kitchen.
'Oh, God!' she gasped. 'Oh, no!'
She was staring at the face of Christine Barton, throat cut from ear to ear, the head supported by a fridge bar. Another bar held the rest of the naked body against the back of the fridge, the body brutally slashed, chunks of flesh stored in plastic bags on the fridge's floor.
'Jesus!' exclaimed Butler.
Tweed, already sampling the horrible odour of decomposition, pushed Paula aside, closed the fridge door. The hideous odour was polluting the kitchen. Tweed grasped Paula by her arm.
'Back into the living room. Harry, close the door into the hall.'
Inside the living room Paula sank into a chair and took deep breaths of the fresh air. Tweed was holding out his hand and she was unsure why.
'Your mobile, please,' he demanded. 'I'm phoning Buchanan. Let's hope he can bring Professor Saafeld. He likes to see a body before it's moved.'
'I'd . . . better . . .' Paula shuddered. 'Call Anne.'(
'Not yet. I'm hoping Saafeld can cover the throat once he gets her to the morgue. It's awful that Anne will have to identify her.'
13
An hour later Tweed was driving back to Park Crescent alone. Buchanan had arrived before he left, together with a team of technical experts. Fortunately, by some miracle, Professor Saafeld had arrived a few minutes before. He was insistent that he should see the corpse before 'the clodhoppers mess up the evidence,' as he impolitely put it.
Paula was with Anne at Champton Place. Tweed had called Pete Nield and told him to get over fast. He had decided Peter, a calm, sympathetic man, would be the best company to stay with Anne when she came back from the morgue, after being driven there by Saafeld.
He crawled back, his car edging forward by inches. He had run into rush hour. Reaching the peace and quiet of Park Crescent, he parked and studied George, who unlocked the door. He was standing quite upright; seemed to be moving normally.
'You saw the doctor?'
'Yes. He was in the area. Apparently I have an open cut near a rib. When Gallagher threw me back I hit the sharp edge of a cupboard. He treated it with antiseptic, then put on a large bandage. He left a report about it. Here it is.'
'I'll keep that. Gallagher will already be wondering whether he went too far, whether I'll be reporting the incident. Let him wonder. You feel OK?'
'Ready for Gallagher to come back. He won't catch me off guard next time.'
Tweed ran up the stairs to his office. Some of his staff were present. Monica was at work at her computer. Newman was seated, reading a newspaper. In his forties, he was well built with fair hair and a strong face, which women stared at when he walked into a restaurant. Thugs in the street took one look at Newman and gave him a wide berth.
Marler, reputed to be the best marksman in Western Europe, occupied his normal position, standing up, leaning against a wall, smoking a long cigarette. In his late thirties, five foot eight tall and slim, he wore a smart blue suit, a pristine white shirt, a Hermes tie. His movements were deceptively slow, deliberate, his face good-looking, his expression sardonic.
Tweed took off his overcoat, slung it on a hanger and slipped behind his desk. Tersely, he brought his staff up to date, starting with the strange case of Michael's amnesia, continuing with the drive to Post Lacey, the skeletons on Dartmoor, Abbey Grange and the mixture of characters there, including the servants. As he continued, Monica was watching him.
Of medium height, with a strong build, Tweed was ageless, with alert eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He had been the sort of man you passed in the street without noticing him, a feature he'd found useful in his work. Now, since returning from the murderous training course at the Surrey mansion, he seemed more dynamic, his tone of voice more commanding. He definitely seemed younger, she thought.
'So that's it, up to date,' Tweed concluded.
'You're missing bits out,' Marler drawled in his upper-crust voice. 'The bullet fired when you and Paula were west of the Gantia plant. Someone doesn't like you investigating this case.'
'Well, there was that too,' Tweed admitted.
Marler brought an Ordnance Survey map to his desk, unfolded it, gestured.
'Could you mark the location of that ambush?'
'Yes, why?'
'Just locate it for me, please.'
Tweed bent over, pen poised. 'This is a good map. I'd say it was about here.' He made a cross. 'A very good map,' he repeated. 'I noticed an isolated hill to our left about a hundred yards back in the field. Has a single fir tree on the top.'
'That should do me. I'm off now. See you gremlins.'
'Hold on.' Newman had risen to his feet. 'You might tell us where you're going.'
'Curious, old chap? You may have been a famous newspaper correspondent, but you don't need to know everything.'
Tweed sat back, amused. Although great friends these two were often mocking each other. It was part of their relationship.
'Righty-ho,' Marler replied. 'I'm going to check out where we nearly lost our Deputy Director of the SIS. Takes one marksman to identify another.'
'You won't find a damned thing,' Newman joshed him.
'I won't standing around here.'
Marler was gone, closing the door quietly. Newman shrugged, picked up the newspaper to show Tweed something. The phone rang. Monica looked at Tweed and said it was Paula.
'I'm listening,' Tweed said.
'First, Pete has arrived. I think Anne likes him. I'm down in the master bedroom in the basement. He brought Butler, who's busy securing all the windows and doors. I was going to suggest to Anne I cook a meal. She shuddered, said not after her trip to the morgue in Holland Park. As you know, Saafeld has already supervised removal of Christine's body to the morgue.'
'Then I think that's it.'
'I had a thought,' Paula went on. 'Michael stayed at Bella Ashton's place for two weeks, and was then moved to Dr Saxon's charming clinic. He charges far less. This suggests to me the mysterious caller to Bella Ashton - man or woman - is short of money in substantial amounts.'
'That really does narrow the field,' Tweed said ironically. 'How many hundreds of thousands are short of money?'
'I said substantial amounts,' Paula persisted obstinately.
'I'm leaving now. To pay a brief call on Saafeld at Holland Park. He's so quick he'll have conclusions he's drawn now from the three corpses. Then back here. Bob has something he wants to show me in
the paper.'
'Then I'll also go to Holland Park. Pete's coping wonderfully here.'
'This item in the paper could be important,' protested Newman.
'I won't be long. When you can, find out everything you can about our friend Abel Gallagher.'
Paula was waiting for Tweed when he arrived in Holland Park. She stood outside the large mansion screened by evergreen trees from the road. It was drizzling and she sheltered under an umbrella.
' 'Came here by taxi,' she explained as Tweed said he hadn't expected to see her here so quickly.
At once time they could have opened the gate and walked up to the front door along the winding drive. Now, Saafeld had top security. Tall wrought-iron gates were closed with an intercom in a pillar. Tweed pressed the button and announced himself and Paula. The gruff voice of Saafeld said he supposed he'd have to let them in.
The gates swung inward, and closed soon after they had walked inside. Paula had always found the drive bordered with massive clumps of rhododendrons depressing. With the heavy overcast, the drizzle and the drip-drip of rain off the rhododendrons, the atmosphere seemed even more depressing. Not because she had previously visited the best-equipped autopsy suite in the basement. It seemed as though Saafeld felt more comfortable with his grisly work shut away from the world.
He met them in the large entrance hall furnished with small, beautiful antiques. Their footsteps clacked on the polished woodblock floor as he led them into a sitting room. They were seated in comfortable armchairs when Saafeld's wife entered, carrying a silver tray with tea and cakes. She placed it on a table near to Paula. A tall white-haired woman, she had a pleasant smile. She studied both her visitors.
'You two look younger.'
'Nothing but outrageous flattery,' Saafeld growled amiably as his wife served the tea.
'Now,' he began, 'your three-time killer, possibly middle-aged, no older, is strong and fit. Has to be to wield the knife in the way it was used.'
'Three-time killer?' Tweed interposed.
'Yes. I have no doubt. The two skeletons on Dartmoor, Christine's body in that fridge, all were accomplished with the same modus operandi, as I told you before. Victims attacked from behind, heads jerked back, sharp edge of the blade used to cut the throat, blade reversed to serrated edge, used to slash halfway through to the spine. Heads still left attached. Chunks of flesh savaged off with fine edge of blade. Time of deaths, probably three to four months ago. Get the picture?'
It was a typical Saafeld diagnosis. Not a wasted word. He conjured up a vivid picture without a trace of the dramatic. The fiercest defence counsel, cross-examining him in the witness box, trod warily. One had confessed to Tweed he'd sooner have any other pathologist to confront than Saafeld.
'Yes,' Tweed said. 'Just an opinion. A psychotic at work?'
'Meet one in the street, man or woman, and you'd think they were perfectly normal. I suspect there has to be a psychotic streak in this killer. Why carve out chunks of flesh?'
'Any signs of a struggle put up by the victims?' Paula enquired.
'Can't say with those two on Dartmoor. As regards Christine Barton, I don't think so. Fingernails were intact. Not a trace of someone's skin under them.'
'Suggests she knew the killer,' Tweed mused.
'That's your job.'
'The fact,' Tweed continued musing aloud, 'that two were found on Dartmoor, one in London, wipes out certain vague theories I was developing. Anything special about the knife used?'
'Not really.' Saafeld drank more tea, shrugged. 'You can find that kind of knife in any kitchen, maybe one of the tools in a carpenter's kit. Who knows?'
'I appreciate the data you've given us.'
'Not much to go on.' Saafeld ate a cake swiftly. He gave one of his rare smiles. 'Expect you'd hoped I'd be able to say look for a man six feet tall, dark hair and with bony wrists. Can't oblige you.'
'Then we'd better go. Thank Mrs Saafeld for the tea. The cakes were home-made, I'm sure.'
'Sit down. I did find something that might help.' From his pocket he produced a transparent evidence envelope. Tweed and Paula could see inside a gold ring embedded with a large diamond. Saafeld held up the envelope tantalizingly. It was a typical manoeuvre of the pathologist. He enjoyed surprising people. 'When you get it back to your office look at the interior under a glass. There's an inscription.'
'Can I ask you where you found it?'
'It was just before I decided I'd done all I could. The ambulances had taken away the two skeletons; the police, including Buchanan, had flown off in their chopper. One local uniformed bobby was left to keep watch on the tape surrounding the key areas. Not too bright. He started to smoke a pipe. Had to tell him to put it out. If he dropped ash it might be confusing evidence. He marched off towards Post Lacey. I still had the telescopic ladder - could easily take that away in my car. Something made me go down inside the mine shaft where the woman's body was discovered. It was broad daylight. I used a stick to poke among the debrisj found that ring.'
'You think then that it was originally on a finger of the skeletal woman?'
'Seems likely. The killer missed it. So did the police.'
'And the inscription reads?'
'"From Lee to Lucinda".'
'It's weird.' Paula commented as Tweed drove them back to his office. 'Lee could be the name of a man or a woman.'
'Could be.'
Tweed had the evidence envelope containing the ring inside his pocket. He also had two sheets, headed 'Your skeleton' and 'Mine shaft skeleton'. The first contained Saafeld's estimate of the height, possible weight and age of the skeleton they had discovered while walking behind Michael up the track. The other sheet contained the same data about the woman in the mine shaft. Possible age ranges were also given.
'Don't forget your date with Lucinda tomorrow,' Paula teased him. 'You'll have to wear something suitable. For Lucinda you need that smart grey suit.'
'Bossy. And don't you forget your date with Keith Kent. And turn up on time. He's a stickler for punctuality.'
'I asked for that. Poor Christine must be some accountant. I never heard Keith say before it may take some time to sort out.'
'Another thing,' Tweed told her as they approached Park Crescent, 'I've asked Newman to dig up a complete biography on Abel Gallagher. I was alarmed when he let slip he knew we'd been to Abbey Grange. How on earth could he know that?'
'Suggests he has a contact down there. Wonder who it is.'
Newman reached for his folded newspaper the moment they entered the office. He waited until Tweed was behind his desk, then spread out the paper.
'You know Drew Franklin, the top political correspondent on the Daily Nation?
'Of course we do,' said Paula. 'He's almost as smart as you are,' she joked.
'This is serious,' Newman snapped. 'You've both heard vague references to Angora, the new rebel state in the Mediterranean. Washington's really worried since a fundamentalist government took over. Extreme Islamic. Our government, of course, plays down any idea of a menace. Read that.'
ANGORA ROCKETS FOR LONDON? Reliable informants report Angora has received from North Korea 100 rockets with a range of 2,500 miles. This means the missiles could easily reach Paris, Berlin or London. The rockets are waiting now for the expected delivery of missiles which are on their way from North Korea. Our government complacent.
Tweed read the article twice. Then he got up, walked over to the windows, which had a distant view of Regent's Park. He wasn't seeing the view. In his mind he was running through all the events they had witnessed since first visiting Michael with his amnesia. Vivid pictures came back. The strange trip with Michael to Dartmoor. The skeletons. The people he had met. Snatches of conversation. The bullet aimed at him on the way back. Gantia. Lucinda. Anne Barton. Fourth name on the list in Michael's pocket. He turned round.
'My instinct tells me this murder case is far more sinister, more dangerous than we realized. Powerful invisible forces are at work. The momentum is
building up at frantic pace. We must solve the case, a case of unimaginable magnitude.'
14
It was dark outside when Marler walked into the office. Harry Butler arrived back as Marler dropped something on Tweed's desk. Newman stood up and alongside Paula he stared at the metallic object. A large cartridge case neither recognized.
'I now know who tried to kill you on the A303,' Marler said in his offhand way.
'What is it?' Tweed asked.
'A specially moulded cartridge for a deadly French assassin called Charmian. No one's been able to identify this killer for hire. At a price. A high one.'
No Mercy Page 9
