'Fortunately, it'll be the local lot.' he replied. 'And all the evidence has disappeared. They'll assume that after all these years the cliffs became unstable and collapsed.'
'So now we have one more job to do. Any idea who the Skeleton Killer is?'
'It's someone who, some while ago, thought they saw their chance to become immensely rich. So they cleverly siphoned off four hundred million pounds from the reserves, then not so cleverly bought a huge number of dotcom shares. They ended up without a penny - and a desperate need to cover up what they'd done. The shell company they'd used to pretend that's where it had gone was fiddled in the accounts as a four-hundred-million-pound purchase in a highly profitable company. Remember Enron in the States. They removed huge debts into weird-sounding outfits and called them profits. When the dotcom company Orlando Xanadu crashed it led inevitably to a terrible chain of events.'
'How do you mean?'
'Anyone who might discover that vast sum was missing had to be eliminated. First, Lee Greystoke, who was poking around in the accounts department, sent, I'm sure, by Drago. Then, also sent by Drago, who was a long way off abroad, he employed Christine Barton, forensic accountant, to look into things. So she had to go.'
'Sounds so horribly cold-blooded.'
'It was. The next stage in the ghastly hunt was to murder the detective, John Jackson, in his houseboat. Christine's sister, Anne Barton, had become worried about her long absence. She employed the detective. The murderer found out somehow, so he was slaughtered.'
'One thing led to another.'
'Exactly. Finally, the broker, Kenwood, knew too much. He had secretly handled the disastrous investment in the dotcom. So he had to be exterminated. He was the fourth name on the list. "Ken" wasn't a first name - it was short for "Kenwood".'
'So what sort of person are we looking for?'
'Someone consumed by greed. Someone with a good planning brain. Someone who is a sadist - hence the mutilation of the bodies.'
'I can't think any of the four at Abbey Grange fits your description,' she said.
'You won't yet,' Tweed warned. 'Years ago, when I was at the Yard, I solved three major murder cases. I was getting an overblown reputation as brilliant. One reason why I joined the SIS. But I never dismissed as a suspect anyone who appeared normal, ordinary. Another detective, who was forced to hand over the third case to me, claimed that a certain person was not a suspect. He was too normal and ordinary. It turned out he was the murderer.' He switched on the engine. 'Now we'll get moving. Don't like the look of that storm coming.'
He was worried that they would be caught in the narrow winding lane leading off the main road. The lane could become a river.
Harry's Land Rover followed them as Tweed, headlights on full beam, honking as they approached each corner, drove as fast as he dared. They were on the main road when the storm broke in full fury. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, rain came down in torrents. They kept moving as the rain flowed down ditches on either side.
'You know,' Paula mused, 'we're going to arrive very late, or very early in the morning. The party will have ended and they'll all be in bed.'
'No, they won't. I'm sure Larry's the type who likes a party to go on and on. If necessary until dawn.'
'Fingers crossed.'
They were approaching the road to Moretonhampstead -and Abbey Grange - when the storm suddenly stopped, or moved away. As they passed the fake row of cottages, the church and the bell tower, Paula gazed the other way.
'Shouldn't we have called the local police about the head on the altar?' she suggested.
'I did think of it at the time and decided to wait. With the problem of the freighter I didn't want local police holding us up. Nor do I want that happening now. I'll call after our visit to Abbey Grange.'
Tweed and Paula drove quietly past the mansion's wall and parked where the Land Rovers had parked earlier. Harry's vehicle pulled up behind them. Before alighting, Tweed turned to speak to Marler.
'I'm leaving you here. Only Paula and I are calling. More would not create the atmosphere I need.'
'Don't like it,' Marler protested. 'The number of attempts which have been made on your life.'
'I appreciate your concern. But I'm issuing you with an order. You did more than enough at Harmer's Head. So you wait here.'
Getting out with Paula, he gave the same instruction to the others, who had jumped out to join them. He met with the same protests, gave them the same firm order. Then with Paula he walked back towards the entrance. Paula tugged at his arm.
'I could have sworn I saw a police car parked further back.'
'You did. Can't imagine who it is, don't care. Can't be anything to do with the awful altarpiece. Lights still on in the bell tower, none in the church. Here we are.'
Walking down the path round the end of the mansion, they saw, the moment they turned the corner, a blaze of lights in all the downstairs windows facing the moor. There was also the sound of music. Sade's 'Smooth Operator'.
'Apt,' Tweed said grimly. 'That's what we're looking for. The smooth operator.'
They climbed the steps on to the terrace and the French windows opened, flooding out light. Lucinda was now wearing a long white dress. In her hand she held a champagne glass, which was almost empty. She raised the glass, drank what was left, holding the door as she swayed slightly.
'Tiddly.' Paula whispered.
'Welcome back, both of you. Party's just. . . warming up. We are making a night of it. Come on in, you two sleuths.'
She gave Tweed a long passionate hug when he reached her, her body pressed into his. She's well away, Paula thought, as Lucinda turned to hug her, then took their outer clothes and dumped them on the back of a sofa.
Tweed was smiling as he walked into the living room, scanning the place swiftly. Various coloured balloons hung from the rafters; a large white cake sat in the middle of the table, as yet uncut. Aubrey was sprawled on a couch, his shirt half out of his trousers. He was no longer wearing his absurd naval cap and held a glass of Scotch tilted at a perilous angle. He grinned foolishly at Tweed, raised his glass.
Larry, smiling warmly, was still seated at one end of the table. At the other end sat Michael, stiff as a poker, his glazed expression staring into space. He didn't appear to notice the new arrivals. All four suspects were present.
'Take it.'
Lucinda, managing to hold a silver tray straight, offered Tweed a glass of champagne. He grasped it as Paula sat down at an empty chair at the table, facing everybody. Tweed joined her. Lucinda gave her a glass, then walked to the far side and sat in an armchair.
Tweed raised his glass, still smiling. 'To three of the guests.' He paused. 'The fourth is a mass murderer of at least five people. Cheers!' he continued in the same casual voice, then sipped from his glass.
Paula was taken aback. She had never known Tweed open up a conversation so casually, so brutally. As he sipped, Tweed looked again all round the room. Aubrey was the first to react. He sat up erect with surprising agility.
'What the hell was that? A joke? If so, a very bad one.'
'No joke,' Tweed continued amiably. 'The killer is greedy and a sadist who ravages the dead bodies of the victims.'
'I do like your sense of humour,' Larry responded. 'It's really original. Cheers!'
'I think he meant it,' Aubrey protested, then swallowed a large tot of his Scotch. Reaching for a bottle, he refilled his glass, drank some more. His bulging eyes were glaring at Tweed.
'Yes, Aubrey,' Tweed continued genially, 'I meant every word. It seems to bother you.'
'Well, you're a guest at our White Party and you go and—'
'Aubrey,' Larry interrupted, smiling, 'you don't know Tweed, so you take him seriously. A great mistake when we're about to cut the cake. A large piece for you?' he asked, addressing his offer to Tweed.
'Yes, please. A very large piece, if I may.'
'And the same for you, Paula, I'm sure,' Larry suggested as he stood up, picked up a
knife and started slicing the cake. 'It was baked and decorated by Mrs Brogan, who may be a rough lady at times but is also a genius in the kitchen.'
He passed a plate of cake to Paula, then another one to Tweed. Lucinda sat up, used a hand to draw her dress over her exposed leg.
'What about me, Larry? I love cake. This looks simply divine.'
'Coming up, darling,' Larry assured her, wielding the knife expertly, cutting an exceptionally large piece, handing it to her on a plate. He cut a further slice as Aubrey leaned forward.
'That's for me, I hope. I could eat the lot.'
'What about Michael?' Paula asked.
Larry shook his head. 'Doesn't like cake. He's just eaten a monster piece of salmon with mashed potatoes. Doubt if he can move now. Here you are, Aubrey, don't stuff it in your mouth.'
'My table manners are impeccable. I often lunch at the Savoy grill. The head waiter knows me, keeps my special table. Is Tweed staying long?'
'Just as long as it takes to complete my murder investigation,' Tweed replied with another smile.
'I deeply resent your extraordinary implications about. . .' Aubrey had his mouth full of cake and spluttered, and half his mouthful ended up on the table.
'Tut, tut,' Larry admonished. 'If you act like that at the Savoy you'll find your table's no longer available,' he said with a grin.
'So how is your investigation proceeding?' asked Lucinda, lying back in her chair, her eyelashes fluttering as she gazed at Tweed.
'I think I'm nearly there,' he replied, his expression thoughtful as again he scanned the room. 'After all, it started here near Abbey Grange when Paula and I discovered the skeleton by the track down the moor behind me.'
Paula was suddenly aware of a vague tall figure standing outside on the terrace, masked by the net curtains. One French window was slightly open. She spread her large napkin over her lap, checked all the guests, then slipped her Browning out of her shoulder bag slung from her chair back, concealed the weapon under the napkin. She became nervous. Who could be standing so still on the terrace?
'Why should that prove—' Aubrey began.
At that moment Lucinda shifted position. Aubrey stared at her like a hypnotized man. He didn't complete what he'd started to say.
'It proves,' Tweed rambled on amiably, 'that whoever killed the stockbroker had to act quickly, so risked committing the horror not far from the mansion here. Which I find suggestive.'
'Stockbroker, did you say?' enquired Larry, putting down the slice of cake he'd been about to eat. 'Which stockbroker would that be?'
'A man called Kenwood of Haldon Street, the broker who dealt with the investment of four hundred million pounds stolen from the reserves of Gantia, transferred to a shell company, which had gone broke. This huge sum was brought back by electronic transmission. Without the horror which followed, it was an amusing exercise.' Tweed said genially, then sipped his champagne.
Paula at last caught on to Tweed's strange behaviour. Instead of grilling the suspects in his normal way, he was exploiting the surreal atmosphere of the silly party, throwing his listeners off balance.
'This enormous sum,' he went on, 'was then invested in a dotcom company, Orlando Xanadu, during the manic boom not too long ago. It eventually crashed, the fate of most dotcoms, so the stolen four hundred million was lost for ever. So far so bad. What came afterwards was a number of truly dreadful murders.'
'How do you know all this?' Aubrey burst out. 'Sounds like a fairy story.'
'Really?'
Paula was aware that the party mood had evaporated. Instead, an atmosphere of tension was invading the room. Larry was no longer smiling, his expression like carved stone. Lucinda, normally still when seated, was restless, shifting cushions as though seeking a comfortable position. Aubrey had become uneasy and kept crossing and recrossing his legs. Only Michael, sitting motionless at the head of the table to her right, was the same. His eyes were blank and glazed.
A French window behind them burst open. Drago Volkanian stormed in. The huge man wore a dinner suit, which stretched across his chest, straining at the button that fastened his jacket. Everyone looked startled, except Tweed. He had hoped his verbal references about missiles to the billionaire would eventually bring him to Abbey Grange.
'How bloody fascinating,' Drago thundered. 'While I am abroad someone dips their huge hand into the till, steals a fortune. I have been on the terrace awhile, have heard what Tweed has said so far. I return to treachery - and ghastly murder.'
Larry had stood up respectfully the moment his employer had appeared. Aubrey had clambered to his feet. Only Lucinda remained seated, one hand pushing back a lock of hair from her face.
'Welcome back, Drago,' she greeted him.
'Some welcome,' he snapped at her.
He walked with large strides round Tweed's side of the long table. He sat down with difficulty in an armchair close to Michael. Paula thought the whole chair would split open when he attempted to stand up. Drago's mood had dramatically changed. Clasping his huge hands in his lap, he spoke calmly.
'I think, Mr Tweed, it would be helpful if you continued with what Aubrey called your fairy tale.'
'Thank you,' agreed Tweed. 'And I think it important you do hear the rest. The thief who had created a black hole in the finances - although I think Drago is wealthy enough for it not to affect the company's finances - thought the existence of the shell company would cover the loss for a while. But Lee Greystoke, who I gather had a good brain, was asked by Drago from abroad to check the balance sheets.' He looked at Drago, who nodded. 'So Lee was a menace and was murdered quickly, her body mutilated with the knife which had cut her throat. Not a great loss, Aubrey, considering your harem . . .'
'You're saying I killed her?' Aubrey protested, jumping to his feet.
'So far, I'm only saying you wouldn't be heartbroken by her murder.'
'I protest at your hideous—' Aubrey began to shout.
'Sit down,' Drago ordered quietly, 'and stay seated.'
'Lee's body was dropped into a mine shaft,' Tweed went on as Aubrey slumped down in his chair. 'Very close to Abbey Grange,' Tweed explained, 'because, like the broker, Kenwood, it would have been too dangerous to transport the body elsewhere.'
'Sounds horribly plausible,' commented Lucinda, who was smoking a cigarette she'd inserted in her black holder.
'Oddly enough,' Tweed went on, 'the murderer discovered that Christine Barton, a forensic accountant, again probably hired by Drago . . .' - he paused and Drago again nodded - 'was examining all the accounts papers. Murder her inside her own flat in London was the obvious answer, then hide the body in her fridge.
'The murderer must have wondered when it was going to end,' Tweed remarked. 'Next - this is a guess - after slaughtering Christine the murderer checks items in that flat, finds a report and a receipt for a fee paid from a private detective, Jackson, with his address on a houseboat at Wensford. So Jackson has to be murdered - and mutilated for pleasure. This murderer revels in slashing up dead bodies, gets a kick out of this appalling activity.'
'Quite gruesome,' Lucinda commented, pulling a face.
'I agree with you,' responded Tweed. 'What struck me was it had to be somebody connected with Abbey Grange, also working at Gantia. Otherwise, how would they know about Christine - and Lee? Don't you agree, Aubrey?'
'Why ask me?' Aubrey spluttered, whisky dribbling down his shirt front.
It was at this moment that Michael, who presumably had taken in none of Tweed's deductions, stood up to leave the room. He walked, stiff-legged, towards the stairs leading to his bedroom.
At the foot of the stairs he paused, his right hand touching the carved man's head decorating the top of the lowest pillar.
As he began walking slowly upstairs Paula noticed that neither of his shoelaces was tied. Trailing on the floor, they threatened to trip him up. She opened her mouth, then closed it, realizing he wouldn't even hear her.
Michael reached the last steps before the
landing. His right foot tangled with the loose laces, he lost his balance, tumbled head over heels all the way down, smashing the back of his head against the carved figure.
Nearly everyone jumped up. Drago attempted to, but couldn't extricate himself from the chair, and so swore to himself.
Lucinda reached the prone Michael first, checked his pulse. She turned round to face the others.
'He's alive. Pulse ticking over normally.'
Behind her Michael was clambering to his feet as Lucinda ran to the phone. Paula was the first to notice that his glazed eyes and blank look had gone. He stared round the room. He was now walking normally. Because he had been silent for so long, it was a shock when he spoke, articulating the words clearly and bitterly.
No Mercy Page 29
