by Colin Forbes
Swallowing, Lisa left the flat, closed the door, locked it and made her way carefully down the stairs. She had already taken the small Beretta 6.35mm automatic from her handbag and tucked it down the side of her belt round her trouser suit. With her case in her left hand, front door key in her right, she slowly descended the stairs, again avoiding the creaky treads. She paused before opening the front door.
'Get on with it,' she snapped.
She opened the door suddenly, went out, closed it swiftly, ran down the steps. Reaching the street, she kept moving but looked up at the first-floor window opposite. No lights in the building anywhere. The window from which the fatal shots had been fired, she felt sure, was half open. By the front railing was a notice board. FOR SALE.
Lisa hurried back to her car, seeing no one, and drove off, keeping an eye on her rear-view mirror. She was alone in the cold night.
Parking near Victoria Station, she walked until she saw a rank of phone boxes. She dialled 999, asked for the police. A sharp-voiced man answered her call. She reported the murder, gave the address, refused to identify herself, slammed down the phone, went back to her car.
'That's the best I can do for you, Helga,' Lisa said aloud to herself.
When renting the flat she had given one of her many false names, paying three months' rent in advance. Near Ebury Street she parked her car in a wide alley. Grabbing hold of her case, she walked back round the corner and into a small hotel which still had lights on. In the small reception hall, behind a counter, stood a fat woman widi purple-rinsed hair, arms akimbo.
'What have we here at this hour?' the woman demanded.
'I'd like a room…'
'Bit late to be comin' in off the street.'
'How much per night for a room?' Lisa had her wallet stuffed with banknotes in her hand. 'I'm an airline stewardess and my flight was delayed.' The woman unfolded her arms, her eyes on the wallet. She named an extortionate amount. 'I'll pay now for three nights,' Lisa snapped.
The room on the first floor was poorly furnished but the bed linen was clean. After locking and bolting the door, Lisa would have given anything for a shower but she hadn't the strength. So far she had held up but she was thinking, seeing Helga's body on the floor, Tiger beside her.
She had never got on well with Helga, who treated her husband like a servant, but now she gave way. Sobbing, the tears rolling down her face, she kicked off her shoes.
'I couldn't have done any more,' she choked. 'They'd just have taken her away, held me for questioning. And I am the Messenger…' She flopped on the bed, shuddering and shaking with remorse. When she woke in the morning the pillow was soaked with her tears.
Tweed drove slowly into the ancient village of Alfriston. By his side Paula tensed. Like entering the Black Hole of Calcutta. A police car stopped them in the High Street. In places, she remembered, it was so narrow two cars couldn't pass each other. The only illumination was a distant lamp attached to a wall bracket. Old buildings of stone walled them in. Tweed lowered the window, explained briefly to a middle-aged uniformed policeman who he was.
'I'm Sergeant Pole,' the policeman introduced himself. He bent close as Tweed emerged from the car. 'We 'eard a superintendent would be down from London.' Tweed nodded, avoiding correcting the reference to his rank. 'S'pose I shouldn't say it,' Pole went on, 'but we have a problem. Chap called Bogle, Assistant Chief Constable, has turned up. Throwing his weight about…'
He stopped talking as a small burly man wearing a dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat appeared. He reminded Paula of a pig and his manners fitted his appearance.
'Who the blazes are you?' he demanded.
'This is Superintendent Tweed from London,' Pole said quickly.
'And this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed added. 'Could we go straight to the body? I presume no one has touched it?'
'Course not. Sir,' he added as an afterthought. 'Know my job. I'm Assistant Chief Constable Bogle – from the next county. They're all down with flu at Eastbourne, plus a nasty accident on the A27. Happens all the time.
Pole, don't just stand there. Lift the tape so they can get through. I'll lead the way…'
Passing the walls of a few unlit houses perched at the back of the uneven stone pavement, they arrived at a tiny square like a large alcove. In the square was a dress shop, then a notice illuminated by a dim lamp away from the street.
Steps to the Church
Tye and
Clergy
House
Bogle didn't bother to warn them as he went ahead holding a flashlight. Parallel to the street there were two concrete steps, down past a wrought-iron gate pushed back against the wall, then a sharp right-angled turn to the left with six more steps leading down into a weird concrete tunnel with an arched roof. Paula, clutching her fur collar close to her throat, had produced a powerful flashlight that guided Tweed underground. The old concrete tunnel was only a few feet wide and disappeared into the distance, where it ended at a-moonlit archway.
'There he is,' growled Bogle. 'Damned queer places people choose to commit suicide.'
Despite the fact that the left-hand side of the head was blown away, Paula immediately recognized the late Jeremy Mordaunt. The body was slumped at right angles to the tunnel, seated on the floor, head sagged forward, blood down the front of his Armani suit, legs spread out across the passage. The visible back of his suit was smeared with concrete powder, the fingers of his left hand were tucked inside the firing mechanism of a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver.
'Open-and-shut case,' Bogle rasped. 'Clear matter of suicide. He leant against the wall, pressed the gun against his head, pulled the trigger, went to kingdom come as he slid down the wall.'
'Really?' Tweed was crouched down, close to the body. 'No trace of powder burns on his hand.'
'But,' objected Paula, 'he was right-handed. I saw him at a cocktail party recently. He held his glass in his right hand, and when he smoked a cigarette he held it in his right hand.'
Mordaunt's passport, the old type with a black cover engraved with the gilt seal, was lying close to his slumped leg. It was open at the page which gave the holder's details. Tweed, still crouched, facing the corpse, pointed to the passport.
'Air Bogle' he asked, without turning his head, 'who first suggested to you it was suicide?'
'Obvious, isn't it?'
'Is it? Who did you phone when you reported this tragedy?'
'London.'
'London covers a lot of people. Who in London did you call?'
'Well, I saw from his passport who he was. So I decided it was a diplomatic matter. I called the Ministry of Armaments.'
'Naturally,' Tweed agreed amiably, still not looking at Bogle which was beginning to disturb the policeman. 'Precisely who did you speak to?'
'Can't see that this is relevant. I spoke to the Minister, Gavin Thunder. Must admit I was a bit surprised when he answered the phone.'
'Yes, that was a bit odd. Almost as though he was expecting the call. And who first mentioned the word "suicide"?'
'Well.' Bogle shuffled his feet. 'It was him – the Minister. Said something like "Oh, my God. Jeremy has killed himself, poor devil. Keep this under wraps. No publicity. I'll send someone in authority down immediately." Then he rang off.'
'And had you explained to the Minister what we see now?'
'There wasn't time. I've relayed to you the exact conversation I had with him before he slammed down the phone. I did tell him the body was inside an underground tunnel down here at Alfriston. Nothing more.' He looked away from Tweed, who was now staring at him. 'Hit the nail on the head, didn't he? Suicide.'
'When Miss Grey has just told you that Mordaunt was right-handed? Are you suggesting that a man using a heavy gun to kill himself holds the weapon in his right hand, then bends his arm across his face, somehow manages to aim the gun at the other side of his forehead, pulls the trigger, then transfers the weapon to his left hand?'
'The autopsy will settle the matter,' Bog
le almost shouted.
'That reminds me. Any moment now an ambulance from London will arrive with Professor Charles Saafeld aboard to take the body to his laboratory. Our top pathologist, he will perform the autopsy. I phoned him before we came here.'
'Bloody hell!' Bogle stormed. 'I've called Eastbourne to send an ambulance. We do have pathologists from here…"
'Then perhaps,' Tweed suggested as he stood up, 'it would be an idea to get on your mobile and recall your ambulance. I see from the powder on the wall your scene-of-crime crew have already been here, checked the surroundings and probably taken their photographs.'
'Of course they have,' growled Bogle and stomped off, up the steps and out of sight.
'I think Saafeld and his ambulance have arrived,' Paula reported after a brief visit to the outside world. 'I'll show him the way.'
'If you would, please…'
An imposing figure appeared. For a man of his heavy bulk, Saafeld ran nimbly down the steps. His round, plumpish complexion had a pinkish tinge and he exuded an air of authority. He peered at Tweed over his half-moon glasses, nodded, took in the surroundings with swift glances.
'Hello, Paula,' he said quietly.
'This place is like a tomb.' She clutched the collar of her fur coat more closely. 'It's freezing.'
'A tomb,' Saafeld repeated. 'Complete with a body.' He looked back at a youngish man with a camera who had followed him. 'Reg. Take pictures quickly.' He bent down, hands covered with latex gloves, pressed a delicate ringer on Mordaunt's right hand. 'No rigor mortis yet, but we'd better hurry.'
'The local assistant chief constable swears it's suicide,' whispered Tweed, bending alongside the pathologist.
'Suicide, my hat. Just a first impression,' Saafeld warned. 'Don't like the way the fingers are holding the weapon. And if he was standing, back to the wall, he'd have toppled sideways when the bullet hit – not slithered down the wall. But it's early days.'
'Can I call you in the morning – this morning?'
'Try eight o'clock. I work through the night, as you know. I don't promise anything…'
Tweed borrowed Paula's flashlight. She followed him as he walked the full length of the tunnel. The floor was useless for give-away footprints. Emerging under the arch at the far end, he paused, took a deep breath. In the moonlight the view was entrancing. A wide stretch of grass, then a spired church, a gem. He swept the flashlight along a road immediately beyond the arch. Vague tracks of probably a dozen cars. Old houses stretched away to his left and right.
'He could have been brought here by car, tricked into entering the tunnel. It's as quiet as the grave.'
They retraced their journey through the eerie tunnel. Reg had taken his pictures, was putting the camera inside a case.
'Reg,' Saafeld called out. 'Bring the stretcher. We'll get him out now. It will be the devil of a job maneuvering him round and up those steps.' Tweed offered help. 'No, thanks – this is a two-man exercise. ..'
Tweed and Paula reached the small square to find Bogle waiting, standing by a car with an unpleasant sneer on his pinched face.
'I'm off. To write my report. A very full report covering all aspects of your intrusion.'
He jumped into the front passenger seat, snapped at the driver. The car took off, its tail lights receding swiftly. Tweed turned to speak to Sergeant Pole.
'You've been in this area a long time?'
'All my born days, sir.'
'Are there any important people round here? Maybe rich?'
'There's Lord Barford. Family's been here for generations.'
'Any more recent arrivals?'
'Well…' Pole considered carefully. 'There's a Mr Rondel, a foreigner. Arrived about two years ago. Very wealthy, I'd say. Travels abroad a lot. Had a big mansion built inside an old abandoned quarry up on the Downs. Place went up in no time. Imported German workers.'
'Can you describe this Rondel?'
'Only saw him once. Drove a red Bugatti along this street as though it was Le Mans. Only caught a glimpse of him. Blond hair, youngish. Has a helipad by the mansion. Arrives there by chopper.'
'Any idea where he flies to?'
'Girl who lives here worked as a stewardess once at Heathrow. Told me she'd seen him boarding a Gulfstream. Think that's what she called it. Private jet. Big job.'
'Any chance of our driving to his place from here? Now?'
'You could.' Pole sounded doubtful. 'When you meet the A27 after leaving Alfriston you turn left. If you're not careful you'll miss the turning to Eagle's Nest – that's what Rondel calls his palatial place. A short way along you come to a turning off left – just before you reach another one signposted Byway.'
'I remember that turning,' Paula interjected.
'One hell of a road… pardon me,' he said to Paula. 'Unmade, it twists and turns up over the Downs. Get to the top and the road levels out, then starts to go down. That's where Rondel's place is, way back to your left. Right inside the quarry.' He frowned as a car's headlights appeared, driving into the village, the lights on full beam. They flashed twice, then were doused. The car stopped, Bob Newman jumped out.
'Monica called me just as we'd finished dinner,' Newman explained as he drove along the A27 with Tweed beside him.
Behind them Paula was driving Tweed's car, thinking she should have been in front to guide them. Would Tweed spot the turn-off?
'Called me on my mobile,' Newman continued. I'd met Mark Wendover at Heathrow, parked him at the Ritz, took him for dinner to Santorini's.'
'Tell me later, we're coming to the turn-off. There are things you should know…'
Tweed talked non-stop, providing Newman with all the data about Lisa at Lord Barford's mansion, his arrival in Alfriston, what he had found there.
As he was talking, Newman's skill as a driver was tested to the limit as the track they had turned on to kept switching back and forth on itself in a series of bends.
Left, then right again, then left. All the time they were ascending rapidly, along a potholed track where many cavities had not been filled in.
Behind them Paula too drove with ease and skill, revelling in the warmth inside her car. Using a gloved hand, she cleared a hole in the steamed-up glass of her side window. The view she looked down on was staggering.
From the base of the Downs flatlands of frost-covered fields stretched away endlessly to the north. Then she saw a caterpillar of lights crawling westward, realized it was a local train which had to be returning to its depot. She felt the whole of England was spreading out before her.
Tweed was telling Newman he had found Lisa an extraordinary personality. He described her, emphasized her intelligence, voiced his puzzlement as to what her real role was and why she was so anxious to meet him again.
'Nearing the summit,' Newman warned. 'Didn't you tell me Pole said that the road levelled out, started to go down and Rondel's house was on the left?'
'He did,' Tweed confirmed.
They crested the rise suddenly. Newman slowed down and behind them Paula, gazing through her windscreen, almost gasped. On the other side of the Downs a vast panorama came into view. To east and west were vast slopes of rolling hills. A distance away to the south the sea, caught in the moonlight, glittered like an immense lake of mercury sweeping into the Channel. The road began to drop. They pulled up. Newman freewheeled a few more yards, stopped. He left the engine purring to keep the interior warm, jumped out after Tweed and joined Paula, who had already left her car.
'There it is,' said Newman. 'Weird-looking. Expensive.'
'Look at the name,' said Paula.
A large aluminium plate was engraved with the name in front of a high wire fence. Eagle's Nest. Two high wire gates barred the entrance to the curving drive beyond. At the far end of the drive it turned towards a very large white house built of stone. The architecture was surreal, like a collection of white blocks or cubes perched at different levels on top of each other. To one side rose a tall round tower. The entire edifice was located de
ep inside an old quarry, its steep sides overhanging the house.
'Look!' Paula called out. 'There's something emerging from the round tower.'
'I've seen it,' Tweed replied.
Somewhere behind them was the muffled sound of a machine. Paula glanced back – just in time to see the crouched figure of a rider on a motorcycle. The machine was steadily negotiating its way up a steep path which, she guessed, led to the top of the Down overlooking the house.
'That's Harry Butler,' Newman reassured her. 'He insisted on guarding my rear all the way from London…'
He stopped speaking as a slim mast, like a submarine's periscope, its top a tangle of wired dishes, continued elevating until it was about twenty feet above the rim of the Down. Paula nudged Tweed.
'Someone's coming along the drive at a rate of knots. Looks like an old woman carrying a rifle.'
The hurrying figure appeared with astonishing speed on the far side of the closed gates. She stopped, her weapon, actually a shotgun, aimed at them. Her voice was harsh.
'Who are you? Private property. Why are you here?'
'Which question would you like me to answer first?' Tweed enquired mildly.
She was wearing an old heavy 'dark coat. It almost reached her ankles and Paula wondered how she'd moved so fast in such a garment. She was hawk-nosed, bony-faced, in her sixties, a menacing figure.
'Stop pointing that thing at us,' Newman ordered. 'Shotguns can go off almost by themselves. Want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder?'
'Can't frighten me,' she snarled, but she swivelled the gun to a port position and it fired harmlessly into the air.
'See what I mean,' Newman shouted at her. 'Who are you?'
'Mrs Grimwood. The… 'ousekeeper… if you must know.'
The shot had echoed a long distance in the cold night air, would have been heard inside the strange house. Tweed was ignoring the verbal confrontation, his eyes glued to the tall mast. Seconds after the shotgun went off the mast began to withdraw swiftly. It disappeared inside the tower, was gone.
'Private property,' Airs Grimwood yelled.
It was becoming like the repetition of an old gramophone when the needle had got stuck. Tweed shrugged, wondering why Paula had slipped behind him earlier. The old crone opened up a fresh barrage.
