by Colin Forbes
Her eyes whipped up to the ceiling, then gazed at it. Like the Great Hall, where they'd had drinks, the plasterwork was sculpted in an artistic design of scrolls and ripples. But what caught her attention was a disfigurement. A vivid splash of blood spread immediately above the banker. One of the bullets must have hit an artery, sending up a spurt of blood. As she watched, a drop fell, landed on the relics of Amberg's skull-like head.
She looked at the table. In front of where she had been seated she had thrown her napkin over her place setting -which was probably why the killer hadn't noticed the absence of a guest. In any case it was clear he had moved with great speed to complete his devilish work.
'Get a grip on yourself,' she said under her breath.
She felt terribly alone but she went back into the hall. The staff! Inside the kitchen. She paused before opening the door, fearful of what she would find.
'Not them, too,' she prayed.
Another faint whiff met her sensitive nostrils when she eased the door open. Tear-gas. Four bodies sprawled on the stone-flagged floor. Swiftly she checked their pulses. She was startled to find they, were all alive. Unconscious, but alive. She assumed the plump older woman, clad in white overalls and a white cap slumped near the venison, was Cook. Paula took a cushion off a chair, eased it gently under her head. The younger girls, also clad in white overalls, were less likely to have suffered serious damage.
It was then she noticed the cooker had been switched off, which puzzled her. She was careful not to touch the dials. Fingerprints. She opened a window to let in fresh air to clear the remnants of tear-gas and, warily, explored the rest of the ground floor.
One door led to a study furnished with expensive antiques. Another opened on to a large living-room with french windows at the back facing a gap in the firs framing a view of the bleak moor beyond. The sight emphasized her solitariness. Paula ploughed on, entering the Great Hall. Empty, like the other rooms. The long stretch of windows looked out on to the drive. Two cars were approaching.
Tweed climbed out from behind the wheel of the Ford Escort followed by the sturdy Harry Butler dressed in a windcheater and corduroy trousers. Behind them Pete Nield and Philip Cardon left the Sierra.
'Sorry we're so late,' Tweed began and smiled. 'We were held up by running into a convoy of those travellers -gypsies, whatever. I hope Julius will excuse…'
He had spoken rapidly and stopped as he saw Paula's expression, the gun she was still holding in her right hand. His manner changed instantly.
'What's wrong, Paula? Trouble? What kind?'
'The worst kind. And I'd expected Bob Newman to come.'
It was the type of pointless remark made by someone suffering from delayed shock – by someone who had held herself together by sheer will-power and character. No longer alone, she was giving way. She made a great effort: they had to be told.
'Newman had gone off somewhere,' Tweed replied. 'Monica left a message on his answerphone to come and see her. She'll tell him where we've gone.'
Tweed had deliberately answered her question to introduce a whiff of normality back into her life. Middle-aged, of medium height and build, he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was outwardly the man you pass in the street and never notice – a characteristic which had served him well as Deputy Director of the SIS. He walked quickly up the steps, put his arm round Paula, squeezed her.
'What's happened here?'
'It's ghastly. No, that isn't data, which is what you always want.' She took a deep breath. They're all dead.'
'Who exactly?' Tweed asked calmly.
'Julius Amberg, his guards and the butler, Mounce. Eight corpses waiting for you inside that lovely house. The postman did it…'
'Tell me more later. I'd better go and see for myself. This postman you mentioned has gone?'
'I haven't had time to search the upper floor. Downstairs is clear.'
'Harry,' Tweed said, taking command immediately, 'go upstairs and search for a killer, who will be armed. Take Philip Car don with you.'
'On my way…'
Butler, a 7.65-mm Walther automatic in his hand, entered the manor followed by Cardon also gripping a Walther. As Paula and Tweed followed them they saw Butler, holding the gun in both hands, creeping up the wide staircase. Cardon was a few paces behind, sliding up close to the wall, starting at the upper landing.
'They're in here,' Paula said. 'Prepare yourself for something pretty awful. Especially Amberg's face.'
Tweed, wearing a trench coat over his navy blue business suit, paused. Hands deep inside his trench coat pockets, a stance he used to adopt when interrogating suspects in the old days when he had been the youngest
Scotland Yard superintendent in the Murder Squad, he stared at the dead body of Mounce.
'I'd like to know what is inside that package the postman delivered. But we mustn't disturb anything until the police get here. We'll call them in a minute,' he said, glancing at the phone on a table against the hall wall. He listened as Paula thought of something else.
The kitchen staff behind that door were attacked with tear-gas, then I think the killer knocked them unconscious with something. One of the three girls has an ugly bruise on her head. They're all alive, thank heavens.'
'Pete.' Tweed addressed Butler's partner, a very different character. Slim, dressed in a smart blue suit under his open raincoat, he had neat dark hair and a small moustache. The staff are unconscious in the kitchen…'
'I heard what Paula said, Chief.'
'Go and see what you can do for them. Get a statement if any of them recover and are up to it.'
'I'll get it all down on my pocket tape recorder,' Nield assured him.
He produced the miniaturized recorder the boffins in the basement of Park Crescent had designed. Giving Paula a smile and a little salute, he headed for the kitchen.
'Now for it,' Paula warned.
She opened the door to the dining-room. Tweed walked in ahead of her, stood still after taking two paces. His eyes scanned the carnage, stared briefly at the red lake on the ceiling, walked slowly past each body until he arrived at the head of the table.
'It's a blood bath,' Paula commented. 'You won't like Julius Amberg's face. It's been sprayed with acid.'
'Ruthless,' Tweed said, looking down at his old friend. 'Also intriguing. Julius has – had – an identical twin brother. Julius was Chief Executive of the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Zurich, the driving force. Walter, the brother, is Chairman, does very little except draw a fat salary.'
He looked up as Butler appeared at the door, the Walther still in his hand. He nodded to Tweed.
'All clear upstairs. No one else is here.' His gaze swept round the room. 'Bloody hell.'
'A perfect description,' Tweed responded. 'Lucky we were late. Paula, how did you avoid this massacre…?'
His expression changed. His hands jumped out of his pockets and he was alert as a prowling tiger.
'My God!'
'What is it?' Paula asked.
Tweed had grasped something everyone else had overlooked. His own remark about being lucky to be late triggered off the alarm bells inside his head.
'We were supposed to be the targets. I must phone Park Crescent instantly. This is a major emergency.'
'I'll call them immediately,' Butler said, ran into the hall and picked up the phone. He was dialling as Tweed hurried into the hall. 'Shouldn't be long now…'
'Hurry!' Tweed urged him. 'Park Crescent could be in terrible danger…'
It took Butler several minutes – he had to dial again and Tweed stood close to him. Butler listened, nodded and handed the phone over.
'Pray God I'm in time,' Tweed said as he took the instrument.
3
Tweed and the others have driven down to a Tresillian Manor on Bodmin Moor,' Monica told Newman as she closed a file on her desk at Park Crescent.
Newman had just arrived in response to the urgent call from Monica waiting for him on his answerphone at his flat. He took off his favour
ite Gannex raincoat, hung it on the stand, settled in a chair facing her desk.
'Bodmin Moor? That's Cornwall. Who are the others and why has he gone down to that remote spot?'
'He took Butler, Nield and Cardon with him as guards…'
'A heavy delegation. As guards? That's unlike Tweed. Were they armed? What's going on?'
'Yes, they were armed.' Monica sounded disturbed. 'He was going to meet a Swiss banker, Julius Amberg, who flew in from Zurich.'
'Amberg. That nasty little berk, Joel Dyson, knows Amberg. A very odd coincidence. Has Tweed seen that film or listened to the tape?'
'No, they're still in the safe. He hadn't time. It was action stations from the moment he arrived and took the call from Amberg – begging him to hurry to Cornwall.'
'More and more mysterious. And why did you call me?'
Tweed wanted you to drive down there if you contacted me in time. I think it would be pointless your going now. The meeting at the manor was for lunch. It will all- be over-'
She broke off as the phone began ringing. Picking up the receiver she started to announce 'General amp; Cumbria Assur-'
'Monica, this is Tweed. You recognize my voice? Quick.'
'Yes, is something…'
'Exit One! Exit One! Exit One! For Christ's sake
'Understood.'
Monica rammed down the receiver, took a key from a drawer, knocked over her chair in her haste. Inserting the key in a metal box attached to the wall, she pulled down a red lever, slammed the door shut. The moment the lever was operated screaming alarm bells alerted every office in the building – including Tweed's.
'Emergency evacuation!' Newman shouted to make himself heard as he jumped up, grabbed his Gannex. Monica stuffed her Filofax in her handbag and Newman held the door open. Men and women were already moving down the staircase. There had been rehearsals: no one panicked. They kept moving.
In the entrance hall George, the guard, was slamming down a phone. He had a clipboard in front of him and ticked off people as they filed out through the front door. The bell in the hall was more subdued.
As Newman reached the entrance hall with Monica he glanced at Lisa, the fair-haired girl who operated the switchboard. He saw row upon row of red lights. Every phone was – had been – in use. Lisa snatched up her coat and handbag, as Newman asked the question.
'So many calls all at once?'
'Switchboard jammed,' Lisa replied quickly. 'Except for Tweed's line, which is separate.'
' I had a crazy call,' George commented, ticking off more names. 'Some nutcase said he was phoning from Berlin, had an urgent message. Been jabbering away for five minutes…'
Howard, the Director, appeared at the foot of the stairs. Immaculately dressed in a Chester Barrie business suit from Harrods, tall, plump-faced, he had thrown off his usual lordly manner. He stood by the desk next to George.
'Better leave,' said Newman as Monica vanished through the open doorway. 'It was Tweed himself who sounded the alarm from long distance.'
'I'm staying here until the last man and woman has left the building,' Howard said quietly.
Newman was surprised and his previous opinion of Howard as a pompous woodentop changed. He nodded, slipped outside ahead of a fresh file of staff coming down the staircase. On the doorstep, standing to one side, he froze.
A maroon-coloured Espace station wagon was parked alongside the building. Newman went down the steps, stood close and ran back inside the hall as the fresh batch of people walked rapidly off round the Crescent. They were assembling out of sight round the corner in Marylebone Road as planned.
'George,' Newman said as the guard showed the list to Howard. 'There's one of those large Espaces parked just outside.'
'Ruddy 'ell,' George blazed, 'I'd have seen the blighter if I hadn't had that loony from Berlin on the blower.'
'Which is precisely why he was on the phone.'
Time to leave,' Howard announced, gesturing towards the list. 'All present and correct. Present out of danger, that is. Fancy a quick stroll, Bob?'
'That will do me…'
They followed George out of the building, down the steps, turning left along the curve. All three men gave the Espace a quick glance then strode briskly towards where the staff were waiting. It was very quiet in the Crescent and no one else was about. Thank God, Newman thought.
'There was no one inside that vehicle,' he informed Howard.
'Let's hope we don't make fools of ourselves.'
'You've overlooked one point,' Newman commented. 'All the lines were jammed up with calls – phoney calls is my guess. If this is what I think it is we're up against a genius of a planner.'
'I'll call the Bomb Squad from one of the offices along Marylebone Road,' Howard decided. 'It's probably all a false alarm.'
'That doesn't link up with the avalanche of calls -including the crazy one to George,' Newman reminded him. 'I'll stay here.'
They had rounded the corner and Newman stayed behind a wall in a position where he could watch the building. He saw a silver Renault parked just beyond the far side of the Crescent. That was the moment when the world blew up.
Newman had put on sun-glasses he used for driving when the sun was low in the sky. There was a blinding flash. An ear-splitting roar. A cloud of dust dense as a fog. A brief nerve-wracking silence, succeeded by a sound like a major avalanche crashing down a mountain. No shock wave, which puzzled Newman.
The dust cloud thinned. He stared, hypnotized. The Espace had vanished. The section of Park Crescent which had been SIS headquarters was a black hole. Masonry rumbled as it slid down on to the pavement, out across the street. What staggered Newman was the clean-cut destruction of the target. On either side of where the building had stood as a section of the Crescent the walls stood scarred but erect. It was as though a vertical rectangular wedge of a giant cake had been sliced away. The sinister rumble of more debris slithering down over rubble continued, grew quieter, ceased. RIP, SIS headquarters.
Newman glanced across the Crescent. The silver Renault had disappeared. Howard came running up to him.
'What the hell was that? I called the Bomb Squad
'Hope they brought their sandwiches. No work left for them.'
'Oh, dear God!'
Howard stood like a man transfixed as he gazed at the ruin.
Automatically, he used both hands to adjust the knot of his tie, a mannerism Newman had noticed before when Howard was under pressure. With an effort he pulled himself together, looked back at the small groups of people standing on the pavement.
'It's cold,' Newman said. 'Some of them are shivering. Send them home. Tell them to stay there pending fresh orders.'
'Best thing to do.'
Like a zombie Howard walked back slowly and began talking to his staff. Newman stood very still, thinking about the silver Renault. Odd – the way it had been parked at that observation point and had then disappeared. By his side Monica was recovering from her shocked state.
Tweed should know about this urgently.'
'How can I reach him?'
'I have the phone number of Tresillian Manor. He might still be there.' She extracted her Filofax and a notebook. On a sheet of paper she wrote a number, handed it to Newman. 'Tresillian Manor.'
'Howard will be back in a minute. He may want a word with Tweed. More likely the other way round…'
The driver of the silver Renault was stopped temporarily in a traffic jam in the Huston Road. He picked up his mobile phone, dialled a number.
'Ed here. The property has been liquidated. The contract closed
'What about dispossessed occupants?'
Norton meant dispossession of their lives.
'A general evacuation took place a few minutes before we closed the contract.'
'It did?' Norton's American twang was a rasp. 'Could anyone have carried out the film and the tape?'
'I'm sure they didn't. No one carried anything which might have contained the canisters.'
'Any sign of Tweed? You have his description. No?
That I don't like. We'll have to trace him. He's due for a long holiday, a permanent one
'I'll report back in.'
Ed was talking into air. Norton had slammed down the phone.
'The Bomb Squad sent the top brass,' Howard observed while they stood in Marylebone Road near the corner of Park Crescent.
'Is it any wonder?' Newman remarked.
The door of a cream Rover opened and Commander Crombie, chief of the Anti-Terrorist Branch, stepped out. Several trucks had arrived, Bomb Squad operatives in protective gear were cordoning off the crescent, evacuating buildings. Other men stood in front of the pile of rubble.
'You're not here for a story, Newman, I trust?' were Crombie's opening words.
A powerfully built man with broad shoulders, in his forties, clean-shaven with a large head, he wore an overcoat with the collar turned up. As he spoke his eyes scanned the area of devastation.
'No, of course not,' Newman snapped.
'Just checking. You saw this thing happen? Any casualties?'
'None,' Howard assured him. 'We evacuated the building in the nick of time. I'll explain why later. The IRA?'
'I don't think so,' said Newman.
'How would you know?' Crombie demanded aggressively.
'No shock wave. Look, I'll show you where I was standing when the Espace blew itself to pieces…' He was walking fast and Crombie, a fit man, was hurrying to keep up. 'It was a maroon-coloured Renault Espace parked outside,' Newman continued tersely. 'Don't ask me for the registration number – I didn't get it – we were intent on saving our lives. Here is where I stood.'
'And no shock wave, you said?'
'Exactly. Look at the garden railings opposite. Not a scratch on them. All the blast went one way – into the building. From what I've seen of photos of IRA bomb damage the blast flies in all directions.'
'That is true. Excuse me. I'll want to see you later.'
'When you're ready…'
