by Colin Forbes
'Chap called Weatherspoon taking his dog for a walk. He lives in Bray and is retired. I've checked him out and am sure he's had nothing to do with the crime.'
'Exactly where was the body discovered?' asked Paula as she crouched near the edge.
'In that shallow side stream to your right. Trouble is it could have been thrown in somewhere upstream, Heaven knows how far.'
'Mind if I try an experiment?' Paula suggested, standing up.
'Go ahead,' Buchanan said with a cynical smile.
Paula looked round. The ground was littered with portions of tree trunks, possibly cut for firewood. She walked a short distance upriver, selected a sizeable trunk, lifted it to test its weight, decided she could just cope with it. Not as heavy as Holgate's body but close enough. Heaving it up with both hands protected with motoring gloves, she carried it chest high and made it to the river's edge. Now for the tough part. She took a deep breath, hoisted it higher, hurled it as far out into the river as she could.
It landed in the river about six feet from the bank. The powerful current took hold of it, swept it further out, rushed it downstream out of sight. It had passed the shallow creek without going anywhere near it.
Sweat dripped down her back and her arms ached as she walked back to where Buchanan and Tweed stood staring.
'Someone shouted at me,' she said.
'I called out, "For God's sake don't fall in,"' Buchanan said, glaring at her.
'Excuse me -' she rubbed her gloves together, ridding them of bark from the tree trunk - 'but I think you're wrong in assuming the body was dropped in upstream. It must have been deposited from the bank straight into the side stream, where it would be found sooner or later. That tree trunk I threw in was pretty damned heavy - almost as heavy as the headless body, yet it never went anywhere near the stream.'
'She's right, you know,' commented Tweed.
'So the murder could have been committed somewhere near here,' Buchanan said thoughtfully. 'But where?'
'I'll be back in a minute,' Paula told them.
She trudged off, lifted the police tape which defined the area of the police search. She continued beyond it, sweeping her torch slowly over the field. More sawn hunks of trees were scattered over the grass, some peeking up like alien spacecraft just landed from Mars. Several minutes later her torch illuminated something different: a circle of flattened grass which looked as though it had been stamped down. In the middle of the circle was a weird branch with two arms projecting outwards. The arms were joined at the base by a smooth section of wood about half a foot wide which had been stripped of bark.
She approached it slowly, frequently beaming her torch on the ground she would tread on next. More grass flattened slightly. She stepped into the circle, her torch aimed point-blank at the smooth section joining the two arms. Recently stripped of its back, it should have been white but it was stained a dark brown, the colour of dried blood.
'I've found the execution block,' she said quietly.
They had hurried over to her when she beckoned. Buchanan and Tweed crouched down to examine the smooth base. Newman was taking pictures with his camera.
'Damn it,' said Buchanan, 'there's a narrow wedge in the wood where the axe ended up after the blow that severed Holgate's neck. And there's blood behind the base and this side of it, traces on the grass.'
'And,' Paula continued, 'the width of the base would comfortably fit the neck of poor Holgate. A makeshift execution block, but it did the trick.'
'So what happened to the head?' Buchanan asked, looking up at her. 'Thrown into the river, I expect.'
'Maybe,' Paula said, 'but maybe not. I'm getting a pretty horrific feeling about this murder.'
'We'll have to seal off this whole area,' Buchanan said, standing up.
'And I wonder who lives in that big house over there,' Paula said, pointing.
Less than a quarter of a mile away, downriver, was the only small hill for miles around. Perched on top of it, just visible in the moonlight, was a large ancient two-storey mansion, Tudor-style. No sign of life as they all gazed at it.
'There was a light in a side window a moment ago,' Paula told them.
'No light there now,' Buchanan said dismissively. 'It must have been your imagination. The place is empty - I visited it when I was here earlier. Wrought-iron gates were padlocked. I scrambled over a wall, went to the front door, rang the bell time and again. No one at home. Walked all round it. Blinds closed over all the windows. Had an unoccupied feel.' He turned round, clapped both hands to his mouth, shouted at the top of his voice.
'Guard, get over here as fast as you can. Come on -that's an order.'
The dull-faced policeman Buchanan had encountered when they first arrived began running towards them. Then he fell, sprawling face first in the grass. Paula knew why - her boots were smeared with mud and she'd had to walk carefully when she had begun her exploration. The policeman scrambled to his feet as Buchanan yelled at him to move faster. He saluted when he arrived and faced Buchanan, his uniform covered with mud.
'I want this whole area, five yards from here, cordoned off with crime scene tape. Got any on you?'
'A whole reel. Sergeant gave it to me when he left. Said he had enough stuff to cart around. And I'm due off duty. My relief has just arrived.'
'You stay on duty until the job of cordoning off this area is completed. You'll have your relief to help you,' Buchanan told him abruptly. He repeated his instruction. 'Tweed, we can't do any more here in the dark. Let's get back to London.'
They were moving off when Buchanan noticed Paula had stayed behind. She was staring at the grim-looking house on the hill.
'What are you doing?' Buchanan called out.
'I'm sure I saw a light in that side window.'
'You're exhausted - and no wonder. Back to the car with us.'
'Who does that house belong to?' she asked as she joined them.
'A company called ACTIL. I asked the same question in Bray when I was here earlier. Actually owned by the billionaire who created ACTIL. A man called Roman Arbogast.'
'ACTIL,' Tweed repeated. 'The conglomerate Holgate worked for after he'd walked out on us. Curious.'
1
The following morning Tweed sat behind his desk in his large office on the first floor at Park Crescent. The windows which faced him along the opposite wall overlooked Regent's Park in the distance. This was the real HQ of the Secret Intelligence Service. The hideous modern building on the bank of the Thames was a 'front' - mostly occupied by administrative staff. The action was controlled from Park Crescent.
Paula, seated at her own desk in a corner facing Tweed, suppressed a yawn as Newman walked in. She called out to Tweed.
'How do you like your new desk - or perhaps I should say old, as it's an antique?'
With the financial support of the rest of the staff she had bought the desk in the Portobello Road. It was Georgian and had a green leather top. She had even had new locks put on the drawers.
'I think I'm getting used to it.' Tweed smiled. 'I may even get to like it.'
'You'd better,' chimed in Monica, his secretary of many years, who wore her grey hair in a bun tied at the back. 'It cost a pretty penny.' She ducked down behind her word processor, feeling she'd said the wrong thing.
'And I'm very grateful to all of you,' Tweed assured her.
'Get any sleep after what you went through yesterday?' Newman asked Paula.
She looked at him. In his forties, five feet nine tall, well-built with an impressive head to match his body, he had fair hair but was clean-shaven with a jaw that discouraged louts coming anywhere near him. The most famous international foreign correspondent in the world before Tweed persuaded him to join the SIS, he had proved to be a great asset to the unit.
'Not a lot of sleep,' Paula admitted. 'Which surprised me. When I got back to my flat I threw off my clothes and dived into the shower. It soothed away the aches and pains, I flopped into bed and fell fast asleep. Then I had the m
ost horrible nightmare, which is unusual for me.'
'What kind of nightmare?' Tweed asked.
'It was night, I was near a river, watching the back of a black-coated figure. It was stooped over Holgate, sawing off his neck with a chainsaw. I woke up screaming, "Stop it, stop it." Then I realized it was a bad dream. Checked the time. 3 a.m. I remember thinking a chainsaw couldn't have been used. The neck would have been so ragged. No sleep after that. One of those things.'
'I had Roy Buchanan on the phone just before you came in,' Tweed told Paula. 'He congratulated you on your brilliant work last night. Said he'd take you on to his personal staff any day.'
'That's two job offers I've had in less than twenty-four hours,' Paula replied, pushing a curl of her black hair behind her ear. 'I'll have to think about them,' she teased.
'Let me know when you decide which one, then I can start looking for a replacement,' Tweed teased her back.
He had no more intention of letting her go than he had of resigning his position as Deputy Director. She just seemed to get better and better.
'Buchanan also told me,' he went on, 'that he phoned the local Chief Constable at three in the morning. He wasn't very popular but he told Colonel Crow, the Chief Constable, that he'd better send out another team of men to patrol the two taped areas and search thoroughly round the so-called execution block area. Crow ended the conversation by warning Roy that it was no longer his case and to keep off the grass. Roy told him his team would have to walk all over the grass to check for clues, then slammed down the phone. He was quite right to warn Crow, a pompous idiot I met once. The type who bullies his subordinates, then creeps and grovels to people who can help to hoist him higher up the ladder.'
Besides desks, the room was furnished with a mushroom-coloured wall-to-wall carpet and three armchairs for visitors. Newman was settled in his favourite armchair, taking in what was being said while he read a copy of the International Herald Tribune. He looked up.
'Odd, this copy is a fortnight old - I pile them up, then go through them when I have time, in date sequence. A fortnight ago there was a similar murder at some nowhere place called Pinedale, south of Portland in Maine. A headless corpse inside a body bag was washed up on the cliffs during a storm. Victim a caretaker called Foley. Head never discovered.'
'Very unlikely there's a connection,' Tweed told him. 'Maine is three thousand miles or so across the Atlantic.'
'There are such things as aircraft services.'
'Oh, and did you know the Vice-President of the US of A arrived in this country two days ago?'
'Yuck,' Paula commented, 'we can do without someone like Russell Straub. I've seen him yacking away on the TV. Thinks he's the cat's whiskers.'
'They think Straub is likely to succeed the present President in the White House,' Newman informed her. 'He's already making campaign noises.'
'Well, I wouldn't vote for him,' Paula said savagely as the phone rang.
Monica answered it, frowned, carried on a brief conversation. Then she put a hand over the phone and gazed at Tweed.
'You're not going to believe this.'
'Try me.'
'George has had a fierce argument with someone who has just arrived.' She paused. 'Nathan Morgan, Head of Special Branch. Morgan arrived with two of his thugs, demanded to see you, was coming up with the thugs. George forced the two thugs to go into the waiting room, locked the door on them. He's still holding Morgan in the hall.'
'I see. Ask George to escort Mr Morgan up here.?
Newman stood up. He walked to the door, opened it and stood half in the way. Morgan arrived, tried to push Newman out of the way. Newman smiled as he slowly stood to one side.
'Easy does it,' he said amiably.
Their visitor stormed into the room. Wearing a smart trench coat with wide lapels, which gave him a military appearance, he marched up to Tweed's desk. Heavily built, he had a large squarish head, black hair, thick black eyebrows, a pugilist's nose, a thin-lipped mouth and a prominent jaw. A brute, Paula thought to herself.
'Your gangster downstairs has imprisoned two of my men in a room, locked the door on them,' he roared.
'Well, if you want to talk to me we don't need them to be present,' Tweed said quietly. 'And it's normal to phone for an appointment before calling on me.'
'You were out at Bray late last night. The policeman who was going to relieve the man already there recognized you.'
'I thought he seemed familiar,' Tweed remarked.
'You don't deny invading territory, a crime scene under the control of a local police force?'
'One of my staff with me was able to detect how and where the victim was beheaded. Something the local force had overlooked. Do sit down. You're not looking very comfortable, standing there like a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's.'
'This whole matter is confidential.' Morgan snapped. 'We can't discuss it with all these people hanging around.'
'Then let me introduce you. The lady sitting in the corner is Miss Paula Grey, my chief assistant. Incidentally she is also the person who solved the problem of how Holgate was murdered.'
Morgan turned, saw Paula for the first time. His whole manner changed. He walked over to her desk, smirking as he held out his ham-fist of a hand.
'What an attractive assistant. Something to keep you warm on cold nights.'
Paula stared straight at him. As she did so she used one hand to open a drawer. She took out a bottle of Dettol, placed it on her desk close to him, her eyes still meeting his.
'There's some Dettol to wash your mouth out with.'
Morgan was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it without saying anything. Then he swung round, pointed a stubby finger at Newman.
'I recognize you. Robert Newman, news reporter.' He made the last two words sound like something out of a sewer. Newman, his expression bleak, stared straight back without saying anything. It was Tweed who spoke.
'Mr Newman has been fully vetted, trained at our place in the country, has completed the SAS course, which few do. He's worked with me for years.' His voice rose. 'For God's sake stop making a fool of yourself. Sit down or leave.'
The vicious expression receded from Morgan's face. He looked round as though not sure what to do next, then sat in one of the armchairs.
'Why have you wasted your time - and mine - coming here?' Tweed demanded.
Tweed sat upright, hands clasped together on the desk. He was gazing at Morgan, his eyes hard. Paula was waiting for an explosion. Normally so calm and watchful, there were times when Tweed could explode and the results were devastating. Morgan reached inside his jacket pocket, wrestling to find it under his trench coat. At that moment the door opened and Marler walked in.
Five feet seven tall, Marler was slim, in his late thirties, always impeccably dressed. He was wearing a stylish pale-grey suit, crisp white shirt, a Valentino tie. Among his many talents he was the deadliest marksman with a rifle in Western Europe. He walked quietly across close to Paula's desk, took up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. His trim hair was corn-coloured and he was clean-shaven. He took a long cigarette out of a gold case, lit it. Morgan turned, stared at him.
'Another one. Who is this?'
'Marler,' Tweed called out, 'meet Nathan Morgan, newly appointed Head of Special Branch. He has just gatecrashed his way into our sanctum.'
'I hear he does that,' Marler remarked in his upper-crust voice. 'New boy.'
Morgan again opened his mouth, then closed it without responding. He was still struggling with his jacket pocket, clearly embarrassed by his performance. Everyone waited in silence. Then he produced an envelope, took out a sheet of paper stamped with Home Secretary at the top.
'It has been decided,' Morgan began in what he imagined was an official tone, 'to create a system of close collaboration between the Special Branch and the Secret Service. We shall be appointing an observer to stay on the premises here, so you will need to give him office space and all communication facilities.'
&nb
sp; He handed the letter to Tweed, who read it quickly.
Then he opened a drawer, dropped the letter inside, looked across at Paula.
'That's for the shredder along with the other junk.'
'The shredder!' Morgan was outraged. His expression became ugly. 'You can't do that with—'
'On whose authority was this absurd idea thought up?'
'Whose authority?' Morgan's rage was growing. 'You have just read the letter from the Home Secretary.'
Tweed stood up slowly, placed his hands inside his trouser pockets. He walked slowly round his desk and there was something menacing in his movements. Disturbed, Morgan jumped up out of his chair so he was standing when Tweed reached him. There was a hard edge to Tweed's voice when he spoke, only inches away from his visitor.
'There will be no observer, so-called, infiltrated into this building. Apart from anything else the question of security arises. Also, you do not seem to realize I answer only to the PM—'
'I did ask for Mr Howard when I arrived—'
'Don't interrupt me again. What I have just said also applies to Howard. Then again your organization comes under the control of New Scotland Yard. In case you did not know that—'
'There's going to be a restructuring . . .'
'I did tell you not to interrupt me. I did not work well with your predecessor, a man called Bate. Rather like you. Thought finesse was a French pastry. Before him Special Branch was run by Pardoe, a man I respected and collaborated with from time to time. I cannot possibly work with someone like you.' His voice rose. 'So, Mr Nathan Morgan, please leave the premises at once. You will be escorted downstairs by Mr Newman.'
