The Savage Gorge tac-24 Read online

  Inside was an amazing collection of models of women's heads. He chose one, rejected it, chose another. Paula was suspicious. Hector placed it on a plinth on a wide shelf, opened another cupboard. Inside was a huge collection of wigs, also perched on plinths – blonde, jet black, brown. Selecting one with longish jet-black hair, he used a brush to create a glossy effect, arranged it on the plinth on the shelf. By now Paula was thoroughly suspicious. She waited for him to turn round but he still kept his back to her.

  Finally he opened another cupboard, neatly arranged, took out an eye shadow, tested the colour on a sheet of cartridge, then applied it slowly above the eyeless head. His last act was to choose a lipstick, then apply that over the wooden lips. At that moment Tweed returned. For the first time Hector turned round, looked at Tweed.

  'Well, what do you think of this?'

  'Good God!' Tweed exclaimed. 'It's Paula.'

  'I don't like it.' Paula had jumped up. She checked her watch. 'And he produced that in five minutes. You're not going to photograph it, I hope,' she said severely.

  Hector looked disturbed. He ran forward and gently grasped her hand.

  'I'm sorry. You have my word it will not be photo graphed – and within minutes of your leaving it will no longer exist.'

  'Don't get upset,' she urged him in a softer voice. 'I just find it creepy. And you never looked at me.'

  'I will confess,' he replied, his voice shaky, 'I could see you over there.'

  He pointed to a large mirror attached to the far wall. There was something special about it. Her image was so clear. She managed to smile.

  'You clever thing.'

  Seeing he was still upset, almost had tears in his eyes, she kissed him lightly on one cheek.

  'Time for us to go,' Tweed said briskly. 'My office will by now be in turmoil with both of us absent,' he fibbed. 'Hector, can you give me any idea when you'll let me have the photos?'

  'So sorry, but I never predict that – I don't know. I assure you I will make it as quick as I can, for a double murder investigation.'

  THREE

  'They're all lying, the people we've met – either delib erately or by omission. Not telling us what they know.'

  'Who are they?' asked Paula.

  Tweed had turned off the main road, and was head ing north. His expression was determined. He listed who 'they' were.

  'First, I'll check when Lisa anonymously phoned the Yard reporting the presence of the two bodies.'

  'You really think it was her?'

  'Who else? All the occupants of the other houses would be on holiday. Well off, they go abroad early to avoid the mobs on the beaches in July and August. Most of their curtains were closed.'

  'Lisa is a very nervous person…'

  'Not nervous enough to imply she didn't know either of the victims, living on either side of her. This is a very mysterious case. I know Sergeant Peabody and he's a good searcher. Yet he has reported no trace in either house of the victim's identity. No sign of ransacking by someone removing identity traces. Most mysterious.'

  'Falkirk seemed straight enough.'

  'No, he didn't. Just happened to be strolling along such a quiet street with two bodies lying on the steps. Coincidence? Don't believe in them.'

  'I'm not thinking clearly,' she admitted.

  'You were thrown by the extraordinary likeness of yourself Hector produced for my benefit.'

  'Your benefit?'

  'Mine,' Tweed replied. 'He sensed my scepticism about his work so he gave me a demonstration to impress me. Must say, I was very impressed.'

  'Where are we going now? This looks like the street where the murders were committed.'

  'It is. I'm going to put Miss Lisa Clancy through the verbal wringer.'

  'Tweed here,' he said using Lisa's speakphone. 'Open the door. I have questions to ask you.'

  Tm very tired…'

  'So am I. You have two options. Open the door or I'll call the police to open it. Then I'll escort you to Scotland Yard.'

  'You sound so different.'

  'The door.'

  Within a minute they heard chains being removed, two locks turned. Lisa was wearing a velvet jacket and trousers. Expensive. She gave Tweed a flashing smile, ignored Paula as though she did not welcome her presence. She led them along a hall with a blue fitted carpet to a staircase. On one side of the hall was an antique refectory table on which was perched a Ming vase. Paula smelt money.

  At the top of the staircase they entered a living room overlooking the street. Heavy net curtains covered the windows and heavy red floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn back. Lisa asked them to sit down on a couch close to an antique table, then seated herself in a tall carver chair opposite. Casually she took off her jacket, exposing a low-cut blouse.

  Paula waited to see how Tweed would handle her. It was obvious that Lisa was trying to soften him up.

  'The first thing for you to do,' Tweed barked, 'is to put on your jacket again and button it to the neck. The first question is how well did you know the two victims – living on either side of you?'

  'Hardly knew them at all,' she replied sullenly as she put on her jacket and buttoned it up.

  'You're expecting me to believe you never spoke to them once?'

  'I didn't say that. Once I was coming back late from work in the dark. Well ahead of me, the one round the corner was walking home by herself. When I reached her she was still outside struggling to open her door. I stopped, asked if she had a problem. She said, without turning round, her lock sticks, that it was the recent wet weather and the door had dropped. She got the key to turn at that moment, went inside without a word to me.'

  'Did she know the other victim?'

  'I think so. I saw them coming home together late one evening. Probably been to the theatre…'

  'And you maintain you were friendly with neither of them?'

  'I thought I'd made that perfectly clear,' she snapped.

  Her whole personality had changed. Her face was hard, her voice hostile. She began to tremble, twisting her hands clasped together in her lap.

  'Do your parents live nearby?' he persisted.

  'Hardly,' she snapped again. 'Both were killed in a traffic accident three years ago…'

  'Where did you spend your childhood? Where were you born?'

  'Cutwick, a small village in Hampshire,' she said quickly as though she'd been waiting for this question.

  'I see you've had the locks changed on your front door. A Banham and a Chubb.'

  'Wouldn't you! – if you'd had the experience I've had?' She stood up, her expression murderous. 'And, Mr Tweed, I've had just about enough of you.'

  Tweed stood up and Paula followed suit. His manner also changed; he was smiling and his voice was sympathetic.

  'It's just that I'm worried about you. Do you have to go to work today?'

  'I've phoned Rumble, Crowther and Nicholas, told them I'm not well, that I think I'm coming down with the flu.'

  'Do you have to go out to shop? If not, may I sug gest that you stay in the house if possible.'

  Til show you my fridge. It's stacked with enough food to last me ten days.' Her voice became sarcastic. 'I wouldn't want you to worry about me. Now, I'll show you both out.'

  'If there's a development, we might have to come back.'

  'Don't bother…'

  She led the way down the staircase, said not another word as they left and stood on the street. They heard her dealing with both new locks. Paula sighed.

  'I think you were pretty tough on her.'

  'She's still lying. I hoped to break her down.'

  As he spoke, a Rolls-Royce glided round a distant corner, drove slowly towards them in the stately fash ion a Rolls should be driven. The uniformed chauffeur slowed down even more as he cruised past them, and Lisa's house. The rear windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see the pas senger, who appeared to be peering at them. Reaching the corner beyond which the second victim's house was located it continued i
ts leisurely cruise, vanished.

  'That was curious,' Paula commented. 'I memo rized the plate number. I'll phone Swansea, find out who owns it.'

  'We'll get back to Park Crescent,' Tweed decided.

  'I didn't like the way that Rolls behaved, I want to know who that passenger was – the one who prefers no one can identify him. Another mystery, I suspect.'

  FOUR

  Arriving back at Park Crescent, they found Tweed's spacious office occupied by all the members of his team, with the exception of Harry Butler. Bob Newman, once the most famous international reporter on the planet, sat the wrong way round on a wooden chair, arms folded on the back. Tallish and well built, in his early forties, he was good-looking, was often glanced at by elegant women in the street. He slapped Paula on the arm as she hurried to her corner desk.

  'Busy, busy lady,' he chaffed her.

  Leaning against the wall by Paula's desk, his normal position, a very tall lean man was smoking a cigarette in a holder. He wore an Armani suit; his smile was cynical, his hair dark, well brushed. This was Marler, reputed to be the deadliest marksman in Europe. He was in his late thirties.

  Pete Nield, Butler's 'partner in crime', was also smartly clad in a white suit and shirt, wearing a Chanel tie. Amiable, as always, his hair was flaxen with a neatly trimmed moustache. Almost as good a 'shadow' as his partner, he was also in his late thirties.

  Tweed wasted no time. Seating himself behind his desk he told everyone what had happened so far. It was his policy that all of them should know what the case was about, starting with the discovery of the two women's murders, and ending with the peculiar appearance of the Rolls.

  'So where are we?' drawled Marler.

  'Nowhere,' Tweed said bluntly. 'As yet no connec tions, no leads.'

  'Can't imagine you letting us all just sit here,' Marler observed shrewdly.

  'Wait a minute,' Paula called out.

  She had been huddled over her phone, one hand in an ear to block out Tweed's powerful voice.

  'Everyone shut up. I may have something…'

  'Well,' said Monica from her desk behind the door, 'I've just had an urgent phone call from Harry. No time to switch it to you, Tweed. He is following Falkirk's car miles away. He reports Falkirk's car broke down, Falkirk called the AA, who have just arrived. Harry drove into a nearby field to get into cover.'

  'But where is he?' Tweed asked irritably.

  'In the middle of nowhere, then he ended the call.'

  'Very helpful. Could be Devon, Norfolk, any where…'

  'Harry knows what he's doing,' Pete Nield said qui etly. 'He sounds close to Falkirk at the moment. Probably because that car broke down. You've always said leave decisions to the man in the field – he knows the situation better than you do.'

  'Absolutely right. I'd just hoped we had a break. Sorry.'

  'Anyone want to listen to me?' Paula enquired sharply.

  'Go ahead,' Tweed urged, placing a hand close to one ear.

  'First,' Paula began, 'I phoned Swansea with the index number. The Rolls we saw is a company car. Belongs to Otranto Oil. Doesn't get us far. So I phoned your pet accountant and friend, Keith Kent. Asked him about Otranto.'

  'That was smart,' Tweed said quickly.

  'Keith knows a lot about them. The owner is Neville Guile, a ruthless man who has built up Otranto into a major powerful complex – by buying up small oil companies. Methods he's used are very open to question, including blackmail and worse. Has three Rolls, two company and one his own. Now, listen, his HQ is in Finden Square…'

  'Where?' asked Tweed.

  'I know it. Finden Square is small, hidden away not so far from Bexford Street and Lynton Avenue, where the murders took place. It's an oasis of peace amid the turmoil of London. I'd like to check it out.'

  'Come with you,' offered Marler. 'This Neville

  Guile sounds a dangerous character. And he may have seen you if he was in the back of that Rolls.'

  'I'd welcome your company,' Paula said. 'Let's get moving.'

  As soon as they had left Tweed stared at Newman from behind a fresh pile of red files containing more overseas agents' reports just delivered from Communications. Newman smiled back at Tweed's glare.

  'Anything for me to do?'

  'Yes. Put on that shabby mac you keep for the East End. Go down there, meet your contacts. Ask if there are rumours about any imminent operation.'

  'What sort of operation?'

  'How do I know?'

  'What's the matter with him?' Newman whispered to Monica as he took his shabby raincoat from a cup board. 'He's like a bear with a sore head.'

  'Won't last long,' Monica said soothingly. 'He's frustrated because he's no lead, no connection established with this murder investigation.'

  'Then let's hope something breaks soon,' Newman said as he left the office to pursue what he regarded as a futile task.

  Marler stared as they entered Finden Square. All four sides were occupied by a stately block of Adam-style terraced houses. Steps led up to each artistically designed front door. At each corner the blocks were separated by a side street to the outside world. In the middle was an oblong garden with evergreen trees and shrubs, surrounded with a high railing.

  'And I never knew this existed,' he marvelled.

  'You don't walk, exploring, like I do in quiet times,' Paula remarked. 'You spend your spare time sitting in pubs, pretending to listen for information,' she chaffed him.

  'It's so incredibly quiet. No one about.'

  'That's our target,' she said, pointing through a gap in the foliage to a corner building directly opposite them. 'See the huge letter O poised on a mast on the roof? Looks to be made of perspex – probably illumi nated by night.'

  She had just spoken when the front door opened. Marler put a hand on her shoulder, pressed her down into a crouch while he joined her, now concealed by shrubbery. She peered through a small gap, whispered a running commentary.

  'Uniformed servant emerging from front door, car rying costly leather luggage. A Rolls-Royce has pulled up at bottom of the steps. Heavily tinted windows in back. Sophisticated radio system on roof. Mr Neville Guile is well organized. Luggage stacks in boot. Chauffeur behind wheel now gazing at front door. Probably waiting… Yes, I was right. A tall slim man in perfectly cut suit walking down to door which the chauffeur has opened for him, standing to attention.'

  'What does Guile look like?' Marler whispered.

  'Too far away for precise description. Long, lean, could be in his forties. He's stopped to speak to the chauffeur.'

  To her astonishment they could hear every word the passenger said. The voice was high-pitched, cultured.

  'Jordon, we will stop halfway there until we have more news. Find a good hotel in Oaks-ford. A rea sonable halfway house.'

  'Oaks-ford,' repeated Marler. 'Where's that?'

  'Oxford. It's the way he talks. Rolls about to leave…'

  'Then so are we. He could drive this way and see us. No, not by the side road we entered.' He grasped her arm. 'Down the alley behind us…'

  He hustled her across the road into a narrow alley, the like of which Paula had never seen before. The floor was tiled with clean blue slabs. No sign of rub bish, of the unpleasant objects found in so many London alleys. Finden Square extended its air of exclusivity to the main street. As they emerged from the alley, Marler took Paula by the arm, hustled her to the parked Saab he'd borrowed from Pete Nield.

  'What's the rush for?' she protested.

  'So we can be clear of this main street in case that Rolls is coming this way…'

  Without opening the door for her he slid behind the wheel. It was fortunate he'd parked with the car pointed away from the exit out of Finden Square. Paula, seated beside him, turned round as Marler accelerated.

  They had reached the end of the main road when, turning a corner and plunging into an inferno of traf fic, Marler cut off a cab. The driver yelled at him, honked his horn.

  'Cab drivers think
they own London streets, which they do,' Marler commented. 'But no one cuts me off.'

  'You were so right,' Paula told him. 'Just before we turned I caught a glimpse of that Rolls. It was turning this way.'

  'So where to now?'

  'Back to Park Crescent. I want to tell Tweed what we saw.'

  Meanwhile, Newman was on the move, heading for the East End. Despite the traffic he reached the dis trict quickly.

  He was noted for his fast and skilful driving, sliding through gaps other drivers would hesitate to tackle. He struck lucky, finding his four informants quickly in the pubs where they spent their afternoons.

  The third informant, small and tubby as a barrel from the beer he consumed, shook his head, gave the same answer as the previous two contacts.

  'I ain't 'card nothing on the go – and nothing planned. It's very quiet round these parts…'

  Newman thanked Tubby and gave him a ten-pound note to keep him sweet. He had only one more con tact, just along the street, if he was there. This was the most astute of all his network of informants.

  He bought an apple off a stall, and was chewing it when he walked into the Pig's Trotters. His informant was a tall thin man with sleepy eyes which missed nothing. Newman put the same question to him.

  'Your timing is uncanny,' said Mr Merton, as he liked to be known, 'and I'd advise you not to look at the bar yet. Someone just came in. Munch that apple slowly – gives you a reason for sitting 'ere.'

  Merton was comparatively well educated, but could talk cockney like a native. He sipped his glass of brandy, his favourite, then spoke again.

  'Something is up – and the something is ordering champagne at the bar. Name of Lepard – father was French, mother English. Committed at least two mur ders already – one here, t'other in Paris. Escaped conviction both times on a technicality. Word is, he's been hired for a potential end job.' 'End job' was the new slang for a murder assignment.

  'Any idea of the target, Mr Merton?' Newman enquired.

  'Not a whisper. He's contacted some pretty ugly thugs to stand by for detailed instructions. A load of money has changed hands to keep them ready. May I suggest you shove off – Lepard is about to bring his champagne over to the table near us which just became available.'