The Savage Gorge tac-24 Page 8

  She scanned the document quickly, then handed it over to Tweed. It confirmed that Trent's seventy per cent holding in Black Gorse Moor would, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds, be handed over to Lord Bullerton. A note reminded Trent that the previous offer had been for seven thousand pounds.

  'Do you find a phrase in clause three strange?' she asked. 'Also the wording after the line for the third signature? And I'm sure it was Trent who scrawled "refused" across the whole document.'

  'I do find that phrase odd, "and all geological material". Plus the fact there are three lines at the bottom for signatures. The first presumably for Trent's, the second for Lord Bullerton's. It is the third line I find intriguing, even menacing. I don't like the wording after the third space.'

  '"Sole administrator and owner of the property." So who is that?'

  'At a guess, Neville Guile. I think he's concealing something, maybe his identity, behind Lord Bullerton, who is acting as his front man. Now, we must get out of here and find a public phone so you can anonymously report the murder…'

  They left the house cautiously. Tweed had slipped the items Paula had found inside a separate compart ment of the executive folder he was now carrying everywhere. Another compartment contained the photos of the two murdered women in London.

  Still wearing latex gloves, he opened the door slowly, peered everywhere. No one in sight. Paula had produced a duster to rub the brass knocker which might show fingerprints Tweed had left when he'd hammered on it as they arrived.

  Leaving the house, Tweed was careful to leave the front door slightly open, as they had found it earlier. As they strolled casually down the long flight, Paula slipped her arm inside Tweed's. If seen from a neigh bouring house they would look like visitors.

  They walked back to the parked Audi. Tweed was about to drive off when Paula produced a folded sheet from her inside pocket. She handed it to Tweed.

  'This was underneath the document I found in the newspaper. You were anxious to leave so I kept it.'

  The sheet of paper was a printed letterhead with Twinkle Cottage's name and address. The note, scrawled by Trent, was brief and addressed to Lord Bullerton.

  You might like to know I have already sent my daughter abroad to a safe refuge. Maybe your partner would like to know this.

  At the bottom was Hartland Trent's scrawled signa ture. Tweed handed it back to Paula, his expression grim.

  'I find that grim. Clearly he was never able to post it. I now believe we are up against the most bestial vil lain I have so far encountered. So we won't be very choosy in the methods we use to destroy him.'

  Tweed was about to turn the ignition key when they saw Harry running up the road towards them. Tweed lowered his window.

  'Where's your car?' he asked.

  'Out of sight in the garage. There's been a develop ment you need to know about earliest.'

  'Which is?'

  'Neville Guile has arrived in town. I've been watch ing Hobart House from my car parked in a hole in that hedge. With field glasses. Heavily disguised. Saw him leave Hobart House and Bullerton waved him off. He could have been hidden away inside that house. I took a chance, drove back and parked in the village at this end. When Guile emerged he drove straight to the Nag's Head, booked himself a suite. Twenty-seven.'

  'If he's heavily disguised how do you know it was Guile?' Tweed asked sceptically.

  'Checked the register after he'd gone upstairs and the landlord had disappeared into his back room. Guile signed in with his real name.'

  'How is he disguised?' Paula wondered.

  'No Rolls-Royce. No chauffeur. Drives a large grey Citroen – wears a check sports suit and tinted horn- rim glasses. Has a peculiar slithery walk. While watching from the hedge I noticed on the far side of the London bowl a cottage roof with a tilting brick chimney. Place is hidden inside a copse. Guile might have stayed there to keep out of sight.'

  While he waited, Paula thought, for Trent's signed contract to arrive.

  'What is the position with that gang waiting in the East End?' Tweed asked.

  'I checked that with Bob Newman. The gang is still scattered round the East End, except for two who have disappeared.'

  'Any idea of their identities?'

  'One of them I've met in a pub. A brutal piece of work. His appearance tells you. Ned Marsh. Small, powerfully built, has a crooked nose and a harelip. He's here now.'

  'Here where?' Tweed pressed.

  'Coming out of the garage I saw him slip furtively into the Nag's Head. Reception desk was empty. He scarpers up the stairs, vanishes. I checked the register. He hasn't booked in.'

  'The pace is quickening…'

  Briefly Tweed told Harry about their discovery of Hartland Trent. 'Maybe it was this Ned Marsh.'

  'Doubt it. He's known to be a violent man but so far he's not been mixed up in a murder. I have a present for you.' Harry handed Tweed a small black instru ment which reminded her of a miniature mobile phone. 'This could come in useful,' he explained. 'Latest development of a flasher by the boys down in the basement at Park Crescent. You want absolute privacy – you swivel this end round a room. This red light comes on and you've detected a hidden microphone. Press this button, a green light comes on. A radio wave wipes the bug out. Check the whole room. That's the most sophisticated device in the world.'

  'Thank you, Harry. You had better leave separately. We don't want people to see us together.'

  'Just about to suggest the same thing. Oh, one more thing. I saw our old friend Falkirk, the private detec tive. He's been away somewhere a lot. Now has a room at the Nag's Head…'

  'I wondered what he'd do,' Tweed mused. 'After all, he was the lead who, unknown to him, brought us up to Hobartshire.'

  'He won't talk,' Paula surmised.

  'Yes, he will this time,' Tweed said as he drove slowly back. 'He'll tell me everything,' he said grimly, 'because of the pressure I'll put on him.'

  'Then I'll leave you alone with him.' 'The eagles gather.'

  Earlier, returning from the falls, they cruised past a window behind which a man sat at a table gazing through the thick net curtains. Lepard wished he had a drink to celebrate.

  Driving along the target road had obviously become Tweed's favourite outing. Lepard decided he would personally aim the bazooka, the rocket with which Tweed and his Audi would be destroyed in an inferno of flames and disintegrating metal. He could hardly wait for the spectacle.

  TWELVE

  When they entered the hall of the hotel, Tweed glanced up the stairs. Falkirk was about to descend. Tweed held up his hand and Falkirk waited, out of sight of the visitor seated on the hall couch. Following him in, Paula saw the figure on the couch. Lance Mandeville.

  He jumped up, held out his hand, squeezed hers. Always smartly clad, this time he wore a white suit: white trousers, white jacket, the collar of his white shirt open at the neck. His ensemble was completed with white shoes with gleaming brown toecaps. Reluctantly Paula admitted to herself he was very impressive.

  'I've been waiting for you for ages,' he began.

  'Then you've had a nice long rest.'

  'I've got a proposition. Let's sit down for a minute.'

  Since there was nowhere else, she joined him on the couch. He immediately moved closer to her. His almond-shaped eyes held hers lovingly. They dis turbed her because she had trouble reading what was behind them.

  'I have spent a certain amount of time rejecting propositions,' she told him coldly.

  'Oh, God!' He slapped a hand to his forehead. 'Wrong word. I apologize. I want to ask you to have dinner with me tonight, while Mr Tweed is at Hobart House with my father. At Marcantonio's. It's a very exclusive club further up the High Street. Do you fancy caviar and champagne?'

  He put his arm round her waist, exerting all his charm. She had to admit to herself he knew how to use it. She turned to look straight at him.

  'Do you mind not manhandling me? Remove your arm immediately. And I do not like champagne or caviar.
So forget the whole idea and shove off, please.'

  His whole personality underwent a change. He jerked away his arm. The smile vanished, replaced by a sneer, his mouth twisted venomously as he jumped up.

  'Women don't talk to me like that. I am Lord Bullerton's son.'

  'Then go and find one who is not fussy and spends her time with you in your secret flat – until you pack her bags and throw her out.'

  As he stormed out into the street Paula stood up and the landlord appeared behind the recently deserted counter. Greeting her politely, he leaned for ward to speak quietly.

  'There's a gentleman waiting to see you in the drawing room.'

  Paula was curious. Her first thought was it might be Archie MacBlade. She opened the door, stepped in confidently, closed the door. Stopped abruptly.

  Someone had used one of the dimmer switches scattered round the walls: the room was in semi- darkness. She moved away from the door, where she would be less visible. All the lights were turned up. A man moved towards her, the only occupant in the room. Neville Guile.

  Suppressing her instinct to dash back into the hall, she chose an armchair, sat very erect as he moved slowly towards her. His motion reminded her of Harry's description: he slithered to the armchair.

  He no longer wore his disguise. He was dressed in a black suit. Black trousers, a long black jacket, black tie over a white shirt. He was very tall and thin and the black stressed his bloodless cadaverous face, his thin lips curved in a peculiar smile.

  Paula had her hands tucked in her jacket pockets as he came close, his hand extended to shake hers. She remained still as a statue.

  'You don't often get the chance to shake hands with a billionaire,' he said.

  She recalled the cut-glass voice from the few words she'd heard distantly in Finden Square. She couldn't be rude. She took her right hand out of her pocket, grasped his. It was like shaking hands with a fish and he had an unpleasant way of grasping her, sliding his fingers up between hers. Without a smile she freed her hand and waited.

  'I am looking for a personal assistant, Miss Grey. I know your universal reputation for incredible efficiency.' Pausing, he dabbed at his lips with a silk handkerchief. 'I would be most happy to pay you eighty thousand a year, plus benefits.'

  'Thank you for the offer,' she said quickly, 'but I do have a position I totally enjoy.'

  'Just so long as you have Tweed. He could be shot any day.'

  'It has been tried before and he is good at surviving.'

  'I have never been turned down before.' The cut- glass voice was even sharper, almost with a note of menace.

  'There's always a first time.' She laughed gently. 'Might do your ego good.'

  'I do wish you had not added that last sentence.' He placed his hands on his knees, prior to standing up. 'Few people have risked insulting me,' he remarked, standing up. 'And I'm not sure they're all still walking the planet…'

  On this note his tall dark figure strode to the door. He opened it, disappeared, closed it softly.

  Paula heaved a deep breath, decided she needed a long hot bath to wash off his touch.

  After her bath Paula found her mind very alert. She assumed it was the result of the unwanted approaches she'd experienced. She was also intrigued by the hidden tunnel on Black Gorse Moor. What was going on up there?

  She dressed, wearing two leather jackets, ankle boots. In her backpack she put certain items. She scribbled a note to Tweed, hoping he'd excuse her for not attending the Bullerton dinner but she felt she could sleep the evening and the night through. She wrote his name on an envelope, sealed it. She knew he'd be furious if he knew what she had decided to do.

  Walking down the corridor, she paused outside Tweed's suite, pressed her ear against the door. She couldn't hear what was being said but was surprised to gather the conversation was friendly.

  In the hall the landlord was absorbed explaining a map to an elegantly dressed woman. Unseen, Paula descended into the garage. No one about, thank heaven. She climbed behind the wheel of the Audi, using her own key. It was only when she emerged into the street that it occurred to her she might be driving into danger.

  It was dusk when she parked the Audi in a deep hole in the hedge. She walked into the top of the bowl and saw Hobart House, far below, a blaze of lights. Getting ready for the dinner. She was relieved to see the curtains were closed.

  Striding briskly, she descended the slope of the bowl, crossed it well away from the house, began to climb steeply. She sat down for a minute, took out a tough pair of jeans, hauled them on over her daytime pair. She thought she heard a noise as she put on an old pair of motoring gloves. Looking up, she saw briefly the flash of a light. Someone was on the moor. At this hour?

  Or had it been her imagination? In the gloaming everything seemed different. Bullerton's residence looked tiny – more like a doll's house. She had lost her sense of direction – she could not find the section which would lead her up to the tunnel. She took a deep breath and the air was cold, which cleared her mind. The only solution was to climb up to the moor and explore, to search for the large round boulder she'd noticed near the entrance.

  As she climbed, often on hands and knees, she was protected from the sharp rocky ground by her old jeans. One thing worried her: crawling up over shale, the small pieces started scattering down the slope, making too much noise.

  She changed direction, moving gradually to her left, where the ground was more solid, more familiar. She thought she'd heard another noise above her, like a subdued moan. Could there be animals up here? If so, what were they? Reaching down she checked that her Browning was secure in its holster. The feel of the butt gave her fresh confidence.

  She began hauling herself up more rapidly over the ground, which was more stable than any so far. She was concentrating so determinedly on grasping tufts of grass, testing their stability before using them as handholds, that she got a shock.

  Something spiky brushed her face. She stopped, looked up. It was the beginning of the black gorse. She stretched out a hand and touched something hard, smooth and round. She had located the large boulder near the entrance to the tunnel. She could have cheered.

  She stood up, bent her aching knees several times. They still felt strong and limber. Crouching down, she crept slowly along the path, her left hand extended for fear of missing the tunnel entrance. Then she felt something odd. Taking off her glove, she felt with her bare hand a curved surface of smooth metal. She extracted her pencil torch from her backpack – her more powerful torch would show too much light in this wilderness. The brief illumination revealed a large circular lid covering the entrance to the tunnel. Putting on her glove again, she grasped a handle at the lid's top, twisted it slowly. It was well oiled and made not a sound as she removed it. The entrance was revealed. Using her more powerful torch she shone the beam inside it.

  The entrance, easily large enough for her to crawl inside, was not inviting. The interior was clean but it gradually sloped downwards until, beyond the beam's reach, it was black as pitch.

  'Come on, girl,' she said to herself, hitching the pack onto her back and dropping to her knees to crawl inside. Her last hope was that Tweed had found the message shoved under his door.

  When Tweed had ushered private detective Dermot Falkirk into his suite he immediately noticed a differ ence from the man he'd rescued from the cell in London. He was smartly dressed in a suit, his black hair had been cut, his moustache was shorter, neatly trimmed. His litheness was apparent in his move ments but his normally poker face was smiling.

  Using a technique rarely employed by other Yard interrogators, Tweed suggested Falkirk sat in the most comfortable armchair. At the Yard he would have been escorted to a bare room, seated in an uncomfortable hard-backed chair.

  'How are you, Dermot?' Tweed asked, sitting in the other armchair.

  'Exhausted.' Dermot grinned. 'I have a ton of information to give you. First, I'm breaking my code of secrecy. I have been employed by Miss Lisa Clanc
y, the only girl who escaped being murdered – her sisters, Nancy and Petra Mandeville, the two missing daughters of Lord Bullerton.'

  'I have wondered recently if that's who they were,' Tweed said grimly. 'The daughter who employed you is Lizbeth Mandeville.'

  'Yes,' Falkirk agreed, 'she changed her name when she escaped from Hobart House. She picked me out of the list of private detectives because she liked "Eyes Only". Don't ask me why. Mission, to locate the mur derer of her sisters. Since I've broken the code and identified her I'll return the five thousand pounds she paid me.'

  'What else did Lizbeth tell you? Incidentally, last night I called a friend at the Yard and she's under pro tection, but doesn't know it.'

  'What else? She told me about this place, which was what sent me haring up to Hobartshire. On arrival I described Lisa to the landlord, pretending she'd flirted with me at a party down in London. He identified her as Lizbeth Mandeville.'

  'Did Lizbeth tell you the whole story about leaving here?'

  'Yes.' Falkirk smiled. 'After a little coaxing. They left to get away from her father. When they were much younger he'd bullied them and the late mother had been a strict disciplinarian. When they told Lord Bullerton he was appalled, gave each of them the sum of forty thousand pounds. They decided Lizbeth should just "disappear". Petra collected her clothes and arranged them neatly on the river bank. So she could have gone swimming and then drowned. They were pretty bitter according to Lizbeth. Well…' Falkirk shook his head. 'Not entirely.'

  'Did she say what she did when she discovered the corpses?'

  'Panicked. Rushed back into her house, locked and bolted the front door, switched off all the lights. That's when she saw, peering from behind a net curtain, the Rolls-Royce and amiable Mr Neville Guile.'

  'That would be his first of two visits. Actually saw him?'

  'Had his tinted glass window down, was peering out. She recognized him from a picture in a glossy magazine.'

  'Know much about him?'