The Power

2

Paula checked her appearance in the toilet mirror. She was feeling better, stomach settled, but rather weak. 'Not bad,' she said to her reflection. 'A bit white round the gills.'

Her image stared back. An attractive girl in her early thirties, long raven-black hair, good bone structure, calm eyes which missed nothing, a firm shapely chin. She wore a cream blouse with a mandarin collar, a navy blue suit, pleated skirt, flesh-coloured tights and soft-soled loafers.

Paula had been sick. Which left her with a washed-out f eeling, she had cleaned up the basin. She suddenly felt empty, hungry.

'Maybe I could tackle a little venison,' she said to herself as she mounted the steps, unlocked the door.

She took two paces into the hall, stopped. Mounce lay flat on his back near the closed front door, the handle of a knife protruding from his midriff. A red stain discoloured his white shirt. The Browning. 32 automatic was already in Paula's right hand. She edged against the wall, listened, looked.

All doors closed, including the dining-room and the kitchen. She forgot her weakness, glanced up the staircase. Was the killer still in the house? Her loafers made no sound as she crossed the floor, bent over the butler, whose hand was still clutching the package. The 'postman'…

Her mind was racing as she quickly checked his carotid pulse. Dead. What the hell was going on? She straightened up, approached the dining-room door. She listened before her left hand reached out for the handle. Another solid door which shut out all sound. She revolved the handle slowly, using her handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, opened the door suddenly, stepped one pace inside, her gun ready to swivel on any target.

'Oh, my God!'

She had the presence of mind to whisper the words. Her mind struggled to take in the macabre horror. It was a massacre. Two guards were still seated, sprawled across the table in lakes of dark red blood. Some security, she thought bitterly. Four other guards had toppled out of their chairs, lay on the floor in pools of blood. She closed the door quietly, still wary that the killer might be inside the manor. Facing the door, she bent down again and checked the pulses of the two men on her side of the table. Nothing. Corpses ready for the morgue.

Sucking in her breath, she moved to the top of the table where Amberg's body was bent over the broken-backed chair. Paula was about to check his neck pulse when she suddenly saw his head. She gasped, trembled with shock. Julius Amberg was faceless. Large parts of the flesh had been eaten away. Even as she watched, the original face was rapidly being converted into a skull.

Forcing herself to stoop closer, her acute sense of smell caught a sharp whiff. Some kind of acid? Why? Why this extra barbarity? She stood up, looked round the walls of the panelled dining-room – panelled from floor to ceiling. A beautiful room – which seemed to emphasize the horror of what she was witnessing.

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.