The Savage Gorge

ELEVEN

Tweed parked the Audi several flights below Primrose Steps. No point in advertising who he was going to visit. He ran up the flight with Paula by his side. He realized all the expensive, well-designed houses were built of grim dark grey granite.

Twinkle Cottage was high up the flight, more than halfway. He hammered twice with the large brass knocker. The heavy door swung inward. He glanced at Paula, who already had her Browning in her hand. He slipped out his own weapon, pushed open the well-oiled door.

He did not call out as so often happens in films. Anyone might be waiting inside. He walked slowly in on the wall-to-wall carpet. He listened. No sound of anyone. With Paula close behind him he continued until he reached a partly opened door on his right. He pushed it open a little more into a spacious living room.

'My God!' he said under his breath.

'What is it?' whispered Paula, who had acute hear ing.

'I think we have found Mr Hartland Trent.'

The body was full length on a table whose green baize was covered with blood. Tweed gently felt a neck artery, shook his head. He then felt the face and shoulder.

'No good,' he said to Paula. 'He's dead. But the warmth of the body suggests the murder was com mitted not so long before we arrived. At a quick count he was stabbed brutally over a dozen times.'

'Look at the right hand, at the index finger. It's pointing at something. That pile of old newspapers on the coffee table.'

'You're not suggesting,' Tweed said in disbelief, 'that this poor devil, after being stabbed so many times, was able to turn his hand and use his finger to point.'

'We've encountered stranger cases,' she reminded him. 'Were any of the stab wounds lethal?'

'Well, no,' Tweed admitted. 'It was the loss of blood which got him. And look at the state of this room.'

It had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out, dropped on the carpet. Bound books had been hauled out of the cases lining the walls. Paula moved suddenly,

Browning in her hand. She rushed out of the room and up a staircase.

Tweed swore to himself at his own slackness. Pulling on latex gloves, he began checking the rest of the downstairs rooms. He returned to the study as Paula dashed back down the stairs and joined him.

'I thought it was just possible the killer was still in the house,' she explained. 'Nothing. Nobody. No sign of any hurried search.'

'I should have thought of that myself earlier. I've checked downstairs. The kitchen door is locked and bolted on the inside. You know what that means?'

'Mr Hartland Trent must have known his murderer, have seen no reason to be on his guard.'

'Why is he stretched out on that table?'

'My guess is he was standing by the end of it when he was attacked. His killer pushed him onto the table and Trent tried to escape by hauling himself along it. His killer ran down the side of the table, pushed his victim down and stabbed and stabbed.'

Paula was only half-listening as she carefully opened each folded newspaper to every page. Tweed thought she was wasting her time but kept quiet, checking his watch. After a while Tweed stood up, left the room. Something had occurred to him. If someone arrived at the front door as Paula fooled around with a stack of old newspapers they would need an escape route. In the kitchen he drew back the bolts on the door. He left it locked with the key in. Just in case someone tried to get in that way.

Paula was more than halfway down the stack when he returned. After checking every page of a newspaper she folded it, perched it neatly on one side. Tweed's patience snapped.

'We must get out of this place. We need to report Hartland Trent's murder anonymously from a public phone.'

'Shut up!' she told him. 'This whole room was ran sacked and the only item untouched was this pile of newspapers.' She was turning over the pages of an old copy of The Times. This newspaper seemed strangely thick. She reached the centre spread and stared down at a legal document and one brief typed letter on Hobart House stationery, dated five days earlier, addressed to Hartland Trent, signed by Lord Bullerton.

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.