The Savage Gorge

by Forbes, Colin

  '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 rubbish, 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 traffic, 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 district 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 contact, 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 murders 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.'

  Newman slipped Mr Merton a folded twenty-pound note, stood up, walked towards the door, still munching his apple. He didn't like the look of Lepard at all. The killer, wearing an expensive leather jacket

  and corduroy slacks, moved with a certain agility. His yellow eyes darted everywhere, scanning the whole room. A cadaverous face was softened by his well-shaped chin and a pleasant smile as he nearly knocked over a seated customer's glass of beer. His right hand grabbed the glass, prevented it spilling as he apologized.

  Newman had seen all this in a wall mirror as, hunched down in his ancient raincoat, he padded slowly to the door and into the street. He was having trouble assessing Lepard. Outside he hailed a cab, asked to be taken to Huston Road. No point in mentioning Park Crescent in this area.

  Dusk was falling as Paula and Marler entered Tweed's office. Paula immediately gave Tweed a brief description of what they had witnessed in Finden Square. Her chief liked terse reports.

  'You're thinking of the Rolls which cruised past us when we were standing outside the double murder location,' he suggested.

  'Yes, I am.'

  'Did you get the plate number of the Rolls driving away from Otranto's HQ?'

  'No, I couldn't. Only saw the car's side parked.'

  'Then it's a guess, not evidence?'

  'My instinct rather than a guess,' she countered.

  'And,' Marler intervened, 'in the past Paula's instinct has so often proved to be right.'

  'True,' Tweed agreed. He lit one of his rare cigarettes. 'We have several threads but none of them ties with the others . . .'

  He stopped speaking as Newman opened the door, walked across the room, perched on the edge of Paula's desk next to Marler. He opened both hands in a negative gesture, then reported his experience inside the Pig's Trotters. He concluded with a shrug.

  'Doesn't get us any further, does it?'

  'You sound confused about this character Lepard,' Tweed told him.

  'Well, if he is a killer he has good manners, which doesn't add up.'

  'I've remarked before,' Tweed said amiably, 'that I never cease to be fascinated by the complexity of human nature, the mixture of good and evil in one man - or woman. You explained he was of mixed parentage. Some of these professional killers have egos as big as the Ritz. The strange name has sinister undertones. Le could be part of a French name, Pard might be short for Pardoe - might be his mother's maiden name.' He placed his hands behind his neck. 'It's another thread, floating in the wind.'

  'So where do we go from here?' asked Paula.

  'First, I suggest we all go home early, get a good night's sleep. Who knows? I need a very positive lead. Could come tomorrow.'

  Tweed had no idea that the following morning the investigation would explode in their faces.

  FIVE

  Tweed arrived early at Park Crescent the next day, to find his whole team in his office, again with the exception of Harry Butler. As he hung up his camel-hair coat he glanced through the windows towards Regent's Park, which was bathed in sunlight. Another glorious May day. Monica leaned forward as he sat at his desk.

  'You have a visitor in the waiting room downstairs. A Hector Humble.'

  'Why park him in that dreary room?'

  'He preferred not to invade your office until you arrived. He was quite firm about it.'

  'Invite him up immediately.' Tweed sighed. 'He's come to warn me the photos of the two murdered women won't be ready for weeks.'

  A clatter of feet on the stairs, the door opened,

  Hector bounced into the room. His jacket was open and underneath he was clad in a waistcoat of many colours, all tasteful.

  'Love your waistcoat,' Paula called out. 'Really unique.'

  'Got it in the Old Kent Road. Half price - it had been displayed for weeks.'

  Under his right arm he clutched two cardboard-backed envelopes. He was still blushing at Paula's praise, shyly accepted Monica's offer of coffee. He eased his rounded body into the chair Tweed, standing up, had gestured towards after shaking hands.

  'Done it,' he said with an air of triumph. 'Worked dirough the night. Got absorbed. Knew you needed them urgently.'

  Diving into the thicker envelope he produced a batch of photos. He spread two copies in front of Tweed, who stared in disbelief. He knew he was looking at glossy prints of the two murdered women as they had appeared alive. Even their long hair falling to their shoulders looked real.

  The whole team gathered round the desk. Paula peered over his shoulder. She pursed her lips as
she made her remark.

  'They were both beautiful. We've got to get the swine who ruined them.'

  'You have seven copies,' Hector went on. 'Don't look now inside this envelope. It will upset you. They're copies of how they looked before I rebuilt their faces. Just for your files.'

  'But eventually,' Newman said fiercely, 'to show the jury when we've dragged the killer into court by his heels.'

  The door opened and Howard, the Director, strolled in. He was a tall man with the beginnings of a stout stomach. He was perfectly dressed in a new grey Armani suit, pristine white shirt, cuffs shot beyond the sleeves, exposing gold cufflinks. An Hermes tie decorated the shirt front. Normally amiable, he had a serious expression as Tweed showed him the photos.

  'Hector has performed a miracle. I told you about him before I went home last night.'

  'Well, write out Mr Humble the cheque I approved.'

  Tweed already had his chequebook out, was filling it in for ten thousand pounds. Hector protested.

  'I quoted too much. Seven or eight would be most acceptable.'

  'A deal is a deal,' Tweed insisted, writing in the originally agreed amount.

  Howard picked up the photos of both women as they had been in life. He sighed.

  'I'd like to have taken either lady to dinner . . .' He gulped. 'God! That was in the worst taste. I do apologize. I'm off back to my office.' He held out his large pink hand.

  'Mr Humble, I've seen the work of experts in other fields but words fail me to express my admiration for your quite unique skill.'

  He hurried from the office, still embarrassed by his

  remark. Hector swallowed the rest of the coffee Monica had brought him, stood up, the cheque in his wallet. He grasped hold of Paula, kissed her on both cheeks.

  'You're such a nice lady,' he murmured, blushing.

  He darted out of the room before Paula could decide how to react. Tweed was sorting the photos into pairs, each pair comprising one photo of each murdered woman. He instructed Paula as the others returned to their desks.

  'Every member of the team must have a copy.' He raised his voice. 'But everyone must be discriminating as to who sees them. Under no circumstances are you to reveal both women were murdered. It's identification of the victims that is holding up the investigation.'

  'So not in the newspapers,' Newman suggested.

  'Last place on earth,' Tweed replied emphatically.

  'Well,' Newman insisted, 'this morning's Clarion has a big splash headline. It's my top newspaper friend, of course, Drew Franklin. Show him, Paula.'

  TWO UNIDENTIFIED SOCIETY

  WOMEN MURDERED KILLER CUT THEIR THROATS. BEWARE!

  Tweed looked up at Paula, who had spread the front page across his desk. Lower down on the same page something had been cut out. Tweed didn't waste time reading Franklin's lurid prose as he asked his question.

  'Among the few people who knew about this crime, who would be your choice for the informant who accepted a bundle of cash to call Franklin - probably from a public phone box?'

  'Roadblock,' she said promptly. 'Chief Inspector Reedbeck.'

  'My choice too, although we'd never prove it. And something was cut out lower down. What was it?'

  'Archie MacBlade is back in town after weeks abroad.'

  'I've just about heard the name.'

  'MacBlade is just about the most successful oil prospector on the planet,' Newman broke in. 'Back from Brunei, the oil-rich nation in the Far East. Controlled by the Sultan, perhaps the richest man in the world. MacBlade prospected in the jungle, brought up the most gigantic gusher ever seen there. The Sultan is probably three times richer than he was before.'

  'I only cut this out because I was impressed by the picture of him. Struck me as a man of exceptional character.'

  Tweed glanced at the cutting she'd pushed in front of him. He agreed with her estimate. The photograph was of a man with shaggy hair, piercing eyes under bushy brows, a Roman nose, a shaggy moustache and a wide mouth, below that a strong jaw. He had a pleasant smile. Tweed nodded, pushed the cutting back to her.

  'I agree,' he said in a bored voice, 'but it's nothing to do with our present problem . . .'

  The phone rang. Monica picked it up, listened, looked excited as she pointed to Tweed's phone.

  'You might want to take this call. It's Harry.'

  'Great to hear from you,' Tweed began. 'Where the devil are you? Hobartshire? Could you repeat that?'

  Paula had already returned to her desk with her cutting. She hauled out a map from a desk drawer, waited.

  It was a long conversation. Most of the time Tweed was scribbling data on a pad. Occasionally he said, 'Are you sure?' then he went on scribbling. Finally he asked, 'If Paula and I left now could we get there by lunchtime?'

  'Yes, we could,' Paula called out.

  'Did you say Gunners Gorge? Funny name,' Tweed commented.

  'Got it,' Paula called out again. 'Small town on the River Lyne.'

  'Can anyone hear this?' Tweed asked. 'Oh, you're on your mobile in a field. Sounds secure enough. If that's all, Paula and I will be starting out in five minutes. You've done well, Harry. Exceptionally well. See you . . .'

  Tweed replaced the phone. His expression concealed the relief, the excitement he was feeling. He looked round the room at the members of his team.

  'I sense this is the breakthrough we've been patiently waiting for. Patiently? Didn't apply to me. I apologize to all of you for my flashes of temper yesterday. Now,

  Harry. He has tracked Falkirk to - of all places -Hobartshire. To what he called the weirdest of small towns - Gunners Gorge. He's booking suites for Paula and me at a good hotel, the Nag's Head. All the data is on this pad, which I'll leave with Monica. If I need reinforcements, you all have Paula's mobile number. Use that if something happens down there . . .'

  As he was finishing speaking he jumped up, put on his camel-hair coat. Paula had already picked up two suitcases kept for emergency departures, one for herself, one for Tweed. She was striding to the door when Tweed relieved her of his own case and Pete Nield spoke.

  'You don't know what you're walking into. I suggest you travel in the second Audi parked at the back. The one with armourplate on the body and armoured glass in the windows. Harry has souped up the engine.'

  'Good thinking. I agree,' Tweed replied.

  'I'll come down the back way with you - I've got the keys,' Pete added.

  'Then,' Paula remarked, 'with the Audi the wrong people associate with us left parked out at the front they'll think we're still here.'

  'More good thinking,' Tweed agreed.

  Paula took the wheel, saying she knew the route. After crawling through the dense traffic of London, she drove faster through the suburbs, then accelerated as

  they reached the countryside. They were on a wide country road and Paula sighed with pleasure.

  'Oh, this is wonderful. Away from the stench of petrol, the noise, young girls with mobiles pressed to their ears who walk into you, the pointless rush and bustle.'

  'And the scenery,' Tweed added.

  On either side were hedges in leaf, their twigs festooned with bright yellow honeysuckle. Through the gaps they saw endless slopes of green grass, copses of trees perched on isolated hillocks.

  Above them the sun blazed down out of a clear duck-egg-blue sky. A large passenger plane had flown to a great height, was still climbing. Tweed pointed towards it as it changed direction, heading west.

  'Look at what they're leaving behind, an earthly paradise.'

  'Could be heading for the Bahamas,' Paula suggested. 'Those yacht basins crammed with private boats, the narrow streets choked with shoppers. No, thank you . . .'

  As they kept heading roughly north-eastward Paula occasionally used a motorway. Overtaking, overtaking, overtaking. Back into the slow lane, then up a slip road, leaving the torrent of huge trucks and fast cars behind. Back into countryside.

  'Where is Hobartshire?' Tweed enquired.

&n
bsp; 'Middle of nowhere. Least populated county. Not one city - inhabited by people with large estates who hunt for exercise.'

  'Sounds like large parts of Britain used to be.' 'I gathered from a girl friend once it's just that.' The scenery changed as they crossed from one county to the next. They passed an area of massive white rocks; here and there men with machines worked quarries. Then the road took them into a forest so dense and dark it blotted out the sun. Emerging from the forest, fertile and gently rolling grass-covered hills lay on either side. Tweed checked the time.

  'We should be nearly there, shouldn't we?' 'The man's a genius,' said Paula and laughed. 'Look at that road sign,' she suggested as she slowed to a crawl.

  The larger than usual metal sign carried a message, a very clear message.

  HOBARTSHIRE

  BEHAVE YOURSELVES HERE

  POLICE

  'Something tells me we might not be welcome in this neck of the woods,' Tweed remarked. 'We have just entered the bailiwick of Lord Bullerton.'

  SIX

  They drove on, with glimpses of rolling green slopes when gaps in the tall hedges gave them a view. They came to a point where the road descended into a village. Paula drove slowly now, staring.

  'Funny sort of place/ she commented. 'No sign of a gorge.'

  The village was strange. On either side of the narrowed road was a continuous line of old terraced cottages with white stone walls. Each cottage had a bright blue front door and tiny dormer windows in its low cramped roof. There was no one about and the place seemed eerie.