No Mercy

by Forbes, Colin

  Later, turning off the M3 at Junction 8, he saw a clear road ahead, pressed his foot down. His mind switched to the West Country. Earlier, at the office, he had phoned a friend who was a retired marine expert. Without giving too much detail, he had asked him to calculate the probable progress of the Oran. With details like the tonnage of the freighter, its probable speed, date and likely time of passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, the marine expert had given him his estimate of when it was likely to reach the West Country.

  Sometime tonight had been the expert's rough forecast. What had given Tweed more confidence in this estimate was when he had heard from Lucinda that all the executives of Gantia were travelling to Abbey Grange.

  Larry, Lucinda, Michael and Aubrey Greystoke. One of them, he was convinced, was the Skeleton Murderer. And the same person was behind the missile plot. They had needed £400 million to make up for their losses on the dotcom Orlando Xanadu, to replace the huge sum they had transferred from the reserves of Gantia, had stolen.

  Tweed had included Michael among the suspects because he had never been completely convinced that he was suffering from amnesia. Professor Saafeld, now the top postmortem expert in the country, had once told Tweed what he thought of the people Churchill once described as trick cyclists. 'I've known a lot of them. They're all nutcases. Why? Because they spend so much time dealing with unbalanced patients they end up like them. Nutcases.'

  Absorbed by his swirl of thoughts, trying to blot out of his mind his terrible anxiety about Paula, Tweed was driving on autopilot. He was surprised when he saw the signpost to Andover off to his right. He was less than twenty miles from Stonehenge.

  26

  At Stonehenge the twenty or so megaliths reared up massively in the moonlight like sentries out of a horror film. Their huge bulk seemed to signal they would be there for ever. A few had fallen and lay on the scrubby hilltop like immense seats. A chill wind blew from the west.

  Paula did not like the ominous silence that hung over this weird, menacing place. She was only thankful she had thrown her overcoat on before she'd dashed out of Park Crescent on her way to the deli. She still felt frozen with fear, with the cold.

  On arrival, Charmian had parked his car behind a hedge a short distance up the A344. He had then carried Paula, wrists and legs bound, a gag across her mouth, to the entrance gate. One bullet from his 5-mm Glock had dealt with the lock. Picking her up again, he had found the perfect place to secure her.

  After perching her on one of the fallen megaliths, he had used more rope to fasten her to it. She was sitting up and her feet just reached the ground. He wanted Tweed to see her before he killed him with the first bullet. Then he would kill her.

  From her perch she had a clear view of the road from London until Charmian, anxious to conceal her from passing motorists, pushed up a large rock and blocked her view. She knew that Tweed would come to rescue her and this was her greatest fear. Her captor dominated the whole area from the hilltop.

  The wind, which had created an unnerving howl, died away and the awful silence closed in, broken only by the sound of a passing car or juggernaut. One large vehicle's engine made such a row she seized her chance, leaned with all her weight against the large rock. It fell off the megalith without making a sound as it thudded on the scrubby turf. Now she had a clear view of the road. Charmian, absorbed with his night glasses, checking each vehicle as it passed, did not notice the absence of the rock.

  To prevent her body becoming as stiff as the megaliths, she frequently worked her legs, pinioned at the ankles, up and down. She worked her arms and her wrists as far as she could. She soon realized she could never get free. She was frightened, frustrated, cold. She wet the gag with saliva but again realized she could never get rid of it. She heard a vehicle approaching slowly, saw it was a Land Rover, the single driver impossible to see because he had the visor well down. It crawled past and proceeded along the A303. Moments later a juggernaut thundered past, blaring its horn nonstop as it continued along the A303. Why?

  Charmian, confident she was helpless, never gave her a glance. Standing close to a giant megalith, he concentrated on gazing through his night glasses. Several more cars and trucks swept past, mostly along the A303, then another Land Rover appeared, moving much faster. Peering through his glasses Charmian saw a driver and no one else. The rear of the vehicle was covered with canvas, doubtless covering some product for delivery.

  Time passed and Paula knew she was reaching screaming pitch. She forced her body to relax, took in slow deep breaths and overcame the threat of hysteria.

  Charmian was dressed for the occasion. He wore a polo-necked sweater under his wool-lined windcheater. There was no glove on his right hand, which gripped the Glock handgun — a diabolical weapon which could blow a man's head off his shoulders. His head was protected by a woollen hat and occasionally he would drink water from a pocket flask. He never offered any to Paula, whom he regarded as no more than a key object of his assignment.

  Paula gritted her teeth. In the distance, coming down the road from London, she had seen Tweed's car. She looked desperately around for something that would make a noise. Then she looked down to where her feet just touched the ground. A broken chunk of megalith was resting on the edge of a small slope.

  Charmian jerked round as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He stared in sheer bewilderment. Coming up over the top of the slope from the direction of the A303 was a tall figure, walking slowly. It was the way the figure was clothed that shook the assassin. The figure was clad completely in black. A long black coat reached to its ankles. On its head was a wide-brimmed black hat. All round its neck was a white collar. In its left hand it held a cone-shaped vessel at the end of a thin chain. He was swinging it gently from left to right, then back again. Water dribbled from the vessel. Charmian was shocked. A priest.

  He knew a little about Stonehenge. Several years before, he got off a train in Salisbury. His assignment: to assassinate an ex-prime minister. Immediately he'd entered the town he knew he was in danger. Someone had spread the news of his intention. The place was crawling with police - on foot, in slow-moving cars. He had slipped into the nearest pub to escape detection. There he had met a farmer who had told him about Stonehenge, its origin long ago as a place of ancient worship. He had offered to drive Charmian to show him Stonehenge since it was on his way home.

  Charmian had accepted with relief, seeing his way of escaping safely from Salisbury. One man on foot would be suspicious. Two men in a car would mean nothing. On a lonely road close to Stonehenge Charmian had expressed a wish to relieve himself. The moment the car stopped he strangled the driver, threw the body into a deep pond and used the car to drive to Newhaven. Here he had caught the ferry to France.

  All this came back to him as he stared, bewildered, at the distant figure walking slowly, swinging his vessel, spreading water. He must be consecrating the ground for some strange reason. Paula also was gazing at the figure, which in some way seemed familiar.

  Tweed's car arrived and Charmian jerked his attention away from the priest. To his surprise, instead of taking the left-hand fork up the A344, the vehicle cruised slowly along the A303. He heard it stop. He raised his Glock, aimed it at the crest of the slope.

  Tweed climbed out of his car, suppressing a mixture of terror and fury. Silhouetted against the moonlight, he had seen the forlorn figure of Paula, on the fallen megalith. At least she was alive. He puzzled briefly over the parked Land Rover ahead, its hazard lights flashing. He began climbing the slope, head well down, leaning forward, Walther in his right hand. He knew reaching the crest would be crisis time. He would have only one chance, if he had any chance at all.

  Paula guessed Tweed was on his way up. Her nerves were screaming. She took a deep breath of the cold air, suppressed her fear. She had to guess the correct timing. Her face froze with determination. She stretched her right leg down as far as it would go. The rope round her waist dug deeply into her, tied to the fallen mega
lith. She counted, trying to imagine how many steps it would take Tweed to reach the crest.

  Charmian stood very still against the giant megalith. Both hands gripped the Glock. He swivelled it back and forth over a small arc. He was trying to estimate where Tweed would appear. The silence over Stonehenge seemed even heavier. No traffic for the moment.

  Paula's right foot touched the rock chunk resting above the small slope. She took another deep breath. It happened so quickly it appeared to have been synchronized. Paula kicked the rock chunk. It rolled forward down the small slope, stopped. The sound distracted Charmian for barely a second. His head jerked round, jerked back. Tweed had leaped up the last few feet of the crest, was standing on it. He pressed the trigger. At the same moment the 'priest' had produced an Armalite from under his black habit, aimed it, seen the assassin's face in the cross-hairs, fired the explosive bullet. At the very same moment, a millisecond before the assassin could fire his Glock, Tweed's bullet slammed into his stomach as the Armalite's bullet hit the bridge of his nose, shattering his head, spraying the megalith with blood and flesh and bone and brains. His headless body sank to the ground. Marler, still holding his Armalite, tore off the long black coat, threw the hat down. Paula opened her mouth to speak and nothing emerged as she sagged, still conscious but exhausted with tension.

  Tweed ran forward to Paula but Marler had already reached her. With a pocket knife he cut the ropes binding her to the fallen megalith, cut the ropes round her wrists, cut those round her ankles. She slid off the stone, tried to stand up, began to fall. Tweed grabbed her round the waist. She buried her head against his chest, trying to speak in a choking voice, then Marler removed the gag.

  'God! I was so worried about you ... so worried I felt I was . . . going insane.'

  'Sound sane enough to me,' Marler said briskly. 'Like some water . . . ?'

  'Oh, yes, please,' she begged hoarsely.

  Marler unscrewed the cap from a flask he'd extracted from a pocket. He held it away from her as she reached for it, his voice stern.

  'Listen to me. You take a few sips, then pause. Then a few more sips. Another pause. You can drink more soon.'

  She nodded to show she had understood, grasped the flask, forced herself to ration herself to a few sips. The water trickled down a throat that felt parched. She coughed, waited, took a few more sips. They went down without her coughing. She waited. Then she gradually drank normally. Life seemed to return to every part of her body.

  'Thank you,' she said in her usual voice, handing back the flask. 'I damned well needed that.'

  Standing still, she bent her legs gently several times and soon they felt they would support her. She walked back and forth, Tweed on one side, Marler on the other, talking.

  'The way you walked, Marler, seemed familiar, but I never guessed it could be you.'

  'Why the fancy dress?' Tweed asked, introducing an element of humour deliberately.

  'I phoned Paris. Loriot told me Charmian was a Catholic. Not a churchgoer but attended confessionals. I gambled he wouldn't shoot a priest. It came off. Now we clear up, get rid of the evidence.'

  'How?' asked Tweed.

  'Come with me.' Marler looked at Paula, decided she needed something to occupy her mind, however gruesome. He pulled a large white cloth from inside his overcoat and handed it to her. 'Think you could clean the mess off that megalith? If it drops on to the body so much the better.'

  His psychology was good. Recovered from shock, Paula welcomed a task to busy herself with. She gave the corpse only a brief glance as she stepped over it and used the cloth to wipe the side of the megalith. She knew this hideous creature was going to kill her after he had murdered Tweed.

  Tweed followed Marler a short distance along the top to where he stopped, pointing downwards. A large metal grille with slim steel bars covered a square hole in the ground. A lock was closed at one end. Marler bent down, took out the lockpick he always carried. He was wearing gloves as he gripped the lock with one hand, to prevent it slipping down between the bars. He opened it with his lockpick.

  'A drain,' he explained. 'Must piss down with rain up here and gullies channel it to this drain.'

  'It rains cats and dogs,' Tweed agreed. 'What's the plan?'

  Marler didn't reply at once. Grasping a large stone, he dropped it down the drain after lifting the cover, which was hinged. They listened. After what seemed an hour they heard a distant splash.

  'Deep enough. Now I'll get the body.'

  He picked up the large black coat he had thrown off. Earlier he had removed the costumier's labels. Carrying it to where Paula was working, he found she had cleaned the side of the megalith clear of Charmian's remains. She looked calm as Marler took the filthy cloth off her, dropped it on the headless body streaming with blood at the neck. He lifted it and she slipped the black coat under it, following his orders. He wrapped the coat round the body, with plenty of cloth round the neck. Then he lifted it round the waist and carried it to the drain, followed by Paula.

  'What's that?' she asked, staring at the square cavity.

  'A drain,' Marler replied. 'Probably leads to a sewer.'

  'A perfect resting place for it,' she said.

  Lifting it vertically, careful to keep the whole body wrapped in the black coat, he dropped it. They waited. Again it seemed to take forever before they heard a distant splash. It was a long way down. Marler collected the black hat, crammed inside it the chain and vessel which had dribbled water and dropped them into the black hole. He stood up.

  'That's it.'

  Tweed had moved to the other end, used gloved hands to lift the heavy drain cover. He swung it on its hinges back into its original position. Marler fixed the large lock, clicked it closed, stood up.

  He gazed round the forest of giant stones, checking to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He turned to Tweed.

  'There'll be blood on the ground at the base of the megalith, but it'll soon turn brown.'

  'More likely washed away by heavy rain. Now, we must head fast to Wylye, where the others will be waiting. You ride with Marler, Paula. I'll park my car near Wylye and transfer to a Land Rover. We must keep moving. A grim night lies ahead of us.'

  27

  Tweed led the way along the A303 to Wylye while Paula rode in the front passenger seat with Marler. Glancing at her, Marler saw she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. He pulled in to a lay-by. After taking off his overcoat, he folded it and told her to get into the back seat, where he arranged the coat as a makeshift pillow.

  'Stretch out, head on pillow, and sleep,' he ordered.

  'Thank you,' she said with a smile.

  She was fast asleep before he started driving again. Back at Stonehenge the sky had been clear, the moon had shone. Now the weather was changing. A fleet of dark clouds cruising in from the west blotted out the moon. Marler wondered whether these conditions would suit Tweed's plan, whatever that was. He had said he'd explain the next move when they reached the rest of the team.

  Ahead of them, Tweed slowed up as he approached the Wylye area. He turned in to a lay-by as he saw a parked Land Rover. Empty. No sign of anyone. Cautiously, he climbed out, the Walther in his hand.

  'Don't shoot your friends,' a familiar voice called out. The voice of Harry.

  He appeared at Tweed's side, holding a small Uzi machine pistol. He was followed by Newman and Pete Nield. Tweed stared - they were all carrying weapons. What on earth had happened?

  'We decided to be very careful while we waited for you,'

  Newman explained. 'A couple of patrol cars full of police came out of a side road. We saw them behind us just in time to race here and park the Land Rover without lights. They didn't see the vehicle, just headed towards Exeter with their blasted sirens wailing, lights flashing.'

  'What's going on?' asked Tweed half to himself.

  At that moment Marler arrived with his Land Rover. Paula had woken up, sensing Marler had slowed down. Tweed explained what Newman had told him. Paula
was bleary-eyed but became alert as she listened.

  'So what's all this about?' she enquired.

  Tweed was about to reply when Paula's mobile in his pocket began buzzing. Swearing under his breath, he put it to his ear and spoke quietly.

  'Who is this?'

  'This,' a voice thundered, 'is Chief Superintendent Buchanan. Where are you? I got this mobile number from Monica. Told her you were in trouble . . .'

  'You what?'

  'Only way I could get her to give me this number. So where are you?' he repeated aggressively.

  'You sound rattled, Roy. Why?'

  'Haven't you read the splashy headlines in the newspapers? They imply the police aren't doing their job about the skeleton murders. That we're baffled. Baffled, for heaven's sake. And that you are in charge of the investigation and haven't got anywhere. I've decided to take over.'