The Savage Gorge tac-24

by Colin Forbes

  'Guile is the cruellest villain in Europe. Most mur derous. Ruthless, callous and brutal. Adopts any method to succeed. Once he kidnapped the daughter of a Belgian banker who refused to sell his oil hold ings. A message was sent to the banker that if he didn't sell within twenty-four hours the daughter would be returned. In pieces. The banker sold the oil holdings through an intermediary. The girl, unharmed but out of her wits with fear, was thrown from a car at the entrance to the banker's villa.'

  'A very nasty piece of work,' Tweed commented.

  'Yet he has a most remarkable personality, can charm the birds out of the trees, especially the female variety. Operates via third parties, so the police can never link him to his crimes.'

  'So at present Lord Bullerton is his front man.'

  'That's what I suspect,' Falkirk agreed. 'And Bullerton may have no idea of what is really going on.'

  'May,' Tweed emphasized.

  At that moment he saw the edge of the envelope Paula had pushed under his door. He opened it, read what she had written and thought for a moment. After her traumatic experience at the falls, then seeing the murdered Hartland Trent, she was probably exhausted, would sleep the night through.

  Paula had dropped to her knees to explore the tunnel. When she risked shining her more powerful torch into the darkness the beam faded into blackness a few yards ahead. The tunnel must be endless. She had just entered when the metal buckle on her backpack scraped against the top of the tunnel. She worried about the noise, hauled the pack off her back and dragged it along by the handle. It was not long before the pressure of the unknown crept into her mind. She gritted her teeth, determined to discover the reason for the tunnel.

  The tunnel continued its gradual descent. Soon she'd be deep under Black Gorse Moor. Not a pleas ant thought. She was also worried that someone might find the lid entrance removed. Her back was completely exposed to attack. She paused frequently to listen.

  The absolute silence was worse. It began to get on her nerves. She pressed on, crawling slowly. The hand which dragged her pack also held her powerful torch awkwardly, but she needed at least one hand free in case of emergency. Now the surface of the tunnel, still dropping, began to curve to her right so her torch could not illuminate what might lie ahead. She slowed her progress. Her outstretched left hand suddenly felt nothing beneath it. Dante's Inferno was nothing com pared to this.

  Her exploring left hand felt round the rim of noth ing. She let go momentarily of her pack, aimed the torch, which had been wobbling all over the place. She had reached a vertical tunnel descending into the bowels of the earth. Beyond, her tunnel continued into darkness.

  Easing herself forward inch by inch, she arrived at the rim of this new tunnel. She shone her torch down, almost dropped it in her shock. About eight feet down the beam was shining on the dead face of Archie MacBlade, body jammed into a space where the ver tical tunnel narrowed. The eyes were closed.

  'MacBlade!' she gasped in a whisper.

  The eyes opened. One winked at her. That was when she heard voices, curiously distorted as they travelled down the extension of the vertical tunnel up to the moor. Instinctively she switched off her torch, hauled herself back a short distance from the rim. Despite the distortion, there was one voice she re cognized immediately.

  'You are quite clear what you have to do as soon as dawn comes?' the cut glass voice of Neville Guile demanded.

  'Oh, I knows me business,' Ned Marsh, a wiry man with a hooked nose and a harelip, responded in his coarse voice.

  'Then repeat your instructions and take that self- satisfied look off your ugly face.'

  'At dawn I'll 'ave brought the truck of rubble and mud 'ere. I empty the flamin' lot down this tunnel. That bastard MacBlade will never be found.'

  'Must be dead already/ Guile answered casually, 'after the blow from your cosh on the back of his head. And bring the truck along the top moor road. Time we moved off.'

  Paula had held herself so still that after waiting to be sure they had gone she had to stretch. She shone her torch down inside the tunnel where MacBlade was trapped by the bulge in the wall. He called up to her in little more than a whisper.

  'If I try to move I'll shift this soil bulge and drop twenty more feet. Bit of a problem, Paula.'

  'Don't move an inch,' she whispered back. 'I've got an idea.'

  The ingenious Harry had from time to time given her different equipment she might need. One item, stowed in her backpack, was a length of rope tightly knotted at three-foot intervals, and with a metal hook at one end covered with thick rubber. He'd told her it would 'come in handy' for entering the first floor of a target house. Lowering the rope, hooked end first, she told MacBlade what to do. As she talked, she wrapped the other end of the rope round her waist, praying she'd be strong enough to hold his weight. Twisting her body round, she pressed both feet against the top of the tunnel where the metal surface was rougher. She peered over the edge, told him to come up when ready. MacBlade had followed her instructions to the letter. With the rubber-covered hook tucked inside his thick leather waist belt, he began hauling himself up, hands gripping a knot, then another. As soon as he moved, the soil bulge which had held him collapsed. Without the rope, he would have fallen at least twenty feet into the depths.

  For Paula, the strain of his weight on her legs and shoulders was agonizing. She thanked God for her recent tough training exercise at the SIS mansion hidden on the Surrey border. She had stopped peering over the rim so was surprised at the speed with which MacBlade reached the top, fell across her, rolled off her and lay beside her, panting for breath.

  They lay together like that for a while, exercising limbs and recovering. Then MacBlade squeezed her arm gently and asked, 'What next?'

  'We get out of this fiendish tunnel. I know the way. I'll go first. Keep close behind me.'

  'Gal, you've got guts,' he said.

  'What's that plastic canister you've got in your pocket?'

  'A sample. Let's start the crawl…'

  As she eventually emerged from the tunnel she couldn't recall experiencing such a sense of relief. And now for the first time the moon had come out, illumi nating the bowl far below. She screwed the lid back in position over the entrance, sat on it. MacBlade was stamping around in lively fashion.

  'The Audi is parked in a hole in the hedge on this side of the road,' she told him. 'You make your way to it and I'll follow in a few minutes. Two people will be easier to spot in this moonlight.'

  'Nothing doing,' he told her. 'You need protection – the least I can do after what you've done.'

  'Do as you're damned well told!' she burst out. 'I need a few minutes on my own.'

  'Then I'll wait over there.'

  'For God's sake leave me alone,' she snapped, sud denly realizing she had raised her voice.

  'Have it your own way,' he said with a warm smile and began walking away down from the moor into the bowl.

  He had almost reached the bowl when once again he looked back. He wasn't able to see her: the hedge masked the round lid.

  Paula stood up, stretched her legs and shoulders. A thick cloth hood descended over her head. Wiry hands swung her round, took hold of her wrists, clamped them in front of her with handcuffs. Then a familiar voice spoke with a cut-glass tone.

  'She's all yours, Ned. Use her as a man likes to use a woman. Then kill her and bury the body. She knows too much.'

  Paula found herself swung round, then frogmarched away from the moor. A wet cloth had been wrapped round her mouth so it was impossible to shout to MacBlade, who was probably too far away now. Where was she being taken by the lustful Ned Marsh?

  THIRTEEN

  Marsh's hands gripped her arms so tightly she knew it would be useless to struggle. He continued to propel her across a grassy surface. She had to be somewhere in the bowl which encircled Hobart House.

  'You're goin' to enjoy this,' his coarse voice told her. 'At least the first part.'

  'And the second part?' she said quiet
ly.

  'You won't know a thing. Guile is clever. He's seen you're Tweed's bit. When you disappear forever it will destroy your Mr Tweed. Guile knows he's the greatest danger.'

  'Tweed will hunt you down, if he has to search the world for you. ..'

  'Shut your face.'

  Marsh's grip on her arms tightened painfully. They slowed down. She heard the squeak of a gate opening, felt her feet move off grass onto paving. She jerked her head up. The hood slipped back and she had a glimpse of the outside world.

  She was looking up at a tiled cottage roof. A crooked chimney tilted down towards her. She knew where she was. Marsh rammed the hood back over her head. His tone was vicious.

  'Don't get clever on me. We'll be longer on the bed.'

  She knew where she was. She remembered seeing the tilted chimney across the bowl, the cottage almost hidden inside a copse of trees on the edge. Was this where Guile had remained out of sight for days? With Lord Bullerton's permission.

  'Lift your clumsy feet,' Marsh ordered. 'We're going inside somewhere. Won't be long before you're flat on the bed. You lookin' forward to it? Be the last time you'll be with a man.'

  She stumbled over a step and it was cooler. She was inside the cottage, being pushed along a wooden floor she assumed was the hall.

  'Now you climb the stairs,' Marsh informed her. 'Slowly. Step by step, with me 'oldin' on to you. Nearly there for your last experience

  …'

  Normally, whatever the danger, Paula remained calm and alert. For the first time in her life she was in a cold murderous fury. She remembered Neville Guile's words. Use her as a man likes to use a woman. She was incensed, in a killing mood.

  She climbed the staircase carefully, feeling for the next step before lifting a foot. Arriving at the top, Marsh guided her into a room, removed the hood, flung her onto the double bed. She was careful to fall on her back, sprawling her legs along the sheet. Marsh had made one fatal mistake.

  He stood at the end of the bed, stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He was grinning evilly. She lay with her cuffed hands and the long metal chain between them over the lower part of her body.

  'You can stretch your arms,' he said with a leer. 'They're in the way.'

  She raised both arms behind her head as he sprawled on top of her. Her hands whipped down, over his head, round his neck, were winding the chain, long enough, thank God, to encircle his throat. She crossed her hands within seconds, pulled them outwards. The chain bit deep into his windpipe. She increased the pressure. The chain dug deeper.

  He was choking. His hands, which might other wise have been used to beat at her body, flew up to his throat, fingers desperately trying to insert them selves under the chain but the metal links were buried too tightly. Coldly, she watched him fighting for breath which couldn't enter the windpipe. She felt his feet and legs hammering on the bed. He opened his mouth but no words emerged. She pulled the chain a fraction tighter and his face was changing colour. Then the hammering of feet and legs ceased. His hands, which had been clawing at the chain, fell to his sides. He was very still. She held on. To be sure. His body had slumped, lifeless, on hers.

  She eased herself from beneath him after lifting the chain. She rubbed her hands to bring back circula tion, rolled his body to the edge of the bed, dipped her hand into the pocket of his shirt on the floor where she had seen him tuck the handcuff key.

  Her hands trembled but she managed to unlock the cuffs, which she dropped on the floor, kicking them under the bed. As a final precaution she checked his carotid artery. No pulse. Pushing the body off the bed, she shoved it underneath.

  She found a small bathroom, turned the cold-water tap, soaked her face and hands. She wiped her finger prints off the tap, collected from the stairs the motoring gloves she had surreptitiously dropped, left the cottage and started walking across the bowl on stiffish legs to where she had parked the Audi. Vaguely, seeing lights in Hobart House, she wondered whether Tweed was still dining with Lord Bullerton.

  'My God, where have you been?'

  It was MacBlade's voice, but she nearly jumped out of her skin. He told her Harry had turned up on foot out of nowhere and was guarding the vehicle. Arriving at the parked Audi she told both of them in short sen tences what had happened. Harry reacted immediately, turning to MacBlade.

  'Give me a hand to remove the body from the cot tage?'

  'Sure thing. You OK to drive back to the hotel, Paula?'

  'What I could do with. A nice quiet drive back to the hotel.'

  Arriving back at the hotel, she parked the Audi, was surprised to realize she was ravenously hungry. She took off her smeared tunic and jeans, washed, brushed her hair and went downstairs.

  She dined alone. The food was excellent and she devoured a three-course meal. Arriving back at her suite she forced herself to take a quick shower. Afterwards she couldn't be bothered to get into her night attire. Her last thought before she fell into a deep sleep was how Tweed had fared during his dinner with Lord Bullerton.

  FOURTEEN

  Earlier in the evening, Tweed was driven to Hobart House by Harry in his Fiat. Harry left his chief at the foot of the steps, drove the car round the back

  Tweed had adopted a tactic he'd used before, catch ing people on the wrong foot by arriving early. The door was opened for him by an elegantly dressed Mrs Shipton. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head. He thought he detected fairish strands. Her shapely body was encased firmly in a green dress with a wide gold belt emphasizing her narrow waist.

  'You are early,' she greeted him with an inviting smile. 'We could have time for a drink. Lord Bullerton is ensconced in his study. Shall we use the library?'

  Intrigued by the warmth of her approach, Tweed followed her into the library. The lights were dim so he chose a couch as the nearest place to sit. She must have used the dimmer because the lights came on more strongly.

  'Wine?' she enquired. 'Red or white. Or maybe Scotch?'

  'White wine, please.'

  Standing by the wine cabinet her face was in profile. Tweed wondered where he had seen that Roman nose before. With the drinks on a silver tray she returned, placed the tray on a coffee table, sat on the couch close to him. She crossed her legs and raised her glass.

  'To success.'

  'I’ll drink to that,' Tweed agreed. He sipped his wine and placed his glass on the table. 'I'm curious as to what part of the world you come from.'

  'That's something I never discuss. I was glad to get away.'

  'You have a good position here?'

  'I see to it that it is. Lord Bullerton may not be the easiest man to work for but I make sure that the rela tionship works. After his wife, Myra, fell from the falls he had no one to look after this place. A friend of mine in Gunners Gorge, who has gone abroad, tipped me off. So I came to see him.'

  'Was it an easy encounter?'

  'Not for him.' She chuckled. 'Said he'd pay me the earth when I expressed doubt. I asked him how much the earth cost.'

  'And his reaction?'

  'He bellowed with laughter, then offered me the generous sum which I wanted.'

  Tweed stood up, walked over to a wall where a gilt-framed picture was turned to the wall. He reversed it. The painting was of a woman with her back turned while her face peered over her shoulder where two large substantial wings were attached.

  'Would this be his late wife, Myra?' he enquired.

  'Yes.'

  'I noticed last time I was here the painting was turned to face the wall. Why?'

  'It gets dusty on the glass,' she said quickly.

  He smeared a finger over the whole of the glass, showed it to her as she shuffled her feet. He smiled.

  'Not a trace of dust,' he commented. He studied the profile, turned to face her. 'Seems a bit odd.'

  'Well,' she said, approaching, her voice harder, 'do you think it would be a good thing for him to brood over memories of the past?'

  'I suppose not. He doesn't mind it facing the wall?'
/>
  'He leaves me to run the house in my own way. That was one of the conditions I imposed when accepting the post. Your drink is waiting for you.'

  Tweed walked back to the coffee table, picked up his drink and avoided the couch. Instead he sat in an armchair in front of an antique refectory table. Mrs Shipton came back, stood up. He gathered she was not pleased.

  The door opened and Lance strolled in, a striking figure in a dinner jacket. Tweed glanced over his shoulder. The painting of Myra had been turned round again, her face to the wall.

  'Mrs Shipton,' Lance said in his most lofty tone, 'Cook is in trouble with the souffle. She's worried it's going to collapse.'

  'Oh, hell, everything in this place goes to pieces if I'm not on hand…'

  Without a word to Tweed, Mrs Shipton hurried from the library. Lance walked forward, sat in a hard- backed chair opposite Tweed. He touched the lapel of his dinner jacket.

  'If you don't object I'd like to join the dinner. I'm hoping my father won't mind.'

  'Up to you. I'm only a guest, and Miss Grey was unable to come,' Tweed replied.

  As he said this he reached down for the slim execu tive case he always carried with him. For the first time he extracted the photographs Hector Humble had produced after building up the faces of the two women murdered in London. Face down he pushed them over the table.

  'Can you tell me who these two people are?'

  Lance turned them over, stared at the photos. His face turned ashen. For a moment he slumped in his chair, then made an effort and straightened up again. He gazed at Tweed, his almond eyes glazed. He tapped one photo, then the other.

  'This is Nancy, this is Petra, two of my missing sisters. When were these pictures taken?'

  'After they had been brutally murdered in London, both faces horribly gouged with some unknown instrument.'

  'I don't understand,' Lance said aggressively. 'There's no sign of mutilation on these photos.'

  'Taken,' Tweed said mildly, 'after a brilliant man had built them up again.'

  'Sounds macabre to -'