No Mercy (45 page)

Tweed was watching Michael. He was walking in the stiff-
legged manner, back erect, which was the only way Tweed
and Paula had seen him walk, leaving the psychiatrist's clinic
in London to get into Tweed's car, on the moor later. He
looked along the terrace and Paula saw the same blank
glazed look. He showed no sign of recognizing anyone as he
proceeded into the mansion. Tweed lit one of his rare
cigarettes, gave one to Lucinda when she asked for one and lit it for her.

'I just wonder,' he remarked in an offhand manner, 'how
Michael knows what clothes to put on.'

'Well you might,' Lucinda responded. 'I lay out all his clothes on the second bed in his room. Otherwise I'm sure
he'd be totally confused.'

'Before we leave, have I missed anyone?' he enquired.

'The most glorious sight of all,' she said, dripping with
sarcasm. She grabbed his arm again. 'Come inside, this you
must see . . .'

Entering the spacious living room, they saw the large table laid for dinner. Four places. Bowls of white roses — which
had to be silk, Paula thought. Sprawled in an armchair, a
bottle of Scotch on the small table by his side, was Aubrey Greystoke.

He wore a white naval officer's uniform, complete with a
white peaked cap as worn in the tropics. The cuffs of his
sleeves were embroidered in gold. Paula put her hand to her
mouth to avoid bursting out laughing. He looked quite
ridiculous.

'You're supposed to be drinking white champagne,'
Lucinda snapped. 'Larry will be furious when he sees the
Scotch.'

'Just emptied . . . bottle of champagne, my dear. See,
there's the dead 'un. Surely I'm entitled to a chaser? I
thought this was a party.' He suddenly became aware of
Tweed and Paula, jumped agilely to his feet. In doing so his
elbow knocked the empty champagne glass off the table.

Before it could reach the floor his hand caught it in midair.
He put it back on the table.

Nothing wrong with your reflexes, however much you've
imbibed, Paula thought.

'I say!' Aubrey greeted them. 'What fun! You two joining
the revelries. Great! I'll just go and warn Mrs Brogan. Two
more for dinner.' He grinned. 'The old trout will love me but
she is just a servant.'

He made it sound as though he were referring to a
peasant. He was stopped by Tweed.

'Thank you, Greystoke, but we can't stay. Have to get on
elsewhere.' .

'Bad show, but still, you do have your responsibilities.
Next time, maybe.'

Lucinda hugged them both again after Tweed had assured
her they had transport. They descended the steps with the distant sound of Lucinda arguing with Mrs Brogan. Paula
waited until they had
turned the corner and were walking up
the path to the gate by the side of the mansion.

'Now, what happened? When I first saw you on the terrace
your face was as white as their bloody party. Did something
happen on the tor? Why all that rock dust on your sleeve? I
need to know. I'm worried.'

'It was an episode of great importance. From very high up
I could see a faint light in the bell tower - and another one
in that row of cottages. We're going to take a look now at both places before we leave for the main event.'

'That doesn't explain your lack of colour. You're
concealing something.'

'Well,' Tweed told her as they reached the gate, 'there was also an attempt to murder me. Someone came up behind me
high up and shoved me in the back. It would have been rather a lethal drop.'

'Oh, my God! You should never have climbed up there.'

'Yes, I should. It gave me final confirmation where to look
for the Skeleton Killer.'

'I don't get it.'

'Just before someone tried to push me down so I'd end up
like spiked meat, to quote Mrs Brogan's graphic phrase, I
caught a flash of white behind me. Couldn't see who it was
but when I get down to the ground what do I find? Four
people all dressed in white. Larry, Lucinda, Aubrey and Michael. One of them is the Skeleton Killer.'

A shadowy figure appeared close to the far side of the wall
as they walked into the road. From the shape, the way it held
itself, Tweed identified it at once.

'Keeping guard over us, Harry?'

'Thought I'd keep one eye open,' replied Harry as he
walked up to them. 'Anything exciting happen in there?'

'Nothing I didn't expect,' Tweed said quickly before Paula
was able to say anything. 'We're on our way to a row of cottages
just down the road. Might need your toolkit to get inside.'

'Back in a minute . . .'

They walked past the bell tower, which had a light on
inside, then past the church, which was in total darkness.
Paula felt inside the shoulder bag Marler had brought all the
way from the cul-de-sac where she had been kidnapped, gripped the butt of her Browning.

'Something about this area which makes me nervous,' she
said.

'And so often your instincts are right,' Tweed remarked.

Arriving at the dark row of cottages - no glimmer of light
from behind the closed blinds this time
-
Tweed cautiously
led the way round the back. He listened. He shone the light
beam of his torch on a heavy closed door. Two large
Banham locks were fitted to it, one above the other. He tried
the handle, pulled. It wouldn't move.

'Think this is my job,' said Harry's voice behind them. He
was carrying a toolbox, which he placed on the ground,
opened the lid, brought out a large collection of keys. 'A bit
of peace and quiet, please.'

Peace and quiet? The silence of the moor was already
getting on Paula's nerves. Newman appeared, squeezed
Paula's arm, nearly made her jump out of her skin. Tweed put a finger to his lips.

The third key Harry tried opened both locks. He grunted
with satisfaction, stood back and gestured.

'Open sesame. Might be an idea to go in armed,' he
whispered.

Tweed already had his Walther in his hand as he slowly
turned the handle. The door swung inward, noiselessly.
Well-oiled hinges. He smelled an aroma of well-maintained
machinery as he walked a few paces inside, listened, then switched on his torch full beam.

The cottages were hollow, one running into another for
quite a distance. They were mostly occupied by an endless
conveyor belt of complex machinery. In the middle ran a long tube of metal with runners to speed up whatever they
carried. Newman had walked, using his own torch, to the
end on their left, then round the beginning of the conveyor
belt and continued towards the far end of the machine.

Tweed followed him with Paula and Harry behind, and
stopped at the point where the conveyor belt started. His
torch focused on a metal device at head height, a
combination of small metal levers turned at different angles.
He recalled Drago's description with hand gestures
demonstrating how the armaments plant was converted
from producing artillery shells to missiles.

'Come quietly along here,' Newman's distant voice suggested, 'and watch your footing.'

His voice echoed eerily inside the strange plant. Tweed
looked back at the door. Either Paula or Newman, maybe Harry, had closed it. In crocodile formation behind one another, torches aimed at the floor, they walked quite a distance before they reached Newman. He held up a hand to stop them.

'No further. You're not going to like this, Tweed.'

Newman's torch swung away from the conveyor belt to a
heavy cradle protected with rubber, standing about four feet high and positioned against the wall. Resting on it, glowing
silver in the light from Newman's torch, was a long, slim, metallic object the shape of a very thin sausage.

'A missile?' Tweed said quietly.

'Exactly. And it's armed for instant detonation when the
tip hits its target.'

'Oh, my God!' Paula said to herself, her stomach
compressing.

'Why?' asked Tweed.,

'Think I know what happened. They've produced heaven knows how many missiles. And recently - hence the faint
smell of shaved steel. That happens during its early passage
along the belt. Did you notice an alcove leading to the belt
a few yards back? You did. That's where they attach the tip
of powerful explosive. They either had enough when this one
arrived, or it wasn't passed as approved. So some maniac lifted it off the belt, placed it on the cradle and left it there without removing the explosive tip.'

'Maybe we'd better get out of here,' Harry suggested.

'You're all getting out, except me,' Newman told them.
'At the time of the Afghanistan war the MoD showed me a
film about missiles, after I'd signed the Official Secrets Act
again. Then I wrote that article for the
Daily Nation,
explaining why the war was necessary.'

'I remember it,' Tweed said. 'So why are you staying?'

'Have to,' Newman replied easily. 'I know how to disarm
this thing. Criminally careless of them to leave it armed. If any
vandals get in here and fool with this thing they could blow this
place, and the road outside, to smithereens. Any cars passing would become scrap metal. I do know how to do it. So, all of
you, push off and don't stop until you reach the church.'

'I don't like you doing this,' Paula protested.

'Shut up and shove off now,' Newman snapped,
deliberately rude to get them out.

Harry led the way, followed by Paula and Tweed. Before
he closed the door Tweed called out to Newman. 'Watch it. We're off. . .'

At Tweed's insistence, they walked rapidly back along the
road. Arriving outside the bell tower, Tweed sent Harry back
to the rest of the team with orders for them to stay where
they were until he arrived. Harry asked whether he should tell them what was going on. Tweed told him to keep his
mouth buttoned up.

'We'll go in here and explore,' Tweed said after Harry had
gone.

He pushed open the heavy door of the bell tower, peered
inside. He walked in with Paula and stared round, looking for the Reverend Stenhouse Darkfield. No sign of anyone.
He frowned, checked the corners. No one.

The rope that operated the huge bell high above them was
still. It hung limply, showed no evidence of recent
movement. Tweed stared up at it.