No Mercy (9 page)

'What are your conclusions so far?' asked Tweed.

'There we go again.' Saafeld smiled at Paula. 'Normally,
as you both well know, I never comment until I complete the
postmortem.'

'I need something,' Tweed persisted. 'I'm investigating this case. That poor devil down there. Man or woman?'

'This one is a woman. The one you discovered was a man.
At a wild guess they both died about four or five months ago.'
He took off his latex gloves and Paula noticed traces of what
looked like dried blood. 'I have several pairs,' he remarked,
stuffing them inside a transparent evidence container, which
he shoved inside a pocket.

'What I can tell you is they were both murdered. Brutally.
The killer used a knife with a serrated blade to slash through
their throats to the spine, without completely severing it.
Could have been a double-edged blade. Razor-sharp on one
side. He jerks his victim's head back from behind, cuts the throat, then reverses the knife and uses the serrated edge to
saw halfway through the spine. So the skull remains attached
to the body.'

'Someone with anatomical knowledge?' Tweed enquired.

'Don't think so. After he completed the killing process he
used the knife to savage the flesh, randomly removing
chunks.' He shone his torch down inside the shaft. Piled up
in a corner were small transparent bags. 'See those?'

'What's inside them?' Paula asked without much
enthusiasm.

'Bits of decomposing flesh. If the bodies had been
dumped anywhere else there wouldn't be a shred of flesh
surviving.'

'Why here then?' Paula prodded.

'Because this is Dartmoor.' Saafeld swept a hand round
over the landscape. 'It's like a refrigerator in winter - and the
recent winter has been exceptionally cold. I've put ice in
those bags you were looking down at - to preserve the
remains until I get back to Holland Park.'

Paula had been aware that Buchanan had been standing
close to them. He hadn't moved or said a word, but had
simply listened. Now he placed a hand on Tweed's arm,
nodded for him to come with him. Paula stayed with
Saafeld, sensing Buchanan had something to say to Tweed
he didn't want anyone else to hear.

'When I dumped the Michael amnesia business on you,'
the chief superintendent began quietly, 'I had no idea it was
going to turn into this. A search which may never end. For
a maniac.'

'A psychotic, possibly,' replied Tweed.

'What's the difference?'

'You know as well as I do, Roy. A psychotic can appear to
be quite normal for long periods. Then the mood and the opportunity come together. He starts a killing spree.'

'What I'm saying, Tweed, is I can root round the Yard and
hand the case over to someone else.'

'I don't think so,' Tweed said quietly. 'This case has got a
hold on me. Besides which, I have information, know people
up in that house perched on the ridge. Any idea who owns
it? Thought not. Drago Volkanian.'

'The armaments and supermarket king?'

'Yes. Which reminds me, I must try and locate their plant
where the arms are produced. It will probably be hidden
away.'

'So you're determined to carry on with this case?'

'Yes, I am. I'm ahead of anyone else who might take it
over — knowing some of the family. A new man might not be
accepted by them.'

'In that case,' Buchanan sighed, 'I'll give you the one item
we found on Michael when we searched him to try to
identify who he was.' He took out an envelope and extracted
from it a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to Tweed.

'It's just a list of four typed names and, presumably, all
first names. I suspect it could be the devil of a job tracing
them. I wonder what it means,' Tweed mused.

'I agree.' Buchanan grinned. 'You've taken the case on so
that will be your problem. Incidentally, that's your car
parked down the track in Post Lacey. You don't want to have
to slog it back to that house. I'll get Warden to drive you.'

'Would be a help,' Tweed agreed.

Warden, obviously glad of the chance to leave the moor and
the horrors found there, assured Tweed his
injured arm had not affected his ability to drive. Tweed and Paula sat in the
back and relaxed.

Beyond the southern outskirts of Post Lacey, Warden
turned to the right, away from the route that had brought
them to Dartmoor. Warden looked at Tweed in his rear-view
mirror.

'I know the quickest route back to where you want to get.'

'Fair enough.' Tweed closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep. Paula also felt drowsy, but later sat up as Warden
turned the car right on to a country lane. She opened her
mouth to say something, then desisted as Tweed placed his
finger over her lips. They soon started to climb and she
realized they were recrossing the moor. Arriving at a main road Warden drove across it into another wide gorse-lined
lane. She gripped Tweed's arm, whispered.

'He's just crossed the B3212. Isn't Abbey Grange
somewhere close to that? It's perched on the side of it. The
rear wall at the back of the mansion is just beyond it I'd have
thought.'

'You're right,' he whispered back. 'Say nothing.'

He was sitting upright, staring fixedly through the
windscreen beyond Warden. In the full-beam headlights he stared at black pools on the lane, frowned, called out to Warden asking him to pull up.

'We could do with stretching our legs, he said.

Paula followed Tweed as he walked up the lane in the
blaze of the headlights. He felt in his pocket, tore out a sheet
of paper, bent down over the largest black pool, wiped the
sheet forcefully over the mark, sniffed it. Paula couldn't grasp what had caught his attention. He straightened up.

'Diesel oil. Now look over here.'

Beyond the pools of black he bent down again, Paula switched on her pocket torch. By its light, beyond the car's
headlight beams, she could see the impression of a very wide
tyre. She took out her camera, pressed the button several
times. Tweed then walked to the far side of the lane, near the
ditch which bordered it. Another impression of a wide tyre.
Paula photographed that as Tweed looked up.

'Got a tape measure?'

'You're lucky. I carry a sewing kit in my bag.'

'I want to measure the width between the tyre marks.'

They completed the measurement between them, Paula
holding one end, Tweed the other. He stood up and made a note in his small book.

'A very large vehicle has driven up this lane to nowhere,'
he explained. 'Some wheelbase. I'm curious. Let's see where
this route takes us to.'

Returning to the car, he asked Warden to continue along
this route at a medium speed. Characteristically Warden
didn't ask any questions. They drove on through countryside
with no habitations anywhere. Tweed was now sitting very
erect, leaning forward as he gazed at the road ahead.

At intervals he spotted more wheel tracks, more patches
of oil. At a junction where the lane divided he asked Warden
to pause, to swing a few feet towards the left-hand lane. In
the headlights he saw another set of wheel tracks.

'Turn left here, please.'

Paula was puzzled as they drove mile after mile through
open country. A signpost pointed to Bideford to the right. As
they passed it she whispered to Tweed.

'We're one hell of a long way from Abbey Grange. Soon
we'll hit the Bristol Channel.'

'I know. And still we see the wheel tracks now and again.
A huge truck of some sort travelled this way,' he said,
keeping his voice down.

'I'm sorry,' Warden said eventually as they descended a
steep lane with a view of the sea, a rough sea glowing in the
moonlight. 'I missed a turning somewhere. We're miles off
course.'

'Don't worry,' Tweed assured him cheerfully. 'After our
experience on Dartmoor this is a relief, it's waking me up.'

He continued to guide Warden, following the trail of oil
stains and wheel tracks. Then they were driving east along
the coast, the road so close to the sea that they could see
huge waves crashing against the wall, threatening to flood
the highway. They had left the world of lanes and moved
along a made-up road. Soon the view above them to their right was dramatic.

'I know this area from walking years ago,' Tweed
remarked.

The massive cliff climbed sheer from the road, then sloped
back. Paula pressed her face against the window, gazed up.
Perched on the slope was a huge boulder, which appeared to
move slightly. It had to be her imagination. Tweed pointed
to it.

'Toppling Rock, they call it.'

'Well let's hope it doesn't topple now,' she said as Tweed
asked Warden to stop the car. He did so and put on his
hazard lights.

'It won't,' Tweed assured her. 'It's been like that for over
a hundred years. Above it you can see Harmer's Head. It
is thought that time has made that mountain unstable.
Again, I imagine they've been saying that for a hundred
years. Inside that monster at the top is a cave. I've sat inside
it.'

'Rather you than me,' she commented.

'Drive on slowly,' Tweed ordered.

Warden crawled. The road had dropped and sea water
was receding from sections of it. They were passing a deep
gully vanishing into the mountain when Tweed called out to
stop. He was sounding more cheerful all the time. Paula
wondered why. She followed him out and he walked back
and entered the dark gully, waving his torch about. He
stopped suddenly.

'What on earth have we here?'

The beam of his torch was illuminating a strange
contraption. Paula had her .32 Browning in her right hand. She found the atmosphere claustrophobic, had a vision of
their being buried for ever inside the gully. Tweed was
examining what he'd found.

It was like a long gangway, the floor built of sturdy planks.
Wooden railings lined either side and it was mounted on
thick rubber wheels. Several pairs were attached at different
sections of the gangway, if that was what it was. Tweed bent
over it, shining his torch closely. He grunted.

'And of recent construction. I didn't see a jetty. Did you?'