The Savage Gorge (16 page)

'We've encountered stranger cases,' she reminded him. 'Were any of the stab wounds lethal?'

'Well, no,' Tweed admitted. 'It was the loss of blood
which got him. And look at the state of this room.'

It had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out, dropped on the carpet. Bound books had been hauled
out of the cases lining the walls. Paula moved suddenly,

Browning in her hand. She rushed out of the room and
up a staircase.

Tweed swore to himself at his own slackness.
Pulling on latex gloves, he began checking the rest of
the downstairs rooms. He returned to the study as
Paula dashed back down the stairs and joined him.

'I thought it was just possible the killer was still in the house,' she explained. 'Nothing. Nobody. No sign
of any hurried search.'

'I should have thought of that myself earlier. I've
checked downstairs. The kitchen door is locked and
bolted on the inside. You know what that means?'

'Mr Hartland Trent must have known his murderer,
have seen no reason to be on his guard.'

'Why is he stretched out on that table?'

'My guess is he was standing by the end of it when he was attacked. His killer pushed him onto the table and Trent tried to escape by hauling himself along it.
His killer ran down the side of the table, pushed his
victim down and stabbed and stabbed.'

Paula was only half-listening as she carefully opened
each folded newspaper to every page. Tweed thought she was wasting her time but kept quiet, checking his
watch. After a while Tweed stood up, left the room.
Something had occurred to him. If someone arrived at
the front door as Paula fooled around with a stack of
old newspapers they would need an escape route. In
the kitchen he drew back the bolts on the door. He left
it locked with the key in. Just in case someone tried to
get in that way.

Paula was more than halfway down the stack when
he returned. After checking every page of a newspaper
she folded it, perched it neatly on one side. Tweed's patience snapped.

'We must get out of this place. We need to report
Hartland Trent's murder anonymously from a public
phone.'

'Shut up!' she told him. 'This whole room was ran
sacked and the only item untouched was this pile of
newspapers.' She was turning over the pages of an old
copy of
The Times.
This newspaper seemed strangely
thick. She reached the centre spread and stared down
at a legal document and one brief typed letter on
Hobart House stationery, dated five days earlier,
addressed to Hartland Trent, signed by Lord
Bullerton.

She scanned the document quickly, then handed it over to Tweed. It confirmed that Trent's seventy per
cent holding in Black Gorse Moor would, for the sum
of twenty thousand pounds, be handed over to Lord
Bullerton. A note reminded Trent that the previous
offer had been for seven thousand pounds.

'Do you find a phrase in clause three strange?' she
asked. 'Also the wording after the line for the third sig
nature? And I'm sure it was Trent who scrawled
"refused" across the whole document.'

'I do find that phrase odd, "and all geological material". Plus the fact there are three lines at the bottom
for signatures. The first presumably for Trent's, the
second for Lord Bullerton's. It is the third line I find

intriguing, even menacing. I don't like the wording
after the third space.'

'"Sole administrator and owner of the property." So
who is that?'

'At a guess, Neville Guile. I think he's concealing
something, maybe his identity, behind Lord
Bullerton, who is acting as his front man. Now, we
must get out of here and find a public phone so you can anonymously report the murder . . .'

They left the house cautiously. Tweed had slipped the items Paula had found inside a separate compart
ment of the executive folder he was now carrying
everywhere. Another compartment contained the
photos of the two murdered women in London.

Still wearing latex gloves, he opened the door
slowly, peered everywhere. No one in sight. Paula had
produced a duster to rub the brass knocker which
might show fingerprints Tweed had left when he'd
hammered on it as they arrived.

Leaving the house, Tweed was careful to leave the
front door slightly open, as they had found it earlier.
As they strolled casually down the long flight, Paula
slipped her arm inside Tweed's. If seen from a neigh
bouring house they would look like visitors.

They walked back to the parked Audi. Tweed was
about to drive off when Paula produced a folded sheet
from her inside pocket. She handed it to Tweed.

'This was underneath the document I found in
the newspaper. You were anxious to leave so I kept
it.'

The sheet of paper was a printed letterhead with
Twinkle Cottage's name and address. The note,
scrawled by Trent, was brief and addressed to Lord
Bullerton.

You might like to know I have already sent my
daughter abroad to a safe refuge. Maybe your partner would like to know this.

At the bottom was Hartland Trent's scrawled signa
ture. Tweed handed it back to Paula, his expression
grim.

'I find that grim. Clearly he was never able to post
it. I now believe we are up against the most bestial vil
lain I have so far encountered. So we won't be very choosy in the methods we use to destroy him.'

Tweed was about to turn the ignition key when they
saw Harry running up the road towards them. Tweed
lowered his window.

'Where's your car?' he asked.

'Out of sight in the garage. There's been a develop
ment you need to know about earliest.'

'Which is?'

'Neville Guile has arrived in town. I've been watch
ing Hobart House from my car parked in a hole in
that hedge. With field glasses. Heavily disguised. Saw
him leave Hobart House and Bullerton waved him off. He could have been hidden away inside that
house. I took a chance, drove back and parked in the
village at this end. When Guile emerged he drove

straight to the Nag's Head, booked himself a suite.
Twenty-seven.'

'If he's heavily disguised how do you know it was
Guile?' Tweed asked sceptically.

'Checked the register after he'd gone upstairs and
the landlord had disappeared into his back room.
Guile signed in with his real name.'

'How is he disguised?' Paula wondered.

'No Rolls-Royce. No chauffeur. Drives a large grey
Citroen - wears a check sports suit and tinted horn-
rim glasses. Has a peculiar slithery walk. While
watching from the hedge I noticed on the far side of
the London bowl a cottage roof with a tilting brick
chimney. Place is hidden inside a copse. Guile might
have stayed there to keep out of sight.'

While he waited, Paula thought, for Trent's signed
contract to arrive.

'What is the position with that gang waiting in the East End?' Tweed asked.

'I checked that with Bob Newman. The gang is still
scattered round the East End, except for two who
have disappeared.'

'Any idea of their identities?'

'One of them I've met in a pub. A brutal piece of
work. His appearance tells you. Ned Marsh. Small,
powerfully built, has a crooked nose and a harelip.
He's here now.'

'Here where?' Tweed pressed.

'Coming out of the garage I saw him slip furtively
into the Nag's Head. Reception desk was empty. He

scarpers up the stairs, vanishes. I checked the register.
He hasn't booked in.'

'The pace is quickening . . .'

Briefly Tweed told Harry about their discovery of
Hartland Trent. 'Maybe it was this Ned Marsh.'

'Doubt it. He's known to be a violent man but so far
he's not been mixed up in a murder. I have a present for you.' Harry handed Tweed a small black instru
ment which reminded her of a miniature mobile
phone. 'This could come in useful,' he explained.
'Latest development of a flasher by the boys down in
the basement at Park Crescent. You want absolute
privacy - you swivel this end round a room. This red
light comes on and you've detected a hidden microphone. Press this button, a green light comes on. A
radio wave wipes the bug out. Check the whole room.
That's the most sophisticated device in the world.'

'Thank you, Harry. You had better leave separately.
We don't want people to see us together.'

'Just about to suggest the same thing. Oh, one more
thing. I saw our old friend Falkirk, the private detec
tive. He's been away somewhere a lot. Now has a
room at the Nag's Head . . .'

'I wondered what he'd do,' Tweed mused. 'After all,
he was the lead who, unknown to him, brought us up
to Hobartshire.'

'He won't talk,' Paula surmised.

'Yes, he will this time,' Tweed said as he drove
slowly back. 'He'll tell me everything,' he said grimly,
'because of the pressure I'll put on him.'