The Savage Gorge (21 page)

your time telling me the victims are my missing
daughters.'

'I have my methods,' Tweed said calmly. 'And I do
not believe the killer is a serial murderer . . .'

'Obviously you haven't heard that Hartland Trent,
living, or lived, off the High Street has been found
stabbed to death. Whole district is
abuzz
with the
crime, but the chief investigator hasn't heard about it,'
Bullerton sneered. 'An eccentric. The place swarms with them.'

Tweed was used to the minds of relatives of murder
victims wandering all over the place in their shock.

'Another eccentric, the chief one, is Mrs Grout in
the Village. A few years ago a crazy man bought a farm
well north of the River Lyne, converted it into a zoo!
Had a huge gorilla, a king cobra, a tiger and Lord
knows what else. Oh, a crocodile too. I got the correct
lot up from London and they closed him down. What helped was the local horsey aristocrats living in that
area protested violently, saying one of the creatures in
the zoo could escape and kill someone. The owner was
venomous, swore vengeance, but sent his stock to
Africa and India. Mrs Grout made a meal of it.'

'How did she do that?'

'She still tells some crazy story that she saw the zoo
owner one moonlit night drive a truck to the edge of
the river north of the bridge, open the doors, slide out
a chute with the baby crocodile inside and dump it in
the river. She's mad.'

'How long ago did this happen?'

'About three years, except it's just one of her sto
ries.'

'So by now it would be fully grown,' Tweed
remarked.

'Suppose so, wherever it is in India . . .'

The door opened and Mrs Shipton stood there,
glaring. Her arms were folded. She barked.

'If you like cold food you can stay here chattering. It
will be served in the dining room within five minutes.'

Bullerton hauled his bulk out of the armchair as
the door was slammed shut. They walked to the
dining room, which was tastefully illuminated by a
magnificent chandelier that might have come from
Versailles. They ate in silence, which suited Tweed,
so he could enjoy the excellent dinner. He waited
until they were sipping a first-class claret before he
put the question.

'I had wondered whether Neville Guile might be
another guest.'

'Told me he was going to race back to London.
That the countryside bored him. Typical view of the average Londoner.'

'You like him? He seems to have achieved a lot.'

'Like so many London businessmen he's a crook.
But in business you have to deal with all types.'

'I do know a number of businessmen who are trust
worthy,' Tweed corrected him.

'Then don't count Neville among them.'

'Do you mind if I ask the nature of your dealings
with him?'

'Sorry, but our negotiations are confidential. I do
assure you, Mr Tweed, that it can have nothing to
do with these awful murders.' He paused, embar
rassed. 'One thing I will tell you. Neville had
consumed a lot of brandy at eleven in the morning. I
think he let his tongue slip. Told me he was going back
to Finden Square to clear up the mess he knew he'd
find. Then he was flying off to what he calls his sanc
tuary, the island of Noak.' He spelt out the name.
'Sounds like Noah's Ark. It's somewhere not a million
miles from the Channel Islands. Not under the juris
diction of either Britain or France. When he told me
he laughed - that weird giggle which passes for a
laugh.'

'I think it's time I left. Thank you for the most glorious dinner. As good as the Ritz in London,' Tweed said, pushing back his chair.

'I suppose,' Bullerton remarked as they strolled
towards the door, 'as chief investigator you'll be
involved in the Trent murder here. With my two eldest
daughters as victims the serial killer has moved up to
Hobartshire. Not a pleasant thought.'

'My instinct, experience if you like, tells me all I need is to spot the motive. When I do I'll know who
the killer is.'

FIFTEEN

The next morning a carefully dressed but nervous
Paula tapped the agreed tattoo on Tweed's door.
Wearing a sports jacket and grey slacks, he ushered her
inside with a smile and a wave of his hand. He imme
diately noticed her unusually worried expression.

'Come in. Make yourself at home,' he greeted her
cheerfully.

She sat down in a hard-backed chair, her feet
together. She sat very erect, spoke softly.

'I have something to tell you I don't think you'll
like.'

'A cup of steaming black coffee might help start the
day.'

He poured her a cup and tactfully placed it on a
small table next to her chair. He guessed she might
have trouble not spilling it as she lifted the cup.

'I think we ought to have a full breakfast up here. I'll
order it,' he said firmly, reaching for the phone.

'Won't the landlord think it funny I'm in your suite
so early?' she ventured.

'Mr Bowling has been running this hotel for a long
time, I'm sure. He'll be quite used to serving breakfasts to men who have spent the night with a lady
friend. Par for the course.'

Over the phone he ordered a huge breakfast for two,
to be served in twenty minutes. Tea, more coffee,
toast - white and brown (which he knew Paula pre
ferred), scrambled eggs for two, crispy bacon, toasted
muffins . . .

'We'll both be fighting fit after that,' he said, refilling
her cup. 'Now, I'll just listen.'

She told him of the events of the previous night,
starting with her driving the Audi from the hotel and
parking it inside the hedge overlooking Hobart
House. She kept it brief and found herself talking
more quickly as Tweed kept nodding his head to
show her he was taking it all in. His expression was
pleasant, that of the interested listener - until she came to the point where she quoted what Neville
Guile had said to his henchman.
Use her as a man likes
to use a woman.

His lips tightened. He turned his head away so
Paula would not see the cold fury in his eyes. From
that moment on he couldn't wait until he met Neville
Guile in a quiet place and slowly strangled him.

He lit a rare cigarette and when he turned to face

Paula again his expression of listening to every word
she said had returned. She concluded with her walking away from the cottage with the crooked chimney
back across the bowl to the parked car.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I should never have taken the
risk . . .'

'Wrong!' he exploded. 'You were right. Haven't I
always told every member of the team they must use
their initiative? Which is exactly what you did. It may
have been pretty grim for you, but you proved you
can - and do - think for yourself.'

'Thank you,' she said quietly.

'The next problem is to get rid of the body of the
fiend who attacked you.'

'It's already been done. On my way along the corri
dor to get here I met Harry. He said the thug's name
was Ned Marsh - he found his passport on his body in
the cottage. With the help of Archie MacBlade he car
ried the body back up to Black Gorse Moor, found
the tunnel I'd been in and the vertical drop. They
dumped the body down the tunnel - it went all the
way down. MacBlade said Guile is always checking.
When he phones Marsh on his mobile during the
night and gets no reply he'll send another thug at once to drive the truck. Haifa ton of rubble will be emptied
down the tunnel. The thug who tried to rape and kill
me will never be found.'

'Solves one problem,' Tweed commented.

'I'm perplexed,' said Paula. 'Nothing links up.
Mystery One - Harry tracks Falkirk up here. We

follow. Mystery Two - we find Hartland Trent mur
dered, his place ransacked. Mystery Three - how does
Lord Bullerton fit in? Mystery Four - why is Neville
Guile visiting this part of the world? Then, what is
happening on Black Gorse Moor with that network of
tunnels?'

'You left out one more,' Tweed remarked. 'Who
really hired Falkirk, private detective?'

'And,' she added, 'I haven't seen Chief Inspector
Roadblock for some time.'

Tweed chuckled. 'That's because I phoned
Buchanan and asked him to recall the gentleman to
London. His new task? To call at every residence in
the Lynton Avenue area to ask if they saw anything.
He gets no reply since they're on holiday. He has to persist until he meets them.'

'Which will take him forever. All those houses.'

'That's my idea. Can't have him up here messing up
the whole case. But our main task remains the same -
to identify the murderer.'

'Any suspects yet?' she coaxed.

'I think a large part of the motive is Black Gorse
Moor.'

The pleasant maid had cleared the breakfast clutter,
but Paula was still puzzled by Tweed's reply. Another
factor entered her mind. She looked across to where
Tweed was perched on the edge of his bed, studying his notebook.