The Savage Gorge (35 page)

Jumping out of bed, she dressed again. Checking
the time, she went quietly into the garage. 9.45 a.m.
Marler waved to her. She joined him.

Tweed was behind the wheel of the Audi, about to
depart. He lowered the window, called out to her.

'Couldn't sleep? Go back, have another shower.'

The Audi crawled out of the garage, proceeded
slowly up the High Street. Paula clenched her fists inside the pockets of her tunic. Marler, sensing her
tension, put an arm round her waist.

In the far distance, way north of the bridge, she saw
a brief brilliant lightning flash. Everywhere the sky was
a molten menacing grey.

'I do wish I was with him,' she said. 'Could it be
today?'

'Definitely not. The thugs have not taken up position in those caves. I'm just hoping that triple storm
holds off until we've done the job. Forecast says it will
arrive in the late morning. As to Tweed, he has to
keep up what they think is his daily routine.'

From the Audi, Tweed was observing housekeepers
entering the general store and other shops. The air
had turned heavy, sultry. A prelude to the expected
rage of the gathering storm.

Behind his net curtain, Lepard watched as Tweed
passed his window at twenty-five miles an hour. He
squeezed his clawlike hands together, his face twisted
in a sadistic smile.

'Enjoy your last day on earth, Mr Tweed,' he said
aloud.

When Tweed returned to the garage he found Paula
still standing by Marler's side. He frowned as he alighted.

'Paula, I told you to get back to bed.'

'I'm going now. Wanted to see you safely back.'

'Well, now you've seen me, kindly shove off.'

'You look heavy-eyed,' she told him. 'Plenty of sleep
for you too. You have that dinner here with Mrs
Shipton this evening. She's sharp.'

'Sharp as a knife. And she's rapidly moving up my shortlist of suspects . . .'

In his suite, Tweed forced himself to take a quick

shower. He phoned Dowling, asked for a wake-up call
at 6 p.m. Putting on his pyjamas he got into bed. The
moment his head rested on the pillow he fell into a
deep sleep.

He swore to himself in the evening when the phone
rang, picked it up, thanked Dowling. His wristwatch showed precisely 6 p.m. He felt amazingly fresh.

Putting on his best suit, he went downstairs into the dining room, booked a table in a secluded alcove with
its back to the wall. Returning to his room he found a
note inside an envelope pushed under his door.

To give you the privacy you need I'm dining elsewhere
with Newman and Archie. Love, Paula.

She thinks of everything, he said to himself. Taking
some care, he brushed his hair, put on his jacket
again. Always in earlier interviews he had worn his working suit. He knew a smart appearance impressed women.

He was in the hall when Mrs Shipton drove up in her Renault. A servant rushed forward to park it.

'Now, you listen to me,' she began in her imperious
manner. 'There are several other cars in the garage.
Therefore you will be most careful not to scratch the
body of my car. I shall examine it scrupulously when I have had dinner!'

She remained a distance from him, extending her
hand, compelling him to walk to her. In her most
queenly mood, Tweed was thinking.

He showed her to the table. She looked archly at
him as she slid along the banquette into the corner.

'Now you've got me penned in if you say something
I don't like.'

'It's easier for me to order dinner from this seat,' he
replied casually.

They had placed their orders when they both
stared. A new diner had walked in by himself. Falkirk.
He chose a table just far away to be unable to hear
what they said, then summoned a waiter. Between
them they shifted the angle of the table, and Falkirk
sat down.

'You see what the swine has done?' Mrs Shipton
said viciously.

'He's angled the table so he's not observing us
directly. But he only has to switch his gaze a fraction
to check on us. I notice you don't like him much.'

'He's a private detective . . .'

'I know.' Tweed sipped the Chablis he'd ordered,
nodded.

'He's also a blackmailer. I should know. He blackmailed me.'

Tweed was taken aback. Nothing showed in his expres
sion as he forked his souffle into his mouth. He was
also watching the man who was standing well back in
the entrance to the dining room, surveying every diner.
In his hand he was holding a mobile phone.
It was Lance. Very smartly dressed, as always, he

wore an electric-blue two-piece suit and a pink shirt.
One moment he was there. The next moment he van
ished.

'That was Lance,' Mrs Shipton said. 'Looking for a
female victim for the evening.'

'Possibly,' said Tweed.

'Nothing here to suit his exotic taste.'

'How did Falkirk try to blackmail you?' Tweed
asked suddenly.

'I let that slip.'

'And now,' Tweed said firmly, 'you have to tell me
the whole story. I don't have to remind you
—'

'That you are investigating a triple murder,' she
said, mimicking him.

'Stop pussyfooting. I need to know.'

'I hired Falkirk when he came to Hobart House
looking for business . . .'

'Hired him to do what?' demanded Tweed.

'To check out whether Myra had been murdered,
all those years ago.'

'
Why?'
Tweed pressed harder, his voice tougher.

'Well, if it had been Lord Bullerton maybe I was in a dangerous position. I'm often alone with him in the
house.'

'You mentioned blackmail by Falkirk. Tell me.'

'I hired him .. .' She hesitated. 'To look for evidence
that Myra had been murdered. Pushed over the Falls.'

'You've started. Might as well tell me the lot.'

'He said his fee would be roughly five hundred
pounds. Then he came back and said he couldn't find

any evidence. He said his fee would be five
thousand
pounds. Then he whispered he didn't think Lord
Bullerton would like what I had done at all.' Her voice
trembled with fury. 'I paid. Lord Bullerton and I were
getting on rather well,' she added coyly.

'If this factor has a vital bearing on the case
—'

He stopped speaking as something extraordinary
happened. Sable, clad in riding kit, had stormed into
the dining room, was heading for their table fast. She
stood before them, hands on hips, shouting at the top
of her voice.

'So she's got you, the master detective, hooked too!
Did you know she's got every man hooked between
her legs? She is nothing but an evil tart. . .' A string of
obscenities was shrieked, her face distorted in a mali
cious sneer. 'Been to bed with her yet? Or is this
dinner the flaming prelude?'

The whole restaurant was staring. Tweed was reluc
tant to get up, fearing a physical tussle with her. Two
men came in, Harry and Marler. Harry was carrying
a towel soaked in water.

They came swiftly up behind her. Marler grabbed
her arms, Harry used his wet towel to wrap round her
mouth, making sure she could breathe. They frog
marched her to the exit. Marler smiled at his audience
as he drawled quickly at them, 'She gets like this every
six months. She's seeing a doctor . . .' Then the three
disappeared through the exit. Diners started eating
again. Some had their heads together speculating on
the dramatic scene they had witnessed.

'I think we'd better leave,' whispered Mrs Shipton.

'The last move to make. And I'm enjoying this
super souffle. Don't you like the look of yours?'

'I suppose you're right.'

'I often am, Ms Montgomery Fisher-Mayne. Do you
ever miss the atmosphere of Barham-Downstream?'

'What!' she screeched quietly. 'What the hell did
you say?'

Tweed had chosen the right psychological moment.
'Mrs Shipton' was off balance, still reeling from
Sable's embarrassing attack.

'I was being polite, addressing you by your real name. I also mentioned where you had come from.
Why, after such a long time, did you come here -
such
a long time after Myra's murder?'

'What! She
was
murdered, then?'

'I doubt I'll ever prove it. Too long ago.'

'You're confusing me . . .'

'That was one of the best souffles I've ever tasted.
Ms Fisher-Mayne, did
you
kill her? For leaving you to
struggle with the general store alone? Hatred sometimes takes years to build up.'