The Savage Gorge (7 page)

Marler stared as they entered Finden Square. All four
sides were occupied by a stately block of Adam-style
terraced houses. Steps led up to each artistically
designed front door. At each corner the blocks were

separated by a side street to the outside world. In the
middle was an oblong garden with evergreen trees and
shrubs, surrounded with a high railing.

'And I never knew this existed,' he marvelled.

'You don't walk, exploring, like I do in quiet times,' Paula remarked. 'You spend your spare time sitting in
pubs, pretending to listen for information,' she chaffed
him.

'It's so incredibly quiet. No one about.'

'That's our target,' she said, pointing through a gap
in the foliage to a corner building directly opposite
them. 'See the huge letter O poised on a mast on the
roof? Looks to be made of perspex - probably illumi
nated by night.'

She had just spoken when the front door opened.
Marler put a hand on her shoulder, pressed her down into a crouch while he joined her, now concealed by
shrubbery. She peered through a small gap, whispered
a running commentary.

'Uniformed servant emerging from front door, car
rying costly leather luggage. A Rolls-Royce has pulled
up at bottom of the steps. Heavily tinted windows in
back. Sophisticated radio system on roof. Mr Neville
Guile is well organized. Luggage stacks in boot. Chauffeur behind wheel now gazing at front door.
Probably waiting . . . Yes, I was right. A tall slim man
in perfectly cut suit walking down to door which the
chauffeur has opened for him, standing to attention.'

'What does Guile look like?' Marler whispered.

'Too far away for precise description. Long, lean,

could be in his forties. He's stopped to speak to the
chauffeur.'

To her astonishment they could hear every word the
passenger said. The voice was high-pitched, cultured.

'Jordon, we will stop halfway there until we have
more news. Find a good hotel in Oaks-ford. A rea
sonable halfway house.'

'Oaks-ford,' repeated Marler. 'Where's that?'

'Oxford. It's the way he talks. Rolls about to
leave . . .'

'Then so are we. He could drive this way and see us.
No, not by the side road we entered.' He grasped her
arm. 'Down the alley behind us . . .'

He hustled her across the road into a narrow alley, the like of which Paula had never seen before. The
floor was tiled with clean blue slabs. No sign of rub
bish, of the unpleasant objects found in so many
London alleys. Finden Square extended its air of
exclusivity to the main street. As they emerged from
the alley, Marler took Paula by the arm, hustled her to
the parked Saab he'd borrowed from Pete Nield.

'What's the rush for?' she protested.

'So we can be clear of this main street in case that
Rolls is coming this way . . .'

Without opening the door for her he slid behind the
wheel. It was fortunate he'd parked with the car
pointed away from the exit out of Finden Square.
Paula, seated beside him, turned round as Marler
accelerated.

They had reached the end of the main road when,

turning a corner and plunging into an inferno of traf
fic, Marler cut off a cab. The driver yelled at him,
honked his horn.

'Cab drivers think they own London streets, which
they do,' Marler commented. 'But no one cuts me
off.'

'You were so right,' Paula told him. 'Just before we turned I caught a glimpse of that Rolls. It
was
turning
this way.'

'So where to now?'

'Back to Park Crescent. I want to tell Tweed what
we saw.'

Meanwhile, Newman was on the move, heading for the East End. Despite the traffic he reached the dis
trict quickly.

He was noted for his fast and skilful driving, sliding
through gaps other drivers would hesitate to tackle.
He struck lucky, finding his four informants quickly in
the pubs where they spent their afternoons.

The third informant, small and tubby as a barrel
from the beer he consumed, shook his head, gave the same answer as the previous two contacts.

'I ain't 'card nothing on the go - and nothing
planned. It's very quiet round these parts . . .'

Newman thanked Tubby and gave him a ten-pound
note to keep him sweet. He had only one more con
tact, just along the street, if he was there. This was the
most astute of all his network of informants.

He bought an apple off a stall, and was chewing it
when he walked into the Pig's Trotters. His informant was a tall thin man with sleepy eyes which missed
nothing. Newman put the same question to him.

'Your timing is uncanny,' said Mr Merton, as he
liked to be known, 'and I'd advise you not to look at
the bar yet. Someone just came in. Munch that apple slowly - gives you a reason for sitting 'ere.'

Merton was comparatively well educated, but could
talk cockney like a native. He sipped his glass of
brandy, his favourite, then spoke again.

'Something is up - and the something is ordering champagne at the bar. Name of Lepard - father was
French, mother English. Committed at least two mur
ders already - one here, t'other in Paris. Escaped
conviction both times on a technicality. Word is, he's
been hired for a potential end job.' 'End job' was the
new slang for a murder assignment.

'Any idea of the target, Mr Merton?' Newman
enquired.

'Not a whisper. He's contacted some pretty ugly
thugs to stand by for detailed instructions. A load of money has changed hands to keep them ready. May I suggest you shove off - Lepard is about to bring his
champagne over to the table near us which just
became available.'

Newman slipped Mr Merton a folded twenty-
pound note, stood up, walked towards the door, still
munching his apple. He didn't like the look of Lepard
at all. The killer, wearing an expensive leather jacket

and corduroy slacks, moved with a certain agility. His
yellow eyes darted everywhere, scanning the whole
room. A cadaverous face was softened by his well-
shaped chin and a pleasant smile as he nearly knocked
over a seated customer's glass of beer. His right hand
grabbed the glass, prevented it spilling as he apolo
gized.

Newman had seen all this in a wall mirror as, hunched down in his ancient raincoat, he padded
slowly to the door and into the street. He was having
trouble assessing Lepard. Outside he hailed a cab, asked to be taken to Huston Road. No point in men
tioning Park Crescent in this area.

Dusk was falling as Paula and Marler entered Tweed's office. Paula immediately gave Tweed a brief descrip
tion of what they had witnessed in Finden Square.
Her chief liked terse reports.

'You're thinking of the Rolls which cruised past us
when we were standing outside the double murder
location,' he suggested.

'Yes, I am.'

'Did you get the plate number of the Rolls driving
away from Otranto's HQ?'

'No, I couldn't. Only saw the car's side parked.'

'Then it's a guess, not evidence?'

'My instinct rather than a guess,' she countered.

'And,' Marler intervened, 'in the past Paula's
instinct has so often proved to be right.'

'True,' Tweed agreed. He lit one of his rare ciga
rettes. 'We have several threads but none of them ties
with the others . . .'

He stopped speaking as Newman opened the door,
walked across the room, perched on the edge of
Paula's desk next to Marler. He opened both hands in
a negative gesture, then reported his experience inside
the Pig's Trotters. He concluded with a shrug.

'Doesn't get us any further, does it?'

'You sound confused about this character Lepard,'
Tweed told him.

'Well, if he is a killer he has good manners, which
doesn't add up.'

'I've remarked before,' Tweed said amiably, 'that I
never cease to be fascinated by the complexity of human nature, the mixture of good and evil in one
man - or woman. You explained he was of mixed
parentage. Some of these professional killers have egos
as big as the Ritz. The strange name has sinister
undertones. Le could be part of a French name, Pard
might be short for Pardoe - might be his mother's
maiden name.' He placed his hands behind his neck. 'It's another thread, floating in the wind.'

'So where do we go from here?' asked Paula.

'First, I suggest we all go home early, get a good
night's sleep. Who knows? I need a very positive lead.
Could come tomorrow.'

Tweed had no idea that the following morning the
investigation would explode in their faces.

FIVE

Tweed arrived early at Park Crescent the next day, to
find his whole team in his office, again with the excep
tion of Harry Butler. As he hung up his camel-hair
coat he glanced through the windows towards
Regent's Park, which was bathed in sunlight. Another
glorious May day. Monica leaned forward as he sat at his desk.

'You have a visitor in the waiting room downstairs.
A Hector Humble.'

'Why park him in that dreary room?'