No Mercy (4 page)

They were on the M4, the M25, driving on and on. At
junctions and roundabouts Michael would navigate with
positive hand gestures. Paula shifted her position so she
could catch Tweed's eyes in the rear-view mirror. What on
earth are we doing? He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Let's
see where this leads us.

Next on to the M3. Well out of London with snow-flecked
fields on either side. Paula saw the enormous Gantia plant
and Tweed had to pause. Police were directing traffic round a stranded juggernaut. The plant was almost beautiful, built
in a circle, painted a pale shade of green. Columns of firs masked the building. There were even firs on the roof laid out like a garden. While the car was
stationary she took out
a camera, photographed the plant.

'Gantia is huge and so well designed,' she remarked.

'He has supermarkets all over the country,' Tweed replied.

'He?'

'Drago Volkanian, the owner. From Armenia originally,
I've heard. A billionaire. He also produces armaments
somewhere else. Location secret. The City would love him
to go public so they could handle his shares, say they'd go up
through the roof. Volkanian is having none of that. Keeps
the huge company under his personal control. He's a very remarkable character.'

'You've met him, then?'

The police had waved Tweed on. He was speeding down
the M3, just within the limit, making swift progress. Paula
leaned forward, repeated her question.

'No, I haven't met him,' Tweed told her. 'But I've heard
of him from people who
have
met him. An overwhelming personality.'

'Overwhelming? In what way?'

'Excuse me . . .'

They were close to Junction 8. Michael was gesturing madly for Tweed to turn off. At the junction he turned to
the right on to the A303. They were now heading southwest
for the distant West Country. Just before they turned off the' M3 Paula noticed a car parked with red triangles warning it
was not moving. From now on there were plenty of dual carriageways and Tweed really moved. They bypassed Andover and kept moving.

Gallagher grabbed the phone as soon as it rang. It was Jed
Harper.

'Chief, I found Tweed. Last camera on the M3 caught
him. It was his number plate,' he said, pleased with himself.

'So you're following him?'

'Well. . . not any more. My car broke down in the middle
of nowhere. So . . .'

'You tracked him, you idiot. Then you lost him. Repair
the car quickly.'

'I'm no mechanic . . .'

'You're no nothing.' Gallagher roared. 'So you've no idea
where he is now?'

'Yes, I can tell you that. I saw the car turn off on to the
A303 . . .'

'A303! Christ! How many people in the car?'

'Couldn't tell. Went past in a blur and it turned off on to
the A303

Gallagher slammed down the phone. The A303 led to the
West Country. What could be going on in that part of the
world?

Just before the little town of Wylye Michael had gestured
again, directing Tweed at a roundabout to continue along the A303. Paula had shifted in her seat to catch sight of
Michael's expression as he navigated. She saw the same
strange white face, the blank eyes fixed immovably on the
road ahead. A bloodless drawn face. More like a ghost.
Inwardly she nicknamed him the Ghost.

Paula was normally calm and cool, especially in a crisis,
when she went cold, intensely alert. She was fuming now. What on earth did Tweed think he was doing accepting
instructions from a man who'd lost his memory completely?
Driving on and on, into the wild blue yonder.

'That light aircraft is still following us,' she burst out
eventually. 'I first saw it some distance beyond the Gantia
plant. It's still with us - over to your right.'

'I know,' Tweed responded dismissively. 'Lots of light
aircraft about. The countryside is bespattered with private
airfields. All those planes look alike.'

'If you say so.'

She gave up until they paused near Honiton to get a quick
meal at a rather awful chain cafe. Paula made herself eat a
floppy poached egg on toast. For Michael Tweed had
ordered two fried eggs, bacon and tomatoes, together with
a generous supply of toast. Michael devoured everything on
his plate, drank three mugs of tea, then got up to disappear
behind the door marked
toilets.
Paula seized her chance.

'Tweed, what do you think we're doing? This is crazy.'

'You remember what Buchanan said? The only sentence Michael had uttered was "I witnessed murder.'" He stressed
the words. 'Now Buchanan is very clever. He'd be looking at
Michael when he uttered that single sentence. Sufficiently
impressed to take him to a psychiatrist, a good one.
Buchanan had obviously believed what Michael said.'

'I've been thinking about that. Maybe Michael said
instead, "I witnessed
a
murder.'"

'I think you're wrong. You know Buchanan well. He is
very precise when he reports anything. And we're driving to
find out where Michael takes us to. We need a link.'

'But if he's a complete amnesiac how come he can
remember the, route we're following? I'm suspicious.'

'It's not beyond the realm of possibility that in the past he
has driven over this very route so many times it's the one thing still imprinted on his mind. Quiet now, he's coming
back.'

'Good job we left when we did,' she whispered. 'It will start to get dark soon.'

For much of their journey they had driven with dull green fields on both sides. Here and there a stretch of brown soil
where ploughs had been at work preparing for spring.

'We've left the snow behind.' Paula called out as they
approached Exeter.

Overhead a sea of grey cloud seemed in places almost to
touch the landscape. More complex
navigation by Michael
took them on to the A38, bypassing the city of Exeter. It was
not quite dark and to the north Paula gazed at the massive
endless hulk that was Dartmoor. Covered with snow, it was
white, appeared to dominate everything.

'I should have kept my big mouth shut,' Paula
commented. 'I think that looks like a heavy fall.'

'Can be deceptive,' Tweed replied. 'When I was a
detective and took a holiday with my wife we used to walk
over Dartmoor. Away from the hell of London I could
think!

Tweed continued driving along the A38 until, to his
surprise, Michael gestured again to their right. Tweed
turned off the busy highway north heading directly for
Dartmoor. He had turned into a wide lane hemmed in on
both sides by gorse hedges. He looked at Paula in the rear-
view mirror.

'This leads to only one place. Post Lacey. A small village on the edge of Dartmoor. I doubt if it's changed much since
I was last here.'

'What's beyond it?'

'Dartmoor.'

To Paula it sounded like the knell of doom.

5

Post Lacey was a small village with cottages built of granite
on either side of the main street. The
only
street, so far as
Paula could see. The clouds had vanished and illumination
came from the moon as dusk fell. They had passed the
ancient cottages, which had lights in their windows, when
they saw a pub, the Little Tor. Michael tapped the wheel for
Tweed to stop.

A short man with a bald head and a warm smile came out
of the pub. He reached out a gnarled hand to Tweed, then stared at Michael, who had alighted, standing while he stretched his arms, flexed his hands.

'Alf Garner at yer service.' the publican greeted Tweed. 'I
bet you didn't expect a Cockney to walk out of 'ere. The
wife and me came down 'ere ten years back. To get away
from the mess Lunnon has become. Called the pub the Brown Owl but the locals didn't like that. Not one bit. So
I changed the sign to
the little tor.
A name they could live
with.'

Tweed was now watching Michael, who had started to
walk further up the street to a point where it ended as a wide
track.

'Where does that lead to?' he asked.

'On to the moor,' Garner replied.

'So to nowhere in particular?'

'Dunna say that, did I? Years ago, centuries back, there was
tin, lead and copper mines on the moor. The rich lot used to
bring that stuff down on horse-drawn wagons. Track's still
there.'

'So it doesn't lead anywhere really?'

'Yes, it does. At the top of the moor, end of the track, a
very rich man lives in his marvellous house.
Used to be a
monastery going to ruin. He turned it into a great mansion. Called Abbey Grange.'

'The rich man has a name?'

'Difficult. Can never get that one right. "Volcano" is the
nearest I can come to.'

'Drago Volkanian?'

'Yes.' Garner slapped the side of his leather jerkin. 'You
got it. I've seen that chap before a while back.'

He was looking at Michael, who was now striding, stiff-
legged, up the track. Paula pulled at Tweed's sleeve. 'We're going to lose him.'

'Mr Garner, we have to go. Don't want him to vanish.'

'And 'e could do that. You going after him? Keep to the
track. Move away from it and you're up to your neck in a
lake of green slime. Treacherous marshes on the moor. Walk
into one and you'll not be seen again. Ever.'

'I think we'd better hurry,' Paula said impatiently.

'Do excuse us, Mr Garner,' Tweed said, shaking his hand
again.

'Molly - that's my better half standin' in the door - would
'ave given you something hot to drink, to eat. . .'

'Give her our thanks. That chap is inclined to lose his way.'

'Keep on the track. Watch out for marshes. Green slime,
they are. Here, take this . . .'

He handed Tweed a walking stick. Tweed thanked him
and followed Paula who was following Michael. Garner ran
after Tweed, caught him by the sleeve.

'One more thing. It's rained buckets for days before the snow fell. The ground could shake under your feet. Moor sinks and you'll think it's a small earthquake.'