The Savage Gorge (17 page)

'Then I'll leave you alone with him.'
'The eagles gather.'

Earlier, returning from the falls, they cruised past a window behind which a man sat at a table gazing through the thick net curtains. Lepard wished he had
a drink to celebrate.

Driving along the target road had obviously become
Tweed's favourite outing. Lepard decided he would
personally aim the bazooka, the rocket with which
Tweed and his Audi would be destroyed in an inferno
of flames and disintegrating metal. He could hardly
wait for the spectacle.

TWELVE

When they entered the hall of the hotel, Tweed
glanced up the stairs. Falkirk was about to descend.
Tweed held up his hand and Falkirk waited, out of
sight of the visitor seated on the hall couch. Following
him in, Paula saw the figure on the couch. Lance
Mandeville.

He jumped up, held out his hand, squeezed hers.
Always smartly clad, this time he wore a white suit:
white trousers, white jacket, the collar of his white shirt open at the neck. His ensemble was completed
with white shoes with gleaming brown toecaps.
Reluctantly Paula admitted to herself he was very
impressive.

'I've been waiting for you for ages,' he began.

'Then you've had a nice long rest.'

'I've got a proposition. Let's sit down for a minute.'

Since there was nowhere else, she joined him on the
couch. He immediately moved closer to her. His
almond-shaped eyes held hers lovingly. They dis
turbed her because she had trouble reading what was
behind them.

'I have spent a certain amount of time rejecting
propositions,' she told him coldly.

'Oh, God!' He slapped a hand to his forehead.
'Wrong word. I apologize. I want to ask you to have dinner with me tonight, while Mr Tweed is at Hobart
House with my father. At Marcantonio's. It's a very
exclusive club further up the High Street. Do you
fancy caviar and champagne?'

He put his arm round her waist, exerting all his
charm. She had to admit to herself he knew how to
use it. She turned to look straight at him.

'Do you mind not manhandling me? Remove your
arm immediately. And I do not like champagne or
caviar. So forget the whole idea and shove off,
please.'

His whole personality underwent a change. He
jerked away his arm. The smile vanished, replaced by
a sneer, his mouth twisted venomously as he jumped
up.

'Women don't talk to me like that. I am Lord
Bullerton's son.'

'Then go and find one who is not fussy and spends
her time with you in your secret flat - until you pack
her bags and throw her out.'

As he stormed out into the street Paula stood up

and the landlord appeared behind the recently
deserted counter. Greeting her politely, he leaned for
ward to speak quietly.

'There's a gentleman waiting to see you in the draw
ing room.'

Paula was curious. Her first thought was it might be
Archie MacBlade. She opened the door, stepped in
confidently, closed the door. Stopped abruptly.

Someone had used one of the dimmer switches scattered round the walls: the room was in semi-
darkness. She moved away from the door, where she
would be less visible. All the lights were turned up. A
man moved towards her, the only occupant in the
room. Neville Guile.

Suppressing her instinct to dash back into the hall,
she chose an armchair, sat very erect as he moved
slowly towards her. His motion reminded her of
Harry's description: he slithered to the armchair.

He no longer wore his disguise. He was dressed in a
black suit. Black trousers, a long black jacket, black tie
over a white shirt. He was very tall and thin and the
black stressed his bloodless cadaverous face, his thin
lips curved in a peculiar smile.

Paula had her hands tucked in her jacket pockets as
he came close, his hand extended to shake hers. She
remained still as a statue.

'You don't often get the chance to shake hands with a billionaire,' he said.

She recalled the cut-glass voice from the few words
she'd heard distantly in Finden Square. She couldn't

be rude. She took her right hand out of her pocket,
grasped his. It was like shaking hands with a fish and he had an unpleasant way of grasping her, sliding his
fingers up between hers. Without a smile she freed her
hand and waited.

'I am looking for a personal assistant, Miss Grey. I
know your universal reputation for incredible efficiency.' Pausing, he dabbed at his lips with a silk
handkerchief. 'I would be most happy to pay you
eighty thousand a year, plus benefits.'

'Thank you for the offer,' she said quickly, 'but I do
have a position I totally enjoy.'

'Just so long as you have Tweed. He could be shot
any day.'

'It has been tried before and he is good at surviving.'

'I have never been turned down before.' The cut-
glass voice was even sharper, almost with a note of
menace.

'There's always a first time.' She laughed gently.
'Might do your ego good.'

'I do wish you had not added that last sentence.' He
placed his hands on his knees, prior to standing up.
'Few people have risked insulting me,' he remarked,
standing up. 'And I'm not sure they're all still walking
the planet. . .'

On this note his tall dark figure strode to the door.
He opened it, disappeared, closed it softly.

Paula heaved a deep breath, decided she needed a long hot bath to wash off his touch.

After her bath Paula found her mind very alert. She
assumed it was the result of the unwanted approaches
she'd experienced. She was also intrigued by the
hidden tunnel on Black Gorse Moor. What was going
on up there?

She dressed, wearing two leather jackets, ankle
boots. In her backpack she put certain items. She
scribbled a note to Tweed, hoping he'd excuse her for
not attending the Bullerton dinner but she felt
she could sleep the evening and the night through. She
wrote his name on an envelope, sealed it. She knew
he'd be furious if he knew what she had decided to do.

Walking down the corridor, she paused outside Tweed's suite, pressed her ear against the door. She
couldn't hear what was being said but was surprised to
gather the conversation was friendly.

In the hall the landlord was absorbed explaining a map to an elegantly dressed woman. Unseen, Paula
descended into the garage. No one about, thank
heaven. She climbed behind the wheel of the Audi,
using her own key. It was only when she emerged into
the street that it occurred to her she might be driving
into danger.

It was dusk when she parked the Audi in a deep hole
in the hedge. She walked into the top of the bowl and
saw Hobart House, far below, a blaze of lights.
Getting ready for the dinner. She was relieved to see
the curtains were closed.

Striding briskly, she descended the slope of the
bowl, crossed it well away from the house, began to
climb steeply. She sat down for a minute, took out a
tough pair of jeans, hauled them on over her daytime
pair. She thought she heard a noise as she put on an
old pair of motoring gloves. Looking up, she saw
briefly the flash of a light. Someone was on the moor.
At this hour?

Or had it been her imagination? In the gloaming
everything seemed different. Bullerton's residence
looked tiny - more like a doll's house. She had lost her
sense of direction - she could not find the section
which would lead her up to the tunnel. She took a
deep breath and the air was cold, which cleared her mind. The only solution was to climb up to the moor
and explore, to search for the large round boulder
she'd noticed near the entrance.

As she climbed, often on hands and knees, she was
protected from the sharp rocky ground by her old
jeans. One thing worried her: crawling up over shale,
the small pieces started scattering down the slope,
making too much noise.

She changed direction, moving gradually to her left,
where the ground was more solid, more familiar. She
thought she'd heard another noise above her, like a
subdued moan. Could there be animals up here? If so,
what were they? Reaching down she checked that her
Browning was secure in its holster. The feel of the butt
gave her fresh confidence.

She began hauling herself up more rapidly over the

ground, which was more stable than any so far. She was concentrating so determinedly on grasping tufts
of grass, testing their stability before using them as
handholds, that she got a shock.

Something spiky brushed her face. She stopped,
looked up. It was the beginning of the black gorse.
She stretched out a hand and touched something
hard, smooth and round. She had located the large
boulder near the entrance to the tunnel. She could
have cheered.

She stood up, bent her aching knees several times.
They still felt strong and limber. Crouching down, she crept slowly along the path, her left hand extended for
fear of missing the tunnel entrance. Then she felt
something odd. Taking off her glove, she felt with her
bare hand a curved surface of smooth metal. She extracted her pencil torch from her backpack - her more powerful torch would show too much light in
this wilderness. The brief illumination revealed a large
circular lid covering the entrance to the tunnel.
Putting on her glove again, she grasped a handle at the
lid's top, twisted it slowly. It was well oiled and made
not a sound as she removed it. The entrance was revealed. Using her more powerful torch she shone
the beam inside it.