The Savage Gorge (6 page)

At the top of the staircase they entered a living room
overlooking the street. Heavy net curtains covered the
windows and heavy red floor-to-ceiling curtains were
drawn back. Lisa asked them to sit down on a couch close to an antique table, then seated herself in a tall
carver chair opposite. Casually she took off her jacket,
exposing a low-cut blouse.

Paula waited to see how Tweed would handle her. It
was obvious that Lisa was trying to soften him up.

'The first thing for you to do,' Tweed barked, 'is to
put on your jacket again and button it to the neck.
The first question is how well did you know the two victims - living on either side of you?'

'Hardly knew them at all,' she replied sullenly as she
put on her jacket and buttoned it up.

'You're expecting me to believe you never spoke to
them once?'

'I didn't say that. Once I was coming back late from work in the dark. Well ahead of me, the one round the
corner was walking home by herself. When I reached
her she was still outside struggling to open her door. I stopped, asked if she had a problem. She said, without

turning round, her lock sticks, that it was the recent wet
weather and the door had dropped. She got the key to
turn at that moment, went inside without a word to me.'

'Did she know the other victim?'

'I think so. I saw them coming home together late one evening. Probably been to the theatre . . .'

'And you maintain you were friendly with neither of
them?'

'I thought I'd made that perfectly clear,' she
snapped.

Her whole personality had changed. Her face was
hard, her voice hostile. She began to tremble, twisting
her hands clasped together in her lap.

'Do your parents live nearby?' he persisted.

'Hardly,' she snapped again. 'Both were killed in a traffic accident three years ago . . .'

'Where did you spend your childhood? Where were
you born?'

'Cutwick, a small village in Hampshire,' she said
quickly as though she'd been waiting for this question.

'I see you've had the locks changed on your front
door. A Banham and a Chubb.'

'Wouldn't you! - if you'd had the experience I've
had?' She stood up, her expression murderous. 'And,
Mr Tweed, I've had just about enough of you.'

Tweed stood up and Paula followed suit. His
manner also changed; he was smiling and his voice
was sympathetic.

'It's just that I'm worried about you. Do you have to
go to work today?'

'I've phoned Rumble, Crowther and Nicholas, told them I'm not well, that I think I'm coming down with the flu.'

'Do you have to go out to shop? If not, may I sug
gest that you stay in the house if possible.'

Til show you my fridge. It's stacked with enough
food to last me ten days.' Her voice became sarcastic.
'I wouldn't want you to worry about me. Now, I'll
show you both out.'

'If there's a development, we might have to come
back.'

'Don't bother . . .'

She led the way down the staircase, said not another
word as they left and stood on the street. They heard her dealing with both new locks. Paula sighed.

'I think you were pretty tough on her.'

'She's still lying. I hoped to break her down.'

As he spoke, a Rolls-Royce glided round a distant
corner, drove slowly towards them in the stately fash
ion a Rolls should be driven. The uniformed
chauffeur slowed down even more as he cruised past
them, and Lisa's house. The rear windows were
heavily tinted, making it impossible to see the pas
senger, who appeared to be peering at them.
Reaching the corner beyond which the second
victim's house was located it continued its leisurely cruise, vanished.

'That was curious,' Paula commented. 'I memo
rized the plate number. I'll phone Swansea, find out
who owns it.'

'We'll get back to Park Crescent,' Tweed decided.

'I didn't like the way that Rolls behaved, I want to
know who that passenger was - the one who prefers
no one can identify him. Another mystery, I suspect.'

FOUR

Arriving back at Park Crescent, they found Tweed's spacious office occupied by all the members of his
team, with the exception of Harry Butler. Bob
Newman, once the most famous international
reporter on the planet, sat the wrong way round on a
wooden chair, arms folded on the back. Tallish and
well built, in his early forties, he was good-looking,
was often glanced at by elegant women in the street.
He slapped Paula on the arm as she hurried to her
corner desk.

'Busy, busy lady,' he chaffed her.

Leaning against the wall by Paula's desk, his normal
position, a very tall lean man was smoking a cigarette
in a holder. He wore an Armani suit; his smile was
cynical, his hair dark, well brushed. This was Marler,
reputed to be the deadliest marksman in Europe. He
was in his late thirties.

Pete Nield, Butler's 'partner in crime', was also
smartly clad in a white suit and shirt, wearing a
Chanel tie. Amiable, as always, his hair was flaxen with a neatly trimmed moustache. Almost as good a
'shadow' as his partner, he was also in his late thirties.

Tweed wasted no time. Seating himself behind his
desk he told everyone what had happened so far. It
was his policy that all of them should know what the
case was about, starting with the discovery of the two
women's murders, and ending with the peculiar
appearance of the Rolls.

'So where are we?' drawled Marler.

'Nowhere,' Tweed said bluntly. 'As yet no connec
tions, no leads.'

'Can't imagine you letting us all just sit here,'
Marler observed shrewdly.

'Wait a minute,' Paula called out.

She had been huddled over her phone, one hand in an ear to block out Tweed's powerful voice.

'Everyone shut up. I may have something . . .'

'Well,' said Monica from her desk behind the door,
'I've just had an urgent phone call from Harry. No time to switch it to you, Tweed. He is following
Falkirk's car miles away. He reports Falkirk's car broke
down, Falkirk called the AA, who have just arrived.
Harry drove into a nearby field to get into cover.'

'But where is he?' Tweed asked irritably.

'In the middle of nowhere, then he ended the call.'

'Very helpful. Could be Devon, Norfolk, any
where . . .'

'Harry knows what he's doing,' Pete Nield said qui
etly. 'He sounds close to Falkirk at the moment.
Probably because that car broke down. You've always
said leave decisions to the man in the field - he knows
the situation better than you do.'

'Absolutely right. I'd just hoped we had a break.
Sorry.'

'Anyone want to listen to me?' Paula enquired
sharply.

'Go ahead,' Tweed urged, placing a hand close to
one ear.

'First,' Paula began, 'I phoned Swansea with the
index number. The Rolls we saw is a company car.
Belongs to Otranto Oil. Doesn't get us far. So I
phoned your pet accountant and friend, Keith Kent. Asked him about Otranto.'

'That was smart,' Tweed said quickly.

'Keith knows a lot about them. The owner is
Neville Guile, a ruthless man who has built up
Otranto into a major powerful complex - by buying
up small oil companies. Methods he's used are very
open to question, including blackmail and worse. Has
three Rolls, two company and one his own. Now,
listen, his HQ is in Finden Square . . .'

'Where?' asked Tweed.

'I know it. Finden Square is small, hidden away not
so far from Bexford Street and Lynton Avenue, where
the murders took place. It's an oasis of peace amid the
turmoil of London. I'd like to check it out.'

'Come with you,' offered Marler.
 
'This Neville

Guile sounds a dangerous character. And he may have
seen you if he was in the back of that Rolls.'

'I'd welcome your company,' Paula said. 'Let's get
moving.'

As soon as they had left Tweed stared at Newman
from behind a fresh pile of red files containing more
overseas agents' reports just delivered from
Communications. Newman smiled back at Tweed's
glare.

'Anything for me to do?'

'Yes. Put on that shabby mac you keep for the East End. Go down there, meet your contacts. Ask if there
are rumours about any imminent operation.'

'What sort of operation?'

'How do I know?'

'What's the matter with him?' Newman whispered
to Monica as he took his shabby raincoat from a cup
board. 'He's like a bear with a sore head.'

'Won't last long,' Monica said soothingly. 'He's
frustrated because he's no lead, no connection established with this murder investigation.'

'Then let's hope something breaks soon,' Newman
said as he left the office to pursue what he regarded as a futile task.