The Savage Gorge Read online

  I’ll crush it.'

  They drove out of the silence of Bexford Street into heavy traffic. Eventually, arriving at Pine Street, they saw a police motor cycle courier Tweed recognised. He jumped off his parked machine, ran to Tweed.

  'This is for you, sir, from Commander Buchanan,' the courier explained, handing him a large sealed envelope. 'Don't bother about a receipt. I know you and I'll forge your name.'

  'Good man.' Tweed was breaking the seals after sitting back in the passenger seat Paula had vacated. The envelope contained two official-looking documents, which he scanned quickly. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the signatures on both.

  'Any trouble here and I'll clobber them,' he told Paula. 'You stay with me all the time.'

  Pine Street station was an ugly new mass of concrete blocks with a crooked needle on top of the central gable. Inside, Tweed was confronted with a stubborn-faced uniformed policeman behind a reception counter protected with a screen of bars.

  'You'll 'ave to wait. Sit over there. We're busy,' Stubborn informed him in a rasping voice.

  'Read this document. I presume you can read? Lift this barrier - but first look at my identity folder. Now!'

  Stubborn peered at the SIS folder. He swallowed after reading the document, and raised the barrier. 'Lumme,' he gasped, 'first time I've ever seen the signature of the Assistant Commissioner. Gather you want to see the murderer we locked up.'

  'Watch your words,' Tweed snapped. 'And I need to interview him in complete privacy. With my assistant, Miss Grey.'

  Stubborn pressed a button below his counter.

  'They want to see the prisoner Chief Inspector Reedbeck brought in. If they so decide, they have authority for him to be released into Mr Tweed's custody.'

  Tm Constable Merle Pardoe,' a uniformed policewoman informed them in a pleasant voice. She extracted a bunch of keys from inside her pocket. Not dangling from her belt where they could be snatched, Tweed noticed. As she unlocked a steel door he glanced at Paula, sending her a signal. He needed extra staff at Park Crescent.

  Once they were the far side of the closed door, in a long deserted corridor, Paula reacted, smiling at Constable Pardoe.

  'I may need to interview you about conditions here. Where is a good place we could meet if Mr Tweed decides he'd like me to do that?'

  Without stopping, Pardoe took a card from her top pocket and scribbled something on the back, handed it to Paula. She paused before unlocking another steel door at a lower level.

  'I shouldn't say it. That Sergeant, Wulgar, is bad enough but you are about to meet Frankenstein himself, a guard called Milburn. Staff were chosen by Chief Inspector Reedbeck.'

  'Explains a lot,' Paula said to herself.

  'He kept me on "for the moment", as he put it because I'd been here to clear up the place before it went on station. It was spotless after I'd chivvied up the cleaning ladies. Take a deep breath now.'

  She used another key to open a third massive steel door down in the cells, told them they'd arrived and walked swiftly away. On the other side of the door their way was blocked by a six-foot-two giant.

  'Milburn?' enquired Tweed.

  'That's me.'

  He had the build of an American quarterback, his wide chest and shoulders almost bursting out of

  his uniform. His large ugly face and icebreaker-like jaw exuded aggression.

  'Is that the prisoner I've come to interview?' Tweed demanded.

  'That's 'im.' He leered at Paula. 'Is this your girl? Or is she snooty like that Pardoe bit?'

  'Which suggests,' Paula broke in, 'you tried to come on to her and she told you to get lost.' Her tone was icy. 'I wonder why?'

  'Watch your dirty mouth,' Tweed warned him in a dangerously quiet voice. 'You're in the presence of a lady, like Miss Pardoe. Now shut up and open the cell door.'

  The prisoner was a lean man, good looking, with long dark hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He was settled on the only furniture in the cell, a long bed at the rear, perched against a foam pad serving as a pillow. His legs were carefully stretched along the bed and he wore a smart grey suit. A clean blue shirt was open at the collar, exposing a lean muscular neck. He glanced at Tweed and Paula, then switched his gaze to his well-polished walking shoes.

  'The sod—' Milburn began then changed it as Tweed glared at him. 'The prisoner won't talk, hasn't uttered one word since they brought 'im in. No name. Nothing. I'll sort 'im out this evening,' he promised as he unlocked the cell door.

  'Leave the door unlocked and open,' Tweed ordered as he entered the cell with Paula.

  Watching Tweed's expression, Paula had the impression sudden recognition was dawning. On the other hand the prisoner gazed at Tweed with no sign of recognition whatsoever. Tweed called over his shoulder.

  'Milburn, I repeat, don't lock that door, we're leaving with the prisoner. You've had your orders from Sergeant Wulgar. And now you don't say a word.'

  Tweed and Paula smiled at Merle Pardoe as she opened the door to the outside world. Tweed paused to speak to her.

  'We do appreciate the courtesy you've shown us since we entered Dartmoor.'

  'That's our duty, sir.'

  'No, that's your duty, which you perform perfectly. No one else in this place.'

  'Mr Tweed,' Wulgar called out as they were passing his counter, 'I need you to sign this document confirming the prisoner is now in your custody.'

  'Sign it yourself,' Tweed rapped back as they walked on, leaving the station.

  Outside, Tweed opened the rear door of the Audi, gestured to both Paula and the prisoner.

  'The two of you ride in the back.'

  As he was driving along the busy road he called out again to his passengers.

  'Paula, meet ex-Inspector Dermot Falkirk, once stationed at Scotland Yard. Now I'm looking for a nice place which serves coffee and maybe sandwiches.'

  TWO

  'You must have recognized Tweed the moment we came into the cell,' Paula said to Falkirk. 'Yet you showed no sign you'd ever seen him before. Why?'

  'I wasn't saying a word inside that place. Reedbeck may have had my cell wired.'

  'But even earlier, when you were falsely arrested, you kept quiet.'

  'Had to. Reedbeck made a colossal blunder. Arrested me on no evidence. Didn't recognize me until after his arrest. I've grown this moustache since I left the Yard and worked under him. Also my hair has grown very long. When he realized who I was it was too late - for him. He had set the wheels in motion, was too stupid to back off. . .'

  'It took me a few moments to realize who you were,' Tweed admitted.

  'What are you doing now?' Paula asked, using Tweed's technique of switching the topic suddenly to throw her target off balance.

  'We're going back a couple of years. I started my own private investigation agency.'

  'What's it called?'

  'Eyes Only. Short and to the point. . .'

  He paused as Paula's mobile buzzed. She answered and after a few words she handed it to Tweed. 'Professor Saafeld. Sounds urgent.'

  'We'll be there in half an hour, maybe less,' Tweed said after listening briefly. 'He's puzzled,' he told Paula. 'If you're willing to cooperate with me on this case,' he said to Falkirk, 'you can come with us. Which client are you working for now?' he asked abruptly.

  'Now you know a private detective never reveals the identity of his client,' Falkirk smiled engagingly. 'Part of the code.'

  The Audi was stopped. The traffic wasn't moving. Tweed opened his door, called over his shoulder.

  'We'll be here awhile. An accident with police cars. A huge tow-truck is grappling with a monster Cadillac. You won't be able to get into Saafeld's mortuary, Falkirk. I've just spotted Buchanan in a car three vehicles back. Both of you stay here . . .'

  'Then I'll leave you in a minute,' Falkirk called back. 'Have an urgent appointment so I'll be able to get there early.'

  'Refusing to tell us who your client is doesn't strike me as my idea of cooperation,' Paula
said sharply when Tweed had gone.

  'Sorry, way of the world.'

  'Another thing,' she persisted, 'private detectives always have to carry an identity folder and yet you hadn't anything on you when they searched you at Pine Street.'

  'Reedbeck is a lousy searcher.' Falkirk grinned, opened his jacket, lifted the hem. Undoing an invisible zip fastener he extracted an identity folder, handed it to her. The photo of him was good and she saw he was forty years old.

  'You need money too,' Falkirk went on.

  From the same pocket he prised out a wad of folded banknotes. She guessed he must be carrying at least two hundred pounds. He must be doing well out of Eyes Only.

  Tweed had lied when he told them he'd seen Buchanan. In his rear-view mirror he'd seen Harry following several vehicles behind him in his beat-up old grey Fiat. Stationary in the log jam, Harry jumped out, followed Tweed down a side street. A woman backed her car out of a resident's bay and drove off.

  'You won't believe this,' the cockney began. 'Back at the office, earlier, I was coming in when I heard voices. The door wasn't closed properly. I heard what Lisa said about the people stalking her, then crept

  back up the stairs. Well, on your way with her to Lynton Avenue, with me keeping well back, she was followed. A hunchback first. He vanishes down an alley. When I've found an empty parking slot and run back to the alley he's gone. I hurtle down the empty alley into the next street. A woman dressed in black with a black veil walks past me. Carrying a large strong carrier bag from an expensive clothes shop.'

  'Peculiar.' Tweed began talking quickly. 'I have a passenger in my car beside Paula.'

  'Falkirk. Met him over two years ago. When you sent me down to the Yard with a sealed folder.'

  'God, what a memory.'

  'Has a 'tache and long hair since then.'

  'Listen, Harry, he'll be leaving me shortly. Follow him to the end of the earth . . .'

  'I can just turn the Fiat into that empty slot. If he walks I'll collect the car later. If he takes a cab I'll use the car.'

  'Don't lose him.'

  'You are talking to Harry Butler!'

  The moment Tweed settled himself behind the wheel of his Audi, Falkirk opened his door on the pavement side. Squeezing Paula's arm, he paused to speak to Tweed.

  'I'm off now. Pointless if I'm not allowed into the mortuary. Saafeld is right, of course. I'll keep in contact. Be good - if you can't do that, be careful. Cheerio ...'

  In his rear-view mirror Tweed saw Falkirk take the second empty taxi parked behind them. He was amused at his choice.

  'Falkirk ignored the first empty cab, took the one behind it. He was worried I'd hired Harry to follow him.'

  'Well, we've lost him anyway,' Paula said, now occupying the front passenger seat next to Tweed.

  He smiled as the traffic suddenly started moving again. He told her about his conversation with Harry. When he reported his instructions Paula smiled.

  'Falkirk may be smart but Harry's smarter. He'll never lose him.'

  She went on to tell him about the trick with his identity folder and the money he was carrying. Tweed merely grunted, his mind elsewhere. As they reached Holland Park he turned down the winding cul-de-sac leading to Saafeld's HQ. There were other large private mansions vaguely visible behind trees coming into leaf. It had been a hard winter so the trees were flourishing late. He stopped in front of a pair of high wrought-iron gates let into a ten-foot-high wall, jumped out, used the speakphone set into a pillar to identify himself.

  The gates opened, closed automatically behind them. They walked up a curving drive hemmed in by rhododendron bushes. A large white stone mansion came into view and Saafeld stood waiting by a massive open front door.

  Professor Saafeld, the country's top pathologist, was of medium height, well built, thick white hair above a

  high forehead which suggested brain power. It was an impression reinforced by the sharpness of his eyes, which gazed unblinking at anyone he was talking to. He wore a smart blue bird's-eye suit and was in his late fifties. He hugged Paula, who had been to his HQ before.

  Tm not going to hug you,' he said with a grin at Tweed.

  'Thank heavens for small mercies.'

  'We'll go straight into the mortuary. I'm only at the first stage of my autopsy on the two ladies. Also,' he went on, 'I'm puzzled. Show you why . . .'

  In front of a large steel door coated with white enamel he pressed buttons inside a security panel, pulled at the handle. The door opened and closed with an airlock's sucking sound. They descended a flight of stone steps into a small room which was very cold. Paula remembered the procedure as Saafeld opened a cupboard, handed each of them a white coat, a cap, a pair of white gloves and a pair of outsize canvas shoes. The moment they were dressed he pressed buttons in another security panel and a large steel door opened slowly. A unique odour drifted in the air, the odour of death. This time she was prepared for it as she adjusted her mask.

  'You're getting used to it,' Saafeld said with a reassuring smile. He was not wearing a mask. 'I never do, but sometimes there's an element in the odour which tells me how they died . . .'

  It was a large room with eight spotless metal-topped

  tables equipped with encircling gutters. Saafeld skipped the length of the room to two more tables, occupied with bodies covered with white sheets. Paula was always amazed at Saafeld's agility: he moved like a twenty-year-old. A tall man clothed in white stood waiting.

  'This excellent chap is Joffey, my new assistant. Been here six months. Joffey, meet our important visitors. Deputy Chief Tweed and his brilliant assistant Paula Grey. I'd say we're ready now . . .'

  Paula tensed inwardly as Joffey lifted the nearest sheet. It was the woman who had lain nearest Lisa Clancy's house. Paula shuddered inwardly. The cuts had dug deeply into her flesh.

  'Hatred on the killer's part,' Paula said softly.

  'Or a determination neither would be recognizable,' Tweed commented.

  At a nod from Saafeld, Joffey replaced the sheet, moved to the next table. He lifted the sheet clear of the head and neck again. The massacre of the face was just as ruthless on the other victim.

  'In each case,' Saafeld explained, 'the killer cut the throat first with a very sharp knife. I suggest he came up behind them, grabbed their long hair, which you notice was dishevelled, hauled the head back, exposing the throat for a swift slash ear to ear. Probably only took seconds. What puzzles me is what kind of weapon he used to ruin their faces, to create the deep random squiggles. Hector might solve the problem -you can't put photos of those horrors in the papers

  asking if anyone knows them. Joffey, ask Hector to join

  us.'

  'Hector?'

  Paula was taken aback by the name. She made a major effort to compose her expression when Joffey opened a door at the rear. A very small tubby man bounced into the room. Humpty Dumpty, Paula said under her breath.

  'May I introduce you to one of the cleverest men in the country,' Saafeld began. 'Meet Hector Humble.' He introduced the tubby little man to his guests. 'He can bring both those women back to how they looked in life.'

  'Impossible!' Tweed burst out.

  'I've studied the faces, sir,' Hector assured him. 'It can be done.' He tapped a large cardboard-backed envelope under his arm. 'I have photographed them as they are now. I must warn you,' he went on in his singsong voice, 'the job will cost you a fortune. Probably ten thousand pounds only payable if you're satisfied.' He began dancing round. 'I can see you're sceptical. Why not come with me to my work den. Just three side roads from here.'

  'I strongly urge you to visit his work den,' Saafeld said.

  Outside, Hector pointed to a large Mercedes parked beyond the Audi before he danced along the cul-de-sac towards it. His chubby face was all smiles.

  'I'll lead the way. Leaving this close, turn left, then I'm the third turn-off on the left. My work den has a red metal cone over the chimney, in case you lose me . . .'

 
Dancing off down the cul-de-sac he paused at the front of his Merc. The rear of his car was facing the back of the Audi. In his rear-view mirror Tweed watched him fiddling with something.

  '"In case you lose me,'" he quoted Hector ironically. 'In this traffic. Where does he think he is? Le Mans?'

  At that moment Hector turned the Merc round and drove past them. Tweed stared. Paula shook with laughter. Tweed glared at her as he started his car.

  'What's the matter with you?'

  'Didn't you see? He's stretched white ribbon from the symbol on the bonnet back to each corner of his windscreen. People will think he's late collecting the bride and groom from their wedding!'

  'Must be batty . . .'

  'Or clever. Look what's happening.'

  The Merc was swinging all over the place on the main road as other traffic stopped by the kerb. Hector was honking his horn gently and politely. A Rolls-Royce backed a few feet to let him through. Then Hector vanished.