No Mercy (14 page)

At Champton Place the phone was picked up at once. I must be careful how I word this, Paula thought.

'Anne, Paula here. We've checked your sister's place. We
did find a hidden document which might tell us something
when we've had it checked by an expert. Sorry not to have more.'

'The main thing is I don't feel so alone any more. Thank
you so much for calling. For all you've done so far.'

'We'll keep in touch,' Paula promised.

'Two things I think we need Harry Butler's help on,' she
reminded Tweed. 'Couldn't open the fridge or the thin
cupboard with two Banham locks.'

'Those giant fridges from the States,' Tweed grumbled.
'Do the Americans really eat more than we do? Here we are.
There's Gallagher's big brown Volvo.'

Paula glanced at Tweed as he pulled in to the kerb. His
lips were tight, his eyes seemed larger. He was livid. But
when George opened the door Tweed's tone was quiet as he gazed at him.

'I'm really sorry about this, George. How are you?'

'I'll survive. Gallagher elbowed me in the ribs before he
charged upstairs. I'm feeling much better.'

'Get a doctor to check you now. Call Westholme to come
now.
That's an order.'

He took the stairs two at a time. They could hear voices
through the almost-closed door to his office on the first floor.
Bob Newman's first, calm, controlled, deadly.

'I really am going to have to throw you out.'

'Like to try it?'

Gallagher's sneering tones. Tweed walked in slowly with
Paula behind him. The whole team was in the office. Just inside the door to the left Monica sat at her desk, glaring.
Marler was leaning against the far wall, smoking a cigarette,
his expression amused. Harry Butler was close to Newman, his expression not amused. Their unwanted visitor, over six
feet tall, broad shoulders straining under his dark suit, had
his back to them, pointing at cool-tempered Pete Nield perched on Tweed's desk.

'Mr Gallagher,' Tweed said slowly, quietly, 'I want you to leave my office immediately, please.'

The Special Branch chief turned round. Paula had her
first good look at his face. An ignorant vicious brute was her
verdict. Untidy dark hair, eyes that radiated aggression, a boxer's nose and a hard jaw. He seemed taken aback by Tweed's tone, then recovered his voice, the tone lower.

'I'm here to find out what you're doing messing about
down at Abbey Grange.'

Newman slipped past him, handed Tweed a copy of the
day's
Daily Nation.
It was folded so the headline jumped up
at him.
two skeleton murders on dartmoor.
Tweed handed
the paper to Paula, addressed Gallagher again in the same quiet tone.
'I suggest when you've left, which I advise you do now,
that you buy a copy of today's newspaper. You don't seem to
keep up with the latest developments.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Another thing,' Tweed went on as he walked and sat
behind his desk. Pete Nield immediately slid off it, stood
very erect alongside Newman. 'I may feel obliged to report
what happened to my guard to the Home Secretary. You
could, of course, apologize to him on your way out. Bob,
please open the door for Mr Gallagher.'

Gallagher, a man used to a verbal brawl, was stunned. While Newman held the door open he walked out quickly,
hurried down the stairs. The phone rang. Monica
answered and reported to Tweed that Keith Kent had just
arrived.

'Splendid!' Tweed smiled. 'Ask him to come up at once.'
He stood up to greet Kent and shake
his hand. 'You must
have come by Concorde. I appreciate it.'

'Buttering me up will get you nowhere,' Kent replied with
a grin.

In his forties, Keith Kent wore a smart blue bird's-eye
suit, his neat dark hair trim, his young-looking face exuding
intelligence without vanity. He sat down in the chair Tweed
indicated and looked around.

'Hello, all of you. Don't know how you have the energy to
keep up with this chap - especially after his recent bout of
training. So what is it this time?' He took the envelope Paula
handed to him, glanced up at her. 'We must have dinner sometime. Just you and me.'

'Name the day.'

'Tonight. The Ivy. Seven p.m. any good?'

'Perfect.' She laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Make it
tomorrow. Tweed will be having dinner with
his blonde bombshell.'

'Don't think Lucinda would like that description,'
protested Tweed, smiling.

'Well, she is blonde and has the energy of a bombshell.'

Kent had been examining the sheaf of papers covered with
the maze of figures. He raised his dark eyebrows while he looked at Tweed.

'If you're expecting a report tomorrow, forget it. This is
sophisticated accounting. Someone really good who has his
own method of working. Or is it her?'

'Her.'

'Not a forensic accountant?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Thought so. "400 mil". Four hundred million. This firm's turnover is much bigger than even that. More than that I can't
tell you. I'd better get started.' He looked across at Paula, now
seated at her far corner desk. 'Seven p.m., the Ivy?'

'Nothing wrong with my memory, Keith. I may be a bit
late.'

'Women always are.' He grinned again. 'Clever women
like yourself.'

When he had left, Harry Butler, short and burly, wearing,
as always, an old windcheater and denims, darted across the office to near Paula's corner, picked up a Gladstone-like bag,
which carried his tools.

'Paula whispered when she passed me that you have an
urgent job for me. Have bag, ready to travel.'

'A monster American fridge we can't open. A thin
cupboard with two Banhams. I'll drive you there. Bob,'
Tweed said to Newman, 'take over while I'm gone.'

'I'm coming with you,' Paula said in a tone that brooked
no contradiction.

Yelland Street was as quiet as when they had last visited it.
As Tweed was pulling in to the kerb, Paula produced a
camera.

'I'm going to photo that pic of Christine, then we can give
it back to Anne on the way back. I know she said she had
another but I'm sure she treasures it.'

Once inside, Tweed led Butler to the kitchen at the back
of the house. Paula nipped into the living room. Tweed had
perched the framed picture on top of the piano. With her hi-
tech, non-flash camera she quickly took three shots, tucked
the framed original under her arm and went to join the other
two.

'Banham's are good at making locks,' Butler commented
as he operated a small machine, inserted a key he had
brought with him, opened both locks. He then stood back and gestured to Paula to open the cupboard.

She opened the door slowly, peered inside, then she froze.
Piled on top of one another were racks she recognized as trays from the fridge. Rows of neatly piled packs of food were stacked on the floor. She took a step back. The smell was distinctly unpleasant.

'This fridge isn't stuck,' Butler called out. 'The handle has
to be pushed down, then lifted.'

He stood back again. She wiped her clammy hands on her
jeans and approached the handle. Tweed had been double-checking cupboards. She forced herself to follow Butler's
instructions. She pressed
the handle down, then paused. She
took a deep breath, then she lifted the handle, grasped it
with the
latex gloves she'd put on. She heaved the huge door
open. The unique smell drifted immediately into the
kitchen.

'Oh, God!' she gasped. 'Oh, no!'

She was staring at the face of Christine Barton, throat cut from ear to ear, the head supported by a fridge bar. Another
bar held the rest of the naked body against the back of the fridge, the body brutally slashed, chunks of flesh stored in plastic bags on the fridge's floor.

'Jesus!' exclaimed Butler.

Tweed, already sampling the horrible odour of
decomposition, pushed Paula aside, closed the fridge door.
The hideous odour was polluting the kitchen. Tweed
grasped Paula by her arm.

'Back into the living room. Harry, close the door into the
hall.'

Inside the living room Paula sank into a chair and took
deep breaths of the fresh air. Tweed was holding out his
hand and she was unsure why.

'Your mobile, please,' he demanded. 'I'm phoning
Buchanan. Let's hope he can bring Professor Saafeld. He
likes to see a body before it's moved.'

'I'd . . . better . . .' Paula shuddered. 'Call Anne.'
⁽

'Not yet. I'm hoping Saafeld can cover the throat once he
gets her to the morgue. It's awful that Anne will have to
identify her.'

13

An hour later Tweed was driving back to Park Crescent
alone. Buchanan had arrived before he left, together with a
team of technical experts. Fortunately, by some miracle,
Professor Saafeld had arrived a few minutes before. He was
insistent that he should see the corpse before 'the
clodhoppers mess up the evidence,' as he impolitely put it.

Paula was with Anne at Champton Place. Tweed had called Pete Nield and told him to get over fast. He had
decided Peter, a calm, sympathetic man, would be the best
company to stay with Anne when she came back from the
morgue, after being driven there by Saafeld.

He crawled back, his car edging forward by inches. He
had run into rush hour. Reaching the peace and quiet of
Park Crescent, he parked and studied George, who
unlocked the door. He was standing quite upright; seemed
to be moving normally.

'You saw the doctor?'

'Yes. He was in the area. Apparently I have an open cut
near a rib. When Gallagher threw me back I hit the sharp
edge of a cupboard. He treated it with antiseptic, then put
on a large bandage. He left a report about it. Here it is.'

'I'll keep that. Gallagher will already be wondering
whether he went too far, whether I'll be reporting the
incident. Let him wonder. You feel OK?'

'Ready for Gallagher to come back. He won't catch me off
guard next time.'