No Mercy (19 page)

'Could I look at that message to see the names of the
clients?' Tweed suggested.

'They'll have gone off elsewhere now.'

She handed him the unsealed envelope. He read the typed
note full of errors. The names meant nothing to him. He
showed the sheet to Paula.

'Dead end,' she whispered.

'Is this the only place Mr Jackson has?' Tweed asked.

'No. He 'as the 'ouseboat down at Wensford. Often went down there for a day or two studying details of a case.'

'Where is Wensford?'

'Somewhere down the M3. The 'ouseboat's on the River
Ley, he told me. Joins the Wey River . . .'

'Excuse me,' Paula said. 'Back in a minute.' She darted off
after taking Tweed's key. She was back quickly after shuffling
through her collection of Ordnance Survey maps. Selecting
the map for Surrey and Sussex, she spread it out on the
desk.

'Any idea where Wensford is?' she asked the girl. 'I don't
know your name,' she said with a smile.

'Jenny Oxton.' She bent over the map. 'John once showed me where he went. It's down the M3, then you turns off 'ere
to Wensford. The 'ouseboat is near a bridge over the Ley
River.'

'Are there any records here of Mr Jackson's dealings with
clients?' Tweed asked.

'Always took them with 'im in 'is briefcase. Nothing else
'ere. Could I leave with you?'

'Certainly. We can drop you wherever you live.'

'Would 'elp. My boyfriend, Jeff, will be waiting for me at
the caff on the corner at the end of Parson Street.'

Tweed had given her envelope back to her. Opening a drawer, she took out another envelope, then
picked up a
well-worn briefcase. She looked at Paula.

'My stuff. On our way out I'll lock the door, put the key
inside this envelope, push it through the letterbox in the door. Best I can do. I 'ope John's all right.'

Outside they saw Harry leaning against the opposite wall,
pretending to read a newspaper. Newman appeared, driving
his car down from the other end of the street with Nield next
to him. Harry dived into the back. Tweed drove to the end
of Parson Street, dropped Jenny Oxton off at the door to the
cafe. He had given her a ten-pound note just before she alighted, and had brushed aside her astonished thanks. She
rushed into the cafe, sat at a table by the window opposite
a rough-looking young man. She was leaning over to kiss
him when they left.

'Some people have a tough life,' Paula remarked.

'She'll survive. I like the Cockneys. Worth a hundred of
the Aubrey Greystokes. Now we've got to find Wensford and
the houseboat.'

Pausing outside Park Crescent Tweed had a fierce argument
with Newman and told him not to follow them down to Wensford. He had to issue a direct order that under no
circumstances was anyone to follow him and Paula.

It was lunchtime when Tweed drove at top speed down the M3 with Paula by his side. They reached the turn-off
very quickly, driving along a country lane. Earlier Paula had insisted he stop briefly outside the Gantia plant. She quickly
took several photos. For the first time since he had reached
his office earlier, Tweed found himself thinking again of
Lucinda, recalling the scene in the underground garage
when she had tried to coax him into the elevator. He should
have joined her, he told himself wistfully. No, he'd made the
right decision. Or had he?

'A penny for those deep thoughts,' Paula suggested as she
put the camera back inside her bag.

'I was just thinking I should have warned Jenny Oxton not
ever to go back to Jackson's place.'

'How can she? She dropped the key through the
letterbox.'

'Of course she did. I'd forgotten that.'

'Really?'

She gave him an old-fashioned look.

A short distance along the lane they drove slowly through
Wensford, a village with council houses lining both sides. No
shops. Tweed slowed to a crawl as they approached an old hump-backed bridge. Inscribed in a brick pillar were the words
ley bridge.
He parked outside a dreary inn on the other side.

'I think we get out here and stroll around,' he said.

They crossed the empty road, clambered down to the
towpath. Berthed to the bank was a brightly painted
houseboat, a rope from its deck attached to a heavy rock on the bank.
Mary Lou,
its name, was painted on the bows. A
wide heavy plank led from the bank to the deck. It was very
quiet, no sound of traffic, only the desolate caw of rooks
perched in a nearby tree. Paula didn't like the sound.

'I'll go and check the boat out,' said Tweed. 'You stay on
guard here.'

'Excuse me,' Paula rapped, hands on her hips, her tone
angry. 'I was under the illusion I was a member of the team.
If you fall off the bloody plank I won't be rescuing you,
Mr Tweed.'

'All right. We'll go aboard together,' he said after seeing her expression.

He crossed the plank and it hardly wobbled. Paula
followed. He stood on the deck, studying it for footprints.

He had put on his latex gloves and when Paula joined him he saw she already had hers on.

'I suppose we get inside through that door,' she said.

He walked up to the closed door at the front of the
interior. When he pulled at the handle he couldn't shift it.
Looking down he saw a thick wooden wedge jammed
underneath it. He looked round the deck, saw a sturdy
marlinspike shoved down inside a leather holder attached to
the port side. Clasping it, he withdrew it, noticed
immediately brownish stains. He said nothing as he carried
it over to the wedge. It took five hard blows to dislodge the
wedge.

'I'd like you to stay on deck,' he told Paula.

'Don't start that again,' she snapped.

Gritting his teeth, he hauled on the door handle. It came
open easily. Immediately a noxious aroma he knew meant
only one thing seeped out. He took out a handkerchief,
wrapped it round his nose, pulled the rest of it lower. When
he looked at Paula she had already masked her face. She was holding her powerful torch, extracted from her shoulder bag.

It was dark inside but he had the impression he was entering the main cabin. The smell was overpowering.
Paula's torch illuminated an empty old leather couch located against the starboard side. She held the torch
tightly, swivelled the beam to the other side. Another
leather couch, this one occupied. A skeletal figure was
stretched out, and on the deck beside it were small
transparent bags containing discoloured blobs. Flesh.
Scraped from the skeleton. Tweed was nearly choking with
the odour. Paula pulled at his arm.

'Let's get out of here,' she said, voice muffled behind the
handkerchief.

The cabin had been ransacked. Drawers had been pulled out, their contents scattered on the deck. Tweed swayed. Paula hauled at his arm. They headed for the outside deck.

On deck, Tweed slammed the door shut. He took a deep
breath. Paula was walking quickly to the starboard side. He
felt sure she was going to throw up. Then she stiffened, took
off her gloves, threw them on the deck, grabbed a bottle of
mineral water from her bag, tore off the cap and drank
deeply. Then she handed the bottle to Tweed, who was
beginning to feel queasy. He swallowed several large gulps
and felt his stomach settling.

'We'll get back on the towpath,' Tweed said hoarsely.

'Watch your step on that plank.'

He walked backwards and forwards on the deck, stiffening
his legs, then walked swiftly across the plank. She followed
him as he watched her anxiously. They both sank into sitting
positions on the towpath.

'Give me your mobile,' Tweed said. 'I'm calling
Buchanan.'

She walked back and forth along the towpath while he made his detailed call, concluding by saying they'd wait at the inn opposite the houseboat side of the bridge. He gave
her back the phone.

'He's coming. I warned him no screaming sirens or
flashing lights in Wensford. We don't want an audience.'

'Shouldn't we go back and search? I think I saw something
floating in the river on the other side.'

'No, we shouldn't. That's Buchanan's job.'

A woman with rosy cheeks and a pleasant smile opened the
door of the inn. Tweed explained they hadn't eaten for
hours. The woman told them lunch was finished, but tea
started in an hour's time. Then she looked at them again.
'You do look hungry. What about bacon sandwiches?'
'That will do fine,' Tweed said. 'We're grateful. Any
chance of a pot of coffee and a jug of water?'

'That won't take long. I'll show you into the tearoom.'
It was at the back of the inn, a small room with tables laid
for tea, toby jugs perched on a mantelpiece, net curtains
masking the back garden. No one else was there.

'I'm not sure I can face bacon sandwiches,' Paula said.

'Then don't eat them. Drink water if you're in shock.'

'I am not in shock,' she protested. 'I've seen enough of
these murders to feel they're almost a part of the landscape.'

The food appeared, and the woman left them alone,
closing the door. Tweed picked up a bacon sandwich. As
he'd hoped, Paula devoured hers. They were substantial and
she felt much better.

'That has to be Jackson, poor soul,' she said.

'Subject to positive identification.'

'Where are we now?' she asked.

'In Wensford.'

'For God's sake, you know what I mean. That list in Michael's pocket. Are they all victims of this hideous murderer?'

'The woman's corpse found in the mine shaft on
Dartmoor may be Lee Greystoke, wife of the finance
director of Gantia. I found out last night during my dinner
with Lucinda that she'd left him, supposedly, over three
months ago. Marriage was breaking up. Lucinda identified that expensive ring with a diamond as a present Lee tried to
give her. She refused to take it. Tell you why later.'

'And "Christine",' Paula reflected, 'we know is Christine
Barton, forensic accountant. What about the male skeleton
on Dartmoor?'

'No idea who he was. We'll have to find out.'

'And John Jackson,' she continued, 'is just across the road,
I'm sure. That just leaves "Ken".'