No Mercy (6 page)

'He's gone straight up to his bedroom, locked himself in.
He always locks himself inside. Never said one damned word
to me.' He looked at Paula. 'Excuse me. Come inside, both
of you. This is a surprise. Let me take your coat.'

As Paula started to remove her coat he came behind her
and took hold of it. She waited for his
hands to touch her, a
trick of so many men. The hands never touched her. Then he was taking Tweed's coat, putting them away in a deep cupboard.

'I fear we're intruding . . .' Tweed began.

'Not at all. I'm Larry Voles. Maybe you can tell me something about Michael, that is if you want to.'

'Is there somewhere more private we could talk?'
'In my study. Are you hungry? I'm sure you are. The lady is, I suspect.' Another welcoming smile. 'You're just in time
for a late supper.'

A door to the right of the hall swung open. A short,
heavily built woman with a hard expression appeared. She was almost fat but Paula detected strength in the bare arms
exposed beneath her apron. She glared.

'I'm preparing supper,' she growled. 'Is that three more I
should provide meals for?'

'Yes, it is, Mrs Brogan,' Larry said cheerfully. 'Timing must be perfect for you.'

'Some might call it that,' she growled again.

Her expression was hostile. Probably always would be, Paula was thinking. Her hair was grey, long and thick, tied
back with a black ribbon. Her eyes were small and
penetrating above a pugnacious nose. The mouth was thin-
lipped and revealed small sharp teeth. Her hands were large
and below the apron she wore a black skirt over large strong legs clad in black stockings. She left, closing the door with a bang.

'This way,' Larry invited, opening a door on the left into
a comfortable study with a roaring log fire.

'We should have introduced ourselves,' said Tweed. He
showed Larry his folder. 'I'm Tweed. This is Paula Grey, my
highly trusted assistant.'

'I would have guessed that. She radiates competence.
Now, what are you going to have to drink? It must have been
beastly on the moor. I'm joining you.'

'Thank you Mr Voles . . .' Paula began.

'Larry, please. Now what is your tipple?'

'A gin and tonic for me.'

'Think I could do with a neat brandy,' Tweed decided.

Larry had perched Paula in a comfortable armchair next
to the fire with Tweed facing her. Paula studied Larry as he
fixed drinks from a cocktail cabinet placed against a wall. He
must be in his thirties, she decided. Well built but slim,
about six feet tall. His movements were nimble, his face of a good colour. He had a high forehead, startling blue eyes
and a prominent well-shaped nose. His mouth and jaw were
strong without suggesting aggression. He handed round the
drinks, giving himself a strong neat Scotch, hauled a chair
and sat between them.

'I'd better tell you about Michael,' Tweed began.

He described how a police officer had found him seated on a Whitehall step. No mention of what he had said at the Yard. Larry lit a cigarette, listened without interruption as
Tweed continued explaining why Michael had been transferred to the care of a top-flight psychiatrist. He
provided Mrs Ashton's diagnosis, said after two weeks she'd
moved him to a clinic nearby after deciding she couldn't
help any more. He passed quickly over Michael's sudden
departure, how he'd, of his own volition, sat in Tweed's car,
guided him to Post Lacey, then led the way to Abbey Grange. He also left out the
discovery of the skeleton
masked by .a covering of snow.

'That's about it,' Tweed concluded, sipping more brandy.

'This amnesia, total amnesia he's suffering from. Explain
it to me again, please,' Larry requested quietly.

'It means that for the present he's forgotten everything.
His name, who he is, which, I presume, is why he never
speaks.'

'You said the police at the Yard nicknamed him Michael,
his real name. I find that very odd.'

'The world is full of odd coincidences. They must have
thought he looked like a Michael,' Tweed suggested
offhandedly.

'Something else I don't understand. If he's totally lost his
memory, how was he able to guide you all the way here from
London? It's a complex route.'

'It is. Has he travelled that same route before?'

'Countless times. To get to the Gantia plant outside Basingstoke, or to the admin. His office is in the City.'

'That's probably the explanation,' Tweed replied
amiably. 'The one thing that's familiar to him, which he recalled, was a route he'd used so often. Including his
walking up the track from Post Lacey to here. How did he make his way to work?'

'He liked to walk down that track to get some exercise before he started his day's work, which was high-pressure.
He left his car with the old boy who owns the Little Tor, the
pub.'

'Sounds plausible, explaining his actions despite the
amnesia.'

'I'm still stunned. Maybe after supper we could come
back here so I can ask more questions.'

'Certainly. You said Michael had a high-pressure job. May
I ask what it is?'

'One of three international sales directors for Gantia. He's
far and away the most brilliant and successful. He travels
abroad a lot for quite lengthy periods. We don't hear
anything from him until he arrives back with a load of fresh
orders. He likes to surprise us, to keep things to himself. Even from me. I'm Gantia's managing director.'

There was a loud hammering on the door. They clearly heard Mrs Brogan's voice growling. 'Supper's ready. I'm
calling Michael down.'

'Be interesting to see whether he comes,' Paula said,
speaking for the first time.

Larry drank the rest of his Scotch at one gulp. 'I needed
that. Uncle is going to be shocked when he gets back.'

'Uncle?' Tweed queried.

'Drago Volkanian. I changed my name by deed poll to Voles. Doing business in Britain it doesn't help to have a
name like Volkanian. In any case, although Drago's brother was Armenian, my mother was English.' He smiled. 'I think
I take after her. Michael is my younger brother. Doesn't look
like it at the moment. That awful white face.'

'I believe Mrs Ashton, his first psychiatrist, had him
checked by a doctor,' Tweed said glibly, making it up. He felt
sure she would have taken this precaution.

'Not
Bella
Ashton, the psychiatrist?'

'Yes. You know her, then?'

'Vaguely. I meet so many people.' He stood up. 'If you don't mind, I think we should go to the dining room before
Mrs Brogan breaks that door down.'

They entered a long, large, panelled dining room. Again,
light came from ancient lanterns suspended from the walls,
casting a warm glow. Against the rear wall inside a huge
arched cave was a roaring log fire. Mrs Brogan stood with
arms akimbo checking them in. Larry escorted his guests to
their places, then skipped over to the housekeeper. Paula was
close enough to hear their conversation.

'Brogan, Michael has lost his memory. He won't say a
word to anyone.'

'I know,' Mrs Brogan sneered. 'Left it behind at the office.'

'Listen to me.' Larry's voice hardened, he gripped an arm
with one hand. 'I mean it. You don't speak to him now, you
understand me?'

'If you say so,' she rasped. She used her other hand to
grasp his, prised it loose. 'You knows I 'ates being touched
so you keeps your 'ands to yourself.' She looked at Paula and
winked. 'Michael's sulking. Silly boy.' She pushed open the
kitchen door and disappeared.

Paula was startled. The woman's expression when she had closed one eye was venomous, verging
on evil. The thought
flashed across her mind that the housekeeper didn't like
men.

They had all sat down when Mrs Brogan appeared
again. She darted at surprising speed to the one empty place. Michael's, Paula assumed. She switched cutlery
from left to right, from right to left. Again she winked at
Paula, who lowered her eyes. Would Michael notice
everything was on the wrong side? He walked in at that
moment, wearing his smart suit. She almost held her
breath as Mrs Brogan reappeared, carrying an enormous
tray with soup plates.

Michael stared at his placing. Without a pause he changed
the cutlery back to the correct sides of his place mat.

'Mushroom soup,' Mrs Brogan announced as she served
a plate to everyone. 'Anyone who doesn't like it can do
without. Wait for the main course. Don't stand on ceremony
'ere.'

Michael waited until everyone had been served, and Paula lifted her spoon, then he got to work, scooping up spoonfuls
of soup in rapid succession. In between he took two chunks
of home-made bread from a basket, broke pieces and quickly
ate them, reaching for two more chunks. He finished his
soup before anyone else. That pig, Dr Saxon, can't have fed
him very well, Paula mused.

Mrs Brogan appeared with a larger container of more
soup. She stood behind Michael and waited. Her patience
was short-lived. 'Want a second 'elping?' Michael remained
still and silent. 'Oh, well,' Mrs Brogan began. 'No
manners . . .'

'Yes!' Larry snapped. 'He would like more. Have you forgotten what I told you already?' There was steel in his
voice.

The housekeeper refilled Michael's bowl. She looked
across at Paula, her mouth twisted in a sneer. Some people
have no manners, her look conveyed. Paula looked away.
Larry was going to have to give her a good talking to. Again,
Michael devoured the soup between helpings of more
bread.

'Shepherd's pie comin' up,' Mrs Brogan called from the
open kitchen door. 'With greens. Anyone who don't like it
can wait for the sweet.'

'You said you were both brothers,' Tweed remarked to
Larry. 'But you referred to Uncle. Are your parents living in the vicinity?'

'Unfortunately not. They're no longer on this planet.
They had the idea of travelling to Armenia to see where the
earlier Volkanians had come from. My uncle did everything
possible to stop them going, ended up by roaring at them that it was too dangerous. They'd have to pass through
Turkey. They wouldn't listen and outside Istanbul they were
attacked by Turks and slaughtered. About five years ago.' He
smiled grimly. 'Which is why we're not all that fond of
Turks.'