The Power (8 page)

'You do realize,' Buchanan said, bearing down on her,
'that the only explanation of the two
outrages - the
massacre here which might have included you as victims
and the bomb outrage at Park Crescent - suggests some
one is trying to exterminate the SIS? Now who would
want to do
that?'

'I wish to God we knew,' she said fervently. 'No idea.'

'I see.' He sounded as though he didn't believe her.
'And you were the only one who saw the mass murderer. The fake postman. If only you'd seen his face.'

'He was too far away. I knew - I thought - it was a
postman because of his blue uniform ribbed with red.
And the sun flashed off his badge, as I told you. Plus the satchel perched on his front carrier.'

'Which undoubtedly hid the machine-pistol he used. I
find it difficult to believe that when you were inside the
toilet you didn't hear the shots.'

'It's a heavy door. The door into the dining-room is also heavy, assuming he closed it.'

'Can we try an experiment. ..?'

Buchanan escorted her out of the study, gave instruc
tions to one of his detectives armed with an automatic, warned everyone what was going to happen. He then
accompanied Paula to the large toilet and closed the door.
Mischievously, Paula sat on the closed oak lid of the toilet.

'Let's do it properly.'

She had omitted to tell him she had been sick and had the
satisfaction of seeing Buchanan look embarrassed for the
first time. They waited. After a short interval someone
tapped on the outside of the door which Buchanan opened.

'What is it.Selsdon?'

'I've just done it, sir. Fired six shots out of the dining-
room window - with the door into the hall open.'

'Thank you. Go and do something useful.'

'I never heard a thing,' Paula said as they re-entered the
hall.

'I must admit neither did I. . .'

Buchanan's interview - even longer - with Tweed pro
duced no fresh information, which Buchanan found frustrating. He said as much to Tweed.

'I find this unconvincing and unsatisfactory.'

'The first is your suspicious mind, the second I agree with
completely. I've answered all your questions.'

Which was true. But Tweed had omitted certain data.

No reference to Joel Dyson's visit to Park Crescent.

No reference to a film.

No reference to a tape, stored in the safe with the film, a
safe now buried under tons of rubble. In the study, alone
with Tweed, Buchanan stood leaning against a table,
jangling loose change in his trouser pocket.

'I may want to talk to you again.' His manner was casual

and Tweed, knowing Buchanan's ploy of throwing a wit
ness off balance at the end of an interview, braced himself
for the unexpected. 'Incidentally,' Buchanan continued, 'the whole country knows you're down here.'

'How could they possibly know that?' Tweed asked
quietly.

'Your presence here has been linked with the massacre. In a stop-press item in a London evening paper. Reported
also on the radio and in a TV newsflash. You were named-
Deputy Director Tweed of the SIS, et cetera.'

'I still don't understand,' Tweed persisted.

'Neither did I, so just before flying down here I phoned the paper, the BBC and ITV news editors. They all told me the same thing. An anonymous caller contacted all three, told them to check with
the Exeter police. Reporting the massacre all the media were careful to use the phrase it is strongly rumoured that eight people have been shot to death at Tresillian Manor, et cetera. Then your rumoured presence was reported.'

'I find this extremely sinister. Only the killer could have
had that information. But why broadcast the crime?'

'You tell me,' Buchanan said, again sounding frustrated.
'You're going back to London?' he went on. 'Where will you operate from now?'

'You can try my flat in Walpole Street. It's up to Howard
to answer the second question.'

That's it, then. A fleet of ambulances has arrived to take away the bodies. The dead guests' cars have been driven away for examination. Any idea where I can contact this chap Gaunt?'

'None at all,' Tweed replied as they went into the hall.

Two white-coated men were carrying out a covered body
on a stretcher towards the front door. The man at the rear
called out over his shoulder.

This is the last one from the abattoir back there.'

The forensic team seems to have finished the job,'

Buchanan remarked. 'I understand they've gone, so I
think I'll be gone too. I'll be up half the night when I get
back. What about you?'

'We'll try and persuade that nice cook to make us some
tea. Sustenance to fuel us for our trip away from here.'

'As you wish.'

Paula came out of the Great Hall at that moment.
Buchanan looked at both of them, didn't make any effort to shake hands and walked out.

'I don't think he likes us much,' Paula observed.

They went to the door and watched Buchanan driving
off followed by the last patrol car. Tweed put an arm round
her shoulders and briefly told her what Buchanan had just
told him. Paula was stunned.

'On the radio, TV and in the paper! I feel frightened. Is
this place a death-trap?'

'We'll be out of here soon.'

They had wandered out on to the terrace and as the cars'
engines faded the silence of the moor descended on them.
It was late afternoon and would be dark within the hour. Paula was taking in deep breaths of fresh air to cope with what Tweed had told her. After a few minutes they were
going inside when she grasped Tweed's arm.

'Listen . .. Horses' hooves.'

They waited as the clip-clop came closer. Two riders appeared, approaching the manor along the drive - a man
and a woman. Tweed went back out on to the terrace as the
newcomers halted at the foot of the steps. The man, large
and with a hawklike face beneath a deerstalker, barked out
his question.

'Who the blazes are you?'

'I might ask you the same question,' Tweed snapped back.

'I'm Gregory Gaunt. And I just happen to own this
damned place.'

5

'Welcome to Tresillian Manor,' Gaunt said breezily. He
had accompanied the girl to leave the horses in a stable on
the left side of the house. 'I thought Amberg and all his
guests would have
pushed off by now. It was a flying visit
from Zurich.'

'Stop here a moment, please,' Tweed said as they reached the terrace. There's something you
should know before you go inside. You're in for a ghastly shock.'

'Shock? What kind of shock?' boomed Gaunt. 'A burglary? Is that it? Spit it out, man.'

Gaunt was six feet tall, heavily built, muscular and about
forty, Tweed estimated. His complexion was weather-
beaten under thick sandy hair and he seemed to be a man
of the great outdoors. Under prominent brows his eyes
were swift-moving and intelligent. His manner was domin
ant without being domineering. Tweed sensed he was in
the presence of a strong personality and he could see why
the locals called him 'Squire'.

'I'm forgetting someone/ Gaunt went on. This is my girl friend, Jennie Blade. Say hello, Jennie.'

'Greg, I don't need a prompter,' Jennie drawled. 'Hello,
everyone. Who is that peach of a man who just came out?'

It was Philip Cardon, joining Butler and Nield, who had
heard voices. Cardon smiled at her as Tweed made introductions. Paula and Jennie eyed each other up and down like two cats warily summing up the opposition. Jennie
switched her gaze back to Cardon.

'Life is looking up, Greg - becoming interesting again.'

In her late twenties, Jennie was attractive. Five feet six tall, her riding outfit emphasized her superb figure. Her slim legs were encased in jodhpurs. Golden hair fell in
smooth locks to her shoulders. Her face was triangular - a
wide forehead, thick gold brows and a good bone structure
tapering to a pointed chin below full
red lips. Strong competition, Paula admitted to herself.

Bearing in mind the girl's presence, Tweed gave a terse
account of the tragedy. He explained that Amberg had
invited them down to lunch because he had been a friend of
Tweed's. He omitted mentioning that Paula had witnessed
the aftermath.

'I don't believe this,' Gaunt rumbled. 'Police trampling
all over my property. And why should anyone want to
harm Julius, a Swiss banker? I'm going to see for myself.'

'I'll come with you,' said Jennie.

Cardon stopped her. He took her arm as Gaunt marched
inside. She looked at him through half-closed eyes.

'Better not,' Cardon advised her.

'I'll be all right if you'll come with me,' she replied,
openly flirting with him.

'Glad to be of service,' Cardon agreed, who seemed not averse to accompanying her anywhere.

Tweed slipped in ahead of them. He found Gaunt
standing very erect and still in the dining-room. The
tablecloth, stained with pools of blood, was still there, to
say nothing of the dark brown lakes on the ceiling and carpet.

'My God! Looks as though you were right.'

'I'd hardly make it up,' Tweed responded. 'And
Amberg's face had been splashed with acid after being shot
dead. He looked like a skull.'

He watched Gaunt's reaction but no emotion showed on
the Squire's face. He walked slowly to the head of the table
and stood looking down where Amberg had lain over the broken chair.

'Cost me a bloody fortune to clean up this place,' Gaunt
rasped. 'And there are holes in the panelling. That will
have to be attended to. Damned expensive.'

'Greg is money-conscious,' Jennie said as though she felt
it diplomatic to explain Gaunt's apparent mercenary
attitude. 'It's understandable. Keeping up a place like this
these days is a drain on his purse.'

'Do you mind not discussing my personal affairs with a
stranger,' Gaunt rapped at her. He looked at Tweed. 'I
return from a day away which I enjoyed and find this. I still
can't take it in.'

'How did you spend the day?' Tweed enquired.

'None of your business. You sound like a policeman.'